‘I see that you’ve brought my play, Master Hoode.’
‘Along with my congratulations, sir.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘It’s a clever piece of theatre.’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ said the other effusively as if his life had just been saved by the intercession of a brave stranger. ‘Praise from you is praise indeed. This calls for a celebration,’ he decided, getting slowly to his feet and lumbering towards the door. ‘Excuse me for one moment.’
He left the room and gave his visitor time to take his bearings. Edmund Hoode looked around with macabre fascination. The place was even more soiled and disorderly than Nicholas Bracewell had led him to expect. Plates of discarded food stood in the most unlikely places and the floor was awash with bundles of documents. Thick dust lay everywhere while spiders frolicked openly in their webs. Hoode wondered how the lawyer could work effectively amid such chaos. It was minutes before Pye returned. When he did so, he was carrying a pitcher of wine and two goblets.
‘Allow me to offer you some of this,’ he said, placing the goblets on the table so that he could pour the liquid into them. ‘It has an excellent taste and was a present from a grateful client.’
‘I trust that she was not a witch,’ observed Hoode, attempting a little humour. ‘I’ve never been fond of dark potions made from obscene ingredients.’
Pye let out a cackle. ‘Bless you, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is no witch’s brew. You’ll find nothing more troubling in it than a frog’s eye and a slice of rat’s liver.’ He saw the look of disgust on Hoode’s face. ‘I jest, sir, I jest,’ he promised, handing one of the goblets to him. ‘As you see, it’s Canary wine of the finest vintage.’
‘Then I raise my cup in a toast to you, Master Pye.’ After lifting the goblet in the air, he sipped the wine. ‘Most pleasing to the palate.’
Pye resumed his seat. ‘I’m more concerned that the play is to your taste,’ he said with an unctuous smile. ‘It does not pretend to the quality of your own work, of course, but I like to think that it’s not without merit.’
‘Merit and true worth.’
‘Is that the general opinion?’
‘Barnaby Gill likes it and Lawrence Firethorn but a keener critic is the man you’ve already met. Nicholas Bracewell has sounder judgement than the lot of us. If he believes that a play will work on stage, it invariably does.’
‘It was a pleasure to meet him.’
‘Nick is the person who recommended The Witch of Rochester,’ explained Hoode. ‘He’s also responsible for the notion of shifting the location to Essex so that it will have a deeper resonance for our audience.’
‘I owe him my undying thanks.’
‘You’ll have far more cause to be grateful to Nick Bracewell before we’re done. The play calls for a number of effects that only he could devise.’ He sat back to appraise his host. ‘What made you write it in the first place?’
‘It wrote itself, Master Hoode.’
‘That’s what I sometimes say but I know the truth of it. Plays are like houses. They have to be constructed brick by patient brick. Imagination may design the shape of the house but much hard labour goes into its erection.’
‘It didn’t seem like labour at the time.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because witchcraft is a subject dear to my heart.’
‘An uncommon interest for a lawyer.’
‘I’m no lawyer,’ retorted the other with sudden vehemence before gulping down some of his wine. ‘I came into the law out of loyalty to my father rather than through natural inclination. It has vexed me ever since. Do you know how many of us there are, Master Hoode?’
‘Too many, I suspect.’
‘When my father entered the Middle Temple, barely fifty men a year were called to the bar. That figure is now past four hundred. As for attorneys, those who practice in the two common-law courts, their numbers have increased almost as dramatically. Two hundred or so could be counted in my father’s day. And now?’
‘Five hundred?’ guessed Hoode.
‘Well over a thousand. The city is being overrun with lawyers. They breed like flies and are just as bothersome. Please don’t number me among them, sir. I’ve grown to detest my colleagues for their hideous uniformity.’
‘Uniformity?’
‘When a lawyer breaks wind, he smells the same as all the others.’
The vulgarity of the remark made Hoode blink in astonishment. Egidius Pye looked too prim and polite to venture such a comment. He was an odd character. Hoode had been warned that it was not easy to take to the man and he could now understand why. Apart from his physical peculiarities, Pye had a disconcerting manner and breath that smelt in equal parts of vinegar, onions and rancid cheese. The man’s bachelor status was self-evident. No woman would let him near her. Working with him would not be without its drawbacks. After another sip of wine, Hoode tapped the play in his lap.
‘We need to discuss this, Master Pye.’
‘I’m all ears, sir,’ said the other seriously.
‘The plot is good, the characters engaging and the thrust of the piece well judged. There is, however, space for considerable improvement.’
‘Show me where it is, Master Hoode.’
‘I will but, before we tinker with what is already there, let’s first talk about what is not. Supplying the play’s deficiencies must be our initial task.’
‘Please list them.’
‘First, we need a Prologue, a speech of twenty lines or so that both explains what is to follow and gives the flavour of the piece.’
‘It shall be done,’ agreed the other.
‘I’ll help you with it, Master Pye,’ offered the other. ‘That done, we need to introduce more songs into the action. We have the witch’s chants, I grant you, but they are hardly music. Softer sounds are required to lull and delight our audience. I’ve marked the places where such songs could be used. We’ve fine musicians and good singers in the company. Let’s employ them to the full.’
‘Willingly, sir. What else?’
‘Dances. Barnaby Gill will take the role of Doctor Putrid and he never steps upon a stage unless he can dance a jig or two. If we don’t set them down, he’ll put them in extempore. Master Gill, I fear, has a wayward streak,’ cautioned Hoode. ‘It’s best to make allowances for his eccentricities.’
‘I’ll follow your advice to the letter.’
‘Then I’ll indicate where the dances would be most appropriate.’
‘Is anything else missing, Master Hoode?’
‘Only an Epilogue.’
‘That’s easily provided.’
‘Something crisp and comical.’
‘Spoken by Lord Malady?’
‘No,’ said Hoode firmly, ‘by the witch of Colchester herself. Black Joan sits in the title of your play so let her bring it to a conclusion. The Epilogue might be a form of spell in itself. Rhyming couplets. Six or eight of them at most.’
‘These are all distinct improvements,’ conceded Pye.
‘Once we have made those, we can turn our attention to some crucial changes.’
‘Of what nature?’
‘I’ll explain that when we come to them, Master Pye.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
‘The main purpose of this visit was to establish that we can work fruitfully together, as I sense that we can, and also to fix times when we may do so.’
‘I’m eager to begin, sir. We may start immediately, if you wish.’
‘What of your other commitments?’
‘They can wait,’ said Pye, flicking a hand in the air. ‘This takes precedence over all else. Give me what time you can allow today then we’ll meet again tomorrow.’
‘A sensible idea.’
The lawyer was about to rise. ‘I’ll clear a space on the table.’
‘If it’s all the same to you,’ said Hoode, remembering the warm fire that awaited him, ‘I’d prefer to work in my own lodging. I’ve copious notes on your play there. If we walk briskly, it’s not too far away.’