The Wanton Angel (14 page)

‘We will all want to follow that trail, Nick,’ said the other vehemently. ‘The culprit must be made to pay for this hideous crime. He has not only murdered Sylvester. He has killed our new playhouse stone dead.’

‘That may not be so.’

‘But Sylvester was our intermediary.’

‘The loan is secured and the terms agreed.’

‘Might not our benefactor wish to withdraw the money?’ said Firethorn anxiously. ‘His only reason for helping us was his friendship with Sylvester. That can no longer exist.’

Nicholas was calm. ‘Let us not race to meet a problem that may not exist,’ he said. ‘Two things must be done as soon as possible. We must find this guardian angel of ours and acquaint him with this terrible event. My hope is that he will want the playhouse to be as much a theatre as a memorial to Sylvester Pryde. Our loan may still be safe.’

‘You spoke of two things, Nick.’

‘I did.’

‘What is the other?’

‘We must keep up the spirits of the company,’ said Nicholas. ‘These heavy tidings will tear at their hearts but we must not let them despair. Westfield’s Men are under surveillance. If our work suffers, our chances of survival grow small. The company must strive to its utmost.’

‘We will, Nick. For Sylvester’s sake as much as for our own. He would not want us to betray our art.’

‘I will impress that upon them.’

When they were herded into the tiring-house, Westfield’s Men knew that something was seriously amiss. The lateness of Nicholas Bracewell and the absence of Sylvester Pryde were worrying signs but none of them suspected how the two were conjoined. Nicholas broke the news to them as gently as he could but there was no way that he could lessen its impact. The whole company was rocked. Richard Honeydew fainted, two of the other apprentices burst into tears and George Dart had a fit of uncontrollable shivering. Edmund Hoode offered up a silent prayer for the soul of the departed. Owen Elias pulled out his dagger and swore to avenge the murder. Barnaby Gill retreated into a watchful silence.

‘We will not rehearse this morning,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We need time to make certain decisions and some of you, I know, will prefer to be alone with your thoughts. But remember this,’ he said over the murmur of agreement. ‘
Black Antonio
must not suffer. Though we have lost a fellow, we still have a duty to our audience, our patron and ourselves. Mourn for Sylvester in your hearts. Do not take that sorrow onto the stage this afternoon.’

‘You will answer to me if you do,’ cautioned Firethorn. ‘
Black Antonio
is a fine play which must be well-acted. Let us dedicate the performance to Sylvester Pryde and make it worthy of his name. Are we agreed?’

A rousing shout of affirmation went up. Firethorn tried to lift their morale before dismissing them. He and Nicholas stayed behind with Hoode and Gill. Seated on benches in the tiring-house, they attempted to evaluate the full effect
of their colleague’s untimely death. Gill was despondent.

‘This has destroyed us,’ he concluded morosely.

‘Only if we let it do so,’ said Nicholas.

‘Sylvester was the moving spirit behind The Angel.’

‘He has gone to join the angels himself now, Barnaby,’ mused Hoode. ‘He may be looking down on us at this minute.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘looking down and urging us to go on with the building. One of our rivals is behind this murder. I feel it in my bones. If they cannot beat us by fair means, they will resort to foul deeds. Do we leave the field and let Banbury’s Men and Havelock’s Men strut in triumph? Never!’

Nicholas was circumspect. ‘We do not know that Sylvester was killed by one of our rivals,’ he said softly, ‘and we should not allot blame until we have learnt the true facts of the situation. The first thing I would like to know is what Sylvester was doing on that site.’

‘Dreaming,’ said Hoode. ‘What else?’

‘But when did he go there? Last night? This morning?’

‘Was he taken there by force?’ wondered Firethorn. ‘Or did he go of his own accord?’

‘And why kill him in such a brutal manner?’ asked Hoode. ‘Is there some significance in the manner of his death?’

‘Yes,’ decided Gill. ‘It put a curse on the site. But you are wasting your time asking all these questions about Sylvester when the most important one remains unanswered. He came out of nowhere to join us and bought his way into
our affections. We do not know from whom he raised this loan or how to make contact with our benefactor. When Sylvester quit his lodging, he told nobody where he went. In short, he went out of his way to cover his tracks.’ He looked searchingly around the faces of the others. ‘What we should be asking ourselves is this. Who
was
Sylvester Pryde?’

Lucius Kindell was learning what a handicap his diffidence could be. When he worked alongside the mild-mannered Edmund Hoode, he had no problems. Hoode treated him like an equal and encouraged him to express himself freely. Rupert Kitely came from a very different mould. Though he could be quiet and persuasive when the need arose, he could also be stern and authoritative and the young playwright found it difficult to talk to him, still less to contradict him. Consumed with anxieties, he was too shy even to voice them in Kiteley’s hearing. It was a situation which had to change.

As he sat in the lower gallery of The Rose and watched Havelock’s Men in rehearsal, he was afflicted yet again with guilt. Westfield’s Men had launched his writing career at a time when their rivals viewed his work with less enthusiasm. Under the aegis of Hoode, he could feel his talent developing but his confidence in that talent was now waning. Had he been engaged by Rupert Kitely because the latter really believed that he would write wonderful dramas or was he simply being used as a stick with which to beat Westfield’s Men? Kindell decided that it was time to find
out and he screwed up his courage to do so.

His opportunity came during a break in rehearsal. Rupert Kitely beckoned him down with a lordly wave. There was an air of condescension about the actor now. When Kindell joined him, he was deliberately kept waiting for few minutes. His resolve began to melt away. Kitely eventually turned to him.

‘Well, Lucius?’ he said. ‘Do you like what you see?’

‘Very much, sir.’

‘A competent piece but we will make it look a much more accomplished drama. That is our art, Lucius. To take base metal and turn it into gold.’ He saw the distress on the other’s face and laughed. ‘That was no reflection on your work, my young friend. Lucius Kindell will give us gold which we will merely have to burnish. How fares the new play?’

‘Slowly.’

‘Why so?’

‘I find it difficult to work alone.’

‘You will soon grow accustomed to that.’

‘Will I?’ said Kindell meekly. ‘I am not so certain. I have been deprived of my master and I miss him.’

‘You have outgrown Edmund Hoode,’ said Kitely with a reassuring smile. ‘He has taught you all he can, Lucius. From now on, you will not have to work in his shadow. You will forge a play of your own and take full praise for its excellence.’

‘That excellence has eluded me so far.’

‘I will help you. Have no fear.’

Kitely broke off to distribute some orders among other members of the company. His authority was unquestioned and they treated him with the utmost respect. That only served to put Kindell even more in awe of him. That same awe had also been engendered by Lawrence Firethorn but it had been less of a problem. Though a much more flamboyant character, Firethorn was somehow approachable in a way that Kitely was not. The playwright found it hard to believe that he was with the man who had shown him such warm friendship at the Devil tavern.

After a few more commands, Kitely came back to him.

‘You catch me at a busy time, Lucius.’

‘I did not mean to disturb you.’

‘No, no,’ exhorted the other. ‘Come as often as you like. Actors are the tools with which you work. The more you come to know about us, the better you will deploy us. Besides, you are one of Havelock’s Men now.’

‘Am I?’

‘We have commissioned a new play, have we not?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Kindell, ‘and I am grateful.’

‘Then no more regrets about the Queen’s Head. In this profession, survival is everything. We will still be here at The Rose when Westfield’s Men are no more than a dim memory.’

‘
I
will always remember them.’

‘And so you should, Lucius. But they head for extinction.’

‘Do they?’

‘I told you what the Privy Council intends.’

‘Yet I heard a rumour that they are building their own playhouse here in Bankside.’

Kitely was dismissive. ‘Pay no attention to that.’

‘Is it not true?’

‘It is true that they
hope
to build a playhouse. They have even had the gall to christen it. But their Angel Theatre will be torn down before it is ever used.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because the Privy Council has decreed that there will only be one playhouse south of the river. And I am in a position to tell you, Lucius,’ he said with conviction, ‘that you are at present standing in it.’

Nicholas Bracewell spent the rest of the morning trying to establish some details about Sylvester Pryde’s movements. Several members of the company remembered his leaving the Queen’s Head on the previous night and there was rough agreement on the approximate time of his departure. Assuming that he had headed for the river, Nicholas retraced his steps and pushed his way through the crowded Gracechurch Street. He followed his instincts and swung right into Thames Street then sharp left. He was soon standing on the riverbank, listening to the gulls and watching the dark water lapping at the wharves.

Boats were coming and going all the time as watermen delivered or collected passengers. Those who gave a tip to their ferrymen were rewarded with courteous thanks while those who failed to reward them suffered a torrent of abuse from the vociferous watermen. Nicholas began a painstaking search for a boat which might have taken Sylvester Pryde across the river. Since he often used that
mode of transport himself, he was well known to the boatmen and called many by name but none was able to help him. Most had gone off to a tavern or home to bed at the time when Nicholas’s friend might have wished to be rowed across the river. The book holder gradually came round to the conclusion that Sylvester must have walked over London Bridge.

He was just about to leave the riverbank when another boat pulled into the wharf. Two passengers paid their fare and alighted. Nicholas strolled over to the boatmen and put to them the questions he had already put to dozens of their colleagues. The two men in the boat traded a glance. There was such a close resemblance between them that they had to be father and son. The older one acted as spokesman.

‘How much is it worth?’ he asked.

‘The fare across the river,’ offered Nicholas.

‘Why do you want to know about this man?’

‘He was a good friend of mine.’

‘Any other reason?’

‘Someone murdered him.’

‘Then we will help you all we can, sir,’ said the boatman apologetically, ‘and we do so at no cost. We did pick up a gentleman last night. Around the time you say and looking much as you describe. We saw him clear by the light of the torch. Apparelled in red and black with a black hat that bore an ostrich feather. Is that him, sir?’

‘Yes!’ said Nicholas. ‘What happened?’

‘We rowed him across and dropped him by the old boathouse. He was very generous, as my son will confirm.
When we went ashore, we drank to his health at a tavern.’

‘Did he speak to you as you rowed across?’

‘Not a word, sir.’

‘Did you see where he went?’

‘To that old boatyard. It was burnt down.’

‘Was there anyone else there?’

‘We saw nobody, sir, but it was growing dark. There may have been someone in the shadows.’

‘Did anyone follow you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Follow us?’

‘Across the river.’

‘Two or three boats, sir. We paid no heed to them.’

‘Did any of them land near the boatyard?’

‘Who knows? We left as soon as we were paid.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘Nothing beyond the fact that he was a gentleman, sir,’ said the other. ‘But you know that. A fine, well-spoken man. When we picked him up here, he was staring across the river at something over by the boatyard. Is that any help?’

‘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.