The Malevolent Comedy by Edward Marston

decent interval pass before we tackle the play again. We’ll stage
Black Antonio
tomorrow, as planned.’
    ‘That’s madness!’ chided Gill. ‘You throw away our advantage.’
    ‘
The Malevolent Comedy
will keep for a few days.’
    ‘I never thought to hear such stupidity coming from the mouth of a blacksmith’s son. Strike while the iron is hot, Lawrence. Is that not the first thing you learnt at your father’s anvil?’
    ‘No,’ replied Firethorn, nostalgically. ‘The first thing I learnt was not to put my hand on the anvil because it was usually still hot from the horseshoe that had just been hammered into shape upon it.’
    ‘I do not think we should play at all tomorrow,’ opined Hoode.
    ‘Then you must have taken leave of your remaining senses,’ said Gill, pouting with outrage. ‘Leave our stage empty? Our rivals would love that, I am sure. Why not simply surrender our occupations altogether?’
    ‘I have already done that, Barnaby.’
    ‘And not before time, I may say.’
    ‘No more of this nonsense!’ ordered Firethorn, putting down his empty wine cup with a bang. ‘It’s folly to say that we’ll deny our audience tomorrow and double folly to say that Edmund is a spent force as a playwright.’
    ‘He admitted it himself,’ noted Gill.
    ‘Willingly,’ said Hoode. ‘I yield the palm to Master Hibbert.’
    ‘Westfield’s Men need more than one playwright to keep up a steady flow of new work,’ said Firethorn, ‘and I look to the time when we have you back at your incomparable best.’
    ‘Earlier today, you talked only of a second Edmund Hoode.’
    ‘Give me a third, a fourth or even a fifth Edmund Hoode and none of them would hold a candle to you.’
    ‘Saul Hibbert does,’ said Gill, flatly. ‘He holds a dozen candles in both hands to light up the stage with his brilliance.’
    ‘I see none of that fabled brilliance now,’ observed Firethorn, as the playwright strode across the taproom towards them. ‘Master Hibbert looks as if he has sat upon those twenty-four candles of yours before he had the sense to snuff out their flames.’
    Still enraged by his confrontation in the tiring-house, Saul Hibbert was puce and beetle-browed. He ignored the congratulations that were called out to him and charged over to Firethorn.
    ‘I crave a word in private, Lawrence,’ he said.
    ‘There’s privacy enough at this table,’ explained Firethorn. ‘I have no secrets from Barnaby and Edmund. We form the triumvirate that runs the company. If you wish to discuss business, pray do so in front of my honoured fellows here.’
    ‘We were less than honoured when you commissioned Saul’s play,’ recalled Gill, spikily. ‘You did not mention it to either of us.’
    ‘Do you disapprove of my choice?’
    ‘No, Lawrence.
The Malevolent Comedy
is unsurpassed.’
    ‘I rest my case.’
    ‘Then let me put mine,’ said Hibbert, sitting on the empty stool at the table. ‘I want some recompense for providing you with the outstanding play of your season.’
    ‘You’ve had your fee in full.’
    ‘I need more than that, Lawrence, and I feel that I’m in a position to demand it. I talk not of money – that’s irrelevant here. I ask only this of you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Dismiss your book holder.’
    The others were so astounded that they could say nothing for a full minute. It was only when Hibbert repeated his demand that Firethorn found his voice. He burst out laughing.
    ‘Get rid of Nicholas Bracewell?’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s like saying that we should disband the whole company. Nick is its heart.’
    ‘Yet he’s only a hired man,’ argued Hibbert.
    ‘And blest are we that were lucky enough to hire him.’
    ‘I take issue with that,’ said Gill, contentiously.
    ‘Do not listen to Barnaby,’ said Hoode. ‘He has never appreciated Nick’s value. Nor do you, Master Hibbert. Did you not see what occurred today? But for Nick Bracewell’s speed in removing a corpse from the