The house was situated just beyond the Savoy Palace, now converted into a hospital but still possessing a degree of splendour. It was a smaller property than most in the Strand but it lacked nothing in elegance. Studying the impressive facade, Nicholas surmised that only a rich man could afford to buy such a home. Servants were waiting to take charge of their horses and the front door was opened for them. The steward conducted his visitor across the hall and into a large, low room with oak-panelled walls and exquisitely carved oak furniture.
Nicholas was left alone for a few minutes and occupied the time in looking at the portraits which were ranged around the room. The largest of them captured his attention. Against a background of leather-bound books, the face of an old, proud, resolute, white-haired man stared out from the canvas. There was nobility in his features and a hint of defiance in his expression. Notwithstanding the library setting, Nicholas felt that he was looking at a military man. He also thought that he detected a faint resemblance to a certain Sylvester Pryde.
The door opened and the steward came into the room.
‘The Countess of Dartford,’ he announced solemnly.
The woman who swept in had such striking beauty and wore such costly attire that Nicholas blinked in astonishment. Removing his cap, he held it before him and gave a courteous bow. The steward withdrew and closed the door behind him. While Nicholas stood in the middle of the room, the lady of the house walked around him in a circle to take a full inventory of him, giving off a fragrance that was quite bewitching. A faint smile of admiration touched her lips but she took care not to let her visitor see it. Lowering herself onto a chair, she adjusted her dress then looked up at him.
‘You are Nicholas Bracewell?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Thank you for answering the summons.’
Now that he could study her properly, he could see a slight puffiness around her eyes as if she had been crying but it did not detract from the sculptured loveliness of her features. It was difficult to put a precise age on her. Her clear skin was that of a young woman but there was an air of maturity about her which hinted at more years than were apparent.
‘Can you be trusted, Nicholas?’ she asked.
‘Trusted, my lady?’
‘Sylvester told me that you could. He said that you were honest and reliable. A good friend who knew how to respect a confidence. Is that true?’
‘I believe so, my lady.’
‘He also told me how modest you are.’
‘Did he?’ said Nicholas.
‘Modest men have no need to boast. They can hold their tongues.’ She appraised him again. ‘I begin to think that he may have been right about you. Sylvester was a sound judge of character. He will be sorely missed.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
There was a long pause as she gathered her strength for what might be an ordeal. The Countess of Dartford folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she whispered.
‘Happened?’
‘To Sylvester. How was he killed?’
Nicholas was astounded. ‘You know, my lady?’
‘Alas, yes.’
‘But how?’
‘Just tell me what happened,’ she said, hands tightening their grasp on each other. ‘You were there when he was found, Nicholas. You saw the body. Tell me about it.’
‘I will, my lady.’
‘Tell me everything.’
Edmund Hoode was racked with self-disgust. Having honoured a friend with his fine performance in Black Antonio, he had dishonoured himself by following his colleagues eagerly into the taproom in search of the oblivion of drink. Hoode had wallowed freely in sentimentality with the rest of them, recalling fond memories of Sylvester Pryde for the general ear then sighing afresh as others produced their own stories about him. It was only when he was about to drift off into a haze that he realised how disgracefully he was behaving. Others were praying for their dear departed friend or making practical efforts to build the theatre which Pryde had helped to initiate whereas Hoode was simply taking refuge in a drunken stupor.
Before it was too late, he stopped himself abruptly. While the others continued with their meandering recollections, he hauled himself up from the table and staggered out of the Queen’s Head, anxious to make amends, to mark the passing of a good friend in a more seemly way. He was in no fit state to help on the site alongside the others and work on The Angel would in any case soon be abandoned for the day, but there was something which he could to do commemorate a fallen colleague. He could compose some verses in praise of Sylvester Pryde or write an epitaph for him.
Having made the decision, Hoode walked slowly towards his lodging through the evening air. By sheer force of will, he began to clear his mind of its wooliness and to frame the opening lines of his poetry. He was still deep in the throes of creation when he came to the street where he lived and did not even see the figure who stood outside his lodging.
Lucius Kindell came tentatively forward to meet him.
‘Good even to you, Edmund,’ he said.
Hoode gaped at him. ‘Lucius!’
‘I was hoping to catch you.’
‘Why?’ snapped Hoode, trying to pass him. ‘We have nothing to say to each other.’
Kindell blocked his path. ‘But I have something to say to you,’ he murmured. ‘I have come to apologise.’
‘It is too late for that.’
‘I know that you must feel let down.’
‘I feel betrayed, Lucius. Cruelly betrayed.’
‘That was not my intention.’
‘You have cut Westfield’s Men to the quick.’
‘It is the last thing in the world that I wanted to do,’ said Kindell, close to tears. ‘I have been troubled by guilt ever since. But I had no future with the company.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘No new play was commissioned from me.’
‘It would have been. In time.’
‘Only if Westfield’s Men survived.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Hoode. ‘We come to that, do we?’
‘It is something I have to consider,’ said the other defensively. ‘Master Kitely explained it to me. He told me that I had to find another company to stage my plays and convinced me that that company was Havelock’s Men. They are safe from the Privy Council’s threat.’
‘Do not be so sure, Lucius.’
‘Viscount Havelock has influence at Court.’
‘So does Lord Westfield,’ retorted Hoode. ‘But the crucial factor will be the quality of performance and we take all the laurels there. Rupert Kitely should look to his own survival. When The Angel theatre is built, it will put The Rose in the shade and turn it into a sorry flower that sheds its petals.’
‘That is not what Master Kitely thinks.’
‘I am not interested in him.’
‘He gave me a solemn assurance that your playhouse will never be completed. When I asked him why he was so certain, he would not say but he was adamant, Edmund. You will fail.’
‘We, too, are adamant.’
‘That is what I always admired about Westfield’s Men.’
‘Indeed,’ said Hoode with uncharacteristic irony. ‘It is a pity that your admiration did not induce a degree of loyalty in your ungrateful breast. Once thrown away so callously, friendship can never be regained.’
‘That is why I came to your lodging,’ admitted Kindell. ‘I was too ashamed to seek you at the Queen’s Head. Too ashamed and far too afraid.’
‘With good cause. Lawrence Firethorn would have eaten you alive, Lucius. He has no time for traitors.’
‘Do not call me that.’
‘You are a renegade, Lucius.’
‘No!’
‘A deserter, a rogue, a craven coward!’
‘It is not true!’ pleaded the other. ‘I hoped that you at least would understand my decision.’
‘All that I understood was the feel of the knife between my shoulder blades. You pushed it in so deep.’