Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas gratefully.

He thrust a coin into the man’s hand then hurried away. Progress had been made, albeit small. He now had a clear idea of the time when Sylvester Pryde must have reached the site of The Angel theatre and, most probably, was killed there. He could also guess what had impelled his friend to go there in the first place. Pryde was a romantic, deeply in love with the whole notion of theatre and fired by the thought that he would be involved in the construction of a new playhouse. Nicholas could imagine how completely caught up in the emotion of the moment he would have been as he walked around the site of The Angel. It would have left him off guard.

When he got back to the Queen’s Head, the first person he met was Leonard, rolling an empty barrel across the yard before hoisting it without effort onto a waiting cart. Leonard’s big, round face split into a grin when he saw his friend approaching. It was Nicholas who found him the job at the Queen’s Head and he was eternally grateful to him, happily enduring the strictures of Alexander Marwood in return for a regular wage and a place to live.

‘Well-met, Leonard!’

‘It is good to see you again, Nicholas.’

‘I am here almost every day.’

‘That is still never enough for me.’ The grin widened. ‘But I thought to watch you at rehearsal this morning.’

‘Evidently, you have not heard the news.’

‘News?’

‘Sad tidings, Leonard. We have lost Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Lost him?’ He blinked in surprise. ‘He has gone?’

‘For ever, I fear. Sylvester is dead.’

When he heard the details, Leonard’s face crumpled and his eyes grew moist. Pryde was a popular figure in the taproom and always had a kind word for those who worked there. Leonard was stunned by the notion that he would never see him again.

‘Why,’ he said, running a hand across his chin, ‘I bade him farewell less than twelve hours ago. Had I known I was sending him off to his grave, Nicholas, I would have held him back with both hands. Dear Lord! What a case is this!’

Nicholas was curious. ‘You bade him farewell, you say?’

‘Yes. Last night.’

‘As he left the Queen’s Head?’

Leonard nodded. ‘I was here in the yard and called out to him as he passed. But I do not think he heard me for he made no reply and that was strange. I remarked on it to Martin.’

‘Who is Martin?’

‘You remember him,’ said the other. ‘He worked here as a drawer some months ago. As friendly a soul as you could meet. But Martin could not take the sharp edge of our landlord’s tongue and he left.’

‘What was he doing back here?’

‘He drops in from time to time if he is passing. I think he lodges nearby. I told him how odd it was that Sylvester did not return my farewell.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘Right, into Gracechurch Street.’

‘That confirms what I have already found out.’

Leonard frowned in dismay. ‘Could I have been the last person to see him alive, Nicholas? I would hate to think that.’

‘Sylvester took a boat across the river. I talked with the watermen who rowed him across. Besides,’ sighed Nicholas, ‘the last person who saw him alive was his killer.’

‘Who would want to murder such a kind gentleman?’

‘That is what I intend to find out.’

‘There is so much villainy in this world!’ said Leonard. His eye travelled to the upper storey of the inn and his voice became a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Some of it has been taking place under this roof, Nicholas.’

‘Here?’

‘Mistress Rose. They have treated her wickedly.’

‘Her parents?’

‘Yes, and now she lies sick of a fever.’

‘What have they done to the poor girl?’

‘Locked her away like the vilest criminal. They even bolted her window so that she could not talk to anyone out of it. That was my fault, I fear.’

‘Yours, Leonard?’

‘I took her food and meant to toss it up to her. But someone caught her with the window open when I was below. One of the servingmen was ordered to fix a bolt on it.’

‘This is harsh behaviour for a parent.’

‘It is cruelty, Nicholas,’ he said, ‘and the saddest thing is that I cannot help Rose. She has been so good to me.’

‘And now she has a fever?’

‘I was sent to fetch a doctor.’

‘Then it must be serious.’

‘That is my fear.’ He became sombre. ‘The Queen’s Head is changing. I said so to Martin. It is not the place I have so enjoyed working in. Friends have drifted away. Rose is hidden from me. Master Marwood has grown bitter. And now,’ he said with a nod towards the makeshift stage, ‘I hear that we are to lose Westfield’s Men as well.’

‘Not through choice.’

‘I will miss you, Nicholas.’

‘We will be sorry to leave.’

‘Is there no hope that you will stay?’

‘None.’

Leonard’s head dropped to his chest and he emitted a long sigh of resignation. Nicholas was about to move away when a stray thought nudged him.

‘Where does he work now?’

‘Who?’ said Leonard.

‘Your friend, Martin?’

‘At the Brown Bear in Eastcheap. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Nicholas pensively.

Given the circumstances in which it took place, the performance of Black Antonio that afternoon was a small miracle. It was taut and dramatic, full of fire and deep meaning, and it kept the audience completely ensnared for the two and half hours of its duration. Since it was expressly dedicated to Sylvester Pryde, everyone in the company wanted to make an important personal contribution and it was left to Lawrence Firethorn, in the title role, to bring them all together into a unified whole. Such was their commitment that nobody would have guessed that it was a demoralised company in mourning for a dear friend.

Barnaby Gill was outstanding. In a play as dark and relentless as Black Antonio , the comic scenes took on an extra significance and Gill made the most of each one of them. He was as spry as ever during his jigs and his clownish antics brought welcome relief to an audience in the grip of high tension. When the company left the stage at the end of the play, Firethorn paid him the rare compliment of embracing him and showering him with congratulations.

‘You were magnificent, Barnaby!’

‘I always am, Lawrence,’ said Gill tartly. ‘But you have only just noticed me.’

‘Sylvester would have delighted in your performance.’

‘He appreciated true art.’

‘So did our audience.’

Elation soon gave way to dejection again as the company remembered how Sylvester Pryde had been killed. They tumbled off to the taproom to celebrate the performance and to drown their sorrows. Drink was taken too quickly and a maudlin note soon dominated. Westfield’s Men began to exchange fond stories about their murdered colleague and to speculate on the identity of his killer.

Gill stayed with his colleagues until the majority of them were too drunk even to notice if he was there. When Owen Elias fell asleep beside him, he slipped surreptitiously away from the table and made for the door. Only Nicholas Bracewell saw him go. Once outside, Gill made sure that he was not followed, then set off. It was a long walk but his brisk stride ate up the distance and he reached his destination when there was still enough light for him to see the tavern clearly.

As he looked up at the building and heard the sounds of revelry from within, he wondered if it was wise to keep this particular tryst. He hesitated at the threshold until self-interest got the better of loyalty. When he entered the taproom, he saw Henry Quine sitting alone at a table. Quine beckoned Gill over.