Much Ado About Murder

Smythe sighed. “You are not the first to give me that good counsel, Ben. And for the life of me, I cannot say why ‘tis so difficult to follow. I simply cannot seem to get into the habit of wearing a sword everywhere I go. I am likely to trip over it, although I must admit, there have been a few times when the habit of carrying a rapier would have served me well.”

“Then I do earnestly beseech you to cultivate it,” Dickens said.

5

THE REHEARSAL BURBAGE HAD CALLED for that afternoon mustered somewhat less than half the normal full complement of the Queen’s Men. A number of their hired men who had been fortunate enough to find other employment in these trying times had already left the company, while others were still out looking for work and it was anybody’s guess as to whether or not they would return when the theatre reopened. That they would reopen was not really in question; plague seasons had seen the closing of the city’s playhouses before and would doubtless do so again. They always reopened once again when the worst of it was over. This time, however, Smythe knew, as they all did, that the question was not whether or not they would reopen, but whether or not they would be capable of mounting a production that anyone would wish to see.

They had lost nearly half the members of their company, including Alleyn. In retrospect, Smythe realized that Alleyn must have seen the writing on the wall. The time was right for him to leave not only because the opportunity was ripe, but because the company was going stale. Their beloved comedian, Dick Tarleton, was dead and Will Kemp, who had long dreamed of the chance to take his place as lead clown for the company, had fallen prey to the worst condition that could befall a comic actor… he had missed his timing.

Kemp was past it, although he would be the last one to admit it. He had never bothered much about memorizing lines, trusting instead to his ability to improvise or else caper his way out of an awkward situation with a pratfall. Now, he simply could not memorize his lines, even if he wanted. He absolutely refused to admit it, insisting that memorizing lines was not the way he worked, but the truth, as everyone could plainly see, was that his memory was going and with it, his once brilliant ability at improvisation, a talent that required quickness of thought, which was a skill that Kemp no longer had at his command. Quite aside from that, even if he could still play the Kemp of old, the audiences had outgrown him.

Gone were the days when audiences howled with laughter at simple physical highjinks on the stage, at jigs and pratfalls, clever comments broadly spoken to the crowd with broad leers and expansive gestures, song and dance routines interspersed with juggling and a cartwheel thrown in here and there. The fashion now was for much more realistic fare, involving strong characters and a cohesive story. The juggling, the tumbling, the clowning and the morris dancing could now be found on any street corner and in every marketplace. The fashions of the stage were moving on, but Will Kemp was not moving with them.

As for the other players, John Fleming was getting on in years, and while Bobby Speed was still as clever a performer as he ever was, more and more he seemed to need the fuel of drink to pull it off, and if there was one thing that all performers knew, it was that playing in one’s cups rarely produced one’s best performances and was, at best, a rather dicey proposition. Discussing it with Speed, however, seemed completely hopeless. He would either laugh it off as of no consequence, or else promise to do better next time. The trouble was, there always was a next time, and a time after that, and after that, and after that. And each time, the influence of drink became more telling.

Will was of more value to the company as a poet than an actor. He knew full well his shortcomings in that regard, and although he was reasonably competent as a player, he knew he lacked the gifts to be inspiring, and an inspired actor was the one thing that the Queen’s Men desperately needed. Dick Burbage, though young, had good potential, but he was still no Edward Alleyn, and while all of his performances were good, none was truly memorable, as Alleyn’s were. As for the rest, himself included, Smythe knew that they were merely an agglomeration of young men with little talent or experience, not one among them capable of dazzling an audience and leaving them breathless to come back for more.