Free An Honourable Murderer by Philip Gooden

well).
    â€œI am the Ocean,” said Inman.
    There were to be waves in our piece, as I’d gathered from Snell the engine-man and designer. Masque audiences like to watch waves and voyages, and in the
Masque of Peace
there was at least some excuse for a bit of sea since the Spaniards have to get over from their part of the world to ours.
    â€œBe careful you don’t sink the Spaniard,” I said.
    â€œThis isn’t ’88,” said Inman. “They will have a calm crossing, with a favouring breeze. The favouring breeze will be played by Sir Fabian Scaridge. It is the dawn of a new age. The age of Peace.”
    This sounded like the kind of diplomatic remark that might have been uttered by his master. I thought Inman was mocking such language.
    â€œAre you wearing seaweed, William?” said Maria More. “Shells and starfish and stuff?”
    â€œI shall insist on a trident. Your man Jonson says the costume man is coming this afternoon to fit us out.”
    â€œBartholomew Ridd is his name,” I said. “Ask him for whatever you want. He is very accommodating.”
    Ridd was just the opposite, very fussy and particular. Let them find that out for themselves though. William Inman went on to expand on the joys of a player’s life, as though
he
was the expert and I was the ignorant one. How delightful it must be to travel round the country, how amusing it must be to wear other men’s clothes, to speak other men’s lines, to play parts that were generally so much above our real station in life. To have so little to do for ourselves.
    â€œYes,” I said, “you’re right. We players are hardly required to do anything at all for ourselves. Only to show skill in verse-speaking, and dancing, and fencing, and clowning, and singing. Nothing much.”
    â€œOnly joking,” said Inman. “Don’t take offence.”
    â€œI’m not easily offended,” I said, glancing at Maria More. “I welcome honest comment.”
    â€œThat’s me in a nutshell,” said Inman. “Bill Inman speaks things as he finds them.”
    I don’t know why, but I never quite believe individuals who refer to themselves in this detached way. There was no opportunity for any further chat, however, since Ben Jonson summoned us to go over our lines and movements once again. There were various gaps in the rehearsal – for one thing, the Queen was not here to run through her lines as Peace, and there was no sign of Sir Fabian Scaridge who was to play the part of the favouring wind – but we emerged from the Blake mansion with a clearer idea of the action.
    And after that nothing much happened for the rest of the day. But the evening made up for this uneventfulness. I went to a brothel and then I got attacked.

O notable strumpet!
    F irst, the brothel.
    I just happened to find myself south of the river after hours. Considering that I didn’t have much time for Southwark ale-houses such as the Goat & Monkey or the Knight of the Carpet, it was surprising how often I found myself carousing there with my companions.
    And considering how I thought I’d forsworn the delights of the Southwark stews like Holland’s Leaguer, it was surprising how often I found my feet straying over the threshold of such houses of pleasure.
    Well, not that often, perhaps. I had to balance the state of my purse against my, ah, itch. And some sense of delicacy prevented me from returning to Holland’s Leaguer since it was where my old friend Nell had worked and lived – and died. Instead, I went to a less exalted and expensive establishment called the Mitre, also located in the depths of Southwark. Maybe on account of the ecclesiastical associations of the name, the madam of the place – a prim, tight-lipped woman called Mistress Bates – looked severe enough to be running a religious house. The girls also took pleasure in this incongruous title of Mitre, although