The Malevolent Comedy (18 page)

Marwood was indignant. ‘I’ll stand for no insults, Master Hibbert.’

‘Then you’d best get out of my way or you’ll hear a hundred of them. Begone, you pestilence!’ shouted Hibbert. ‘Go back to your kennel before I reach for my sword.’

‘What about these bills?’

‘A pox on them!’

Grabbing the bills from Marwood, he tossed them into the air to create a minor blizzard. He picked up his hat then walked out of the room. The landlord dropped to his knees and gathered up the bills before pursuing Hibbert quickly down the steps. At the bottom of the staircase, Lawrence Firethorn was talking to Nicholas Bracewell. They looked
up as the two men descended, guessing at once why Marwood was on the heels of his guest. Hibbert adopted a lofty tone.

‘Ah, Lawrence,’ he said, ‘I crave a boon. Remove this leech of a landlord from me before he sucks my blood.’

‘I’ve more important concerns than that,’ said Firethorn.

‘What’s more important than indulging
me
? I’ve brought laughter back to the Queen’s Head with my play. That deserves a reward.’

‘It would if laughter was
all
that you brought,’ said Nicholas, trenchantly. ‘But disaster has come in its wake.’

‘Yes,’ retorted Hibbert, indicating the landlord. ‘Here he is.’

‘I’m no disaster,’ protested Marwood.

‘You’re a sly, wrangling, squirrel-faced, cheese-eating knave!’

‘Do you hear that, sirs?’

‘You’re a green-sickness carrion!’

‘Enough of this, Master Hibbert!’ said Nicholas, forcefully. ‘You’ve no cause to abuse the landlord. Before he speaks to you, we must have private conference.’

‘You will have to wait,’ said Hibbert, ‘for I’m going out.’

‘Not until we’ve said our piece,’ warned Firethorn.

‘What about these bills?’ said Marwood, waving them in the air.

‘They’ll be paid in time,’ Nicholas told him, moving the landlord gently aside. ‘There’s another account to be settled first.’ He fixed his eye on Hibbert. ‘Shall we return to your room?’

‘No,’ retorted Hibbert, trying to leave.

‘Then we’ll have to insist,’ said Firethorn, blocking his way.

‘I’ll not be treated like this, Lawrence.’

‘You’ll be treated as you deserve.’

‘Do you not
recognise
me?’ demanded Hibbert. ‘I’m your saviour. I’m the difference between success and failure. Thanks to my play, the yard was filled and Westfield’s Men have been made famous.’

‘We were famous long before you came, Saul, and will be so long after you leave us. Before that happens,’ said Firethorn with quiet menace, ‘we need a word alone with you.’

‘It’s not a convenient time.’

‘Then we’ll
make
it convenient,’ said Nicholas, taking him by the scruff of his neck and pushing him back upstairs. ‘You’ll not leave this inn until we’ve heard the truth.’

Spluttering with rage, Hibbert tried to break free but Nicholas had the superior strength. The playwright was forced back into his room and pushed towards the bed. Following them in, Firethorn closed the door behind him. Saul Hibbert’s face was red and the veins on his temples were standing out like whipcord.

‘What is going on?’ he yelled at Firethorn.

‘We are hoping that you’ll tell us,’ said Nicholas.

‘I was talking to Lawrence.’

‘Then I’ll give you the same reply,’ said Firethorn. ‘We are hoping that you’ll tell us, Saul. In fact, we’ll not leave this room until you do.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’d best beware,’ said Hibbert. ‘Bear in mind that I have the power to withdraw
The Malevolent Comedy.
Browbeat me and you’ll not put on my play tomorrow or any other day.’

‘It’s already been cancelled,’ said Nicholas.

‘And may never be performed by us again,’ added Firethorn.

Hibbert was shaken. ‘Why not?’

‘Because we have no Mistress Malevole, and the play is impossible without her. Dick Honeydew has been kidnapped.’

‘Kidnapped?’

‘Earlier on,’ explained Nicholas. ‘When he was visiting a churchyard to pay his respects at the grave of Hal Bridger – another victim of your play, Master Hibbert. One murder, one dog, one stolen prompt book, a lost apprentice. You may be proud of your play but it’s brought us nothing but misery.’

‘That’s not my fault.’

‘We believe that it is.’

‘And we want to know why,’ said Firethorn, clenching his fists. ‘
The Malevolent Comedy
is nothing more than a malevolent tragedy to us. It’s aroused someone’s ire and we’ve suffered badly as a result. Tell us why or – by Jupiter – we’ll beat the truth out of you.’

Instead of staying at the Queen’s Head with the others, Edmund Hoode had left early so that he could pay a visit
to the home of Ursula Opie. She had not been out of his thoughts since he had first met her, and, as time had passed, she had assumed an even greater magnitude in his life. In his hand was the scroll on which his sonnet was written. The moment had come to deliver it to the woman to whom it was dedicated, but Hoode could not be seen to do that himself. Anonymity had to be preserved.

When he got to the house, therefore, he lurked in a lane opposite and kept watch on the building, hoping against hope that Ursula might make a providential appearance. Since she did not, he looked around for someone to carry his poem to her, confident that its honeyed lines and uninhibited passion would find a positive response. A stringy youth strolled towards the lane. Hoode stepped out to intercept him and offered him money to deliver the scroll to the house. The youth was only too ready to accept the commission.

‘Shall I say who it’s from, sir?’ he asked.

‘No, no,’ replied Hoode. ‘Simply give it to the servant who answers the door and ask him to set it on the keyboard of the virginals.’

The youth sniggered. ‘Virginals?’

‘Do as I tell you or I’ll find someone else.’

‘I’ll do it, sir, if you pay me.’

‘Here, then.’ Hoode slipped some coins into his palm.

‘Thank you.’

‘Obey my instructions and the young lady will receive it.’

‘Does she have a name?’

‘The most beautiful name in Creation. Away with you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The youth nodded and ran off. Concealing himself in the lane once more, Hoode watched until he saw that his orders had been carried out then he headed for his lodging. The sonnet had been safely delivered. It would soon be winging its way into Ursula’s heart. He felt elated. Keen to resume work on the new play that she had unwittingly spurred him to write, he broke into a trot and laughed all the way back to his lodging.

Saul Hibbert’s protests were long and loud but they did not convince his visitors. Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn stood either side of him, eyes never leaving his face. Their presence was intimidating.

‘For the last time,’ said Hibbert, vehemently, ‘I’m not responsible for what’s happened. I regret it, naturally, but I’ll not take the blame on my shoulders. Nobody I know could have inflicted all this on us. I have no enemies.’

‘You’ll have two standing before you, if you do not tell the truth,’ said Firethorn. ‘Somebody bears a grudge against you or the play.’

‘Or both at once,’ added Nicholas. ‘What’s his name?’

Hibbert shrugged. ‘I cannot even hazard a guess.’

‘Then what’s
her
name?’

‘Her name?’ The playwright was suddenly uneasy. ‘Whose name do you mean?’

‘Two people took Dick away from that churchyard. One was a man but the other was a young lady. A witness saw them. She picked up this when the lady left it behind her.’
He held up the handkerchief. ‘So it seems that you do have enemies after all, Master Hibbert. Who is she?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Because your play has clearly upset her or her companion.’

‘Not with intent.’

‘I wonder,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick believes that some of the characters in
The Malevolent Comedy
may have been inspired by real people, put on stage so that they can be reviled and ridiculed.’

‘Is that what you did with Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor?’ pressed Nicholas. ‘And was Mistress Malevole a real woman?’

‘Every author draws from life,’ said Hibbert, evasively.

‘But he does not always turn his acquaintances into victims.’

‘I had a little, gentle, harmless fun at someone’s expense, that is all. The ladies concerned live far away from London so there’s no chance that any of them would see the play and be offended.’

‘Then why was a young woman involved in the kidnap of Dick Honeydew?’ said Firethorn. ‘And it’s not the first time we’ve heard of her, is it, Nick?’

‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘One of the servants here, Leonard, was accosted in the yard by a young lady who showed a great interest in the work of the book holder. That same afternoon, our prompt book was stolen. It was no coincidence. I believe that the same person was in that churchyard earlier on. She was there to distract Dick so
that he could be set upon by her accomplice.’

‘What sort of woman is capable of that, Saul?’

‘None that I know,’ said Hibbert.

‘Well, she appears to know you,’ accused Firethorn, angrily. ‘So does the man. Who are they?’

‘Truly, I can put no names to them.’

‘Perhaps a description of the man may help,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had it from the apothecary who sold the poison that killed Hal Bridger. What he told me tallies with what Leonard said. He, too, as I believe, met him. The fellow had more than a passing interest in your play.’

‘Go on’

‘He was tall, slim, fair-haired, bearded and well-dressed. He was also well spoken but he was not a Londoner. The apothecary said that the fellow had a country accent yet a townsman’s look to him.’

Hibbert shook his head. ‘I do not recognise him at all.’

‘Think, man,’ urged Firethorn.

‘I know nobody who fits that description.’

‘No creditor, perhaps? No vengeful landlord whom you bilked?’

‘No, Lawrence.’

‘Could he be some irate husband you once cuckolded?’

‘There are one or two of those in my past,’ admitted Hibbert with a smile, ‘but none with courage enough to pursue me. Besides, how would they know where to find me? I’ve kept constantly on the move.’

‘To escape from your enemies?’ said Nicholas.

‘I told you. I have none to speak of.’

‘You’ve just confessed to a couple of them. A man whose wife has been seduced could well hire people to come after you.’

‘Only if they knew where I was.’

‘Perhaps they picked up your trail,’ said Firethorn.

‘I’ve been careful to leave none.’

‘What about your family?’

‘They live in York,’ said Hibbert. ‘I’ve not seen them for years.’

‘Do you not let them know where you are?’

‘No, Lawrence. I’m a rolling stone.’

‘One who gathers no enemies, according to you,’ said Nicholas, tiring of his prevarication. ‘We are being misled, Master Hibbert, and we do not like it. Dick Honeydew may mean nothing to you but we love him dearly. Lawrence has brought the boy up under his own roof.’

‘Dick is like a son to me,’ said Firethorn, sorrowfully. ‘You’ll not find a more likeable lad, nor one with more talent on a stage. Margery and I are shocked that anyone should even consider snatching him away from us. That being so,’ he went on, putting a growl into his voice, ‘we’ll be very upset if anyone hampers our search for Dick, if anyone – like you, for instance – holds back information that could save his life.’

‘So tell us the truth,’ insisted Nicholas, taking a step forward.

Hibbert backed away. ‘That’s what I have done.’

‘You are hiding something from us.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Because your only concern is yourself,’ said Nicholas. ‘It does not matter to you if people are hurt because of your play. All you can think of is the applause it will bring you. We do no trust a word you’ve told us.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘It’s your version of the truth and that’s not quite the same. You are a man who keeps on the move, hides his tracks, ignores his parents and refuses to honour his debts but who nevertheless expects people to respect him.’

‘Every time we perform your play,’ said Firethorn, ‘catastrophe follows. Yet you claim that Saul Hibbert has no enemies.’

‘I swear it!’ attested Hibbert.

‘Then the puzzled is solved,’ said Nicholas, ‘because that may not be your name. Nobody hates Saul Hibbert because he did not exist until you came to London. The name is just another mask for you to wear, is it not?’ He seized him by the doublet. ‘Who exactly
are
you?’

For the first time, the playwright looked genuinely afraid.

Bernice Opie was bored. Her father was out of the house on business, her mother was visiting a friend and Ursula was so engrossed in her book that she refused to put it aside. Bernice was on her own. Wanting to return to the Queen’s Head that afternoon, she had been balked by the fact that she could not go unaccompanied. She was desperate to see Edmund Hoode once more but was unable to do so. The only way that she might meet him again was at the next
music concert to be held at the house but that was weeks away, and, in any case, Bernice could not be certain that he would be there. She missed him badly.

Irked and frustrated, she wandered around the house in search of something to distract her but nothing could hold her attention for more than a few minutes. At length, she went into the hall and stood on the dais, recalling that it was from that particular spot that she had seen Hoode the previous Sunday. Pretending that he was still there, seated at the back of the room, Bernice waved to him then blew him a fond kiss. In her imagination, he returned the kiss. She giggled.

She then noticed something lying on the keyboard of the virginals. Crossing over to the object, she saw that it was a scroll, tied up with pink ribbon. It did not appear to be addressed to anyone. Bernice unrolled it with curiosity and scanned the opening lines with heady excitement.