‘This French doctor will have the whole audience laughing until they weep with joy,’ he said approvingly.
‘That is our intention, my lord.’
‘It is one of your finest roles.’
‘I strive to make it so.’
‘Strive but give no sense of having striven.’
‘True art consists in concealing the huge efforts which lie behind it,’ said Kitely. ‘With a poor player, all that you see are the panting preliminaries.’
‘This morning I witnessed genuine talent.’
‘Above all else, my lord, we aim to please our patron.’
‘You do, Rupert.’ He waved an arm to take in the whole theatre. ‘Do you like The Rose?’
‘I adore the place.’
‘You are happy that the company took up residence here?’
‘Extremely happy, my lord.’
‘Have you no regrets?’
‘None of consequence.’
‘Good. It is a worthy venue for your art.’
The two of them gazed around the theatre with a pride which was buttressed by possessiveness. The Rose was their chosen home. In the time they had been there, Havelock’s Men had earned a considerable reputation for themselves and they almost always played before full audiences. Constructed on the site of a rose garden to the east of Rose Alley in the Liberty of the Clink, it was a striking new playhouse which brought spectators from all over London to Bankside. It was built around a timber frame on a brick foundation with outer walls of lath and plaster, and a thatched roof. Over the stage was a decorated canopy, supported by high pillars and surmounted by a hut, containing the winching apparatus which made possible all manner of spectacular effects.
Viscount Havelock inhaled deeply and beamed.
‘I never come here without feeling inspired.’
‘We are eternally grateful to you,’ said Kitely.
‘Would you not rather be treading the boards in one of the Shoreditch playhouses? The Curtain, perhaps?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘The Theatre?’
‘It is no match for The Rose.’
‘What of the inn yard venues?’ asked the other, turning to face him. ‘I first saw you at the Bel Savage Inn. And your company was at the Cross Keys for a while.’
‘Those days are past. This is perfection.’
‘Is it, Rupert?’
‘My lord?’
‘Even perfection can be improved a little.’
‘In what way?’
‘I was hoping that you would teach me. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you could add anything or anybody to The Rose, who or what would it be.’
Kitely did not hesitate. ‘Barnaby Gill.’
‘The clown with Westfield’s Men?’
‘He has no equal and his antics would enrich our fare immeasurably. Barnaby Gill is the finest comic talent in the whole of London.’
‘After a certain Rupert Kitely.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said the actor with a modest smile, ‘but even I could not dance a jig like Master Gill. Put him in Havelock’s Men and we would reach new heights.’
‘Whom else do you covet?’
‘Edmund Hoode.’
‘We have plays enough of our own.’
‘But they lack the quality of his best work,’ returned the other. ‘Whether writing a new play or cobbling an old one, he is a virtual master with a sure touch. Even when he turns his hand to tragedy, he does not falter. I hear disturbingly good reports of The Insatiate Duke.’
‘You were not misled by your informers.’
‘The praise has reached your ears, my lord?’
‘Ears, eyes and every other part about me, Rupert. I was in the gallery at the Queen’s Head yesterday afternoon. It is an extraordinary play, I must concede. A collaboration between Edmund Hoode and a clever young playwright from Oxford. They will go far together.’
‘Would that we had them both.’
‘Hoode and his apprentice?’
‘Do not forget Barnaby Gill.’
‘Would you poach anyone else from Westfield’s Men?’
‘Only their book keeper.’
‘Why him?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell is their secret weapon,’ said Kitely with grudging admiration. ‘It is he who holds the company together and raises the standard of what they offer. If I could choose but one of the names I have mentioned, I think I would first take Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘Take the others as well,’ said the Viscount casually.
‘The others?’
‘All three of them and this book keeper.’
‘That could only happen in the realms of fantasy.’
‘We may well enter them before too long.’
Kitely tried to read his enigmatic smile. Unlike other patrons, Viscount Havelock took a direct interest in the affairs of his theatre company, attending every new play without fail and proffering advice on a whole range of matters. Rupert Kitely had come to respect this advice. What he at first took for his patron’s unwarranted interference was almost invariably sage counsel. He sensed that the Viscount was there to pass on more valuable advice.
‘Do you ever go fishing, Rupert?’ asked the patron.
‘Fishing?’
‘In the river.’
‘No, my lord.’
‘I think that you should.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you may catch exactly what you seek,’ said the other with a quiet chuckle. ‘Bait your hook well, my friend, then cast your line into the Thames and leave it there awhile. Who knows? When you pull it out again, you may have landed all four of the men you value so highly.’
‘How, my lord?’
‘That is what I have come to tell you.’
Lawrence Firethorn spent the morning brooding on the subject.
‘Sylvester is lying,’ he decided.
‘I think not,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.
‘He is the obvious candidate here.’
‘That is what I rushed to believe at first but I was woefully wrong. Sylvester Pryde is no saint. He is the first to confess that. But I am certain that he did not lay a finger on Rose Marwood.’
‘A finger is not the appendage in question, Nick.’
They were standing in the yard at the Queen’s Head at the end of an erratic rehearsal of Mirth and Madness, a staple comedy from their repertoire and a complete contrast to the tragedy which preceded it. Knowing that they were only allowed in the inn yard on sufferance, the company had been preoccupied and lacklustre, stumbling over their lines, missing their entrances and generally turning a lively romp into something akin to a funeral march. Lawrence Firethorn, surprisingly, had been the chief offender which was why he did not castigate his company, trusting instead that the presence of an audience would serve to unite the players with the play.
‘Who, then, was it?’ he wondered.
‘I do not know,’ said Nicholas.
‘If not Sylvester, it must be one of our other fellows. Unless we are in the presence of a virgin birth here. Did you see a star in the east, Nick? Are we to expect the imminent arrival of Three Kings, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Forgive my blasphemy, dear heart, but this business has put me on the rack.’
‘Mistress Rose is the real victim here,’ said Nicholas.
‘Indeed, she is, and my wife said the same to me when she heard. I had great difficulty preventing Margery from walking all the way here from Shoreditch to comfort the girl. Women understand these things more than us. It is bad enough to have to face the pangs and perils of childbirth, she told me, but it must be agony to do so without the father at your side. Rose Marwood must be in torment.’
‘That was Anne’s first reaction as well.’
‘I, too, have sympathy for the girl — profound sympathy — but my prime duty is to ensure the safety of the company.’
‘That has been done. We have our playhouse back again.’
‘But for how long, Nick?’ said Firethorn. ‘We told the landlord that we would identify the mystery lover and pass the name on to him. I know full well how he will react if we go to him empty-handed. And his fury will be mild compared with that of the fiery she-dragon he is married to. What do we do?’