He berated them for several minutes then sent them off in disgrace, confident that his scathing comments would sting them into giving a better performance. Martin Ling, the book holder, was not impressed by the actor-manager’s tirade.
‘You are as much to blame as anyone, Tobias,’ he said.
‘How can you say that when I was the only one to remember my lines?’
‘The play needed more rehearsal.’
‘That’s my decision, Martin.’
‘I only tell you what the others feel,’ said Ling. ‘You disappeared for the whole day yesterday when you should have been here to work on the piece.’
‘I had important matters to attend to,’ said Fitzgeoffrey.
‘What is more important than offering decent fare to our spectators?’
The actor-manager rounded on him. Tobias Fitzgeoffrey was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties with handsome features and a commanding presence. Towering over his book holder, he looked down at him with utter contempt.
‘If you do not like the way I run this company, Martin,’ he said with scorn, ‘you are welcome to leave. We’ll happily spare you.’
‘That thought has crossed my mind,’ admitted Ling. ‘But I’ll not go until you pay me the money that you owe. I’m not the only member of Conway’s Men who is waiting for a debt to be settled.’
‘All in good time.’
‘How often have I heard you say that, Tobias?’
‘Listen, you idiot,’ said Fitzgeoffrey vehemently. ‘When I went off yesterday, it was for the benefit of everyone. I had to perform a service for our patron and was duly rewarded. That money goes straight into our coffers.’
‘When will it come out again to pay us?’
‘When I am good and ready.’
Ling turned away to hide a sneer and began to gather up the properties that had been used during the rehearsal. Fitzgeoffrey remembered something. He crossed the room to block the other man’s path.
‘I heard a rumour that Giddy Mussett was in Canterbury yesterday,’ he said.
‘Did you?’ replied Ling.
‘What did he want?’
‘Who knows?’
‘You’d be the person he’d first seek out. Is that what he did, Martin?’
‘He may’ve done.’
‘Was he alone or did he bring someone else?’
‘I cannot remember.’
‘Did he tell you that he’d joined Westfield’s Men?’ asked Fitzgeoffrey. ‘They must’ve been mad to engage someone like him.’
‘You thought him worth his wage at one time, Tobias.’
‘That was before I knew his true character. No matter. All that is past now. Well,’ he went on with a knowing smile. ‘I hope that you enjoyed your talk with him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t think that you’ll ever see Giddy Mussett again.’
The Foolish Friar was a happy choice. It made few demands on a company that was still in a state of dejection after the murder of their clown. The two actors who had to work hardest were Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias, learning new lines and practicing endlessly with the wheelbarrow. It became a weapon as well as a means of transport. Elias was able to sweep people off their feet by pushing the wheelbarrow into them, or leave it in places where they would trip inadvertently over it. Gill’s early doubts were soon removed. Confined to his moveable couch, he could still extract the full comedy from his role. If anything, the wheelbarrow enhanced the humour by its originality. No friar had ever rolled on stage quite like that before.
Pleased with the way that the rehearsal had gone, Nicholas Bracewell was nevertheless anxious to get away. He took Firethorn aside to state his case.
‘Let me go back to Canterbury again,’ he said.
‘We need you here, Nick.’
‘But that’s where we’ll solve the murder of Giddy Mussett.’
‘That will have to wait,’ insisted Firethorn. ‘Your duty is to stay here with us. The company is uneasy when you are away. George Dart can hold the book at a rehearsal but he will never be a Nick Bracewell. In any case, it’s too dangerous for you to ride off alone and I can hardly spare anyone else to go with you.’
‘I’ll take my chances on the road.’
‘It’s a risk I’m not prepared to share. What happens if you are waylaid? It is bad enough to lose Giddy. If you went, we would be crippled indeed.’
Nicholas was earnest. ‘We owe it to Giddy to catch his killer.’
‘We owe it to our audience to serve them up a tasty dish.’
‘What is to stop us solving a hideous crime as well?’
‘Lack of time, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Lack of time and shortage of people. Ride off to Canterbury and the rehearsal will slow to a halt. You were the one who made that wheelbarrow. Who else but you would have thought of using it on stage and coaxing Barnaby back into work? Westfield’s Men need you here.’
‘I have obligations to Giddy as well.’
‘So do we all.’
‘Then let me discharge them.’
‘In due course.’
Nicholas gave up. Torn between duty to the company and an urge to avenge a crime, he had become increasingly frustrated. But he knew that Firethorn was right. The book holder’s presence was crucial. As well as advising Edmund Hoode how The Foolish Friar could be amended to their advantage, he had engaged Sebastian Frant as their scrivener, made further important adjustments to the wheelbarrow, and inspected the place where they would perform so that he could take dimensions and decide where best to set the stage. Nicholas had also been a calming influence on the apprentices, all of whom had been overwhelmed by the murder of their clown.
‘Take heart, Nick,’ said Firethorn, reading his mind. ‘I, too, would like to saddle up and gallop to Canterbury but we must discharge our obligations here first. Besides, I think that you are forgetting something.’
‘What’s that?’ said Nicholas.
‘The villain has struck twice and may do so again. It behoves us all to stay close together for our own protection. If you leave, you weaken our defence badly. Do you hear what I’m saying?’ he asked, slipping an arm around the book holder. ‘We may not need to go in search of the killer. He will come to us.’
Chapter Twelve
Given the circumstances, the performance of The Foolish Friar was an extraordinary achievement. Westfield’s Men were beset by all kinds of problems. Their new clown had been murdered at the Blue Anchor and it left them in the state of cold fear. Coming, as it did, in the wake of the ambush at the ford, the crime made them feel highly vulnerable. Most of the actors just wanted to creep away from Faversham. Their old clown, Barnaby Gill, forced to step into the breach, was nursing a broken leg and could only take the title role if changes were made to the play that permitted its foolish friar to be moved around the stage in a wheelbarrow. To make up for the lost dances, additional songs were written. To master the new scenes that Edmund Hoode had provided, intensive rehearsal was necessary. Owen Elias, in particular, was put under immense pressure. He was called upon not only to learn a different role at short notice but, as a fellow friar, had to wheel Gill around in his wheelbarrow and, at the height of the action, sing a duet with him. Mistakes came so thick and fast during rehearsals that they despaired of ever getting the play in a fit state for an audience.
Yet somehow they succeeded. Staged before the citizens of Faversham in their town hall, The Foolish Friar was a glorious romp that was played to the hilt by the actors. None of the spectators would have guessed that the actors were mourning the death of Giddy Mussett, stabbed to death less than forty-eight hours earlier. Grief was hidden beneath joyous abandon. Gill surpassed himself in the role of a cunning friar with so much charm and guile that he was able to exploit the people of a small town for bed, board and money. Pleading poverty, he nevertheless contrived to become the wealthiest man in the town. His folly consisted in overreaching himself. Not content with living off the townspeople, he tried to collect sexual favours as well, assuring the young women in question that he would absolve them of any sin that they committed with him.