‘It’s my turn to do a favour for a friend now,’ said Nicholas. ‘Before we hand you over to a magistrate, Owen would like a private word with you.’ He released Greet. ‘He’s all yours now, Owen.’
Alexander Marwood pointed across the inn yard to the work that had been abandoned by the builders. The main timbers had been erected and the roof had been started, but that was all. There was still much to do before that side of the Queen’s Head could ever be in use again.
‘Look, Master Rooker!’ he cried. ‘This is how they have left it.’
‘That’s of no concern to me,’ said Rooker.
‘But you pay their wages.’
‘I was enjoined to release funds to the builder once a week.’
‘Then why have you stopped? said Marwood. ‘Give them their money and bring them back here.’
‘I’ve no power to do that.’
‘But you must.’ He waved a document in his face. ‘I’ll seek redress in court for this. You are bound by the terms of the contract.’
‘The contract no longer exists,’ said Rooker coldly. ‘It was signed by Isaac Dunmow. When he was murdered, the contract died with him. And I have to say that I am very glad. Now that I know the full details of the bargain that you struck, I wish that I’d never been involved in it. You are a disgrace, sir.’
Marwood was offended. ‘I deny that charge.’
‘Isaac Dunmow sent hired ruffians after Westfield’s Men. One of them returned to kill him. I have no love of actors,’ he went on, ‘but they are entitled to the freedom to practise their craft. According to the contract you had with him, you are nothing but a hired ruffian with murder in your heart. You set out to destroy the company as well.’
‘They deserved it, Master Rooker.’
Rooker was scornful. ‘If everyone got their deserts, sir,’ he said, ‘then the Queen’s Head would fall down around your miserable ears. My business with you ends here and I have never been so glad to rid myself of a client.’
Pursued by Marwood’s wild imprecations, he went out of the yard and vanished into Gracechurch Street. The landlord stamped his foot then took another despairing look at the deserted building site. Grinding his teeth, he scuttled off to the taproom to unpack his woes to his wife, knowing that he was more likely to get reproach than sympathy but needing to tell someone of his cruel rebuff. Expecting to find Sybil in her usual icy and unforgiving mood, he was astounded to hear her laughing gaily as she talked to Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Come in, come in, Alexander,’ she cooed, beckoning him over to her. ‘Nicholas has returned from Denmark with good news.’
‘It’s bad news that Westfield’s Men have returned at all.’
‘My husband jests,’ she said, shooting him a glare that made his blood run cold. ‘He was saying only this morning how much he missed the company.’
‘As I miss the plague,’ said Marwood under his breath.
‘Your wife has been telling me about a contract you signed,’ said Nicholas. ‘On the condition that we never played here again, Will Dunmow’s father undertook to pay for the rebuilding of the inn.’
‘An iniquitous contract,’ said Sybil with disdain. ‘I tried hard to stop Alexander from signing it. Fortunately,’ she added, riding over the objection that sprang to her husband’s lips, ‘it no longer exists. Isaac Dunmow was murdered here in London.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘Owen Elias and I had the privilege of handing over the killer to the magistrates — after Owen had exchanged a few words with the fellow, that is. So, it would seem that your contract is null and void.’
‘Yes, Master Bracewell,’ said the landlord.
‘Do you regret that?’
‘Very much.’
‘Alexander!’ chided his wife.
‘I do, Sybil. It was like manna from heaven.’
‘It was a dreadful mistake and we must be honest enough to admit it. I think that a personal apology is needed to Lord Westfield.’ She quelled Marwood’s attempted protest with another glare. ‘How misled we have been in our judgement of him! He is a fount of true benevolence.’
‘What are you talking about, woman?’ said Marwood.
‘Allow me to explain,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our visit to Denmark was not without its perils and we were able to save our patron from being tricked into something that he would regret for the remainder of his life. In token of his regret — and on one single condition — Lord Westfield has offered to pay for the rest of the repairs here so that the Queen’s Head can return to its former glory.’
‘This is true manna from heaven,’ declared Sybil, clapping her hands girlishly together. ‘Say something, Alexander. Accept the offer.’
Marwood was cautious. ‘You mention a condition.’
‘Just one,’ said Nicholas.
‘What is it?’
‘That Westfield’s Men can play here again in perpetuity.’
‘My husband agrees,’ said Sybil over Marwood’s groan of pain. ‘Have the contract and he will sign it if I have to hold his hand while he does it. Is that not so, Alexander?’
The landlord looked into her eyes and saw such a compound of threat, malice, entreaty, demand and, incredibly, sexual allure, that he lost all power to resist. While he was still under her spell, the door of the taproom opened and Lawrence Firethorn led in the whole troupe.
‘Nick, dear heart,’ he said. ‘Do we have our playhouse?’
‘I still await a reply,’ said Nicholas.
Everyone turned to their hated landlord, knowing that he would rather drink hemlock than invite them back to the Queen’s Head. Only the generosity of Lord Westfield could win him over. Marwood glanced first at his wife. The spectre of allure was still there. He summoned up a crooked smile.
‘Welcome home, gentlemen,’ he said with forced geniality. ‘Sybil and I have pined for your return. I have repeated the same thing day after day. The Queen’s Head is nothing without Westfield’s Men.’
They gave him a rousing cheer.