‘Nobody was meant to die onstage like that boy,’ she said with regret. ‘It was a mistake.’
The door was promptly closed. Honeydew was in the dark again.
Alexander Marwood needed no persuasion to yield up the spare key. He was so affronted by his guest’s behaviour that he had thought of searching the bedchamber himself for money to pay the outstanding bills. In the event, it was Nicholas Bracewell who let himself into the room belonging to the man he knew as Saul Hibbert. He took no chances. In case the playwright returned to the inn, Nicholas had stationed Owen Elias near the gate. A warning whistle from the Welshman would give the book holder ample time to get clear.
Nicholas worked quickly. Entering with a lighted candle, he scoured the room in one sweep, noting how many suits Hibbert owned and how many empty bottles of wine stood beside the bed. On the table lay a few pages of a new play but it was clear, from the number of lines that were crossed out then changed, that the author was struggling to make any progress with it. The play was called A Woman Killed with Tenderness. It was another comedy.
A leather bag then caught Nicholas’s attention. When he undid the strap, he found that it was filled with letters, documents and bills that seemed to relate to a number of different towns. The playwright had been ubiquitous. In addition to Norwich and Oxford, he had spent time in Lincoln, Nottingham, Chester, Lichfield, Worcester, Bristol and even in Nicholas’s hometown of Barnstaple in Devon. The most valuable item in the collection, however, was a letter written in Hibbert’s own looping hand. Nicholas was astonished at what he read:
Sweet wife,
As ever there was any good will or friendship
between me and thee, see this bearer (my host)
satisfied of his debt, I owe him twenty pound, and
but for him I had perished in the streets. Forget and
forgive my wrongs done unto thee, and Almighty
God have mercy on my soul. Farewell till we meet
in heaven, for on earth thou shalt never see me
more. This 2nd of September, 1595.
Written by thy dying husband
Saul Hibbert
Nicholas put everything back in the leather bag and strapped it up again. He went around the room once more, making sure that everything was exactly where he had found it. The letter answered many questions about its author but it posed even more. It set Nicholas’s mind racing. He stepped outside the door and locked it behind him. When he turned to leave, he almost walked into Alexander Marwood. The landlord thrust his face close enough for Nicholas to smell his foul breath.
‘Did you find any money?’ asked the landlord.
‘No,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Well, when you do, it’s mine.’
Saul Hibbert was disturbed. Though he had eaten well and drunk deeply, he had not enjoyed the supper with his friends as much as he had anticipated. Their manner towards him had subtly changed and he could not understand why. While John Vavasor had been as bland and generous as before, he was not as encouraging to the new playwright as he had been. And, while Cyrus Hame was his usual jocund self, there were moments when he seemed to be teasing Hibbert. It was as if the two men knew something that their guest did not. Since they were not prepared to share it with him, Hibbert was bound to conclude that it was something to his disadvantage.
His position had become precarious. Estranged from one company, he simply had to find a home for his talent or his hopes of earning renown as a playwright in London would vanish. His two earlier plays had enjoyed only a few performances each with minor theatre companies, whose limited resources and lack of repute doomed them to an incessant tour of the country. Now that he had finally reached the capital, Hibbert had to find a way to stay there. The Malevolent Comedy was not the passport he had assumed it would be. Its undoubted quality was not enough to commend it. Repeated attempts to keep it off the stage had left Westfield’s Men in uproar against the play, and no other London company would touch it.
At the same time, it was the only clear evidence of his genius, of the spark of magic that set him apart from the general run of authors. It had to be repossessed. If all else failed, it could be offered to one of the companies that toured the provinces and at least bring in some much-needed funds for Hibbert. Though the play was contracted to Westfield’s Men, he would have no compunction about letting it be performed elsewhere, far away from London and from the beady eyes of Lawrence Firethorn and his lawyer.
Hope of being taken up by Banbury’s Men had weakened slightly but had not been relinquished. All that Hibbert had to do was to complete A Woman Killed with Tenderness and offer it to Giles Randoph. Work on the play had been extremely slow because its author had been too preoccupied with enjoying the trappings of success. As he strolled back to the Queen’s Head, he vowed that he would return to the play in earnest on the following day. In prospect, it was an ever better comedy than one that had introduced his name to the city. All that he had to do was to convert the ideas that buzzed in his brain into words on a page.
It was dark when he turned into Gracechurch Street then a blaze of light appeared on the opposite side of the road as two watchmen came towards him with lanterns. They plodded on past Hibbert and the light soon faded away. Immersed in thought, he hurried on until he could see candles burning in the windows of the Queen’s Head. A hooded figure stepped out of the shadows and thrust something into his hands.
‘This is what you wanted, sir,’ said a gruff voice.
‘Excellent!’ replied Hibbert, knowing that he had the prompt book of his play even though he could not see it properly in the dark. ‘Did you beat him well?’
‘Very well. He’ll not wake until morning.’
‘Here’s payment for you.’
Opening his purse, Hibbert thrust some coins into the man’s hand, only to be grabbed by the shoulders and dragged swiftly into the inn yard. The hooded figure was Owen Elias, disguising his voice to sound like one of the ruffians who had attacked the book holder. Nicholas himself was waiting in the yard, hands on his hips.
‘Send more men next time,’ he suggested, ‘for those two gave me nothing more than gentle exercise.’
‘I have no notion of what you mean,’ gabbled Hibbert.
‘You’ve been discovered,’ said Elias, giving him a shove. ‘You set men onto Nicholas to steal his satchel and give him a sound hiding.’
‘No, no, why should I do that?’
‘We heard you loud and clear,’ said Nicholas. ‘When you took the play from Owen, you made a full confession. Let me have the book back.’
‘It’s mine,’ insisted Hibbert, hugging it to him. ‘I need it.’
‘What you need is a spell in prison to contemplate your crimes. You are a liar, a villain and a fraud,’ Nicholas told him. ‘You signed a legal contract with a name that was not your own. You’ve lived like a lord here without any intention of paying your bills. Ever since you joined us, you’ve been a menace to the company. And worst of all, Master Hatfield,’ said Nicholas, closing on him, ‘you paid to have me cudgelled by two ruffians. One of them pulled a dagger on me and meant to use it.’
‘Then I’ll finish what he started,’ said Hibbert, tossing the play into Nicholas’s face and drawing his sword. ‘You’ve been a thorn in my side since we met, Nicholas, and it’s time I plucked it out.’
‘Not while I’m here,’ said Elias, drawing his own weapon.
Nicholas was adamant. ‘This is my quarrel, Owen,’ he said, putting the play on the ground. ‘Lend me your sword and I’ll give this rogue satisfaction.’