‘What are we to do, Nick?’ he asked.
‘The first thing we must do,’ replied the other practically, ‘is to help in every way to clear up this mess. We owe that to the landlord.’
‘We owe that scurvy knave nothing!’
‘This disaster affects us all. We must honour our obligations.’
‘Had I been here when the fire started, I’d have been obliged to toss the landlord into the middle of the inferno. For that’s where the wretch belongs. A pox on it!’ he cried, seeing the very man approach. ‘Here comes the little excrescence. I’ll wager he blames us for all this.’
‘Then leave me to do the talking,’ suggested Nicholas, only too aware of Firethorn’s long-standing feud with Alexander Marwood. ‘This is not the moment to enrage him even further.’
Marwood walked on. Sullen at the best of times, he was now thoroughly dejected, his eyes dull, his body slack, his movement sluggish. The nervous twitch that usually animated his ugly face was strangely quiescent. All the life had been sucked out of him, leaving only a hollow vestige.
‘A word with you, sirs,’ he began with a note of deference.
‘We are listening,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s much to discuss.’
‘I am on the brink of ruin.’
‘Surely not. The fire was bad but nowhere near as destructive as the one that burnt down the whole inn. You learnt from that dreadful setback, Master Marwood. You replaced the thatch with tiles and it slowed down the progress of the blaze.’
‘Yet it did not stop it from wreaking untold havoc, sir,’ said Marwood, indicating the shattered remains with a sweep of a skeletal arm. ‘My livelihood has been all but snatched away from me. I must talk to you of compensation.’
Firethorn’s ears pricked up. ‘I’m glad that you mention that,’ he said, entering the conversation for the first time. ‘Because we can no longer play here, Westfield’s Men have sustained the most inordinate losses. How much compensation do you intend to pay us?’
‘Pay you?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘But I am talking about the money that is due to me,’ said Marwood, shaking off his torpor to adopt a combative pose. ‘It’s you who should pay the compensation, Master Firethorn.’
‘Not a single penny, you rogue!’
‘You were the cause of this catastrophe.’
‘I was nowhere near the Queen’s Head last night!’
‘Nevertheless, I lay the blame at your door.’
‘How can that be?’ asked Nicholas, stepping between the two men before Firethorn could strike the landlord. ‘We are as much victims of this disaster as you, Master Marwood.’
‘Your actors set fire to my inn.’
‘That’s a serious allegation.’
‘Yet one that I can uphold,’ said Marwood, wagging a finger under his nose. ‘Master Dunmow slept under my roof last night.’
‘I remember him well — a pleasant young fellow and the soul of generosity. He put a great deal of money in your purse.’
‘Then took it straight out again.’
Nicholas blinked in surprise. ‘He stole from you?’
‘In a manner of speaking. The fire started in his room.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because we have the chamber directly above,’ said Marwood. ‘My wife is a light sleeper. It was she who first became aware of the danger. By the time we got to it, the room below was a furnace.’
‘Did your lodger escape?’ said Nicholas with concern.
‘He was too drunk to move. Yes — and that’s another thing for which you must bear the responsibility.’
Firethorn was scornful. ‘I told you that the rascal would blame us, Nick,’ he said. ‘Take him away before I lay hands on him.’
‘Let me hear all the facts,’ said Nicholas, gesturing for him to be patient. ‘Continue, Master Marwood. You claim that the fire began in the room below you. How?’
‘How else?’ retorted the landlord. ‘With the candle.’
‘What candle?’
‘The one I left alight in his room when they carried him up to it. Two of your men, Master Firethorn,’ he stressed. ‘They bore him up the steps between them. When they put him to bed, they must have forgotten to snuff out the candle. In the course of the night, Master Dunmow must have knocked it over and set my inn ablaze.’
‘That’s pure supposition.’
‘The finger points at the Welshman and his friend.’
‘Owen Elias?’
‘The very same. He drank till the very end.’
‘Yet remained sober enough to carry a man to bed,’ observed Nicholas. ‘I have more trust in Owen. He’d never leave a candle alight in such a situation.’
‘Then how did the blaze start?’
‘Divine intervention,’ said Firethorn with a grim chuckle. ‘God finally tired of your miserable visage and lit a fire of retribution to send you off to Hell where you belong.’
‘You were to blame,’ accused Marwood, voice rising to a pitch of hysteria. ‘If it had not been for your play, Master Dunmow would never have come near the Queen’s Head.’
‘If it had not been for your heady wine,’ argued Nicholas, ‘he would never have taken a room here. You served him enough to make him drunk and incapable.’
‘Only because your actors urged him on.’
‘From what I remember, Master Dunmow did the urging.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn sadly. ‘Young Will was a most amenable host — and that’s something we’ve never had at this inn before. If the fellow perished in the fire, I grieve for him.’
‘And so should you, Master Marwood,’ said Nicholas. ‘It must have been a gruesome death. As for the candle, let’s suppose that it was indeed the villain. Who set it in the room?’
Firethorn pointed at Marwood. ‘He did, Nick.’
‘It all comes back to Westfield’s Men,’ insisted the landlord. ‘You’ve been nothing but trouble from the start. This is not the first attack you unleashed on my property. When you performed The Devil’s Ride Through London, you reduced the Queen’s Head to ashes.’
‘An unfortunate mishap,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sparks flew up by accident into your thatch. We suffered as much as you while the inn was being rebuilt. We had to leave London.’
‘The shame of it is that you ever came back.’
‘Without us,’ said Firethorn, inflating his barrel chest, ‘this place would be deserted. Westfield’s Men lend it true distinction.’
Marwood curled a lip. ‘True distinction, eh? Is that what you call it?’ he taunted. ‘I saw no true distinction when you played A Trick to Catch a Chaste Lady. You set off such an affray in my yard that the inn was almost pulled to pieces. I swore that you’d never perform here again after that.’
‘But wiser counsels prevailed,’ said Nicholas. ‘You allowed us back in time.’
‘And here is my reward.’ The landlord turned to survey the wreckage. ‘This is how I am repaid for my folly. Never again, sirs! You are banished from my inn forever. As for the fire,’ he went on, rounding on them, ‘I’ll seek compensation from you in the courts. I’ve been cruelly abused by Westfield’s Men.’
‘Then add this to the list of charges,’ Firethorn told him.
Drawing his sword, he used the flat of it to hit Marwood’s backside with a resounding thwack and sent him hopping across the yard with his buttocks in his hands. Firethorn laughed heartily but Nicholas was less amused.
‘Nothing was served by attacking the landlord,’ he said.
‘I had to do something to relieve my anger.’
‘He owns the Queen’s Head — we do not. The day will come when we’ll need to woo the testy fellow yet again. And we’ll not do it with a sword in our hands.’
‘No,’ said Firethorn, sheathing his weapon. ‘As ever, you will be our ambassador, Nick. Soothing words from you will win that unsightly gargoyle over again.’ He heaved a long sigh. ‘Though it will be many months before your embassy can begin.’ He remembered something. ‘Our patron must hear of this. Lord Westfield will be mightily distressed at the tidings.’