He gave her an urbane smile by way of a reply then fell in beside her as they strolled towards the Presence Chamber. She saw Viscount Havelock trying to catch her eye but studiously ignored him. It was another theatre patron who intrigued her.
‘Westfield’s Men are building a playhouse, I hear.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Is that an expensive undertaking?’
‘Very expensive, I should imagine.’
‘And has Lord Westfield advanced the money?’ she said artlessly. ‘It is an act of wondrous generosity on his part.’
‘It would be,’ said Skelton, ‘if it ever happened. But it did not. Lord Westfield is hounded by his creditors. He is in no position to lend his company one penny. If Westfield’s Men depended on capital from him, they would long ago have vanished into oblivion.’
She absorbed the news with great interest. Her face was impassive but she was smiling inwardly as an idea formed.
The sight of Nicholas Bracewell’s injuries caused fear and consternation among Westfield’s Men. Their book holder had always seemed so solid and indestructible. If he could be reduced to the sorry figure they saw before them, there was little hope for the company. Nicholas’s strength and courage were taken for granted as much as the control he exerted over their performances. To see their warrior so battered was a huge blow to their morale and their self-belief.
Nicholas countered the general misery with some stirring words of defiance then took up his book for the rehearsal and exerted even more authority over the proceedings than usual. He knew how important it was to take their minds off the assault he had suffered and to get them working hard at their craft. When the rehearsal was over, he lingered in the yard with Lawrence Firethorn, Edmund Hoode, Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias. George Dart, torn between sympathy and horror, lurked on the fringe of the discussion in the hope of offering a word of comfort to his one true friend in the company but Nicholas moved him gently away before Dart collected a more abusive dismissal from the rumbling Firethorn.
The actor-manager worked himself up into a fierce rage.
‘This outrage will not be borne!’ he vowed.
‘You are not the one who has to bear it, Lawrence,’ said Elias. ‘That is poor Nick’s lot.’
‘He suffered those wounds while trying to defend our new playhouse. Our timber was destroyed, Owen. We all suffer that agony. Someone is determined to stop The Angel theatre ever coming into being.’
‘I spy the work of Havelock’s Men,’ said Hoode.
‘We have no proof of that,’ said Nicholas.
‘You carry it upon your head, Nick. Who most stands to lose if The Angel is built and prospers? The company at The Rose.’
‘Edmund is right,’ agreed Firethorn.
‘Yes,’ said Elias, adding his endorsement. ‘Who else could it be? And men who commit arson will also lower themselves to murder. One of them probably killed Sylvester.’
‘I wonder,’ said Nicholas. ‘His assassin followed him across the river before doing his work. That could mean that he lives here in the city and is familiar with the Queen’s Head, where he must have lurked in wait for Sylvester. Most of Havelock’s Men live in Southwark. One of them might have been dispatched here,’ he continued, ‘or some hired killer might have been engaged. But there are two further possibilities we must examine.’
‘What are they, Nick?’ asked Hoode.
‘First, that the assassin hailed from Shoreditch.’
‘Banbury’s Men?’
‘Several of them live cheek by jowl with us in the city. They know our territory and our habits. Their company even contains a few deserters from our own.’
Barnaby Gill looked distinctly uneasy. Silent so far, he felt impelled to enter the discussion. He waved a fussy hand.
‘This is wild speculation,’ he said. ‘We should not accuse anybody without proper evidence. The Angel theatre is clearly a stricken enterprise. We should accept that it will never be built and look elsewhere for our salvation.’
‘It will be built,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘If I have to put every brick and piece of timber in place myself, I will have that new playhouse.’
Gill was waspish. ‘What use will a playhouse be if the Privy Council’s decision favours The Rose? You will be left with an empty shell on your hands.’
‘Stop this talk of defeat, Barnaby!’
‘I am merely facing the inevitable.’
‘This is a time to be steadfast.’
‘Is it?’ said Gill sardonically. ‘Look at Nicholas. He was steadfast and we can all see the result. Murder and arson have already taken place on that site. What will come next?’
‘The burial of Barnaby Gill under its foundations!’ roared Firethorn. ‘Ye gods! This is treasonable talk. I want men around me who will fight to defend their livelihood.’
‘Let us come back to Nick,’ suggested Hoode, interceding in the quarrel before it distracted them completely. ‘He said that we should examine two further possibilities.’ He turned to the book holder. ‘What is the second?’
‘That the person or persons we seek have no connection whatsoever with any of our rivals,’ said Nicholas. ‘Indeed, they may not be involved in the theatre in any way.’
‘What, then, is their motive?’ wondered Elias.
Nicholas shrugged. ‘Spite, malice, revenge. Who knows? We all assumed that Sylvester was killed in order to deter us from building The Angel theatre. But the scene of the crime might have been chosen at random by an assailant who took the opportunity when it arose.’
‘What are you telling us, Nick?’ asked Firethorn.
‘That Sylvester may have been hunted down by an enemy. It was no deliberate attack on Westfield’s Men at all. The sole aim was to kill one man.’
‘But Sylvester had no enemies,’ argued Elias. ‘His real talent lay in making friends. Who could possibly wish to raise a hand against him?’ He gave a knowing leer. ‘Unless it was some enraged husband whom he cuckolded.’
Nicholas thought for a moment about the Earl of Dartford.
‘He had enemies,’ he said, ‘I am sure of that. And it might pay us to look more closely into his past.’
‘This does not make sense,’ said Hoode thoughtfully. ‘If Sylvester was murdered by a personal enemy then the crime was an end in itself. Why, then, go on to set fire to our property?’
‘The two attacks may be unrelated,’ said Nicholas. ‘I confess that I thought they were the work of the same villain at first but I am not so convinced now. And even if they are linked, it may not be through one of our rivals.’
‘Who else could join the two together?’ asked Hoode.
‘Our benefactor.’
As soon as the word popped out, Nicholas wondered if he had stumbled onto something. Could murder and arson have been used as a means of attacking the Countess of Dartford? Was there someone in her past who was wreaking the havoc in order to blight her plans? How would they know of her involvement with Westfield’s Men? Or of her relationship with Sylvester Pryde? The only way that he could probe the mystery was to visit her again. Cordelia Bartram had a right to know about the latest setback to the theatre she was lending money to build and she might conceivably be able to offer some insight into the outrage.
When they pressed him for more detail, Nicholas backed off and deflected them from any further mention of their guardian angel. It was forbidden territory. Their immediate concern was to stage a play that afternoon and he urged Firethorn to rally his company beforehand. They must not be allowed to dwell on adversity.
‘I’ll speak with them now,’ said Firethorn.
‘And I will take refreshment,’ said Gill, fastidiously.
‘Do not take your pessimism into the taproom, Barnaby. We have enough of that from our landlord. Give your fellows a smile. Raise their spirits. When the play is done,’ he announced, ‘every man of us will repair to the site to work.’