The crowd was thick but he threaded his way through it with ease until he reached the Queen’s Head. His worst fears were confirmed by the sight of Nicholas Bracewell, standing outside the inn, presumably to turn the players away. He closed quickly on the book holder.
‘Good morrow, Nick!’
‘I have been waiting for you,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I called at your lodging, they told me you had spent the night elsewhere.’
‘That is so. I was called away.’
‘It must have been a pressing summons if you left in the middle of our celebrations at the Cross Keys Inn. But that is your business and does not concern me here.’ He was having difficulty being heard above the noise. ‘This street is too busy. Let us seek a quieter place to talk.’
Taking Pryde by the arm, he guided him down the first turning then swung into an alleyway which gave them a modicum of privacy and a respite from the continual din.
‘Are we barred from the Queen’s Head?’ said Pryde.
‘The company is not but one member of it may be.’
‘One member?’
‘Let me explain, Sylvester,’ said Nicholas, taking care to adopt a neutral tone. ‘Thus it stands. The landlord’s daughter is with child. Suspecting one of us to be the father, he rails against the whole company and would have cast us out into the wilderness had we not just signed a contract with him.’
‘Suspecting one of us?’ echoed Pryde. ‘Does he have no proof? Has the girl not volunteered his name?’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘No. Whether out of loyalty or folly, I cannot say, but Rose will not part with it. This argues much for her strength of feeling about the man. Her parents have been stern interrogators but they failed to prise a name out of her. All that she will concede is that he was an actor. And she offered the briefest description of him.’
‘Rose Marwood is a pretty piece of flesh,’ said Pryde with a smile. ‘He was a fortunate man, whoever he might be.’
‘His good fortune has been our misfortune.’
‘Alas, yes.’
‘And it has left the girl in a parlous state.’
‘The price of pleasure can sometimes be very high.’
‘Let us talk about that price,’ said Nicholas discreetly. ‘This is a question I have had to put to each and every member of the company, Sylvester, so do not be offended when I direct it at you. The description which Rose gave could fit two or three of our players. Chief among them is you.’
‘Me?’ said Pryde indignantly.
‘Were you the girl’s lover?’
‘No, Nick. I was not nor would I be. Heavens, man, when I said she was a pretty piece of flesh, it was not because I had designs on her. I am not involved in any way here.’
‘Is that the truth, Sylvester?’
‘On my honour!’
‘I need to know.’
‘You have just been told, Nick. Ask the same question of yourself and you will understand how I feel. Are you the father of this child?’
Nicholas almost blushed. ‘Of course not.’
‘Do you find Rose Marwood repulsive?’
‘Not at all. She is a most pleasant girl.’
‘Why, then, did you not bed her?’
‘Because my affections are placed elsewhere, Sylvester, as well you know. And that is only one of many reasons.’
‘I can offer even more why I would not even dream of embracing Rose Marwood or her kind. Suffice it to say, that I, too, have placed my affections elsewhere.’ He gave a lazy smile. ‘Those affections may shift from time to time but they would never alight on the daughter of an innkeeper. We talk of quality here, Nick. With a lady such as Anne in your life, you would not stoop to a dalliance with a serving wench. It would be beneath you.’
‘That is true.’
‘It is so with me.’
‘Yet Rose Marwood was so entranced by you.’
‘That does not make me her lover.’
‘No,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘and the vehemence of your denial makes me believe you. I am sorry to have to examine you on the subject but it is in all our interests to discover who the father of this child really is.’
‘One of our fellows deceived you.’
‘I find that hard to accept.’
‘Haply, the father does not even remember the coupling,’ said Pryde. ‘If it happened in a drunken moment, it might have no purchase on his mind.’
‘Rose Marwood would not give herself to a drunkard.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
Nicholas’s mind was racing. Having decided that Sylvester Pryde was the most likely father, he was perplexed to learn that the latter was innocent of the charge. Had one of the others deliberately lied to him? Owen Elias? James Ingram? Edmund Hoode? Lucius Kindell? Could it even have been — his blood congealed at the thought — Lawrence Firethorn himself? Gifted actor though he may be, he was also, when he could escape the vigilance of his wife, a compulsive lecher who would not scruple to show an interest in any attractive woman. If the actor-manager were the culprit, then the fate of Westfield’s Men really did hang in the balance.
Sylvester Pryde came to his aid.
‘Ask the girl,’ he suggested.
‘Who?’
‘Rose Marwood. She knows the name. Elicit it from her.’
‘How?’ said Nicholas. ‘I would not be allowed anywhere near her. The landlord and his wife have used every means at their disposal to force the name out of her. Why would she tell me what she would never divulge to her parents?’
‘Because you would be gentle with her.’
Rupert Kitely was a theatrical phenomenon. Short, slight and pleasantly ugly, he somehow transformed himself on stage into a tall, muscular individual with a dashing handsomeness that earned him a huge female following. The illusion was achieved by a subtle combination of a clarion voice, piercing eyes which reached every part of the theatre, graceful movement, vivid gesture and an inner dynamism which seemed visibly to increase his height and bulk. Kitely was the leading player with Havelock’s Men and the prime cause of its continued success. He made every role he played his own, stamping it with his authority and his trademark brilliance, taking it beyond the reach of lesser mortals in the company.
The French Doctor, a light comedy with an undertow of political satire, allowed him to display his comic gifts to the full. As the eponymous hero, Rupert Kitely gave a performance that was full of fire, pathos and hilarious mime. His timing was faultless. Even in rehearsal, he gave of his very best. Unbeknown to him, he had an appreciative audience. A pair of gloved hands applauded him from the lower gallery. Kitely looked up to see their patron, Viscount Havelock, beating his palms enthusiastically together. The French doctor replied with a low bow.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said, ‘but the real performance will take place this afternoon.’
‘I will be there, Rupert.’
‘You honour us.’
‘And you honour the name of Havelock’s Men.’
Kitely bowed again. ‘Your humble servant, my lord.’
‘I crave a word with you.’
‘I will join you presently.’
Dismissing the company, Kitely quickly made his way to the steps which led to the gallery. Viscount Havelock was a rare visitor at a rehearsal. Only a matter of some importance could have brought him there and Kitely was eager to know what it was. The patron’s broad smile heralded good news.
Charles, Viscount Havelock was an elegant man of medium height in his thirties with a long, shining, open face which gave him an almost boyish appearance, an impression reinforced by the youthful vigour which he exuded. He was completely free from the signs of dissipation which betrayed Lord Westfield and, to a much larger extent, the Earl of Banbury, his two major rivals as patrons of the theatrical arts. The Viscount rose from his seat when the actor came up the steps.