The hut had been built on rising ground and it nestled in a hollow. Used by shepherds in earlier days, it had fallen into decay now that the land had been put under the plough. The roof was full of holes, the door hung off its hinges and the timbers of one wall had rotted through, but it still offered a degree of comfort. Bare and inhospitable though it was, the hut was an improvement on sleeping rough along the way. He helped his wife down from the cart then carried her over to their dwelling for that night. When he had cleared a space for her in one corner, he lay her gently down on some sacking.
Jack Harsnett was consumed with bitterness and grief. His wife had a short enough time to live. The least he had hoped was that she might pass away in the comfort and dignity of her own home. But that small consolation was rudely taken from them by the new master of Parkbrook. Shelter in a dilapidated hut was the best that they could manage now. It was a warm afternoon and the place had a quaint charm in the sunlight but it would be different in the long reaches of the night. That was when they would miss their old cottage.
He went back to the cart to unhitch the horse. Removing the harness, he tethered the animal to a tree with a long rope that gave it a wide circle of operation. There was a good bite of grass on the verge and the horse whinnied as it lowered its head. Harsnett lifted a bucket out of the cart then went to check that his wife was settled. She gave him a pale smile before she started to cough again. He touched her shoulder with a distant tenderness then went out.
Harsnett set off to forage. They had no food left.
Alexander Marwood was actually pleased to see them. Fortune had smiled on him over the last couple of days. His wife had shown him affection, his daughter had obeyed him, his customers had refrained from starting any fights in the taproom and some long-outstanding accounts had been settled in cash. He had every reason to be happy and it unsettled him. The return of Westfield’s Men allowed him to indulge in creative misery once more. That was where his true contentment lay.
'I hear that a member of the company died, Master Firethorn.'
'It happens, sir.'
'Is foul play suspected?'
'Roper Blundell was poisoned,' said Firethorn with a teasing glint in his eye. 'He drank too much of your venomous ale, sir.'
'I have never had a complaint before!' said Marwood defensively.
'Your victims keel over before they can make it.'
'You do me wrong, Master Firethorn.'
'That is my pleasure, sir.'
'My customers constantly praise my ale, sir.'
'A sure sign of drunkenness.'
'They speak well of its taste and potency.
'Condemned men in love with the noose that hangs them.'
Devoid of a sense of humour himself, Marwood never saw when he was the butt of someone else's amusement. He stiffened his back and made a bungled attempt at dignity.
'The Queens Head has a fine reputation.'
'You may put that down to Westfield's Men, sir.'
'And to our own endeavours.' He became businesslike. 'I come for my rent, Master Firethorn.'
'It will be paid at the end of the performance.'
'You still owe me money from last week, sir.'
'An unfortunate oversight.'
'It is one of your habits.'
'Do not pass remarks on my character,' warned Firethorn. 'All accounts will be paid in full.'
'I am glad to hear it.'
Marwood glanced across at the stage which had been set up in his yard. The sight always lowered his spirits deliciously. He recalled what happened at The Rose.
'I want no devilry on the boards today, sir.'
'We play Love and Fortune,' said Firethorn grandly. 'It is a comedy of harmless proportions but none the worse for that.'
‘Good,' said Marwood. 'I want no corpses at my inn.'
'Then stop serving that dreadful ale or you'll unpeople the whole neighbourhood!'
Unable to find a rejoinder, Marwood beat a retreat with Firethorn's ripe chuckle pursuing him. Westfield's Men might venture out to the custom-built theatres in the suburbs but the Queens Head remained their home. The place would not be the same without some domestic upset with their cantankerous landlord. It added spice to the day.
Nicholas Bracewell came across to join his employer.
'You should have let me handle him, master.'
'The only way to handle that rogue is to throttle him!'
'He needs much reassurance.'
'He needs to be put in his place which is why I spoke to him.' Firethorn inhaled deeply. 'I'll not be confined or questioned by some snivelling little innkeeper! By Heavens, sir, let him meddle with me and I'll run him through with blank verse then cut off his stones with a rhyming couplet. A rank philistine!'
'Master Marwood does not love the theatre,' said Nicholas.
'Nor does the theatre love him, sir!'
The book keeper let him sound off for a few minutes. Firethorn might enjoy his verbal feud with the landlord but the fact remained that the latter rented them his premises. Nicholas had been trying for some time to interest Marwood in the idea of converting his yard into a more permanent theatre and those negotiations were not helped by interference from the actor-manager.
'Do you know what the wretch told me, Nick?'
'What, master?'
'That he did not want a dead body at the Queen's Head. Zounds! That Marwood is a dead body! A walking cadaver with a licence to sell rank ale. He's a posthumous oaf!’
'Has he heard, then, of Roper Blundell?'
'No bad news escapes that merchant of doom!'
'Did you tell him the cause of death?'
'I turned it into a joke against his drink.'
'We must not let him think there was some supernatural force at work. That would only feed his anxiety.'
'Nevertheless, it is the true explanation.'
'Not in my opinion, master.'
'You heard Doctor Mordrake.'
'He was mistaken.'
'Roper Blundell was killed by the Devil.'
'If he was killed at all, it was by a human hand.'
'The two go together,' said Firethorn. 'The Devil chose to work through a human agent here and we both know his name.'
'Ralph Willoughby is innocent of the charge.'
'He's the root cause of all our misfortunes.'
'But he was sad when he learned of Roper's end.'
'That did not stop him helping to murder the man. Yes, I know you have a high regard for Willoughby but lie has never been a real friend to this company. This morning I was given clear proof of that. Do you know what that priest or Hell has done?'
'What, sir?'
'Sold his corrupt talents to the highest bidder.'
'He is employed by one of our rivals?'
'Ralph Willoughby has accepted a commission from Banbury's Men.'
Nicholas was shocked. He felt profoundly betrayed.
