Kindell burst into tears of contrition and it was some time before he recovered his composure. Hoode’s anger slowly mellowed. He could see the dilemma in which his apprentice was caught and he remembered the start of his own career in the theatre when he, too, was subjected to the pull of rival companies. But that did not excuse what Kindell had done.
‘I miss you, Edmund,’ he said with a hopeless shrug.
‘We are well rid of you.’
‘I miss you all. Master Firethorn, Master Gill, Nicholas Bracewell, Owen Elias, Sylvester Pryde and every last member of Westfield’s Men down to little George Dart. They will have a very low opinion of me now.’
‘And rightly so,’ said Hoode, ‘but you have clearly not heard the worst news. Sylvester is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Kindell was appalled. ‘Sylvester Pryde?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘This is hideous intelligence!’
‘I am surprised that you did not hear it from the mouth of Rupert Kitely.’
‘Master Kitely?’
‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘Perhaps that is why he told you that our playhouse would never be built. Because he knew that Sylvester had been crushed to death on the site of The Angel and thought that it would stop us. Well, you may give him a message from us. Every member of Westfield’s Men will have to be killed to stop our playhouse rising up in Bankside.’
Kindell was horrified. ‘Are you saying that Master Kitely was somehow implicated in the killing?’
‘Ask yourself this. Cui bono?’
‘But he would never stoop to murder.’
‘He would stoop to anything, Lucius. Mark him well.’
Hoode brushed past him and went into his lodging. Lucius Kindell stood outside in the street for a long time with his brain spinning uncomfortably.
She was a brave woman. The Countess of Dartford insisted on hearing details which would have unsettled more squeamish listeners but she did not flinch for a second. She remained calm and poised. Nicholas sensed her grief but saw no outward evidence of it. Her self-control was extraordinary.
‘Thank you,’ she said when he finished.
‘That is all I can tell you, my lady.’
‘It is enough for now, Nicholas.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘The only other thing I would like to hear is that his killer has been apprehended.’
‘He will be,’ promised Nicholas.
‘You are a good friend to him.’
‘He was our fellow.’
‘You spoke with such affection of him. Sylvester was a rare man. He knew how to win everyone’s good opinion. He made people love him.’ She suppressed a sigh. ‘What will happen now, Nicholas?’
‘Happen, my lady?’
‘To your playhouse?’
‘We will continue to build it,’ he affirmed. ‘That is what Sylvester would have wanted us to do. Members of the company worked on site this very day and I will take my turn there when time permits. No, my lady,’ he said, ‘as long as our loan is forthcoming, we will press on.’
‘What if it were withdrawn?’
‘We have written promise, my lady.’
‘A promise may be revoked.’
‘True.’
‘Sylvester was your intermediary, was he not?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Without his persuasion, your benefactor would not have parted with a single penny. What reason does that benefactor have to pay the loan now that Sylvester is no longer involved with Westfield’s Men?’
‘But he is, my lady,’ said Nicholas with sudden passion. ‘He is part of our history. We will always revere his memory The Angel theatre will keep that memory alive in the most visible way. He died in its service. It must be built.’
‘You are almost as persuasive as he was.’
‘We need that loan, my lady.’
‘And if it vanishes?’
‘We would have to find the money elsewhere.’
‘That will not be easy,’ she pointed out. ‘People are superstitious. They would take a foul murder on the very site of the playhouse as a bad omen.’
‘We prefer to see it as a sign to carry on.’
‘I admire your courage.’
‘It will be needed in the weeks ahead, my lady.’
She sat back pensively in her chair and subjected him to a careful scrutiny. Nicholas was discomfited. She seemed to know a great deal about him and the company while yielding up little about herself. Sensing his uneasiness, she waved him to an oak bench against the opposite wall.
‘You have been standing too long, Nicholas.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said, sitting down.
‘But I was not quite sure if you would be staying,’ she explained. ‘I had to test you first. I think that you can be trusted. You were honest with me.’
‘I tried to be, my lady.’
‘Sylvester held you in high esteem.’
‘I am flattered.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘As well as anyone else in the company,’ he said, ‘but that is no large claim to make, my lady. The truth is that none us really knew Sylvester. We saw him as a friend and as a valuable member of the company but we had no notion where he came from or what career he had pursued until he joined Westfield’s Men. He talked little about himself, nor did we press him on the subject. It is not unusual, my lady.’
‘Unusual?’
‘Actors are strange creatures. It is not only vanity which makes them strut upon a stage. Many other motives impel them. Sylvester Pryde was not alone in using the theatre as a kind of refuge, a place where he could hide his true self and be someone else for an afternoon.’
‘And what was that true self, Nicholas?’
‘I am not sure.’
‘Hazard a guess,’ she encouraged. ‘You have been here long enough to make observations and to pass a judgement What have you decided?’ She smiled at his obvious reluctance. ‘Do not be afraid to speak your mind. I will not be offended.’
‘Very well, my lady,’ he said, plunging in. ‘I believe that Sylvester secured that loan from a member of his family. We have long felt that he came of aristocratic stock and noted a prosperity about him which could not be bought with his share of our takings. In short, I think that the money for our playhouse came from someone in this room.’ He turned to indicate the largest portrait. ‘From his father.’
The Countess of Dartford fought hard to contain her mirth. She rose from her seat and walked away from him so that he could not see the smile on her face. When she recovered her poise, she came back to rest a hand on the back of her chair.
‘That is not his father, Nicholas, I do assure you.’
‘Then I am mistaken.’
‘Gravely,’ she said, turning to the portrait. ‘That gentleman has no children nor is he likely to produce any. He is well over sixty years of age and in extremely poor health. You are looking at Charles Bartram, Earl of Dartford,’ she said levelly. ‘He is my husband.’
‘I do apologise, my lady.’
‘Charles would be flattered by the compliment.’
‘I spoke in ignorance.’
‘Only because I urged you on, Nicholas. Let it pass.’ She resumed her seat and became earnest. ‘I will tell you about Sylvester Pryde,’ she volunteered, ‘but I must first extract a promise from you. Whatever I tell you must remain a secret between us. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘I will have to trust to your discretion.’
‘You will not find it wanting,’ he asseverated.
‘I know.’ She collected her thoughts before continuing. ‘Sylvester hailed from Lincolnshire. His father, Sir Reginald Pryde, had his estate there and hoped that his only son would take it over after him. It was not to be. Sylvester was too free a spirit to spend the rest of his life in Lincolnshire. He and his father fell out. Sir Reginald settled a sum of money on him but left the estate itself to a nephew.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘You can imagine what Sylvester did with his inheritance.’
‘He enjoyed spending it, my lady.’
‘On others as much as on himself,’ she stressed. ‘He was the most generous person I have ever met and not only with money. Sylvester was a beautiful man. It was a joy to know him. As to what he did before he joined your company, I am not entirely certain myself. He dallied with the law. He even toyed with the notion of becoming a Member of Parliament. And there were doubtless other professions that held his attention for a short time. Only the theatre satisfied him,’ she said. ‘He found his true home with Westfield’s Men.’