The Mad Courtesan (4 page)

‘It sufficed,’ said Firethorn.

‘It saved us, man.’

Barnaby Gill praised every aspect of a portrayal which he knew could pose a distant threat to the actor-manager.
Firethorn’s main objection to Owen Elias was the latter’s weird similarity to him in appearance and technique. Elias might never have the towering capacities of his employer but he could handle a speech with something of the same attack and make a profound impact when given the chance. Lawrence Firethorn was less threatened when the Welshman was kept languishing down among the small parts. Gill – whose lustre and position were not touched by Elias – could acclaim him freely and cause maximum discomfort to his colleague.

‘Where is your precious Sebastian?’ he teased.

‘Would that I knew, sir!’

Gill gave a brittle laugh. ‘This is the man you staked your life upon, Lawrence. Prepare yourself for death.’

He laughed again and sauntered off. Firethorn wheeled round to confront Nicholas and bark an order at him.

‘Find Sebastian!’

‘I will go as soon as I am finished here.’

‘Find him at once!’

‘It may not be an easy task.’

‘Find him and bring him to me.’

‘I fear for his safety.’

‘You have good cause, sir,’ said Firethorn with feeling. ‘When I see the villain, I’ll break his traitorous head open for him!’

Thick bandages had been wrapped around the skull to restore some semblance of normality but they were quite inadequate. Instead of binding the wound up, they simply
made it look even more grotesque with its blood-soaked dressing and its awesome finality. The body was naked on its slab beneath a dirty white shroud. Sightless eyes stared upward and the mouth was still wide open. Caked blood disfigured the sad face below the red bandaging. Other corpses lay at peace all around, accepting their fate and awaiting burial in a spirit of Christian resignation. But Sebastian Carrick was still troubled. During his last, cruel, fleeting moment on earth, he had asked a question that pursued him into the mortuary and continued to exercise his vacant mind. In the cold silence of death, his hideous visage was a bellowing enquiry.

Who
did
it?

Giles Randolph was not as yet the most outstanding actor in London but he intended to win that accolade at all costs. As the resident star of Banbury’s Men, he chose his parts with the utmost care and played them with great panache. Large audiences flocked to see him and his company was feted but Randolph was not satisfied. Amid the loudest cheers, he could still hear whispers of doubt about his art. He had yet to prove and sustain his superiority over Lawrence Firethorn, a man for whom he reserved a grudging respect that was all but smothered beneath an implacable hatred. Since Banbury’s Men had found a permanent home at The Curtain – one of the few custom-built theatres in London – they held the whiphand over their rivals at the Queen’s Head but they could not always make that advantage tell. Whenever the ambitious
Giles Randolph created a new role with which to dazzle his public, Lawrence Firethorn somehow found a means to outshine him once more. That state of affairs could not be allowed to continue. The company’s illustrious patron was disturbed.

‘The rogue does have a modicum of talent,’ said the earl with casual disgust. ‘But not enough to account for their success. Wherein lies their secret?’

‘Outrageous good fortune, my lord.’

‘There is more behind it than that.’

‘Edmund Hoode is a tolerable playwright.’

‘His work holds the stage better than our dramas.’

‘Barnaby Gill can always scrape a few laughs.’

‘He is as popular a clown as any in London,’ said the earl contemptuously. ‘But these explanations still fall short of the full truth. Firethorn, Hoode and Gill are not in themselves sufficient cause for the damnable fame of Lord Westfield’s damnable company.’

They were in a private room at the Bull and Butcher, the sprawling inn that stood near The Curtain in Shoreditch. It was early evening and they had repaired to the hostelry after yet another stirring performance by Banbury’s Men at their theatre. Giles Randolph was a tall, thin, stately man with an Italianate cast of feature that gave him a faintly sinister air. His voice was a superb instrument for poetry but he was too aware of this fact. Even in conversation he tended to pose and project. In the company of his patron, he knew how to fawn and flatter. The Earl of Banbury was a lascivious old man with a goatee beard that he continually
scratched with ring-laden fingers. Though he had a sincere and long-standing interest in the promotion of the arts, he wanted more than his due reward of gratitude. His theatre company was there to advance his own interests and to help him eclipse the rising sun of Westfield’s Men.

A venal, corseted dandy untouched by finer feeling, the Earl of Banbury detested Lord Westfield as much as Giles Randolph detested Lawrence Firethorn. With the two contending patrons, however, there was a political dimension. In a court that was rife with intrigue and aspiration, the two men wore their companies around their necks like chains of office. What happened on a stage at The Curtain or the Queen’s Head thus had a bearing on an aristocratic duel which had been fought out for many years now.

The earl drained his silver goblet of wine.

‘Banbury’s Men must take first place forthwith.’

‘They shall, my lord,’ said Randolph deferentially. ‘We will blaze across the heavens like a comet.’

‘I would have you wipe the name of Westfield from the sky. It offends my sight.’

‘Plans have been already set in motion.’

‘Show no mercy to the wretches.’

Giles Randolph sat back and gave a thin smile.

‘They will be wounded where they hurt most.’

By the time he inspected the corpse, the caked blood had been washed off the face but it was still impossible to recognise the man. The axe which split open his skull
had rearranged his features into a gruesome mockery of their former good looks. Nicholas Bracewell identified his friend more by instinct than by any facial characteristics. The apparel and effects of the deceased served to confirm beyond reasonable doubt that it was indeed Sebastian Carrick. A proud actor had made an ignoble exit but there was faint consolation for Nicholas in his grief. Carrick’s death had been instantaneous. The crude butchery of his murder left no room for prolonged pain or suffering. Final agonies had been spared.

As Nicholas gazed down at the slaughtered figure on its cold stone slab, his grief soon gave way to a surge of anger. A dear colleague had been cruelly cut down in his prime. On the verge of promotion from the ranks of hired men, Sebastian Carrick had been separated for ever from the world of theatre that he loved and adorned. The sense of waste and injustice made Nicholas seethe with indignation. He turned away from the body, fighting hard to contain his impotent rage and direct it to more useful purpose. Westfield’s Men forged a brotherly concord between the two friends. Nicholas wanted vengeance on behalf of the whole family.

The keeper of the mortuary was a wraith-like individual with a voice like rustling leaves. He nudged his visitor.

‘There was good sport in his last hour,’ he said.

‘What say you?’

‘Look, sir.’ The keeper pulled the body over onto its side to reveal the red channels down its back. ‘Behold the work of a woman! That’s the sign of a leaping house.’

He let out a harsh cackle. Nicholas studied the long parallel scratches on the white flesh, then gently lay the body on its back before covering it with the shroud. Though the mortuary was perfumed with herbs, the prevailing stink of death could still attack the nostrils and throat. When Nicholas began to cough and retch, he knew it was time to leave. He offered up a silent prayer, then went swiftly after the salvation of fresh air. A grim duty had become an excruciating ordeal.

His worst fears were now realised. The mortuary had been his first port of call. Convinced that only death could make Sebastian Carrick miss an entrance onstage, he went to review the latest crop of cadavers to be harvested from the dark suburbs. The actor was amongst them, his face tormented by the manner of his death and his eyes still glassy with appalled surprise. Others had met violent ends that night but none could match him for stark horror.

Nicholas hurried immediately to the coroner to make formal identification of the deceased but he was embarrassed to find that that was virtually all the information he could supply. The coroner pressed him for details that he simply did not have. Beyond the man’s name and employment, Nicholas knew almost nothing of Sebastian Carrick, taking him on trust in a profession where talent was the only real currency and where the life of the company was all. Actors talked mainly about acting. Carrick seemed to spend most of his spare time drinking, gambling, wenching and borrowing money to support these interests.

‘What of his family?’ said the coroner.

‘He never spoke of it,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Was the deceased born and raised in London?’

‘No mention was made.’

‘Can you tell me
nothing
of his circumstances?’

‘I fear not, sir.’

‘But he was your fellow.’

‘And fondly remembered.’

‘Master Bracewell,’ said the coroner, a plump old man with heavy jowls and drooping eyelids, ‘you have harboured a stranger in your midst. Can you call a man a friend when he is so secretive about his condition?’

‘Doubtless he had good reason.’

‘We shall never divine its nature. My verdict is a stale one. Murder by person or persons unknown.’

‘Who found the body?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Two officers of the Watch. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather. Sound fellows both who know their duty.’

‘Where may I find them?’

‘About their business even now, sir.’

Nicholas thanked him and took his leave. Deeply shocked by the murder and its implications for the company, he was also disturbed by his ignorance of the dead man’s private life. There might be a family somewhere with a right to know of his demise. There might be dependants for whom the tragic turn of events would be a catastrophe. The sooner Nicholas identified and contacted these people, the more considerate it would be. Instead of touring Clerkenwell in search of the two watchmen, therefore, he hastened across to the Shoreditch lodging of Sebastian Carrick. It
was a small, sagging, ugly dwelling in a narrow lane but the landlady was a tidy housewife. She heard his tale with motherly concern, and then she ushered him upstairs to a cramped but exceptionally clean room whose oak beams and floorboards gave off a cosy sheen. Carrick’s possessions extended largely to items of clothing and to a few tattered playbills advertising past performances by Westfield’s Men. As he perused everything with care, Nicholas questioned the landlady about her lodger but she could furnish little beyond the confidence that he had been a charming guest whom she would miss greatly. When she began to sob, her visitor was glad that he had suppressed the grisly details of the murder. In the short time he had been there, the actor had clearly gained the affections of his stout hostess.

‘Is this all you can tell me?’ said Nicholas.

‘Except that he was tardy with his rent,’ she said with mock scolding. ‘But he always gave such a pretty excuse that I did not truly mind.’

‘Did he have many callers?’

‘None, sir, to my knowledge.’

‘Can you name his tailor? His barber? His friends?’

‘We saw but little of him.’ A memory surfaced. ‘His chest may give some answers, sir. I forgot his chest.’

Nicholas rallied. ‘Where did he keep it?’

‘Even here, sir. I will find it this instant.’

She flung herself onto her knees and groped beneath the bed to pull out an empty chamber pot. Behind it she found a small wooden chest with iron bands around it. When she handed it to Nicholas, he saw there was a key in the lock
and rightly gauged that it contained nothing of value. He opened the lid and examined the contents, his hopes all but shattered when he discovered only trinkets and unpaid bills. Then his interest quickened again. At the bottom of the chest was a letter that had been delivered only days before and it provided invaluable clues about its recipient. It was a missive from his father, one Andrew Carrick, whose elegant hand and stylish turn of phrase proclaimed a gentleman.

The father patently disapproved of his son’s choice of profession but he nevertheless made solicitous enquiries about the latter’s progress. But it was the buoyant tone of the letter which astonished Nicholas. Given the situation, the father was entitled to complaint if not to self-pity yet there was no hint of it. Optimism somehow shone through. It was quite remarkable, for Andrew Carrick was not writing from the comfort and freedom of his own home in Suffolk.

He was imprisoned in the Tower of London.

L
awrence Firethorn rode slowly home to Shoreditch in an uncharacteristically jaded mood. Performances in front of an adoring public usually increased his normal ebullience and turned him into a gushing fountain of affability and good will. He would then conduct a post mortem on the play with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode, striving always to improve and refine each offering so that it would be even better the next time around. Firethorn also took care to seek the opinion of Nicholas Bracewell which was invariably sound, objective, honest and completely free from the tiresome prejudices of the fellow sharers. Business done, the actor-manager could turn to pleasure. Applause still rang in his ears to keep him happy and exhilarated. Firethorn would therefore take the edge off his excitement by dining in style with friends or pursuing his latest dalliance with a female admirer. Life was seductively rich and bountiful.

Tonight, however, it seemed poor and niggardly. As he let his horse trot homeward, Firethorn heaved a sigh of deep desolation.
Marriage and Mischief
had been as well received as ever but its leading man had not been allowed to enjoy the occasion. Shaken by the apparent desertion of Sebastian Carrick, he was in two minds about the latter’s untried deputy, hoping that Owen Elias would somehow come through unscathed and yet fearing that the Welshman might steal some of his personal thunder. The post mortem had been deadly. In place of the customary praise and self-congratulation, he had to endure the bitter mockery of Barnaby Gill who kept asking Firethorn why he had nominated as their new sharer a man who had committed the ultimate sin against the company. Edmund Hoode rubbed salt into professional wounds by suggesting that Owen Elias should retain his new role in the play and that it should be enlarged to give his talents more scope.

There was no evening feast to soften the impact of all these blows, no indulgence from Lord Westfield himself, no fair lady waiting for him at an appointed place. Firethorn was despondent. When he reached home, there would be the torments of a scolding wife to greet him. He had to steel himself before crossing his own hearth.

‘Welcome home, my prince!’

‘Margery …’

‘Your honour was but lately on my tongue.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’

‘Then come from tongue to lips.’

The kiss was as enjoyable as it was unexpected. Margery
Firethorn enfolded her husband in her arms, plucked him to her capacious bosom and kissed away a day’s absence. His spirits were rekindled at once.

‘What means this salutation?’ he said when he had enough breath back to get the question out. ‘What does it betoken, my angel?’

‘Is your memory so short, sir?’

‘Jog it a little, Margery.’

‘Cambridge.’

‘A pretty town. I played Pompey the Great there once.’

‘Does it hold no other meaning for you?’

‘Why yes,’ he said with a roguish smile that was suppressed instantly as wifely suspicion stirred. Firethorn continued quickly. ‘Cambridge is dear to me because of your dear sister. Mistress Agnes Jarrold. The very copy of your portrait, yet neither so comely nor so enchanting.’

‘I travel to Cambridge in the morning.’

‘Your husband had not forgot,’ he lied. ‘Why else would I have returned so early to your warm greeting?’

‘Come on in and take your ease, sir,’ she said as she conducted him to a chair. ‘I have wine ready for you and supper stays in the kitchen. Tell me your news before I stop your mouth with more kisses. How did Westfield’s Men fare?’

‘Do not ask, sweet wife. Do not ask.’

‘Why so?’

Margery Firethorn was the only woman who could have survived domestic life with the wayward genius she had married. Handsome, well proportioned and outspoken,
she had a bellicose charm which could still ensnare him. A proud housewife and a caring mother, she was also – even after all these years – his true love and that fact impressed itself upon him now. Instead of bustling about the place in her usual working attire, Margery was wearing her best dress and her most appealing expression. Whenever they were to part for a while, the couple always took a fond farewell of each other the night before. Firethorn was the more regular traveller but it was his wife’s turn to ride off now. Her younger sister, Agnes, married to a Cambridge bookseller, was due to have a baby in the near future. Since she had lost her two previous children within hours of their birth, she had requested Margery’s help and support during the third ordeal. It was an entreaty that could not be denied.

Firethorn was keen for his wife to stand by the bedside of his sister-in-law and quick to appreciate the advantages to himself. The most immediate ones now became clear. He was given a cordial welcome, a cheering stoup of wine, a delicious supper and a sympathetic ear. As soon as he retailed the miseries of his day, they were soothed by her attentive concern and lost all power to hurt him. Relieved of his worries, he was taken upstairs to his bedchamber and reminded just how voluptuous Margery could be when not encumbered by children or chores. It was like their marriage night all over again. Pounding the mattress with their shared ecstasy, they endorsed their union in the most strenuous way and were quite unaware of the vicarious pleasure they gave to the servants and apprentices who
were listening through the floor of the room above. Theirs was a love that truly enclosed the whole household.

As they lay panting in each other’s arms, Margery spoke fondly of their marriage and its undying bliss. Firethorn was doubly delighted, savouring the wonder of what he had just experienced while looking forward to blessings of like nature in other bedchambers. His wife was going to Cambridge for a couple of weeks. He would be free from all restraint. This thought was uppermost in his mind when he mounted her for a second time and let out a whoop of joy that woke up half of Shoreditch. Marriage blended with mischief.

It was late when he finally tracked them down in the upper reaches of Clerkenwell. They were plodding along together like two old oxen pulling a heavy cart that taxed their combined strength. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather were typical watchmen, public-spirited individuals who did an unpopular job to the best of their mean abilities. Attired in long, dark robes that were belted at the waist, they had large caps shaped like helmets. Josiah Taplow carried a staff and a lantern while William Merryweather bore a bell along with his lantern and halberd. Their weapons were more for show than use. Like most watchmen, they were more adept at warning people of their presence than of apprehending any malefactors. Indeed, it would be difficult to find officers who would be less use in a fracas than Josiah Taplow, a retired plasterer and William Merryweather, an unemployed poulterer.
Worthy and well intentioned they might be but they had little practical effect on the crime-infested area that they were doomed to patrol like lost souls in the outer darkness. It was unlovely work.

Nicholas Bracewell stepped out to accost them.

‘Hold, sirs!’ he said politely.

‘We are watchmen both,’ said Taplow defensively. ‘Stand off a little further. We are armed.’

‘I intend you no injury,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was the coroner himself who sent me in search of you. Master Taplow and Master Merryweather, is it not?’

The two men exchanged a bovine glance of bewilderment then held up their lanterns to illumine the newcomer’s face. Josiah Taplow was a wrinkled old man with a hook nose and a tufted beard. William Merryweather was bigger, sturdier but altogether more somnolent. He used a series of nudges to communicate with his colleague and left all the talking to him. Taplow took stock of the book holder.

‘Who are you, good sir?’ he asked.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘What business have you with us?’

‘You found a dead body but yesternight, I believe.’

‘That we did.’

‘The gentleman was my friend.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Master Bracewell,’ said Taplow with a wheezing note of apology, ‘for that gentleman did not die as a gentleman rightly should.’

‘I have seen him and know the worst.’

‘Words could not describe the horror of it, sir. We have
seen many foul sights in this occupation but none so foul as this. Is it not so, William?’

Merryweather grunted and nudged his corroboration.

‘Where did you find him?’ said Nicholas.

‘On the corner of Turnmill Street and Cow Cross.’

‘Could you take me to the place?’

‘It is a tidy walk from here.’

‘I think I can keep pace.’

Reassured that Nicholas posed no threat to them, they ambled along the murky lane with the book holder in tow. It took them fifteen minutes to reach Cow Cross and another five to decide on the spot where the corpse had lain. There was a lot of chuntering from Taplow and nudging from Merryweather before agreement was reached. When they held their lanterns low, Nicholas could see the blood of Sebastian Carrick still staining the ground. The sight touched off his vengeful feelings once more and he had to master them before he spoke again.

‘At what hour did you find him?’ he said.

‘Not long after midnight,’ recalled Taplow.

‘How was he lying?’

‘Dead, sir. Stone dead.’

‘On his front? On his back? Curled up on his side?’

‘On his back,’ said Taplow. ‘As if knocked down by a single blow that split his poor brains in two.’

‘Which way was he facing?’

‘Up toward Heaven, sir.’

‘I talk of his feet, Master Taplow.’

‘They pointed toward Turnmill Street.’ The watchman
had a tentative stab at detection. ‘We believe he was about to enter that sinful place when he was cut down.’

Nicholas doubted this judgement. Sebastian Carrick was a denizen of dark areas and knew how to protect himself. He would not easily have fallen to a frontal attack. It was more likely that he had been trailed by his killer who spun him round in order to strike the fateful blow. That meant that Carrick was leaving Turnmill Street rather than entering it. Somewhere in the festering warren lay the clue to his barbaric demise.

‘Was anyone else nearby?’ asked Nicholas.

‘None save me and William, sir.’

‘What did you do?’

‘All that we could, master. We fetched a cart and took the body to the coroner. It was a dolorous journey.’

‘You did well, sirs, and I thank you both.’

‘We did our duty.’

‘Indeed. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘You know it all, Master Bracewell. Bleak as it is.’

Nicholas was about to take his leave when he noticed the vigorous nudging from William Merryweather. The elbow drummed out a message on his colleague’s ribs and Josiah Taplow remembered a significant detail.

‘He was not the first, sir,’ he said.

‘First?’

‘With that wound upon his head. We found another poor wretch with just such a gash as that.’

‘Who was the fellow?’ said Nicholas.

‘A discharged sailor bent upon pleasure.’

‘When was this earlier murder?’

‘Some four or five weeks past.’

‘And where did you find him?’

‘Not far from this very spot sir. Hercules Yard.’

‘With a like wound from a like weapon?’

‘Yes, Master Bracewell.’ Taplow responded to another flurry of nudges. ‘And one thing more besides. He had the same marks upon him.’

‘Marks?’

‘Ten long scratches right down his back. The gentleman and the sailor together. A most peculiar sight, sir. They were like the stripes on a wild animal.’

William Merryweather leant in close to make his one contribution to the discussion.

‘Aye, Josiah,’ he said righteously, ‘and it was a wild animal who put them on those two bodies.’

It was his first visit to the Pickt-hatch and he found it quite overwhelming. Too callow to take on someone like Frances and too drunk to do himself justice with any of the other whores, he was relentlessly urged on by his friends until he gave in. The couple were sent off upstairs with a rousing cheer that gave the young man a momentary boldness. He put an arm around her but it was out of desperation rather than affection and Frances practically carried him along the passageway to her room. Helping him inside, she closed the door and propped him up against it, standing back to appraise him with hands on her hips. He was no more than sixteen and barely able to stand on his long, spindly legs.
Frances had taken dozens like him to her lair and she had never needed more than five minutes to bring their ardour to sticky fruition.

In this case, she doubted whether his arousal would last even that long and so it proved. Pulling down the top of her dress to expose small but shapely breasts, she lay back on the mattress and lifted her skirt invitingly. She gave him an open-mouthed grin that allowed her tongue to stick out provocatively between her teeth. A gorgeous serpent was enticing with her fangs. He needed no more encouragement Gathering his strength, he stared at her through blurred eyes then made a beery lunge. As he hit the mattress beside her, she turned him over and gave him a kiss that drained every last ounce of energy out of him and left him snoring noisily. Frances wasted scant time on him. She emptied his purse, grabbed him by the feet and dragged him out into the passageway. Leaving him in his stupor, she adjusted her dress and tidied her hair before going back downstairs in search of the next client. It was a profitable night in Turnmill Street.

Alone in his lodging, shut away from the world, Edmund Hoode sat at his table and worked by the light of a tallow candle. He was a nocturnal creature, a gifted poet whose Muse visited in the silence of the night and kept him from his slumbers. All of his best plays and most of his best sonnets had been written in the hours of darkness when his creative juices were in full flow and he could apply himself without distraction. It was at once gruelling and inspiring. Quill
pen, inkhorn and parchment became closely acquainted and formed a willing partnership right up until dawn. It was only when the first rays of light tapped softly at his window that Hoode paused to read and reflect.