The Devil's Apprentice (25 page)

‘He seems a very able man.’

‘One of the best in the county.’

‘Yet he resorts to Mother Pigbone in an emergency.’

‘So do many people,’ admitted the vicar with a sigh. ‘Mother Pigbone has rare gifts, there’s no denying it but they smack too much of sorcery for my liking. But I’m in a minority, no question of that. If a respected doctor finds her potions helpful, there’s no better advertisement for them.’

‘She keeps a black boar called Beelzebub.’

‘Had it been named Matthew, Mark, Luke or John, I’d view her more kindly.’

He walked with Nicholas to the waiting horse. ‘Before you go, perhaps you could give
me
some advice.’

‘Willingly,’ said Nicholas.

Dyment was embarrassed. ‘It concerns the dispute you overheard in the church.’

‘I won’t breathe a word about that to anybody.’

‘That’s immaterial, Master Bracewell. I need your help, not your discretion. The plain truth of it is this,’ he went on, blurting it out. ‘Reginald Orr caught me on a very raw
spot. Sir Michael has not merely invited me to watch a play at Silvermere, he’s more or less insisted that I go. As his chaplain, I can hardly refuse but, as vicar here at St Christopher’s, I find it more difficult to accept.’

‘Do you fear that your congregation would disapprove?’

‘Eyebrows would certainly be raised.’

‘Then why tell them you’re going to Silvermere? It’s a personal matter.’

‘Some of my parishioners are bound to see me there.’

‘Then you can raise your eyebrows at
them
,’ countered Nicholas, producing a sudden giggle from the vicar. ‘They can hardly censure you for something that they themselves are doing. When are you bidden to the house?’

‘That’s the problem,’ said Dyment. ‘On Sunday.’

‘Ah. I see your quandary.’

‘Do theatre companies in London flout the day of rest?’

‘They do, I fear, yet not in any shameful way. Westfield’s Men do not play on the Sabbath because we’re under city jurisdiction but our rivals in Shoreditch and Bankside open their doors regularly. If people are not allowed to work, they argue, then they’re entitled to be entertained.’

‘But entertainment
is
work, Master Bracewell.’

A deep sigh. ‘None of us would gainsay that.’

‘So what am I to do?’ asked Dyment, washing his hands in the air. ‘Stay in the safety of the church and risk insulting Sir Michael? Or come to a play and leave myself open to moral condemnation?’

Nicholas smiled. ‘Why not simply repay a compliment?’ he suggested.

‘Compliment?’

‘Regardless of what Master Orr might think, actors are not outlandish heathens. When you take matins on Sunday, you’ll find Master Firethorn and the entire company joining you for worship. We’re Christian souls. So,’ continued Nicholas, untying the reins from the yew tree, ‘you can do unto us as we do unto you.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Since we’ll come to see you performing in church on Sunday morning, it’s only fair recompense for you to watch us at work that same afternoon.’ Nicholas saw the look of dismay on his face. ‘Forgive my glib suggestion. It was not meant to offend.’

‘Oh, I’m not offended,’ said Dyment. ‘Far from it. There’s a comforting logic to your argument. But I don’t think that it would persuade Reginald Orr.’

‘Is he likely to be at Silvermere on Sunday?’

The vicar rallied. ‘No, Master Bracewell. Whereas I have a legitimate reason to call at the house for I always take a private service in the chapel. If I happen to dally long enough to peep into the Great Hall, who can blame me?’

‘Nobody. I hope that you enjoy the play.’

Nicholas mounted his horse and thanked the vicar for his help. He rode off at a brisk trot, following a track that led in the direction of the forest. Eyes on the way ahead, he did not notice the tall man who stepped out from behind a tree after he went past.

Reginald Orr was positively smouldering with hatred.

Lawrence Firethorn was horrified to see the author. When Egidius Pye had arrived at Silvermere without warning, the
actor had stared at him as if seeing a ghost. Nobody was less welcome at that moment. Given the suffering that the play had already inflicted on Firethorn, his first impulse had been to flee from the man who wrote it but Pye’s meek and apologetic demeanour kept him there. Edmund Hoode had introduced the newcomer to the company and suggested that they prove themselves worthy of presenting
The Witch of Colchester
. Put on their mettle and aware how badly they had worked that morning, the actors made an effort to vindicate themselves. A small miracle occurred. Not only did they rehearse one of the most difficult scenes in the play without a single blemish, their momentum carried them on until the end of Act Three. Watching them sulkily through the window, Barnaby Gill had been so impressed that he had rejoined the others to take his place on stage and complete the final scene with one of his jigs.

Pye was overjoyed and clapped his hands until his palms were stinging. With the author’s praise still ringing in their ears, the company went off to the kitchen for their midday meal. Firethorn and Hoode lingered in the hall with the lawyer.

‘Extraordinary!’ said Pye. ‘Quite extraordinary!’

‘You liked it?’ asked Firethorn.

‘I adored every moment, sir. I could not believe you’ve done so much to the piece in so short a time. As for the play itself,’ he said, turning to Hoode, ‘your touch has been magical. Your name should be placed alongside my own as co-author.’

‘No,’ insisted Hoode, taking care to stand outside the range of Pye’s bad breath. ‘That would be unjust. Take all the credit, sir. The play is essentially yours. I’ve added
little enough but been proud to be associated with such an accomplished piece of work.’

‘Thank you, Master Hoode!’

‘The whole company, as you saw, was inspired by the play.’

‘Their performance was faultless.’

‘And what of mine?’ asked Firethorn, fishing for individual praise. ‘Did I bring out the best in Lord Malady?’

‘It was a revelation!’

‘I missed nothing of the humour in his plight?’

‘Neither the humour nor the pathos. You were sublime, Master Firethorn.’

The actor beamed with false modesty. ‘I always strive to please an author.’

‘You delighted this one, sir!’

‘Which of my scenes excited you the most?’

‘All were equally wonderful,’ declared Pye. ‘You were Lord Malady to the life!’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, his smile vanishing at once. ‘That’s something I need to speak to you about, Master Pye. When I agreed to take on the role of Lord Malady, I did not expect him to pursue me so relentlessly.’

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Let me explain,’ said Hoode quickly, hearing the ire in his friend’s voice. ‘In the course of your play, Master Pye, the villainous Sir Roderick arranges for Lord Malady to be spellbound. He is struck down by fever, then convulsions and even loses his voice. All three things happened to Lawrence in real life.’

Pye was shocked. ‘Never!’

‘They did,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘I thought the play bewitched.’

‘Lawrence suffered grievously,’ said Hoode.

‘That was not the end of it, Edmund. Tell him about the lawyer.’

Hoode nodded sadly and explained how the final moments of
The Insatiate Duke
had been interrupted by the sudden death of Robert Partridge. In spite of assurances from Doctor Winche that the man died from a heart attack, he added, the use of poison could not be ruled out. Pye was both disturbed and chastened by what he heard. He seemed to withdraw into himself like a snail seeking the refuge of its shell. Firethorn did not let him escape.

‘What’s going on, Master Pye?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t know,’ mumbled the other.

‘You know
something
, man. I can see that.’

‘I might do and I might not.’

‘Stop talking like a lawyer.’

‘But that’s what I am, Master Firethorn.’

‘Not when you take up your pen. You turn into something ever nastier.’

‘There must be some explanation,’ said Hoode, using a gentler tone to coax the truth out of Pye. ‘No sooner did Lawrence take on the role of Lord Malady than he began to be afflicted by these horrendous diseases. What prompted you to invent the spells that are used in your play, Master Pye?’

‘I didn’t invent them,’ confessed Pye.

‘Then where did they come from, man?’ asked Firethorn.

‘A witch.’

‘A
real
witch?’

‘So it now appears.’

‘Then I
have
been at the mercy of some evil spells.’

‘Not intentionally, Master Firethorn,’ said Pye sheepishly. ‘And the spells did not last long. You recovered quickly each time.’

‘That’s no consolation. I was in torment. Fever was bad enough, collapse in the middle of church was even worse but there’s no humiliation to compare with being robbed of my Epilogue in
Double Deceit
by Barnaby Gill. A plague on your witchcraft!’ he roared. ‘You filched my voice from me.’

‘Yet it was soon restored,’ noted Hoode.

‘Do you recall how, Edmund?’

‘By a potion from Mother Pigbone.’

Pye was puzzled. ‘Who is Mother Pigbone?’

‘Another witch, I’ll warrant!’ Firethorn was livid. ‘What’s the use of a play that turns me into a permanent invalid? I thought that Davy Stratton was the devil’s apprentice but I see that his true name is Egidius Pye.’

‘All may yet be well,’ said Pye, trembling under the onslaught.

‘It had better be, sir. I don’t relish being blinded.’

‘Then we change the spell that’s used to blind you in the play.’

‘What of the others?’ asked Hoode.

‘We alter each one to take the sting out of them all. When I began to write the play,’ admitted Pye, ‘I thought witchcraft arrant nonsense that was only fit for derision.
Then I met a woman who claimed to be able to conjure up evil spirits and began to have doubts. She had strange powers that unnerved me. You’ve met her as Black Joan in my play where I made her a much more likeable character than she is.’

‘Did she tell you how to cast spells?’

‘Yes, Master Hoode, and charged me handsomely.’

‘It was money well spent,’ growled Firethorn. ‘Her witchcraft was deadly.’

‘We don’t know that, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘It may just be that the play made such a profound impression on you that you imagined the afflictions of Lord Malady.’

‘Imagined!’

‘You
became
the character.’

‘How can anyone imagine fever, convulsions and a lost voice? That’s nonsense! You saw me on that stage, Edmund. Do you believe I’d let Barnaby poach my Epilogue if I could possibly stop him? I was in despair.’

‘If the play is to blame,’ said Pye, ‘I offer you my abject apology. It clearly has a power that reaches out from the page. Let me amend the lines here and now. I’ll render the spells harmless then you’ll have no fear of blindness.’

‘What must I suffer in its place?’ said Firethorn sourly. ‘Impotence?’

‘Lord Malady’s complaints will be confined to the play.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It stands to reason.’

‘Not when we’re dealing with witchcraft. That defies reason.’

‘Give me the play,’ said Pye, ‘and I’ll remove its venom.’

‘You’re too late to do that for Robert Partridge.’

‘We’re not sure that there’s any connection between his death and
The Witch of Colchester
,’ said Hoode. ‘The deceased just happened to be a lawyer.’

‘Who was poisoned just like the lawyer in the play.’

‘Are you certain of that?’ asked Pye.

‘Nick Bracewell is and he’s seen the effects of poison before.’ He rounded on the playwright. ‘You were supposed to have written a comedy, sir, not a stark tragedy.’

‘Blame the witch, sir, and not me.’

‘I blame you for purchasing her spells.’

‘Her sorcery was limited,’ said the other. ‘There’s no way that her incantations could have brought about the death of a member of the audience. If the gentleman was poisoned, as you claim, it was done by human agency.’

Firethorn threw up his arms. ‘Who would want to do such a thing?’

‘Someone determined to bring us down, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘We’ve too many enemies to name.’

‘I think we can put a name to this one. He’s desperate enough to arrange an ambush for us and to set someone to burn down the stables. Master Pye is innocent of those charges. The man I’d accuse is that rabid Puritan.’

‘Reginald Orr?’

‘He’ll do anything in his power to expel Westfield’s Men.’

‘Anything?’ said Firethorn quietly as he was seized by
a dreadful thought. ‘Is there no crime to which he’ll not stoop? Do you think he would even try to murder our book holder?’

Oakwood House was over five miles from Silvermere. When he eventually found it, Nicholas Bracewell realised why he had missed it on his earlier ride through the area. Situated on the far side of the forest, the house was set in a hollow and encircled by a protective ring of oak trees that blocked it from view. The place was old and rambling but kept in good repair. Thatch had given way to slate on some roofs. Wood had been replaced by brick in the most recent addition to the property, a series of outbuildings. Clement Enderby was evidently a man of substance with a fondness for his home. Even in its winter garb, the formal garden that fronted the house was a remarkable sight. Smoke curled up from every chimney. The place looked warm and welcoming.

When Nicholas dismounted, he first stole a glance over his shoulder, convinced that he had been followed for some part of the journey. Nobody was in sight. He decided that he was mistaken and rang the doorbell. When the visitor asked to see the master of the house, he was invited into a little hall with a fire burning brightly in its grate. Portraits hung on every wall and he was still scrutinising them when Clement Enderby came out to meet him. Enderby was a broad-shouldered man in his forties with the manner and attire of a merchant. Having been brought up in a merchant’s household, Nicholas recognised the telltale signs at once. Enderby winced when he saw his visitor’s
injuries. After introducing himself, Nicholas explained the purpose of his visit.