The Princess of Denmark

The fire was started by accident. Will Dunmow was a handsome young man, though nobody would have guessed it when they saw his blackened face and charred body resurrected from the ashes. Having come to the Queen’s Head to watch Westfield’s Men performing their latest play, he had enjoyed it so much that he insisted on adjourning to the taproom of the inn so that he could buy drinks for all members of the company. Wine and ale were consumed in glorious abundance and the generous spectator made the mistake of trying to hold his own as a tippler against the actors. It was foolhardy. Only a veteran sailor could drink as hard and as relentlessly as a thirsty player, carousing at someone else’s expense. Dunmow was soon so inebriated that he could barely speak a coherent sentence.

Yet he would not stop. As the taproom slowly began to empty, Dunmow remained, slumped at a table, imbibing merrily to the last. Still exhilarated by the play he had
seen in the inn yard that afternoon, he made a brave, if muddled, attempt at quoting lines from it when he could no longer even remember its title. Taking pity on their amiable benefactor, his last two drinking companions offered to convey him back to his lodging but Will Dunmow refused to quit an establishment that had given him so much pleasure. Instead, he rented a room for the night and the two actors – Owen Elias and James Ingram – carried him up the rickety stairs. When they laid him on his bed, he fell instantly asleep.

‘He’ll not wake until doomsday,’ said Elias, looking down at the supine figure with a smile of gratitude. ‘Would that all our spectators were so free with their purses!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Ingram, ‘he was a true philanthropist. And though he drunk himself into a stupor, there was good sport while he did so. He’ll remember this day with fondness, I warrant.’

‘So will the rest of us, James.’

‘Let’s leave the poor fellow to his well-earned slumber.’

‘Good night, good sir,’ they said in unison.

Elias snuffed out the candle that stood beside the bed then he tiptoed out of the room after his friend. Lying in the darkness, Will Dunmow snored gently and dreamt of the performance of
The Italian Tragedy
that had set his blood racing that afternoon. Instead of being merely a spectator, however, he was now its hero, fighting to save his country from invasion, his own life from court intrigue, and his lover, the beauteous Emilia, from abduction by a foreign prince. Iambic pentameters poured from his lips like a golden waterfall. But his enemies closed furtively in
on him. Stabbed by a dozen traitorous daggers, he came awake with a start and sat bolt upright up in bed, relieved that he had evaded his assassins and desperate for a pipe of tobacco by way of celebration.

His hands would no longer obey him, flitting ineffectually here and there like giant butterflies with leaden wings. It was pure luck that one of them finally settled on the pocket in which he kept his pipe. It took him an age to find the tobacco and tamp it down in the bowl of the pipe. Inhaling its rich aroma seemed to revive him slightly and, after several attempts, he finally contrived to strike a spark that lit the tobacco. He drew deeply on its essence, letting the smoke curl around his mouth, down his windpipe and deep into his lungs. The sense of contentment was overwhelming. A rare visitor to the capital, Will Dunmow believed that it had been the happiest day of his life.

Within seconds, he had dozed off again, lapsing into a sleep from which he would never awake. The pipe that had given him such fleeting joy now betrayed him. Falling from his hand, it spilt its glowing tobacco onto the bed. The fire began quietly, burning a hole in the sheet and sending up a column of smoke, imperceptible at first, then thickening and eddying until it filled the whole chamber. Meeting no resistance, the pungent fumes quickly overcame Will Dunmow. Having eaten its way through the bed linen, the fire tasted wood and its appetite proved insatiable. It gobbled everything within reach. By the time that the alarm was raised, the blaze was so loud, fierce and triumphant that it defied arrest.

Panic seized the occupants of the inn. Guests and servants
alike leapt from their beds and fled from their rooms in terror. Clad in his nightshirt, Alexander Marwood, the landlord, ran shrieking up and down passageways and staircases as if he himself had been set alight. The most deafening protests came from the horses locked in the stables, rearing and kicking in their stalls as the acrid smoke began to drift into their nostrils. Everyone rushed into the yard. The scene of so much sublime theatre was now in the grip of a real drama. Flames danced madly along one whole side of the building as the inferno really took hold. From the windows of the houses opposite in Gracechurch Street, an audience watched apprehensively in case the blaze would spread to their properties.

Buckets of water were hurled onto the bonfire but they could only stifle its ominous crackle momentarily. After each dousing, it surged afresh and threw dazzling shadows across the yard. The horses were rescued just in time. No sooner had the last frantic animal been led out of the stables with a blanket over its head than the beam above one of the stalls collapsed, sending burning embers crashing into the straw. It ignited immediately and showers of sparks were flung high into the air.

One careless moment with a pipe of tobacco threatened to bring down the entire inn. At its height, the conflagration was so furious and uncontrollable that the whole of the parish appeared to be at risk. And then, suddenly and unaccountably, the miracle occurred. It began to rain. Nobody noticed it at first. Even those who stood aghast in their night attire did not feel the early drops. The fire had warmed them through so completely that they were
impervious to any other touch. The storm then intensified, turning a fine drizzle into a gushing downpour and making people run for cover. Rain lashed down with competitive ferocity, matching itself against the blaze and determined to win the contest.

It was an extraordinary sight. Unchecked by human hand, the bonfire slowly gave ground to the deluge. Yellow flames were gradually extinguished. Billowing smoke was steadily beaten away. In place of the hideous roar there came a long, spiteful, exasperated sizzle as the fire reluctantly yielded to a superior force. It still burnt on for another hour but its venom had been drawn. Though providential rain had saved much of the inn, a sizeable amount had been destroyed beyond all recognition. Somewhere in the middle of the debris, quite unaware of the chaos he had caused, lay Will Dunmow.

‘We are done for, Nick,’ said Lawrence Firethorn sorrowfully. ‘Our occupation is gone.’

‘The Queen’s Head can be rebuilt.’

‘But what of Westfield’s Men in the meantime?’

‘We do exactly what we did when we last had a fire,’ said Nicholas Bracewell. ‘We quit London and take our talents elsewhere.’

‘That was easy to do when the weather was fine and travelling was not too onerous. But the summer is past. Who will want to trudge around the provinces in cold, rain and fog? Who will relish the idea of putting their shoulders to carts that are stuck ankle-deep in muddy roads? No, Nick,’ he added, stroking his beard ruefully, ‘we have been burnt out of existence.’

It was the following morning and they were standing in the yard, appraising the damage caused by the fire. Wisps of smoke still rose from some timbers, making it impossible for them to be moved by the servants who worked among the ruins. On the previous afternoon, Lawrence Firethorn, the company’s actor-manager, had taken the leading role in
The Italian Tragedy
and convinced everyone there that they were watching treachery unfold in the Mediterranean sun. Not even his manifold talents could conceal the truth now. The inn yard was a scene of utter devastation. Galleries where spectators had once sat no longer existed. Rooms where guests had stayed were empty shells, silhouetted against the grey sky. Nicholas Bracewell, a sturdy man in his thirties, was only the book holder with the troupe but he was always the first person that Firethorn turned to in a crisis.

‘What are we to do, Nick?’ he asked.

‘The first thing we must do,’ replied the other practically, ‘is to help in every way to clear up this mess. We owe that to the landlord.’

‘We owe that scurvy knave
nothing
!’

‘This disaster affects us all. We must honour our obligations.’

‘Had I been here when the fire started, I’d have been obliged to toss the landlord into the middle of the inferno. For that’s where the wretch belongs. A pox on it!’ he cried, seeing the very man approach. ‘Here comes the little excrescence. I’ll wager he blames
us
for all this.’

‘Then leave me to do the talking,’ suggested Nicholas, only too aware of Firethorn’s long-standing feud with
Alexander Marwood. ‘This is not the moment to enrage him even further.’

Marwood walked on. Sullen at the best of times, he was now thoroughly dejected, his eyes dull, his body slack, his movement sluggish. The nervous twitch that usually animated his ugly face was strangely quiescent. All the life had been sucked out of him, leaving only a hollow vestige.

‘A word with you, sirs,’ he began with a note of deference.

‘We are listening,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s much to discuss.’

‘I am on the brink of ruin.’

‘Surely not. The fire was bad but nowhere near as destructive as the one that burnt down the whole inn. You learnt from that dreadful setback, Master Marwood. You replaced the thatch with tiles and it slowed down the progress of the blaze.’

‘Yet it did not stop it from wreaking untold havoc, sir,’ said Marwood, indicating the shattered remains with a sweep of a skeletal arm. ‘My livelihood has been all but snatched away from me. I must talk to you of compensation.’

Firethorn’s ears pricked up. ‘I’m glad that you mention that,’ he said, entering the conversation for the first time. ‘Because we can no longer play here, Westfield’s Men have sustained the most inordinate losses. How much compensation do you intend to pay us?’

‘Pay
you
?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘But I am talking about the money that is due to
me
,’ said Marwood, shaking off his torpor to adopt a combative pose.
‘It’s you who should pay the compensation, Master Firethorn.’

‘Not a single penny, you rogue!’

‘You were the cause of this catastrophe.’

‘I was nowhere near the Queen’s Head last night!’

‘Nevertheless, I lay the blame at your door.’

‘How can that be?’ asked Nicholas, stepping between the two men before Firethorn could strike the landlord. ‘We are as much victims of this disaster as you, Master Marwood.’

‘Your actors set fire to my inn.’

‘That’s a serious allegation.’

‘Yet one that I can uphold,’ said Marwood, wagging a finger under his nose. ‘Master Dunmow slept under my roof last night.’

‘I remember him well – a pleasant young fellow and the soul of generosity. He put a great deal of money in your purse.’

‘Then took it straight out again.’

Nicholas blinked in surprise. ‘He
stole
from you?’

‘In a manner of speaking. The fire started in his room.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because we have the chamber directly above,’ said Marwood. ‘My wife is a light sleeper. It was she who first became aware of the danger. By the time we got to it, the room below was a furnace.’

‘Did your lodger escape?’ said Nicholas with concern.

‘He was too drunk to move. Yes – and that’s another thing for which you must bear the responsibility.’

Firethorn was scornful. ‘I told you that the rascal would blame us, Nick,’ he said. ‘Take him away before I lay hands on him.’

‘Let me hear all the facts,’ said Nicholas, gesturing for
him to be patient. ‘Continue, Master Marwood. You claim that the fire began in the room below you. How?’

‘How else?’ retorted the landlord. ‘With the candle.’

‘What candle?’

‘The one I left alight in his room when they carried him up to it. Two of
your
men, Master Firethorn,’ he stressed. ‘They bore him up the steps between them. When they put him to bed, they must have forgotten to snuff out the candle. In the course of the night, Master Dunmow must have knocked it over and set my inn ablaze.’

‘That’s pure supposition.’

‘The finger points at the Welshman and his friend.’

‘Owen Elias?’

‘The very same. He drank till the very end.’

‘Yet remained sober enough to carry a man to bed,’ observed Nicholas. ‘I have more trust in Owen. He’d never leave a candle alight in such a situation.’

‘Then how did the blaze start?’

‘Divine intervention,’ said Firethorn with a grim chuckle. ‘God finally tired of your miserable visage and lit a fire of retribution to send you off to Hell where you belong.’

‘You were to blame,’ accused Marwood, voice rising to a pitch of hysteria. ‘If it had not been for your play, Master Dunmow would never have come near the Queen’s Head.’

‘If it had not been for your heady wine,’ argued Nicholas, ‘he would never have taken a room here. You served him enough to make him drunk and incapable.’

‘Only because your actors urged him on.’

‘From what I remember, Master Dunmow did the urging.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn sadly. ‘Young Will was a most amenable host – and that’s something we’ve never had at this inn before. If the fellow perished in the fire, I grieve for him.’

‘And so should you, Master Marwood,’ said Nicholas. ‘It must have been a gruesome death. As for the candle, let’s suppose that it was indeed the villain. Who set it in the room?’

Firethorn pointed at Marwood. ‘He did, Nick.’

‘It all comes back to Westfield’s Men,’ insisted the landlord. ‘You’ve been nothing but trouble from the start. This is not the first attack you unleashed on my property. When you performed
The Devil’s Ride Through London
, you reduced the Queen’s Head to ashes.’

‘An unfortunate mishap,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sparks flew up by accident into your thatch. We suffered as much as you while the inn was being rebuilt. We had to leave London.’