Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘I survived.’

‘Only because of your obvious strength,’ she noted. ‘A weaker man might well have perished from such an assault. They murdered Sylvester. Why did they spare you?’

‘I do not know, my lady,’ he said. ‘Nor can I be sure that Sylvester’s assassin was party to the attack on me. The two crimes may yet be unconnected. On the other hand,’ he added, ‘one reason for my reprieve did occur to me.’

‘Well?’

‘If the fire was started by one of our rivals, I may have been recognised and spared on that account. Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men are both confident of their future. If it falls, they expect to pick over the bones of Westfield’s Men. I have been approached by both companies in the past,’ he confided modestly. ‘Haply, I was kept alive by someone who purposed to employ me at a later date.’

‘Battering you like that is a strange way to endear you to a new company,’ she observed drily. ‘And if they coveted Nicholas Bracewell, why did they not also let Sylvester live to join their ranks? He was a sharer and you, with respect, are merely a hired man.’

‘That is so.’

‘What then, is the explanation?’

‘Sylvester could transact the loan which could save us and I could not. He was murdered in order to scare off our benefactor. Fortunately, that did not happen. Also …’

‘Be candid,’ she urged. ‘I know what you are about to say. Sylvester would not have been so eagerly sought after by another company.’

‘He was a good actor but he had limitations.’

‘No,’ she said fondly, ‘he was an able actor who was made to look inadequate in the presence of Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill and the others. I am not blind. I have seen Westfield’s Men perform a number of times, Nicholas, at the Queen’s Head and elsewhere. I know your quality. I did not need to watch you play The Loyal Servant in order to judge if you were a sound investment. I was at Court when the same piece was acted there. What drew me to your inn yard that day was the opportunity to watch Sylvester Pryde upon a stage.’

‘You saw him at his best,’ said Nicholas.

‘But his best was several leagues below greatness.’

Nicholas hesitated. ‘Yes, my lady,’ he said at length.

‘The consolation is that Sylvester did not know it. In his mind, he was the next Lawrence Firethorn, another titan of the theatre. Oh, heavens! What a magnificent sight he is at full tilt upon the boards! Firethorn is supreme and a proper man in every respect. I could watch him all day!’ Her fulsome praise was commuted to a sigh. ‘But dear, dear Sylvester! His ambition so far outran his talent but he never lived to face that ugly truth. It may have been a blessing.’

‘I would sooner have him with us, my lady.’

‘So would I, Nicholas. I loved the man!’

Her sudden passion took them both unawares and there was a long pause. The Countess went to a chair and lowered herself gently into it while she recovered her poise. Nicholas bided his time and adjusted his view of her. Cordelia Bartram was not the impulsive woman he had imagined, obliging an intimate friend with a substantial loan on the basis of a single visit to the Queen’s Head. She was a seasoned admirer of Westfield’s Men and — if there had been an entanglement with Viscount Havelock — she would be familiar with the work presented at The Rose as well.

‘What do you want from me?’ she asked calmly.

‘Reassurance, my lady.’

‘You came to give it and to take it away. Well, have no worries about the loan. It will take more than a few charred timbers in Bankside to frighten my money away.’

‘I am deeply grateful to hear that, my lady.’

‘There will be ample recompense for me.’

‘Will there?’ he said with interest.

‘I will have the satisfaction of helping the company which took Sylvester to its bosom and I will satisfy a yearning of my own.’ She gave an enigmatic smile. ‘But that will come in time. What will you do now, Nicholas?’

‘Endeavour to track down Sylvester’s killer.’

‘Who may or may not have been one of your assailants.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Do you have any clues at all to guide you?’

‘I believe so.’

‘And do they point in the direction of Bankside?’

‘Some of them.’

‘Then take care, sir,’ she warned. ‘You contend with a viper. His bite is poisonous. Those fangs of his will sink into anyone who dares to obstruct him and Westfield’s Men are doing just that.’

‘With your help, my lady.’

‘I do not like snakes. They are treacherous creatures.’

There was a black anger in her face which distorted its beauty for a while and left Nicholas feeling alarmed. The Countess of Dartford was involved in a bitter private feud and she had deliberately dragged Westfield’s Men into it. At that precise moment, it was difficult to see how they could be extricated. Nicholas was sorely perplexed. His wounds began to smart afresh. The visit to their benefactor had left him at once reassured and disturbed. While his fellows could rejoice in the good news he took them, they would be blithely unaware of the silent menace which lay behind it. Nicholas was placed in an impossible position. It was mortifying.

‘You may leave now,’ she said rather brusquely.

‘Yes, my lady.’ He rose to his feet.

‘But keep me well-informed.’

‘I will.’

‘All three companies appear at Court soon,’ she remarked. ‘Have Westfield’s Men chosen the play they will present?’

‘Not yet, I fear.’

‘What of the other companies?’

‘We do not know their intentions.’

‘Might it not help you if you did?’

‘Indeed, it might, my lady,’ he agreed. ‘To that end, I have taken action to ensure that both Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men are kept under surveillance.’

Owen Elias could hold his ale as well as any man in the company. When most of them were inebriated, he was only merry and the Welshman was always still on his feet when his fellows reached the stage of ignominious collapse. For the sake of appearances, however, he pretended to have drunk too much too fast in the taproom that evening. It enabled him to assume a drowsiness he did not feel and to keep a half-open eye on Barnaby Gill. The latter had joined his colleagues after the performance was over but he was patently restless. As soon as he believed that nobody would notice his departure, he stole quietly away and made for the stables.

Alert and still sober, Elias was lurking in the shadows by the gate to watch him leave. He could never trail Gill closely on foot but he saw that he did not need to do so. When the horse trotted in the direction of Bishopsgate, Elias knew that the rider was going to Shoreditch and the conclusion was unavoidable. Nicholas Bracewell’s instincts were sound. Gill was on the run. Shocked by the attack on the site of The Angel, he had decided that Westfield’s Men were on the road to destruction and wished to practise his art elsewhere.

It was a tiring walk to Shoreditch but Elias drove his legs on, knowing the importance of his assignment. There had been a period in his life when Giles Randolph dangled the prospect of being a sharer in front of him to wrest him away from Westfield’s Men. Elias knew how cunning and unscrupulous Randolph could be and he was grateful that Nicholas Bracewell brought him back to the Queen’s Head and contrived his translation to the status of sharer. It allowed the Welshman to have some fellow feeling for Gill. Both had responded to strong temptation from Shoreditch. Elias had been rescued but Gill might not be so easy to win back.

He was almost halfway there when he managed to beg a lift from a farmer who was returning home late from the market. It was a bumpy ride on the back of the cart and he had to endure the smell of unsold onions but Elias reached his destination much sooner than he would have done on foot. Gill’s horse was tethered outside The Elephant. It was the confirmation he anticipated but it still upset him. Elias had been vaguely hoping that there was a mistake, that Gill was not fleeing to a meeting with another company at all but was simply visiting friends in Shoreditch, perhaps calling on Margery Firethorn at the family house in Old Street.