The Devil's Apprentice (29 page)

‘You already do that.’

Sir Michael beamed at the compliment and Romball Taylard, standing at his master’s elbow, allowed himself a whisper of a smile. When the old man stepped away from the table, the steward began to clear things up after him.

‘I got your message, Sir Michael,’ said Winche.

‘Good of you to come so quickly.’

‘There was a hint of urgency in the missive.’

‘Quite so. I felt that the matter had to be resolved once and for all.’

‘What matter, Sir Michael?’

‘It’s this business of Robert Partridge’s sudden death.’

‘But that needn’t cause you any more concern,’ said Winche. ‘The body has been removed to St Margaret’s church and a date for the funeral has been set.’

‘The poor fellow died in my house, doctor.’

‘An unfortunate coincidence.’

‘Not according to Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Oh?’

‘He and Master Firethorn viewed the body when it lay in my mortuary and they reached a conclusion that, I must confess, flitted across my own mind.’ Sir Michael pursed his lips. ‘They feel that Robert Partridge might have been poisoned.’

‘That’s quite out of the question.’

‘Is it?’

‘I examined the body with care.’

‘So did they, Doctor Winche.’

‘But only in the dark,’ said Taylard, easing into the conversation. ‘They went into the mortuary without permission. When I found them there, they were giving the body a very cursory examination with the aid of a single candle. What could they see with that?’

‘An admirable point,’ said Winche, smiling with gratitude. ‘When I visited the mortuary, I had candelabra set up so that I could inspect the corpse properly. And even then, the light was inadequate.’ He gave a laugh. ‘I could have done with some of that magic liquid you’re working on, Sir Michael. Better illumination was needed.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell seemed so certain,’ recalled Sir Michael.

‘Why should it even concern him and Master Firethorn?’

‘Because the death occurred during their play.’

‘Does that mean they’re entitled to become physicians in my stead?’

‘Of course, not.’

‘Then why do they question my judgement?’

‘There’s another aspect of this, Sir Michael,’ said the steward. ‘They had no right to sneak into your private chapel. How would Master Partridge’s widow feel if she knew that two complete strangers had been staring at his corpse? It’s indecent.’

‘And wholly unnecessary,’ added Winche with an edge to his voice. ‘Exactly how long has this Nicholas Bracewell been practicing medicine?’

‘He sailed with Drake,’ explained Sir Michael, ‘and saw a lot of death aboard, including those poor souls who died of food poisoning.’

‘Is that what he thinks Robert Partridge did? Ate some weird fish from the Pacific Ocean and died in agony? The man had a heart attack, Sir Michael,’ he affirmed. ‘Brought on by overwork. Robert pushed himself too hard.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I thought he looked unwell when I saw him before the play.’

‘So did I,’ agreed Taylard. ‘He also drank more wine than the other guests.’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Robert was always fond of his wine.’

Winche chortled. ‘I don’t blame a man for that. I enjoy a cup of Canary myself. But over-indulgence can be
dangerous.’ A thought nudged him. ‘Nobody likes a drink more than actors. After their performance, I daresay they went off to celebrate.’ He turned to the steward. ‘Were wine and ale laid on for them?’

‘As much as they wanted,’ said Taylard.

‘What state were the two men in when you found them in the mortuary?’

‘Drink had certainly been taken, doctor. I smelt it on their breath.’

‘There we are, then, Sir Michael,’ said Winche. ‘On one side, you have the opinion of a doctor who has seen dozens of people struck down by a heart attack. On the other, you have the ludicrous claim of two drunken men who stole into your mortuary on impulse and examined the body by the light of a candle. Whom do you believe?’

‘When you put it like that,’ said Sir Michael, ‘I obviously trust
you
.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Yet Nicholas Bracewell seemed so convinced.’

‘Mistakenly.’

‘So it appears.’

‘Robert Partridge has been a patient of mine for years. I knew what to look for.’

‘I accept that, doctor, but, as you know, the possibility of poison did occur to me as well. That strange colour in his cheeks.’

‘Too much wine.’

‘That might explain it, I suppose.’

Winche was categorical. ‘Robert Partridge died of a massive heart attack.’

‘You should be grateful to hear that, Sir Michael,’ said Taylard quietly.

‘Grateful that a guest of mine died, Romball?’ asked the old man.

‘No, that was regrettable. It was a dreadful thing to happen. But since it did, Sir Michael, surely it’s better that Master Partridge died from natural causes rather than by any other means.’

‘Be more explicit, man.’

‘The visit of Westfield’s Men means a lot to you.’

‘And even more to my wife.’

‘To you and to Lady Eleanor. Both of you, Sir Michael, have gone to immense pains to offer entertainment to your friends.’

‘Wonderful entertainment!’ said Winche.

‘Everyone accepts that,’ continued Taylard, his face expressionless. ‘But ask yourself this, Sir Michael. How many of your friends would choose to come to the remaining plays if they thought that one of your guests had been poisoned here?’

It was a sobering idea and it made Sir Michael shudder.

Lawrence Firethorn decided that it was time to assert his authority. When they came back empty-handed to Silvermere, he told Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias that their place henceforth was with the rest of the company. They could not be spared again.

‘But we haven’t found Davy Stratton yet,’ said Nicholas.

‘Nor will you,’ said Firethorn. ‘He’s done enough damage to us already. I’ll not have him robbing us of our
book holder any longer. To be honest, I don’t care if we never see hide nor hair of him again.’

‘He’s tied to us by contract, Lawrence,’ said Elias.

‘So are you, Owen, and I’m enforcing that contract.’

‘What if his father learns that Davy has given us the slip again?’

‘I’m afraid that he’d show scant interest,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘You heard the way that he talked about his son earlier on. He’s effectively disowned him.’

Firethorn glowered. ‘So have I.’

Nicholas gave him a terse account of their travels that afternoon but the actor was only concerned with his own woes. The rehearsal of
The Witch of Colchester
had ended in bitterness and confusion. Late into the evening, Firethorn still bore the scars.

‘Forget the musket in the forest,’ he ordered. ‘Ignore a miserable lawyer who might have been poisoned. There’s murder enough in Westfield’s Men to keep the pair of you occupied.’ He pointed a finger as he reeled off the names of his intended victims. ‘I plan to put a hundred musket balls into Egidius Pye. I mean to tip a hogshead of poison down Barnaby Gill’s throat. And, as for that mooncalf, George Dart, I’ll shoot, poison and bury him alive in cow dung. The three of them have
tormented
me.’

Nicholas and Elias listened patiently while he rid himself of some more bitterness. The three men were seated at a table in the kitchen, eating a meal with those members of the company brave enough to stay within Firethorn’s range. Pye cringed over his food at the table farthest away from them, Gill conversed with Edmund Hoode in a corner and
the embattled Dart hid behind a side of beef that swung from a hook and hoped that nobody could see him. It was only when he had finished his recriminations that Firethorn thought of another reason why his companions should stay at Silvermere.

‘Isaac Upchard has escaped,’ he announced.

‘How?’ said Nicholas.

‘The constable went to sleep and his prisoner walked calmly out. The vicar brought the news because he was so anxious to warn us. Upchard is a vengeful man. He’ll be on your trail, Nick.’

‘I’ll be ready for him.’

‘No, you won’t. You’ll be here in the safety of Silvermere, doing the job for which we pay you and saving George Dart from an early death.’

‘This is Reginald Orr’s work,’ said Elias. ‘He must have set his friend free.’

‘So the vicar thought but there’s no proof. And if it’s left to the local constable to find it,’ said Firethorn gloomily, ‘there never will be.’

Elias was rueful. ‘I knew that we hadn’t heard the last of Reginald Orr.’

‘He’ll not bother us if we stay here, Owen, and that’s what we’ll do. There’ll be no more expeditions for you or Nick. Everywhere but Silvermere is out of bounds.’

‘I fear for young Davy,’ said Nicholas.

‘He was the one who chose to run away.’

‘I’d hoped to widen the search still further tomorrow morning.’

‘No!’ said Firethorn, banging the table with his fist. ‘You
won’t stir an inch from here. We’ve a large audience coming to see us in
Henry the Fifth
tomorrow. I refuse to rehearse a single line with that mumbling fool, George Dart, as our prompter. We need to have the play in good order.’

‘I agree,’ said Nicholas with reluctance. ‘It’s the least we owe Sir Michael for his hospitality. For tomorrow’s play, he’s offered to loan me gunpowder for some of our alarums. That should keep the spectators awake.’

Firethorn was soulful. ‘I don’t mind them sleeping, Nick, as long as none of them drops down dead on me. Henry the Fifth is supposed to kill the French, not the audience.’

They finished their meal then drifted back to their lodging with the rest of the company. A row of torches burnt in front of the cottages. Two men were on duty with muskets over their shoulders. Romball Taylard was giving them instructions. When he saw the actors coming, he turned to explain.

‘Sir Michael wants the guard maintained,’ he said, indicating the men. ‘Word has reached us that Isaac Upchard has escaped from custody and we don’t wish to take any chances.’

‘Post as many sentries out here as you wish, Master Taylard,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’m in favour of anything that will help the company slumber in safety.’

‘You’ll have no problems tonight, sir.’

The steward bade them farewell and strode towards the house. The approach of a rider made him halt. Nicholas paused to watch the lone horseman coming up the drive, wondering who could be calling so late. It was difficult to identify the newcomer until he dismounted from his horse to
talk with Taylard. His profile and gait were distinctive and Nicholas recognised him at once. It was Jerome Stratton.

The reputation of Westfield’s Men had spread quickly and people came from some distance to watch the first of three performances on consecutive days. Sunday would bring them
The Happy Malcontent
whose wild antics would be offset by the sad grandeur of
Vincentio’s Revenge
on Monday. For those who flocked to Silvermere on Saturday evening, however,
Henry the Fifth
was in store. History, comedy and tragedy were set to form a memorable experience over three days. Dozens of guests converged on the front entrance at the same time and the household servants were deployed in large numbers to welcome them and to offer them light refreshment. Diverted by the activity in one part of the building, nobody noticed the arrival of two uninvited guests at the rear of the property. Clad in black and taking advantage of the failing light, they slipped in through a back door and searched for a hiding place.

Lawrence Firethorn was in a buoyant mood. Rehearsals had been uninterrupted, the new stage effects had worked superbly and the company had recovered much of its spirit. A fine stage and a full audience beckoned. Since he no longer had to fear being attacked by a mystery illness, Firethorn was able to concentrate on his kingly duties. When he was costumed in his robes of office, he put the crown on his head and called the company around him in the tiring-house. His voice was low but moving.

‘Friends,’ he said, letting his gaze roam around their faces, ‘we’ve had our setbacks. I’ll be the first to admit
that. But they are behind us now and you must banish their memory from your minds. Everything is now in our favour. We may have a few enemies in Essex but we have many admirers and the hall is full of them.’ He raised a finger. ‘Listen!’ he told them. ‘Can you hear that expectant buzz? Can you sense that anticipation? They are won over before we even step out on that stage. And there’s other news I have to tell you that will gladden your hearts. We have the best friend of all in the audience this evening.’

‘What’s her name?’ asked a grinning Elias.

‘I talk of our patron, Lord Westfield.’

‘Then I resign my claim to Barnaby.’

‘Did you hear what I said, Owen?’ continued Firethorn, quelling the sniggers from the apprentices. ‘Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor deserve sterling performances from us. Lord Westfield demands something more. Are we going to make him proud to lend his name to the company?’ Affirmative calls came from all sides. ‘Then let’s buckle on our armour and carry our weapons with bold hearts. We’re not just going to win the Battle of Agincourt out there, we’re going to conquer that audience as never before.’ He drew his own sword to hold it aloft. ‘Onward!’

Nicholas Bracewell could see the effect that the words had on them. Though they had heard Firethorn many times, he still had the power to inspire. With the solitary exception of George Dart, a diffident actor, everyone was straining to get on stage to attest their worth. Even the mild-mannered Edmund Hoode was roused.

‘I feel that I could win a battle single-handed, Nick,’ he said.

‘Well, I don’t advise it,’ replied Nicholas. ‘In the role of the Dauphin, you have to be on the losing side. Win the battle and you fly in the face of history.’

‘Did you know that Lord Westfield was out there?’

‘Not until just now.’

‘Lawrence is a sly old fox. Trust him to keep those tidings until they’d be of most value. The whole company has been cheered.’

‘They need to be lifted. It’s a full-blooded play that calls for lots of energy.’