Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘Tell me what happened,’ she whispered.

‘Happened?’

‘To Sylvester. How was he killed?’

Nicholas was astounded. ‘You know , my lady?’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘But how?’

‘Just tell me what happened,’ she said, hands tightening their grasp on each other. ‘You were there when he was found, Nicholas. You saw the body. Tell me about it.’

‘I will, my lady.’

‘Tell me everything .’

Edmund Hoode was racked with self-disgust. Having honoured a friend with his fine performance in Black Antonio , he had dishonoured himself by following his colleagues eagerly into the taproom in search of the oblivion of drink. Hoode had wallowed freely in sentimentality with the rest of them, recalling fond memories of Sylvester Pryde for the general ear then sighing afresh as others produced their own stories about him. It was only when he was about to drift off into a haze that he realised how disgracefully he was behaving. Others were praying for their dear departed friend or making practical efforts to build the theatre which Pryde had helped to initiate whereas Hoode was simply taking refuge in a drunken stupor.

Before it was too late, he stopped himself abruptly. While the others continued with their meandering recollections, he hauled himself up from the table and staggered out of the Queen’s Head, anxious to make amends, to mark the passing of a good friend in a more seemly way. He was in no fit state to help on the site alongside the others and work on The Angel would in any case soon be abandoned for the day, but there was something which he could to do commemorate a fallen colleague. He could compose some verses in praise of Sylvester Pryde or write an epitaph for him.

Having made the decision, Hoode walked slowly towards his lodging through the evening air. By sheer force of will, he began to clear his mind of its wooliness and to frame the opening lines of his poetry. He was still deep in the throes of creation when he came to the street where he lived and did not even see the figure who stood outside his lodging.

Lucius Kindell came tentatively forward to meet him.

‘Good even to you, Edmund,’ he said.

Hoode gaped at him. ‘Lucius!’

‘I was hoping to catch you.’

‘Why?’ snapped Hoode, trying to pass him. ‘We have nothing to say to each other.’

Kindell blocked his path. ‘But I have something to say to you,’ he murmured. ‘I have come to apologise.’

‘It is too late for that.’

‘I know that you must feel let down.’

‘I feel betrayed, Lucius. Cruelly betrayed.’

‘That was not my intention.’

‘You have cut Westfield’s Men to the quick.’

‘It is the last thing in the world that I wanted to do,’ said Kindell, close to tears. ‘I have been troubled by guilt ever since. But I had no future with the company.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘No new play was commissioned from me.’

‘It would have been. In time.’

‘Only if Westfield’s Men survived.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Hoode. ‘We come to that, do we?’

‘It is something I have to consider,’ said the other defensively. ‘Master Kitely explained it to me. He told me that I had to find another company to stage my plays and convinced me that that company was Havelock’s Men. They are safe from the Privy Council’s threat.’

‘Do not be so sure, Lucius.’

‘Viscount Havelock has influence at Court.’

‘So does Lord Westfield,’ retorted Hoode. ‘But the crucial factor will be the quality of performance and we take all the laurels there. Rupert Kitely should look to his own survival. When The Angel theatre is built, it will put The Rose in the shade and turn it into a sorry flower that sheds its petals.’

‘That is not what Master Kitely thinks.’

‘I am not interested in him.’

‘He gave me a solemn assurance that your playhouse will never be completed. When I asked him why he was so certain, he would not say but he was adamant, Edmund. You will fail.’

‘We, too, are adamant.’

‘That is what I always admired about Westfield’s Men.’

‘Indeed,’ said Hoode with uncharacteristic irony. ‘It is a pity that your admiration did not induce a degree of loyalty in your ungrateful breast. Once thrown away so callously, friendship can never be regained.’

‘That is why I came to your lodging,’ admitted Kindell. ‘I was too ashamed to seek you at the Queen’s Head. Too ashamed and far too afraid.’

‘With good cause. Lawrence Firethorn would have eaten you alive, Lucius. He has no time for traitors.’

‘Do not call me that.’

‘You are a renegade, Lucius.’

‘No!’

‘A deserter, a rogue, a craven coward!’

‘It is not true!’ pleaded the other. ‘I hoped that you at least would understand my decision.’

‘All that I understood was the feel of the knife between my shoulder blades. You pushed it in so deep.’

Kindell burst into tears of contrition and it was some time before he recovered his composure. Hoode’s anger slowly mellowed. He could see the dilemma in which his apprentice was caught and he remembered the start of his own career in the theatre when he, too, was subjected to the pull of rival companies. But that did not excuse what Kindell had done.

‘I miss you, Edmund,’ he said with a hopeless shrug.

‘We are well rid of you.’

‘I miss you all. Master Firethorn, Master Gill, Nicholas Bracewell, Owen Elias, Sylvester Pryde and every last member of Westfield’s Men down to little George Dart. They will have a very low opinion of me now.’

‘And rightly so,’ said Hoode, ‘but you have clearly not heard the worst news. Sylvester is dead.’

‘Dead?’ Kindell was appalled. ‘Sylvester Pryde?’

‘He was murdered.’

‘This is hideous intelligence!’

‘I am surprised that you did not hear it from the mouth of Rupert Kitely.’

‘Master Kitely?’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘Perhaps that is why he told you that our playhouse would never be built. Because he knew that Sylvester had been crushed to death on the site of The Angel and thought that it would stop us. Well, you may give him a message from us. Every member of Westfield’s Men will have to be killed to stop our playhouse rising up in Bankside.’

Kindell was horrified. ‘Are you saying that Master Kitely was somehow implicated in the killing?’

‘Ask yourself this. Cui bono ?’

‘But he would never stoop to murder.’

‘He would stoop to anything, Lucius. Mark him well.’

Hoode brushed past him and went into his lodging. Lucius Kindell stood outside in the street for a long time with his brain spinning uncomfortably.

She was a brave woman. The Countess of Dartford insisted on hearing details which would have unsettled more squeamish listeners but she did not flinch for a second. She remained calm and poised. Nicholas sensed her grief but saw no outward evidence of it. Her self-control was extraordinary.

‘Thank you,’ she said when he finished.

‘That is all I can tell you, my lady.’

‘It is enough for now, Nicholas.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘The only other thing I would like to hear is that his killer has been apprehended.’

‘He will be,’ promised Nicholas.

‘You are a good friend to him.’

‘He was our fellow.’

‘You spoke with such affection of him. Sylvester was a rare man. He knew how to win everyone’s good opinion. He made people love him.’ She suppressed a sigh. ‘What will happen now, Nicholas?’

‘Happen, my lady?’

‘To your playhouse?’

‘We will continue to build it,’ he affirmed. ‘That is what Sylvester would have wanted us to do. Members of the company worked on site this very day and I will take my turn there when time permits. No, my lady,’ he said, ‘as long as our loan is forthcoming, we will press on.’