The honest merchant replied with the back of his hand, knocking the moneylender to the floor and earning a burst of applause from the audience. Cursing and spitting, Sir Eliard Slimy crept away. Avice Radley did not join in the clapping. She was too shocked by what she saw as an act of defiance against her. The Merchant of Calais was not the play that she remembered so fondly. In emphasising the role of the moneylender, Hoode had sharpened its edge but lost some of its romantic magic. What outraged her was the fact that he had disobeyed her. Having agreed to abide by her wishes, he had done the very thing that she had forbidden. Hoode had chosen Westfield’s Men instead of her and that rankled. A wedge had been driven between them.
Seated behind her, Sir Eliard Slaney was throbbing with fury. The portrait of him onstage was so accurate and unflattering that he winced every time the moneylender came out onstage. Until that afternoon, he had never understood the extent of his unpopularity. Sections of the audience bayed with joy at his humiliation. Cyril Paramore was highly embarrassed by the attack on his master, fearing that someone might recognise them at any moment and turn the scorn of the spectators directly at them.
Behind his hand, Sir Eliard hissed a question at his companion.
‘Who wrote this play, Cyril?’
‘His name is Edmund Hoode,’ said Paramore. ‘Insult is added to injury because he acts the part of the moneylender himself. Sue him for seditious libel, Sir Eliard.’
‘The law is too tardy a revenger. I’ll set Martin on to him.’
‘You’ll have him killed?’
‘This calumny deserves no less,’ said Sir Eliard. ‘This cunning playwright will not live to throw his taunts at me again. I’ll have Martin stab him to death and make him die slowly and in agony.’
‘Shall I fetch Martin for you?’
‘There is no need. He stays at my house. I like him there when I am away for any length of time. Martin and his dagger are a better guard than any dog.’ He gave a grim chuckle. ‘We’ll see how well this Edmund Hoode can mock me with his tongue cut out.’
It was only when they were clear of the house that Anne Hendrik noticed the blood on his sleeve. She became alarmed. Nicholas Bracewell gave her a reassuring smile.
‘It does not belong to me, Anne,’ he said.
‘Then how is it spattered on your arm?’
‘Let’s meet with Lightfoot then I’ll tell you both.’
The tumbler was waiting for them in an alley off Gracechurch Street. Nicholas introduced him to Anne. Lightfoot was polite and deferential. As he handed over the ledger, his sharp eyes caught sight of the blood as well.
‘You injured yourself, sir,’ he said.
‘I collected a few bruises,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I shed no blood. After you left the counting house, I was cornered by the man who ambushed me in Turnmill Street …’
He told them what had happened, giving few details of the fight itself but explaining that the only way to escape alive was to kill his attacker. Anne was horrified that he might have been stabbed to death while she was talking downstairs to Lady Slaney. Lightfoot was pleased yet envious.
‘If only he had come in when I was there,’ he said wistfully. ‘I’d have strangled the life out of him. He was the villain who smothered poor Moll.’
‘He also confessed to the murder of Vincent Webbe,’ said Nicholas.
Anne shuddered. ‘And the attempted murder of Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘He’ll do no more mischief with his dagger, Anne.’
‘But what of the consequences? They’ll come looking for you, Nick.’
‘I killed in self-defence.’
‘How will you prove it? Your word may not save you from arrest.’
‘There’ll be no pursuit of me,’ he said confidently, tapping the ledger. ‘The only arrests will be caused by this. There’s evidence in this book to bring Sir Eliard and his confederates to justice. One of them has already met his fate.’
‘What will they do when the body is discovered?’ asked Lightfoot.
‘That will not happen for a little while. I fancy that Sir Eliard is still at the Queen’s Head with at least another hour of the play to watch. It will take him a while to make his way out through that crowd,’ decided Nicholas. ‘By the time he unlocks his counting house, I will already have set the wheels of the law in motion.’
‘Shall I come with you, sir?’
‘No, Lightfoot. I have another task for you.’
The tumbler grinned. ‘Will I have the chance to fight?’
‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You’ll have to push your way through the crush on London Bridge as you escort Mistress Hendrik to her house in Bankside.’ Lightfoot was disappointed. ‘Anne did valuable work this afternoon. But for her, we would never have got into the house and seized this ledger. About it straight. I’ll take this evidence to the lawyer. We can then finish the work that The Merchant of Calais has started.’
The applause that filled the yard at the Queen’s Head was long and loud. For once in their lives, neither Lawrence Firethorn nor Barnaby Gill minded that someone in a lesser role collected the biggest cheer. Edmund Hoode’s performance as Sir Eliard Slimy had been comically sinister to those who did not know the real moneylender, and hilarious to those who did. When he came out to take his bow, he was acclaimed. His had been a sublime exercise in theatrical assassination and the galleries revelled in it. Of the other actors, only Firethorn and Gill knew the significance of Hoode’s work. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, the precarious situation on Westfield’s Men was kept from the rest of the company lest it breed gloom and listlessness. Nicholas’s own absence was explained away in terms of sickness and Francis Quilter proved a highly competent deputy for him. There was a buoyant atmosphere among the players and it was translated to the stage. The Merchant of Calais had never been performed with such zest.
During his first and last visit to the Queen’s Head, Sir Eliard Slaney had been stretched repeatedly on the rack of satire. He had not realised the sheer power of the theatre to rouse an audience to such a pitch. All around him spectators were quoting some of the choicer lines about the moneylender. Sir Eliard had never been the object of such scorn and derision before. As he and Cyril Paramore made their way towards the stairs, they kept their heads down in shame. It was only when they reached the waiting coach that Sir Eliard was able to show his fury.
‘Why did they do this to me?’ he snarled.
‘I fear that you provoked them, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore.
‘Oh, I’ll provoke them, mark my words. I’ll provoke them out of existence. I’ll have the company sued for seditious libel and the playwright sliced to bits in front of me. Sir Eliard Slimy, indeed!’ he said. ‘Edmund Hoode will pay for that.’
Paramore knew better than to interrupt his master. He let him rant wildly all the way back to the house in Bishopsgate. When they entered the house, Sir Eliard was still fuming. His wife came out of the parlour to greet him and saw him for the first time in disguise. She was puzzled.
‘Why do you wear that attire, Eliard?’ she wondered.
‘Do not bother me, Rebecca,’ he replied. ‘Keep out of my way.’
‘Have I displeased you?’
‘You displease me now by badgering me.’