The Malevolent Comedy (19 page)

She was so profoundly moved that she had to sit down before she could read any more. It was extraordinary. Couched in the sonnet was a clear message to her and she did not have the slightest doubt about the identity of its author. Appended to the poem was the letter ‘E’. It simply had to stand for Edmund Hoode. The clues were too numerous to be ignored. Hoode had visited the hall only
days earlier and watched Bernice while she took part in the concert. One of the songs she had sung was called
Hope of Heaven.
Her father had commissioned it. The song had been written for her by a young composer named Reginald Jewell. The reference to ‘Hope’s jewel’ could not be more explicit.

It never crossed her mind for a second that the sonnet had actually been intended for her sister. Nobody could ever describe Ursula Opie as ‘glittering yet small’. It was Bernice who had glittered in the candlelight and outshone every other woman in the room. And how had Edmund Hoode ever guessed that an opal was her favourite gemstone? It was the decisive piece of evidence and proved that they were true soul mates. His declaration of love filled her with joy. At the very moment when she was on the edge of despair, Edmund Hoode had come to her rescue and changed her whole life with fourteen lines of poetry. It was heaven-sent.

Bernice glowed with delight. His love for her had to be requited.

Saul Hibbert was cornered. Had he been up against the book holder alone, he would have reached for his dagger and struck back, but there was Lawrence Firethorn to contend with as well. Though not as tall and broad-shouldered as Nicholas Bracewell, the actor-manager was the son of a blacksmith with a blacksmith’s solid build. Together, the two men posed a daunting physical threat and they stood between Hibbert and the door. It was time to make a few concessions.

‘My real name is Paul Hatfield,’ he admitted, ‘but I changed it for reasons that are private.’

‘I think that we can guess what they are,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then you would be right. Paul Hatfield
did
have enemies. There were certain ladies in my life with a grudge against me that made it necessary for Paul Hatfield to disappear.’

‘And where did this change from Paul to Saul occur?’ asked Firethorn, sarcastically. ‘On the road back from Damascus?’

‘It was on the road to Norwich, as it happens.’

‘Where had you been before that?’

‘Oxford.’

And before that?’

‘I’d need to give you a geography of England to tell you that.’

‘You say that certain ladies might bear a grudge,’ observed Nicholas. ‘What about gentlemen?’

‘No,’ said the other, firmly.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I prefer the company of ladies.’

‘Who does not?’ said Firethorn. ‘Yet a man and a woman are in league against you here. Who are they?’

‘I wish I knew, Lawrence.’

‘You must have some notion.’

‘None at all. Nicholas was right about the play,’ he went on. ‘The ladies were real enough. I even kept their names – Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor. That was perhaps unwise.’

‘What about Mistress Malevole?’ asked Nicholas.

‘She, too, was plucked from my memory.’

‘Then she would find your portrait of her offensive.’

‘Only if she saw it and that’s impossible. The lady is two hundred miles away and has never been to a playhouse in her life. Let me be frank,’ said Hibbert. ‘When the first attacks were made, I could not believe they were against me. I thought that Westfield’s Men had upset someone and that you were the target.’

‘We are,’ said Nicholas, ‘but only because of you.’

‘We need to find Dick Honeydew fast,’ said Firethorn. ‘Help us.’

‘I wish that I could,’ replied Hibbert. ‘I can give you the names of Rosamund Fletcher, Chloe Blackstock and Eleanor Dyce, but what use would they be to you? None of them would do this to me. When I knew them, they were dear, sweet, kind young ladies.’

‘So you repay them with cruel satires,’ said Nicholas.

‘They’ll not be hurt by something they’ll never see.’

‘Someone has seen the play and raised the strongest objection.’

‘I’m as anxious as you to find out who it is.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Someone in your past is prepared to
kill
to get their revenge. What terrible thing did you do to provoke such anger? What crime did you commit against someone?’

‘No crime at all.’

‘Running away,’ said Nicholas. ‘Changing your name. Hiding in the capital city. That’s not the action of an honest man.’

‘I’ll confess to the crime of dishonesty but no more.’

‘Your dishonesty is obvious enough,’ said Firethorn. ‘It’s brought fearsome retribution down upon us. If it was an assault on your person, I could understand it but it’s
The Malevolent Comedy
that’s under attack and we pay a heavy toll as a result.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘Because of your play, Hal Bridger is already dead and buried. And now, Dick Honeydew has been kidnapped. Be warned of this,’ he went on, fire pulsing in his veins, ‘if anything happens to Dick, I’ll come looking for you with a sword.’

Richard Honeydew was terrified. Bound and gagged, he was locked in a disused stable, lying on the vestigial remains of straw and watching a rat emerge inquisitively from a drain. The place was dank and fetid. Fingers of light poked in through the holes in the timber. Cobwebs abounded. The irony was that he was so close to a main thoroughfare. He could hear many people nearby and pick out the sound of passing horses and the occasional cart. Yet it was impossible for him to cry for help. When he had been attacked in the churchyard, he had been taken completely by surprise. All that he could do was to wriggle and protest. Honeydew’s resistance had been short-lived. The man carrying him had let the boy feel the point of his dagger, threatening to stab him if he struggled or shouted any more. Honeydew had obeyed so his kidnap aroused no suspicion in the street. It looked as if the man were carrying a bundle of clothing over his shoulder.

They had not gone far so were still within the city walls.
But their location was a mystery because Honeydew had no idea in which direction he had been taken. Covered by the cloak, he had seen nothing and heard very little. All that he knew for certain was the beautiful young lady with the warm smile had deceived him, and that his kidnapper was strong and determined. He also suspected that he was the man responsible for Hal Bridger’s death during the play. That added an extra dimension of horror to his predicament.

He schooled himself to stay calm so that he could think clearly. The disappearance of the rat was a relief. Unable to defend himself, the boy had been in fear of an attack but the animal had merely sniffed at his feet before scurrying off. Westfield’s Men would look for him. He knew that. As soon as they became aware of his absence, Nicholas Bracewell would organise a thorough search but Honeydew did not have much hope of being found. His kidnappers had chosen his prison with care. He could be kept there indefinitely.

Honeydew began to tremble all over. Fear for his own safety was uppermost in his mind but he was also worried about the company. He was letting them down. Without him,
The Malevolent Comedy
could not possibly be performed at the Queen’s Head and he felt sure that that was why he had been seized. It meant that they intended to hold him there all night and all of the following day. Why release him then, if they wanted to keep the play off the stage? Honeydew could be there all week.

There was one way to ensure that Saul Hibbert’s play
was never again presented, and that was to kill the boy apprentice who played the part of Mistress Malevole. A replacement could be found but Firethorn would not even consider it. The taint of a second murder would be too much for him and the superstitious actors. The play would vanish from the stage. Honeydew wondered if his kidnappers realised that. He trembled more violently. The rat poked its head out of the drain again. The boy closed his eyes in prayer.

Every available man was involved in the search. Nicholas Bracewell took control and sent them off in small groups. The first quartet was dispatched to the churchyard itself and told to stop passers-by, asking them if they had seen someone being carried away earlier on. Others combed all the side streets in the vicinity of the church, looking for clues, questioning anybody they met. George Dart was sent off to fetch Edmund Hoode, who would be deeply upset if he was excluded from the hunt. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Francis Quilter all had horses so they could conduct their search from the saddle.

At his own insistence, Leonard was also involved, risking the landlord’s wrath to help in tracking down the missing boy. Nicholas went with him because Leonard was the only person who had met the man and woman presumed to have been the kidnappers. He could identify them. Owen Elias made up the trio, wearing his sword and yearning for a chance to use it against the kidnappers.

‘Saul Hibbert should be here as well,’ said Elias.

‘Hatfield,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘His name is Paul Hatfield.’

‘I don’t care if his name is Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon. He should be here to help.’

‘He’d be more of a hindrance, Owen.’

‘Do you think he told you the truth?’

‘Part of it.’

‘What did he leave out?’

‘Far too much.’

‘He has sworn enemies, after all,’ said the Welshman, ‘that’s clear. What puzzles me is why they attack his play and not him. If they’ll go to the lengths of poisoning someone, why not pour it down
his
throat?’

‘Because that would let him escape too easily.’

‘Easily? I’d hardly call Hal’s death throes easy.’

‘They want to keep him alive to suffer,’ said Nicholas. ‘We know how much this play means to its author. He’s pinned everything on its success. Somebody is set on taking that success away from him.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know and I’m not sure that
he
knows.’

‘In his position, I’d know at once who the culprits were.’

‘That’s because you have many friends and few enemies, Owen. It’s the other way round with Master Hibbert, or Hatfield, or whatever his real name is. Few friends and so many enemies to choose from that it’s impossible to know where to start.’

‘I’d start with Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor.’

‘He swears it must be someone else.’

‘A woman scorned can become a wild virago,’ said Elias, soulfully. ‘I can tell you that. Even the softest of them can turn termagant in a second. Last year, one such meek and mild lady tried to deprive me of something I hold most dear and send my singing voice much higher.’

‘Lead a more wholesome life.’

‘And lose all the excitement? That I’ll never do, Nick.’

They walked on up Gracechurch Street until they saw Edmund Hoode, running towards them with George Dart beside him. The two newcomers were panting for breath.

‘Have you found him yet?’ asked Hoode.

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s no sign.’

‘This play will be the death of us.’

‘As long as it’s not the death of Dick Honeydew.’

‘I think we should burn the prompt book,’ Elias put in. ‘The sooner
The Malevolent Comedy
goes up in smoke, the better.’

‘I’d rather put the torch to its author,’ said Hoode. ‘I hate to say it of a fellow playwright but he must go. He’s like the seven plagues of Egypt all in one.’

‘Forget him for the time being,’ urged Nicholas. ‘The only person we need to think about now is Dick Honeydew. He’s the youngest of us and the one least able to look after himself.’

Elias nodded. ‘We’ve been hit at our weakest point,’ he said. Putting back his head, he roared his question to the bustling street. ‘Where
are
you, Dick?’

Richard Honeydew did not hear him. There were so many competing noises filling his ears and he was, in any case, too
far away from Owen Elias to catch the slightest sound of his question. The gag around his mouth prevented him from giving an answer to anyone and the ropes were starting to dig into his wrists, arms and legs. Honeydew was in great discomfort. Propped up against a wall, he was aching in every limb. When he heard footsteps approaching, he tensed himself, afraid that his kidnapper was returning to kill him.

A rusty bolt was drawn back on the top half of the door and it was opened a few inches. Someone looked in to check that he was still there. Minutes seemed to pass before the lower half of the stable door was unbolted. Honeydew swallowed hard and tried not to show the dread that was gnawing away at his stomach. The door opened and the young woman he had met in the churchyard stepped inside with a cup of water. She looked sternly down at him.

‘If I give you this to drink,’ she cautioned, ‘you must promise not to cry out. Do you understand?’ He nodded obediently. ‘Nobody would hear you but we’d have to punish you hard. Do you want to be punished?’ He shook his head. ‘Sit still while I undo this.’

Putting the cup down, she used both hands to untie the gag and remove it. Honeydew gave a gasp of relief and coughed. She held the cup to his mouth. The water was cold and refreshing. He sipped it greedily. When he had drunk it all, she used the gag to wipe away the moisture around his mouth. It was a gesture of almost maternal kindness. Yet the woman seemed far from kind. He could not believe that someone so beautiful could also look so hard-faced and forbidding.

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘Where your friends cannot find you.’

‘How long will you keep me here?’

‘We shall see.’

‘Who are you?’

‘The important thing is who
you
are,’ she said, coldly. ‘Mistress Malevole. You do not look so cruel and cunning now, do you?’

‘Why do you hate me so?’

‘I only hate what you represent, Richard.’

He was surprised. ‘You know my name?’

‘Your name and your significance to Westfield’s Men.’

‘They’ll come after you for this,’ he said, bravely. ‘Let me go or Nick Bracewell and the others will follow you to the ends of the earth until they catch you.’