The Malevolent Comedy (10 page)

Nicholas Bracewell was opposed in principle to the revival but the decision did not lie with him. Had it done so, he would have opted for
A Way to Content All Women
on that warm Saturday afternoon. Since the company were forbidden to play on the Sabbath, it would have meant that Saul Hibbert’s play waited until Monday before being staged again, giving Westfield’s Men a longer interval to absorb the blow it had inflicted on them at its first outing. Since the die was cast, Nicholas did all he could to make the revival a success, making sure that someone was in the tiring-house at all times so that no stranger could enter it unseen.

The morning rehearsal was slow and uninspired,
allowing Hibbert to voice his displeasure in the ripest of language. Seated alone in the middle of the lower gallery, he looked like an eastern potentate who had just discovered an outbreak of lethargy in his harem, and who felt deprived of full satisfaction. Only Firethorn and Gill escaped his biting criticism. Hoode was censured and Francis Quilter sharply reprimanded. The playwright reserved his most stinging rebukes for the book holder, however, blaming Nicholas for mistakes that were not his responsibility and trying to shame him in front of his friends. Nicholas was unperturbed. He trusted the judgement of his fellows. The actors knew that he had done his job with customary efficiency.

‘Ignore him, Nick,’ counselled Hoode when the rehearsal was over. ‘He was picking on you needlessly.’

‘I’d rather he berate me than the actors. If he wants to bring the best out of his cast, he should treat them with more respect. They’re not dray horses, to be forced into a trot with the lash of a whip.’

‘Lawrence can be too fond of the whip at times.’

‘That’s different,’ said Nicholas, tolerantly. ‘He’s one of us. We’re used to the feel of his lash.’ He looked into Hoode’s cheerful face. ‘I hear that you supped with him last night.’

‘With him and with two charming young ladies, sisters whom Owen knows. He’s sung at their father’s house.’

‘Then they must be the daughters of Linus Opie, a man who loves his music, by all accounts. Owen has mentioned him before. Dick Honeydew has taken part in their concerts as well.’

‘When I attend the next one, the only person I’ll hear is Ursula.’

‘Ursula?’

‘The elder of the sisters. She plays upon the virginals.’

Nicholas was amused. ‘From the sound of your voice, a virgin has played upon you. Who else was at this supper?’

‘None but Lawrence and Owen.’

‘Did either of them have designs on these young ladies?’

‘No,’ said Hoode, ‘they stayed their hands for once. Owen was keen that I should meet his two friends, and I thank him from my heart.’

‘I thought Lawrence bought your supper because he repented of the unkind things he said about your last play.’

‘They were not unkind, Nick, they were all too accurate. And your own objections to it were also just.
How to Choose a Good Wife
was a feeble comedy and I knew it when I was writing it.’

‘Your inspiration will soon return,’ Nicholas promised. ‘We burden you with high expectation, Edmund. All that you need is a long rest.’

‘Not any more.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve had enough of lying fallow,’ said Hoode, joyously. ‘When I met Ursula Opie, my creative urge was suddenly fired again. As soon as I got back to my lodging, I started work on a new play.’

Gracechurch Street was even more crowded than usual that afternoon but it was not solely because of the market. So
many people converged on the Queen’s Head to see the play that, eventually, the gatherers had to turn some away. Every seat was taken in the galleries, every square inch in the yard. Even generous bribes could not get gallants past the door. Disappointed spectators refused to leave until they had been given a guarantee that
The Malevolent Comedy
would be performed again soon. Westfield’s Men were the victims of their own success. Their inn yard playhouse was too small to satisfy the demands of their public.

Lawrence Firethorn was cheered by the news that so many people had been eager to see the play. On some of the cast, however, it had a different effect. Like Nicholas, many actors were worried that there might be a second attempt to bring their performance to a halt. It made them nervous and unhappy. Francis Quilter even went so far as to suggest that the play had a curse on it and there were several murmurs of agreement. Firethorn stamped heavily on the dissenters.

‘Listen to them, Nick,’ he said as they gathered in readiness. ‘They have excellent roles in an outstanding play that has brought in the biggest audience we’ve had all season. This is an actor’s dream yet they behave as if it were a kind of nightmare.’

‘Their minds are still on Hal Bridger.’

‘Well, they should be on
The Malevolent Comedy
.’

‘They will be, once we start,’ said Nicholas, looking around the tiring-house. ‘I understand their qualms. It was only two days ago that Hal lay dead upon that table there. George suffers most. Now that Hal has gone, he has to play the part of the servant himself. I fear that George will
collapse
before
the poisoned cup is offered to him.’

‘He’d better not,’ growled Firethorn, ‘or I’ll kick him into oblivion.’

Pushing two actors aside, he checked his appearance in the mirror. Nicholas, meanwhile, flicked a glance at George Dart. Eyes closed, the little assistant stagekeeper was obviously praying. Nicholas could guess what entreaties were winging their way up to heaven. While he did not want the performance ruined, the book holder was nevertheless hoping that the killer would show his hand somehow. Nicholas had already warned Leonard to be vigilant and to look for the fair-haired man who had enquired so closely about the company. Anne Hendrik was another spy in the crowd, accompanied by Preben van Loew, her chief hatmaker, a dour, middle-aged Dutchman who was acting as her chaperone against his will. Alone in the yard, he was a reluctant spectator.

There was no rallying speech from Firethorn this time. Instead, he subjected his company to a withering stare. It was a signal for them to shake off their uneasiness and give their best. They responded at once. A minute later,
The Malevolent Comedy
was under way again. It began well and built up a steady momentum, soon turning the inn yard into a veritable sea of laughter. Lord Loveless was pre-eminent yet again, the Clown even more hilarious, and Mistress Malevole a winning blend of impishness and spite. In the role of a comic priest, Edmund Hoode’s facial expressions were a source of delight in themselves and nobody realised, when he looked up at the galleries, that he
did so in the hope that Ursula Opie might be watching him.

For the first three acts, the play gathered pace and left a trail of uninhibited pleasure in its wake. Notwithstanding the reservations some of them felt, Westfield’s Men had somehow improved on their earlier performance, finding a greater conviction and new veins of humour to explore. Nicholas dared to believe that they might come through the afternoon without anything untoward happening. His hopes were soon dashed. During a feast that was held at Lord Loveless’s house, the table was laden with wine and food. Lively music was played. There was a mood of merriment. The Clown then somersaulted onto the stage and danced such a spirited jig that the audience clapped him throughout.

Barnaby Gill relished the applause until he discovered that he had a dancing partner. From out of nowhere, a small dog suddenly appeared and jumped up on the boards beside him, doing its best to nip the Clown’s heels. Gill was terrified. Unable to kick the animal away, he leapt up on the table, only to be followed by the yapping dog. Between them, they knocked every dish, vessel, candle and piece of fruit from the table, sending it cascading across the stage. Lord Loveless roared with fury, the Clown howled in fright, Mistress Malevole fled into the tiring-house and the comical priest tried in vain to catch the dog.

Thinking that it was all part of the play, the spectators cheered on the animal. Since the women had been turned into a cat, an owl and a monkey, respectively, the arrival of a real animal gave the play additional spice. The dog
possessed an actor’s instinct. The more they encouraged him, the more chaos he created, eluding the priest, tripping up Lord Loveless and sinking his teeth into the protruding buttocks of the Clown.
The Malevolent Comedy
was suddenly a play about a dog.

Nicholas Bracewell reacted swiftly to the emergency. Grabbing a cloak, he ran onstage and managed to throw it over the dog, snatching it up and holding it tight as it barked and wriggled in his arms. He went through the tiring-house into a passageway that led to a store-room. Dog and cloak were tossed inside without ceremony and the door quickly locked. Nicholas hurried back to his station behind the scenes to take up the book, hoping that the play could be salvaged. He was in time to hear Lord Loveless deliver a line extempore as he looked around for the absent Mistress Malevole.

‘Where has that scheming little bitch gone to now?’

The gale of laughter gave the actors the opportunity to regain their poise. Nicholas pushed Mistress Malevole back onstage and sent Dart with her to pick up all the items that had been knocked from the table. By pretending that the canine interruption had been rehearsed, Lord Loveless and the priest were able to turn it to their advantage, inventing fresh lines to cover the hiatus and finding immense humour in an improvised inspection of the Clown’s wounded posterior. In the background, the dog continued to yelp in its new kennel but it went unheard.

Having come safely through the crisis, the actors picked up their speed again and sailed on with renewed
confidence. Though they kept one eye open for further unheralded interventions, none came. What the audience heard from that point on came exclusively from the pages of Saul Hibbert’s play. If it had been a success at its first performance, it was now a monumental triumph. The spectators whooped, whistled and clapped until the noise was deafening.

Lawrence Firethorn beamed at all and sundry, bowing low to the acclaim then blowing kisses up to the dozens of women who were calling out his name. Lord Loveless was yet one more memorable character to join his already large collection. After giving a final bow, he surged into the tiring-house and tore off his costume in a rage.

‘I’ll kill that mangy cur if I get my hands on it!’ he yelled.

‘Do not blame the animal,’ advised Nicholas. ‘The fault lies with the person who released him onto the stage.’

‘And who the devil was that, Nick?’

‘The same man who poisoned Hal Bridger.’

Firethorn blinked. ‘Are you
sure
?’

‘Absolutely sure,’ said Nicholas, ruefully. ‘He’s back.’

With the performance safely behind them, Westfield’s Men were relieved but badly shaken. An atmosphere of quiet terror filled the tiring-house. The death onstage of Hal Bridger had been a more horrifying event but only the furniture had been in danger on that occasion. The dog had preferred human targets, biting at the heels of anyone within reach and sinking its teeth into the Clown’s unprotected rear. Barnaby Gill was in despair as he rubbed his sore buttock.

‘He tried to eat me alive!’ he cried.

‘Only because you are such a tasty morsel,’ teased Owen Elias.

‘I may never be able to walk properly again.’

‘Sit in a pail of cold water and you’ll be as good as new.’

‘I need a doctor.’

‘We’ve always said that,’ mocked the other.

‘How can you laugh, Owen? I’m in agony.’

‘There’s no blood to be seen through your hose.’

‘That beast of Hades bit me to the bone.’

‘He was letting you know what he thought of your performance,’ said Firethorn, enjoying Gill’s discomfort. ‘As soon as you started your jig, the dog decided that it could bear no more.’

‘Why did you not come to my rescue?’ demanded Gill.

‘I did. I was about to run the animal through with my sword when Nick saved me the trouble by throwing that cloak over him.’

‘The problem is,’ said Elias, pulling a face, ‘that everyone in the audience will talk about that dog to their friends. Spectators will come to the next performance, expecting to see the same wanton havoc.’

‘We’ll never stage this damnable play again!’ yelled Gill.

‘
You
were the one who insisted that we revive it today, Barnaby.’

‘I’d not have done so if I realised that my life would be at risk.’

‘Try to remember Hal Bridger,’ suggested Firethorn. ‘He really
did
lose his life during
The Malevolent Comedy
. All you have to suffer is a blow to your dignity and a bruised bum.’

‘I might have known I’d get no sympathy from you, Lawrence.’

‘My sympathy goes to the entire company. When that animal was unleashed upon us, the whole performance might have ended in turmoil. Evidently, someone bears us ill will.’

‘Only when we perform this play,’ said Edmund Hoode, quietly. ‘
Black Antonio
gave us no trouble. It’s only Master
Hibbert’s work that brought misfortune upon us.’

‘We cannot blame Saul for this.’

‘Well, the blame must lie somewhere.’

‘Edmund is right,’ said Elias, summing up the general feeling. ‘
The Malevolent Comedy
is cursed. Stage it again and Barnaby’s other buttock may serve as dinner for a hungry dog.’

‘Never!’ wailed Gill, massaging the injured area harder than ever.

‘I think that we should forget Saul’s play for a while.’

‘And so do I,’ agreed Hoode.

‘That’s rank cowardice,’ declared Firethorn, raising his voice so that everyone in the room could hear him. ‘Nothing will frighten us from doing what we choose. You heard that applause out there. The play is a palpable triumph. We’ll stage it on Monday and every other day next week.’ There was a loud murmur of protest. ‘Would you walk away from certain success?’ he challenged. ‘
The Malevolent Comedy
will line all our pockets. We must be brave enough to seize the opportunity.’

‘All next week?’ groaned Gill.

‘And the week beyond that if interest holds. Yes,’ Firethorn went on above the noise of dissent, ‘I know that you all have fears and doubts, but there’s one sure way to remove them.’

‘I do not see it, Lawrence.’

‘We’ve almost forty-eight hours before we stage the play. That’s two whole days in which to find the villain who poisoned Hal Bridger and who set that dog upon us. Catch him and our troubles are over.’

‘Supposing we do not?’ asked Hoode.

‘We will,’ affirmed Elias. ‘We’ll find the lousy knave somehow.’

‘And if we fail?’

‘Then we’ll play
The Malevolent Comedy
regardless,’ said Firethorn.

‘That’s suicide,’ complained Gill.

‘It’s courage, Barnaby. Together, we’ll face up to anything.’

‘You’d not say that if the dog had bitten
you
.’

‘I agree with Barnaby for once,’ said Hoode. ‘Two performances of this play have so far brought two vicious attacks upon us. We’ve one lad dead and our clown savaged by a dog. Before you commit us to stage the play again, Lawrence,’ he urged, ‘ask yourself this. What kind of peril awaits us
next
time?’

Nicholas Bracewell took no part in the discussion. There were too many jobs for him to do. The actors were justifiably upset by the unscheduled interference from the dog, but he knew that Saul Hibbert would be even more outraged. For the second time in a row, his play had teetered on the edge of doom. The playwright would demand to know why, and Nicholas accepted that he would be blamed as a matter of course. Confrontation was unavoidable. Before it happened, he had to supervise the dismantling of the stage and the storing of its constituent parts. By the time that task had been completed, the yard was more or less clear and only a few stragglers left in the galleries.

Seeing that he was free at last, two of the spectators came
across to him. They made an incongruous couple. Anne Hendrik was smiling happily but Preben van Loew, in his dark, sober apparel, was as lugubrious as ever. Even the frenzied antics of the dog had failed to convince him that theatre was something from which he might take a degree of pleasure.

‘Did you enjoy the play, Preben?’ asked Nicholas.

‘No. I could not follow it.’

‘But your English is excellent.’

‘It is not the way they speak,’ said the Dutchman, ‘but the way they
think
. You would not find anyone like Lord Loveless in my country. We would never search for a wife like he did.’

‘I can confirm that,’ said Anne, pleasantly. ‘My husband certainly did not woo me by making me take a potion in my wine. I loved the play, Nick,’ she added. ‘I thought it a wild, wonderful, madcap romp. You never told me that there was a dog in the cast.’

‘There was not supposed to be one,’ said Nicholas. ‘He joined us unawares. I still do not know where he came from.’

‘Nor me. The animal seemed to pop up out of thin air.’

‘No,’ said the Dutchman. ‘It was from the stable.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I was not always watching the play. Its manners were too strange for a foreigner like me to understand. So I let my eye wander.’

‘And you saw the stable open?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Just a little. Someone tossed the dog out.’

‘Did you see the man?’

‘No, Nicholas. Only the dog.’

‘That’s one mystery solved, anyway. The animal all but brought the play to a halt. I simply had to get him off the stage.’

‘And you got a round of applause for doing so, Nick,’ noted Anne.

‘Barnaby Gill did not join in the clapping,’ said Nicholas. ‘His hands were too busy rubbing his injury. But did you see anything
apart
from the play, Anne?’

‘I saw Master Hibbert. He was sitting on a bench in front of us. He was very much as you described – young, handsome, conceited and almost as ostentatious as Barnaby. When the play was over, he was showered with congratulations by everyone.’

‘What else did you see?’

‘Nothing,’ she admitted, ‘I was too absorbed in the play.’

‘I was not,’ said her companion.

‘Just as well, Preben. I was supposed to be Nick’s pair of eyes in the gallery, but it was you who saw the one thing of real consequence.’

Nicholas chatted with them for a few minutes until he became aware of Saul Hibbert, bearing down on him. Instead of detaching himself from his friends, he introduced them to the playwright, knowing that their presence would force him to moderate his language. The playwright’s fury was accordingly suppressed. Ignoring the Dutchman completely, he favoured Anne with a dazzling smile.

‘Did you like the play?’ he asked, fishing for praise.

‘Hugely,’ she replied. ‘Let me add my congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It was truly a marvel.’

‘I tried to write a comedy with some depth to it.’

‘And you succeeded, Master Hibbert. Behind the laughter, there was much to provoke thought.’

‘It’s good to know that I had such an appreciative spectator.’

‘What I appreciated most,’ confessed Anne, ‘was the scene with the dog, but Nick tells me that that was entirely unrehearsed.’

Hibbert glowered. ‘Unrehearsed, uncontrolled and unwanted.’

‘Thanks to Preben here,’ said Nicholas, ‘we do at least know where the dog came from. It slipped out of the stables, it seems.’

‘How could that be allowed to happen? Did you not check the stables before the play began?’

‘Of course, Master Hibbert. I make it my business to do so. If there are horses in there, I have the stables locked as a precaution. Finding the stalls were empty today, I simply closed the doors.’

‘There was no dog there?’

‘Not when I looked.’

‘No dog in a manger?’ asked the Dutchman, releasing a high-pitched wheeze of a laugh. His face clouded in apology. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

‘You should have searched the stables more thoroughly, Nicholas,’ chided Hibbert. ‘That animal jeopardised my work.’

‘Barnaby Gill was the real victim. He was bitten.’

‘What’s a mere bite to the loss of a whole play?’

‘Your play was saved by Nick,’ said Anne, coming to his aid.
‘Had he not captured the dog when he did, it might have done far more damage. As for searching the stables, no man would have done it more thoroughly. Nick is very conscientious.’

‘Thank you, Anne,’ said Nicholas.

‘Conscientious or not,’ Hibbert went on, testily, ‘he missed that dog and it was free to bite at my reputation as a dramatist. Be warned, Nicholas. I’ll be complaining to Lawrence about you.’

‘Do not be surprised if there are complaints against you as well.’

‘Against me?’

‘From most of the company, I suspect.’

‘How could they object to
me
?’ asked Hibbert with a look of injured innocence. ‘I’ve given them the finest play they’ve had in years.’

‘But look what it brought in its wake.’

‘Yes,’ said Anne. ‘A death in the first performance and a dog on the loose in this one. Actors have enough problems onstage as it is without having to cope with unforeseen hazards like that.’

Hibbert was taken aback. ‘You seem to know a lot about the theatre,’ he said, staring at her. ‘Have you seen many plays here?’

‘Dozens of them over the years.’

‘Yes,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Anne is a close friend of Westfield’s Men. You might say that she knows the troupe from the inside.’

‘Then she’ll accept that you were at fault today,’ said Hibbert, ‘for not looking carefully enough into the stables.’

‘Indeed, I’ll not,’ rejoined Anne with spirit. ‘Nick is no culprit. If anyone should bear the blame Master Hibbert, it must be you.’

‘
Me
?’

‘For writing a play that clearly offends someone deeply.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas in support, ‘it may not be the play that caused resentment but its author. That’s the only conclusion I can reach.’

Hibbert was caught on the raw. ‘I resent that accusation!’

‘Others are starting to make it.’

‘Then they are cruelly misled.’

‘Are they, Master Hibbert?’ asked Nicholas, meeting his glare. ‘We have rivals but none that would lower themselves to such shameful devices as we’ve suffered during
The Malevolent Comedy
. It’s not
our
enemies we should look to, therefore, but yours.’

‘I have no enemies,’ denied the other.

‘One of them has followed you to London. He was the man who bought that poison and arranged for the dog to be released during the play. Who would hate you enough to do such things?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Think hard, Master Hibbert.’

‘I do not need to.’

‘If we’re to catch this rogue,’ said Nicholas, earnestly, ‘we’ll need your help. There must be someone in your past who holds a grudge against you. Tell me his name.’

‘How can I, when there is no such person?’

‘Are you
certain
of that?’

‘Quite certain.’

‘Since you’ve been with us,’ said Nicholas, pointedly, ‘you’ve shown little interest in making friends – among the men, that is. Among the ladies, I gather, it’s another matter.’ Hibbert glowered again. ‘Has it never occurred to you that someone who does not make friends is bound to create foes instead?’ The playwright shifted his feet uneasily. ‘There
is
someone, isn’t there?’ pressed Nicholas. ‘Give me his name. Who is this sworn enemy of yours?’

Hibbert spluttered but no words came out. Wanting to upbraid the book holder, he was inhibited by Anne’s presence and by Preben van Loew’s mournful expression. Sensing that he had the playwright on the run, Nicholas repeated his demand.

‘This man poisoned Hal Bridger,’ he reminded. ‘Who is he?’

Saul Hibbert did not pause to reply. Pulsing with rage, he swung on his heel and headed for the taproom. He refused to admit that he was the target for the attacks on his play. Only one enemy preoccupied him at that moment and his name was Nicholas Bracewell.

The book holder, meanwhile, was bidding adieu to Anne Hendrik and Preben van Loew, sending them off on the journey back to Bankside. He was grateful that the Dutchman had been there. The hatmaker’s indifference to the play had allowed him to see the stable door being opened. It was a valuable piece of evidence. Nicholas was about to go into the building when that evidence was confirmed.

A small boy had been lurking in the shadows, waiting
until Nicholas was on his own. After licking his lips, the boy scuttled over.

‘Please, sir,’ he asked, nervously, ‘are you Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘Yes, lad. How can I help you?’

The boy swallowed hard. ‘Can I have my dog back, please?’

While Barnaby Gill’s wound was being examined in private by a doctor, the rest of the company were in the taproom. Disconcerted by the second mishap with the play, all that most of them wanted to do was to steady their nerves with strong drink. Owen Elias was therefore puzzled when he saw one of the cast trying to leave.