The Rogue Recidivist

 

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Cast

Lord Byron
Fletcher
The Reverend Thomas Jones
Frank Boyce
Owen Mealey
 

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Scene 1

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1813, London - Byron’s rooms at Bennet Street, St. James

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F: There’s a Rev’rend Jones to see you waiting outside in t’hall, my Lord

B: Who?

F: He says he’s your tutor - from your old college at t’university - and has some “loathsome urgent business” with what to discuss in with you, my Lord

B: Stay at the King’s English, Fletcher - we’ll get there - eventually - well now! - old Jones, is it? (F ties his Lordship’s cravat) - how thoroughly I tormented the poor fellow! - (bites nails) - hope he’s not looking for some sort of emotional compensation (rubs chin) - in any case, show the good Reverend into the salon, Fletcher - and put the Brandy on

F: Aye, my lord

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The Rev. enters, tormented and frazzled

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R: How decent of you to see me, my lord - such a catastrophic disaster awaits, my lord!! - why, t’will be the ruin of me - of us!!

B(is busy with the brandy): Good day, Jones - why, it must be seven years since we were last acquainted - at private theatricals, in Harrowgate, I believe - do you recall? I acted quite superbly as Penruddock? - no? - well, how very charming it is to see you besides - have you bought volumes for me to autograph? - a gratis composition to aid a parishioner’s epitaph?

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R is pacing, and tearing his peruke

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B: Good lord above, whatever ails you? - here, have a snifter - that’ll settle your follicles - now, sit and tell me of your troubles and the latest scandals raging in old Granta

R: Scandals? (mangles his shovel hat) - oh, if only ‘twere that simple, my lord - (cracks knuckles) - pray, do you remember, my lord, when you were but a stripling, larking behind the altar during Divine Service, attempting a flying leap through a missing trefoil in the great window?

B: Remember! - why, I startled a fine pair of velvet breeches into destruction! - mind, that was on foot of an outré wager with Scrope Davies - d’you know him? - a profane jester - relishes an opportunity to befoul church proceedings with unseemly behaviour - I won the wager - per formam (smirks) - a guinea, if I remember rightly - which can but prove, Jones, the Lord loves an honest doubter!

R: He does not! (is screaming) - as faulty a piece of ecumenicism that was ever spouted from the pulpits of an unincorporated church!! - to the point, my lord (mops brow) - those velvet breeches - do you recall what became of them?

B: Why, yes - I gave them to my valet - sent them off to be made up into a charming travelling cape for my bear - what are you rambling about, Jones?

R: Your valet, my lord, is what I’m on about

F: What about me?

R: Not you, my good fellow, no, your ex-valet, my lord - Frank Boyce

B: Boyce? - the thieving blackguard I threw into antipodean stir for seven years?

R: The very man! - well, not only did he not rejig your breeches into fashionable attire for your erstwhile ursine companion - having served his term in that inhospitable clime, he is back - here - in Blighty! (is in a state of uncontrollable agitation) - ‘twould appear pre-incarceration he stashed most of your less portable valuables into the linings of the lounging chairs in your college quarters - a sort of pension-plan, as it were - and just last week the Provost caught him stabbing and tearing at them with a three-pronged re-purposed kangaroo paw - and his accomplice staggering with an apron piled high with loot with - what must be said - a somewhat casual disregard for the law!!

B: Sink me, Jones - how extraordinary! (chews on tobacco) - well I remember that fiery epistle from Mama informing me of her suspicions of his banditry! - and how I thought her most unkind - though, Jones, after seven years as sopha-stuffing, said items must be exceedingly begrimed

R: Nay! - why, this very minute - my lord, the villain is hawking same garments - and all else he stole from thee - on the open market - to hysterical females who are paying outrageously over-the-odds for your small cloathes, snuffboxes, handkerchiefs, quilted waistcoats (weeps) - he guarantees immaculate provenance!

B: The unrepentant cove! (is alarmed) - er, Jones - everything?

R: Everything!

B: Take me to him - my old schoolchum, Bobby Peel, d’you know him? - fond of harassing criminals - will have him re-transported in jig time

R: Here lies our dilemma, my lord - and ‘tis an intensely private one - word only reached me via an advertisement in the Morning Post (mops sweat from brow) - erm, as you may suspect, my lord, he includes in the sale several controversial - er - studies in classical literature

B: Oh

R: Oh indeed! - our comparative literature tutorials re. the naughty loves of the Gods & Goddesses from the good old times vis-à-vis the Covent Garden Bawdyhouse Guide - with extensive margin notes, instructions and measurements! - I shall lose my pension and my living! - and you, my lord, if you’ve any notion of marrying and saving your name, estate and fame - likewise require immediate retrieval of same!

B(weighs options calmly): I feel, my dear Reverend, that such boyish scribbles should not grievously upset the apple-cart of my current celebrity (observes R has broken a brandy glass with his teeth) - and if same editions are made known, why you may lay any censure for such licentiousness squarely upon my shoulders - after all, is that not why anyone reads Cicero? (laughs, smokes fragrant Turkish cigar)

R: ‘Tis not Cicero in the main (collapses on sopha) - my lord, recall that we ventured trepidatiously, though salaciously, into more recent continental literature - erm, do you not recall a French novel written by an imprisoned, clapt and poxed nobleman (B ponders) - the discovery of such a volume should make impoverished exiles of us both!

B: What are you on about?

R(blurts): ‘Justine’!! - my, lord

B: Fletcher - saddle my horse

R: Do you know a charming picaroon who could confront such an outlaw and retrieve all hopes for our future fame?

B: I most certainly do - I am away to Cheltenham - have no fear, Jones, the witless jack-in-the-box shall spring no more surprises on us - ‘tis he alone shall feel any shame!

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B rides up North, at speed

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Scene 2

 

Cheltenham, the track is fair to good - Scrope is immersed in his turf guide

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B: Scrope!

S: Byron! - which far-famed voluptuous deity of the Opera stage hath dragged you here?

B: I have far more important matters on hand than a squawking songstress with an unnatural passion for peaches and pasta - I require your physical deftness and mental agility to solve a puzzle (whips out The Morning Post) - that reptile Frank Boyce hath returned!

S: Boyce? - the brute who shot your bull-mastiff quite tidily between the eyes?

B: Ah, Nelson! - good god, there was no getting him off that horse’s neck (ponders the violent stable scene of yore) - that’s the very man, although on that occasion he was quite justified, no matter the grief it caused me to endure

S: Has he done his time in stir?

B: Twould appear so - moreover - as there is not, as yet, a law preventing one from profiting from one’s crimes - not only has he returned to our shores with his liberty restored - not only is he selling my private property at an outrageously inflated profit margin to sundry females - he is doing so with that felonious administrator of my estates, Mealey - under my very own hay bales!

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S is temporarily downcast that an economic opportunity has passed him by

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B: Here - read this, Scrope…

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S: Good god, the audacious old lag! No wonder Jones is stressed - the Capitalisation must have sent him into Palpitations

B: Aye, although I deplored study, he really was a most generous sort, and I have a chance to repay his kindness in arguing for my degree - to whit, I require your help re. your experience in dealing with the criminal classes

S: Small cloathes and snuffboxes, you say? - we shall need a surreptitious reconnoitre - have you handy two pair of opera glasses?

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The lads practice their prowling and surveillance skills before venturing on to Newstead

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Scene 3

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Midnight, The Hutt, Newstead’s estate office - Mealey & Boyce have been fending off requests for provenance, are somewhat disappointed by the thoroughness of their customers

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M: My good woman, if you care t’look inside the lining of that waistcoat, you will see his tailor’s label - look (tears at lining) - Messrs. Edwards of the Row - now, this is a bespoke item, cost his lordship at least £50 in ready money - I will ask you pay a mere tenner as the buttons appear to have been detached with extreme haste

FB: Strewth, the bugger is right! - odds on that old shank of his - Miss Cameron - was the cause of that (downs a pint of cold ale)

Customer 1: If you’d mind your antipodean vernacular, Mr. Boyce, for I’m sure it is quite obscene! - Mr. Mealey, many a gentleman on a strict regimen of vinegar and collar of brawn could have ordered that item from Edwards - I should prefer a lock of hair

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M & FB ferret out a variety of lust’rous curls

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FB: One of our finest (displays lock on his paw) - look at the spring it yet has!

M: And as black as his Lordship’s own soul

Customer 1: I’ll have you mind not to insult the person for whose purloined possessions you charge such outrageous prices - really, gentlemen, ye are not selling buckets of sea-coal!

M: Er - quite right - (to FB) they normally like that kind of thing (both shrug)

Customer 1 (is busy with her magnifying glass): Cool your boots, ye scoundrels! - this is not the hair from a human head - it is the clippings from a russet pelt of a small circus bear - and I should know, for I once was a stylist for Mr. Trumper in the Mall and we kept such a creature in a basement apartment as a manufactory for hair grease! - (Mealey glares with menace at FB) - I have a good mind to confiscate all your stock and call the police!

M: Is that so, madam? You would let your lord know that in the middle of the night you went in search of the small cloathes of another man?

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Customer hesitates to slap both crooks - departs, mortified and empty-handed

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M: This is not going to plan, Boyce - have ye swindled me on this deal? - how do I know this paraphernalia is real?

FB: ‘Cause I’m telling you, cobber - stuffed they were in ‘is lounging chairs - padding for my retirement - ‘tis you, Mealey - you, who is an inefficient fence! - bloody oath, ‘tis me’s a fool for not taking advice from the professionals of Botany Bay - no offence

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The men eye each other with a notion of potential, unprofitable fisticuffs when two overdressed and voluptuous young ladies enter

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FB: Cor!

M: Ladies! - I see ye have no fear of our savage bulldogs - ha - please do come this way - we have but few items remaining - what would it pleaseth ye to see?

Customer 2: I am most interested in his lordship’s small cloathes, Ducky - if you possess any - or any incomparable macassar which may have fallen off his scalp - or any feathers shed by his parrot, Jenny

Customer 3: Hullo Frank - d’you remember me?

FB: Why - is it Kitty? - from the Dog & Duck? - my! - I’d recognise those diamond rings anywhere - did you not tear them from the almost dead fingers of Lord Soake as he lay drowning in a barrel of ale?

Customer 3: ‘Tis me alright - now, Frank - the D & D has shut up on account of the new public decency act - but I have to earn my keep somewhow - give me them obscene books - ‘twill do for sin in lieu of the real thing

FB: Kitty, them books are worth guineas - guineas! - me and Mealey are both on our uppers, my dear girl - but here - have an monogrammed hanky

Customer 3: Ah, Frank - do ye not remember that I too robbed his Lordship of his little all - when he was comatose in his rooms at Trin. Coll. Cam.? - what d’ye say to a swap (opens dainty reticule) - what I got is better than them books - why they’re not worth a leg of spring lamb! (takes out an engraved Manton, the finest pistol in all London)

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FB & M gasp

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FB: Stone yon crows! - Mealey - we could retire to an apartment on the Promenade des Anglais with the proceedings of that!

M: ‘Tis certainly his lordship’s crest - (points) - see the mermaid - good god, how did you get it, Kitty? (looks at Kitty) - yes, well - a Manton is worth a fertile fifty acres, two well-maintained cottages and a milking cow, I’ll admit (attempts to look threatening) - what d’ye want for it?

Customer 3: What think you, Nancy? - Perchance we should keep it for ourselves if it be that valuable?

Customer 2: Nay Kitty, the Night Watch would surely arrest us if we carry a concealed unlicensed firearm engraved with arms not our own - yet - I agree with these two gentlemen - its value is certainly equivalent to all this flotsam you claim belonged to his lordship, is it not Mr. Mealey?

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Boyce & Mealey ponder and admire the finesse of the trigger and burr walnut handle

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FB: Very well, ladies - it’s a deal - no comebacks, mind! - ye’re to spit on this paper to seal the deal

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The business is transacted - M & FB imagine an audacious coup when the ladies scoop up B’s possessions and violently throw them all into the fire

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M: In the name of Sweet George’s trumpet! - ladies! - ‘tis like burning money!

FB: Strewth, Kitty! - are you currently on the mercury cure? - ye may as well have thrown my treasure down the dunny!

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The two ladies disrobe, quickly, revealing the layers of fine costumery provided by the Drury Lane Touring Theatre Co. - As the last petticoat falls, emergeth Byron & Scrope

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M: My lord!!!

FB: Why - ye deceitful dogs! - ye’ll pay for inflaming my savings!

M: Frank, shut up! - my, lord, you understand Mr. Boyce here led me to understand these items were gifted to him before he left your employ - in thanks for shooting your mad bulldog as it swung off your horse’s neck in a state of reckless agitation

B: Mealey, you are a worse liar than your felonious friend here - at least ye shall both have company on your impending sojourn to that land most inhospitable to human habitation

FB: Felonious is it?! - Mr. Davies - I know those are the real Miss Kitty’s rings! - why, ye’re no better yourselves!

SBD: They were received as part of an honest wager - lost by said overambitious, underexercised Kitty (B chortles) - besides, what are you both complaining about - you have that charming little pistol, do you not?

FB: Oh? - yes, we do! - (points pistol at B & Scrope) - the last laugh is on us, my lord!

B: Do you suppose so, Frank?

FB: Mealey - call the dogs!

SBD: The dogs? - really, Mealey, they have quite come over to our side - how well they remember the scent of his Lordship and the innumerable kind offices he once paid to their ancestors

M: Shoot them, Frank - or demand coin for what they destroyed!!! (FB hesitates) - courage, Frank! - blast them into the great Void!!

SBD: Cigar, my dear Byron?

B: Delighted, Scrope - Mealey, do you have a light?

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Mealey, in a state of demented outrage at fortune denied and manly honour scoffed at, pulls the ineffective trigger

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FB: Mealey - you drongo - what have you done??? (inspects gun)

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B & SBD roar pitilessly

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SBD: You were correct re. the mermaid, Mealey - though not one of the Byron breed, however - said voluptuous danger to shipping is currently an exhibit in Astley’s circus - from whence I won this superfine ‘Manton’ cigar lighter in a ‘raffle’ (the gents are beside themselves)

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Mealey and Boyce make moves to attack - B & Scrope blow vast amounts of Turkish smoke in their general direction and call in the dogs - Reverend Jones becomes a renowned Professor of Perilous Literature - B finally realises the value of the honest, albeit timber-headed, Fletcher

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END

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