The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (36 page)

Lumbering across the churchyard, he eventually reached the safety of the cathedral wall. As he leaned against its dank stone, it seemed at once to welcome and repel him, to offer sanctuary to a lost soul and to rebuke him for his transgressions. He was still supporting himself against religion when he heard a wild, maniacal screech that rang inside his head like a dissonant peal of bells. His eyes went upward and a lance of terror pierced his body. High above him, dancing on the very edge of the roof, was a hideous gargoyle in the shape of a devil.

He stared up helplessly as the malign creature mocked and cackled in the darkness. Taking his huge erect penis in both hands, the devil aimed it downwards and sent a stream of hot, black, avenging urine over the playwright’s head.
Willoughby burned with the shame of it all and collapsed on the floor in humiliation.

Those who later found him could not understand why he lay directly beneath a foaming water spout.

Anne Hendrik took him into her bed that night and made love with that mixture of tenderness and passion that typified her. Nicholas Bracewell was both grateful and responsive. Deeply upset by the death of Roper Blundell, he came home late from the theatre and was very subdued over supper. Sensing his need, Anne led him to her bedchamber and found an answering need in herself. They were friends and casual lovers. Because their moments of intimacy only ever arose out of mutual desire, they were always special and always restorative.

They lay naked in each other’s arms in the darkness.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, kissing her softly on the cheek.

‘Does it help?’

‘Every time.’ He smiled. ‘Especially tonight.’

‘So you will not change your lodging, sir?’

‘Not unless you come with me, Anne.’

She kissed him lightly on the lips and pulled him close.

‘Nicholas … ‘

‘My love?’

‘Are you in danger?’ she asked with concern.

‘I think not.’

‘All these accidents that befall Westfield’s Men are disturbing. Might not you be the victim of the next one?’

‘I might, Anne, but it is unlikely.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am not the target.’

‘Then who is? Ralph Willoughby?’

‘He is involved, certainly,’ said Nicholas with a sigh. ‘We cannot lightly dismiss the word of Doctor John Mordrake. On the other hand …’

‘You still do not believe in devils.’

‘No, Anne.’

‘Then what did Roper Blundell see beneath the stage?’

‘Only he knows and his lips are sealed for ever.’

‘Could the surgeon throw any light?’

‘He was mystified, Anne.’

‘Why?’

‘There were no signs upon the body.’

‘What was his conclusion?’

‘Death by natural causes,’ said Nicholas sceptically. ‘He told us that Roper died of old age and a verminous profession.’

‘Poor man! Does he leave a family?’

‘None.’

‘Is there nobody to mourn for him?’

‘We few friends.’

They fell silent for a while then she rolled over on top of him and put her head on his chest. Nicholas ran his hands through her downy hair and traced the contours of her back. Her skin was silky to the touch. When she finally spoke, her voice was a contented murmur.

‘I like that.’

‘Good.’

‘I like you as well.’

‘That pleases me even more.’

She propped herself up on her arms so that she could look down at him. A shaft of moonlight was striking the side of his face. She kissed the streak of light then nuzzled his cheek.

‘Who
is
the target?’ she asked.

‘I do not know, Anne.’

‘What does your instinct tell you?’

‘Someone hates the company.’

‘Someone human?’

‘That’s my feeling.’

‘Why does the attack always come during a performance?’

‘Because that is how to hurt us most,’ he argued. ‘There are a hundred ways to damage Westfield’s Men, but our enemy strikes during a play to discredit us in front of an audience. If we had abandoned a performance in the middle, it would have done enormous harm to our reputation, and reputation means everything in the theatre.’

‘But you were not forced to stop, Nick.’

‘Master Firethorn and Master Gill were the heroes there,’ he said. ‘When that creature leapt out of the trap-door at the Queen’s Head, everyone turned tail except Master Firethorn. He held the play together when it might have collapsed in ruins.’

‘And at The Curtain?’

‘It was Master Gill who showed his experience. When
the maypole broke, he made light of the accident in front of the spectators. The aim was to disrupt our performance but once again it was foiled.’

‘What of this afternoon?’

‘A merry devil died. That would stop most companies.’

‘Yet Westfield’s Men carried on and the audience was none the wiser. I saw no hindrance in the action from where I sat. And since you kept Blundell’s death a secret from the company, they were able to continue their performance.’

‘Yes, Anne. It brings me back to my first assumption.’

‘Which is?’

‘Some jealous rival seeks to undermine us.’

‘Your reasoning?’

‘They know best how to do it – on the stage itself.’

‘But that requires a knowledge of the play.’

‘That is the most puzzling aspect of it all,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘I guard the prompt books scrupulously yet someone knows their contents.’

‘A discontented member of the company?’

‘We have enough of those, I fear. Master Firethorn has never been too generous with wages or too swift in their payment. We have our share of grumblers but none of them would sink to this kind of villainy. Were it successful, it would harm their own position.’

‘Then it must be some former member of Westfield’s Men.’

‘There you may have it, Anne.’

‘Players with a grudge?’

‘Two or three have left us of late,’ he said. ‘Embittered
men who went off cursing. They might not have been able to attack us in this way, but they could give help to those that could.’

‘We come back to Banbury’s Men.’

‘I harbour doubts on that score.’

She put her head back on his chest and he stroked her hair with absent-minded affection, inhaling its fragrance. He looked at the week ahead with some misgivings.

‘Tomorrow we return to the Queen’s Head.’

‘That will please Master Marwood,’ she said with irony.

‘Thank goodness that Roper did not pass away on his premises. Our landlord would not have liked a corpse beneath our stage. It would have given him fresh grounds for breaking his partnership with us.’

‘How many days are you there?’

‘Three, Anne.’

‘Not on Saturday?’

‘We perform at Newington Butts then I’m away.’

‘Away where, sir?’

‘Did I not tell you of my commission?’

‘You hardly spoke at all when you got home tonight.’

‘Master Firethorn wants me to reconnoitre.’

‘Where, Nick?’

‘Parkbrook House.’

‘On the Westfield estate?’

‘Yes,’ he said, playfully turning her over on to her back. ‘I’m running away from you, Anne.’

‘Treachery!’

‘I go to the country.’

‘Not for a while, sir.’

She kissed him full on the lips and desire stirred again.

‘There is no question of your visiting the country!’

‘Why not, father?’

‘Because you are needed here.’

‘By whom?’

‘By me and by your mother.’

‘But you never even notice whether I am in the house or not, and mother has already given her blessing to the idea. London is stifling me. I long to breathe some country air in my lungs.’

‘No!’

‘Would you prevent me?’

Isobel Drewry expected opposition from her father but not of this strength. For all his faults, he could be talked around on occasion. This time it was different. Under normal circumstances, his daughter would have backed off and tackled him at a more auspicious moment, but their old relationship had dissolved. After the incident at The Rose on the previous afternoon, she no longer accepted him as the source of authority in her life. Isobel was finding it difficult to conceal the vestigial shock of what had happened. Pushed any further, she knew that her true feelings might show through.

They were in the room that he used as his office. Drewry sat importantly behind a large oak table that was covered with business correspondence. On a court cupboard to his right stood the symbol of his trade. It was a Vivyan
Salt, some sixteen inches in height. Made of silver-gilt with painted side panel, the salt cellar had a figure representing Justice on its top. Isobel caught sight of it. She wanted her share of justice now.

Henry Drewry moved from cold command to oily persuasion. He tried to convince his daughter that his decision was in her own interests.

‘Come, Isobel,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘do but think for a moment. Nothing ever happens in the country. You will waste away from boredom within the hour. London has much more to offer.’

‘Not if you deny me access to it, father.’

‘Do you really wish to dwindle away in some rural seat?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said firmly. ‘I have an invitation.’

‘Refuse it.’

‘But Grace is anxious for me to accompany her.’

‘Mistress Napier can flee to the country on her own,’ he said with some asperity. ‘It may be the best place for her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She is not a good influence on you, Isobel.’

‘Grace is my closest friend.’

‘It is time that friendship cooled somewhat.’

‘But she has asked me to join her at their country house.’

‘You are detained here.’

Isobel gritted her teeth and held back rising irritation.

Drewry felt that he had reason to dislike Grace Napier. Her father was one of the most successful mercers in London and his burgeoning prosperity was reflected in the estate he had bought himself near St Albans. Naked envy
made Drewry hate the man. His own business flourished but it did not compare with that of Roland Napier. Hatred of the father led to disapproval of a daughter who was better educated and better dressed than his own. There was also a self-possession about Grace Napier that he resented. It was time to terminate the friendship.

‘In future, you will not see so much of Mistress Napier.’

‘Why?’

‘She is not a fit companion for you.’

‘Grace is sweetness itself.’

‘I do not like her and there’s an end to it.’

Her father’s peremptory manner made her inhibitions evaporate. She would not endure his dictates any longer. It was the moment to play her trump card.

‘You do not like her, you say. It has not always been so.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Most of the time I have detested her.’

‘Where were you yesterday afternoon, father?’ she challenged.

‘Yesterday?’

‘Mother says you were at a meeting of the City Fathers.’

‘Yes, yes, that is true. I was at a meeting.’

‘Did it take place at The Rose in Bankside?’

Drewry went crimson and jumped up from his chair. ‘Why do you mention that vile place to me?’ he demanded.

‘Because Grace was there,’ said Isobel. ‘She and a friend went to see Westfield’s Men play
The Merry Devils
. It was another brilliant performance, by all accounts. Grace and her friend enjoyed it.’

‘What has this got to do with me?’ he blustered.

‘Grace believes that she may have seen you there.’

‘That is utterly impossible! A slander on my good name! A monstrous accusation!’

‘But they
saw
you, father.’

‘I deny it!’ he said vehemently. ‘The Rose holds hundreds and hundreds of spectators – or so I am told. How could they pick one man out in such a large crowd?’

‘He picked them out, sir.’

The crimson in his cheeks deepened. He swallowed hard and leaned on the table for support. Before he could even try to defend himself, she delivered the killer blow.

‘Grace and her friend wore veils,’ she said. ‘They say that you stopped them as they left the theatre. Taking them for women of looser reputation than they were, you made suggestions of a highly improper nature. So you see, sir – you liked Grace well enough then. Rather than discover themselves, they hurried away in a state of shock.’ Isobel affected tears. ‘How could my own father do such a thing? And with someone young enough to be his own daughter. You forbade me to go near the playhouse yet you went there yourself. Mother will be destroyed when she hears this.’

‘She must not!’ he gasped. ‘Besides, it is all a mistake.’

‘Mother will want an explanation. The first thing she will do is find out if there
was
a meeting yesterday. If there was not, she will know who to believe.’

Henry Drewry sagged. His predicament was harrowing. He had been found out by his own child. The bombast and hypocrisy he had used to sustain their relationship over the years were now useless. She saw him for what he was and
his wife might now do the same. He was a broken man. The indiscretions of one afternoon had stripped his authority from him. His daughter reviled him. His wife might do more.

‘Say nothing to your mother!’ he begged hoarsely.

In the silence that followed there was a decisive shift in the balance of power within the family. An agreement was reached. She would not betray him to his wife and he would no longer constrain her in any way. For the first time in her life, Isobel Drewry felt that she had some control over her own destiny. It was a heady sensation.

Her father flopped down into his chair with head bowed.

‘When will you go to the country?’ he asked meekly.

‘Whenever
I
choose!’

Isobel was learning how to rub salt into the wound.

G
lanville gave her sensible advice. He told her to make sure that the new master was busy elsewhere before she entered his bedchamber. He urged her to leave doors and windows open while she was busy at her work. In the event of any further attack, her screams would be heard and help would soon come. Jane Skinner listened to it all with solemn concentration. She did exactly what the steward told her and the problem soon vanished. There was never a chance of her being caught by Francis Jordan in his bedchamber. She was circumspect.

Her anxieties eased and her confidence slowly returned. She was less furtive in her duties. What happened before could be put down to the new master’s visit to the cellars. Too much wine had put lechery in his mind and lust in his loins. It would not occur again. Jane Skinner talked herself into believing it. She was making the bed in a chamber on
the top storey when that belief was fractured. The door shut behind her and she turned to see Francis Jordan resting his back against it.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You startled me!’

‘I came to find you, Jane.’

‘How did you know I was here, master?’

‘I saw you from below,’ he explained. ‘I was in the garden when you opened the window up here. It was an opportunity I could not miss.’

He smiled broadly and took a few steps towards her. Jane backed away and pulled up a sheet in front of her chest as if trying to ward him off. Shaking with fear, she squealed her protest.

‘Do not come any closer, please!’

‘If that is what you wish,’ he said, stopping.

‘I will scream if you touch me, sir.’

‘But I came here to apologise.’

‘Did you?’

‘Why else? Do you take me for such a complete ogre?’

‘No, master,’ she said cautiously.

‘Put down your sheet, Jane,’ he told her. ‘You are in no danger here, girl. I am sorry for what took place the other day. I was hot with wine and my behaviour was ungentlemanly. Will you accept my apology?’

‘Well … yes, sir.’

‘It is honestly given. As you see, I am quite sober now.’

She nodded. ‘May I go, master?’

‘I am not stopping you,’ he said, crossing to open the door wide. ‘It is not my purpose to disturb you when you
have duties to perform. I know that you are a conscientious girl.’

‘I try to be, master.’

‘Then carry on with your work. Goodbye.’

‘Oh.’

His departure was as abrupt as his arrival. He marched out of the room and left her bewildered. Instead of a second assault, she had been accorded respect and even kindness. It soothed her instantly and she went back to the bed. She was just finishing her task when Jordan sauntered up to the door again and tapped on it with his knuckles.

‘May I come in, Jane?’

‘If you wish, master.’

The chambermaid was surprised but not intimidated this time.

‘I forgot to tell you something,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘It was wrong of me to jump on you like that because it was an insult to you. I see that now. You’re a fine-looking girl, Jane Skinner. You deserve more than a brief tumble like that.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, misunderstanding him.

‘A young woman like you should get her full due.’

‘Should I, master?’

‘Come to me for a whole night.’

His casual manner reinforced the impact of his order. Jane Skinner reeled as if from a heavy blow. To be grabbed and groped by him was ordeal enough, but this was far worse. Her heart constricted as she viewed the prospect
ahead of her. Francis Jordan was the master of Parkbrook House. His word was law within its walls. If she did not comply, she would be dismissed from his service.

Appraising her frankly, he gave her a thin smile.

‘I will send for you some time in the near future, Jane. I’ll expect you to answer my summons.’

She bit her lip in distress and her mind was a furnace.

‘This is a matter between the two of us,’ he said. ‘I would not have it discussed elsewhere. Besides, there is nobody to whom you can turn. My word is everything at Parkbrook.’

He strolled across to her and lifted her chin with his finger. Jane was petrified. His touch was like a red-hot needle. He ran his eyes over her once more then nodded his approval. Turning on his heel, he went slowly out of the room.

The chambermaid was horror-stricken. She was caught like an animal in a trap and could see no means of escape. Life at Parkbrook had held no such fears under the old master, but those days had clearly gone. To defy Francis Jordan seemed impossible yet to obey him would be to surrender everything she valued in her life. It was unthinkable. As a deep panic coursed through her, she felt the need to turn to somebody. Glanville would offer her sympathy even if he could not actually save her. With a little cry of anguish, Jane ran off to find him. She felt hurt, molested and thoroughly abused.

The long journey down to the ground floor left her breathless and she had to pause for a while to gather her strength. Then she was off again, searching every room and
corridor with panting urgency, asking anyone she met if they knew where Glanville was. But there was no sign of the steward. At a time when she needed him most, he was simply not there. Despair gnawed at her. It was one of the carpenters at work in the Great Hall who gave her a faint hope.

‘I think he be up in his room, mistress.’

She gabbled her thanks and took to her heels again.

Joseph Glanville had apartments on the first floor in the west wing. The correct way to approach them was to go up the main staircase and along the landings. But the steward also had a private staircase, a narrow circular affair that corkscrewed upwards at the extreme end of the west wing. It was a mark of status and nobody else was allowed to use it except Glanville, but the chambermaid forgot about that rule. Needing the quickest route to a source of help, she dashed along the corridor and clambered up the oak treads of the private staircase. Her shoes echoed and her breathing became more laboured.

When she reached the door, she pounded on it with both fists.

‘Master Glanville! Master Glanville!’

‘Who is it?’ called a stem voice from within.

‘Jane Skinner, sir.’

A bolt was drawn back, a key turned in the lock and the door was flung open. Jane had no opportunity to blurt out her story. The steward glared down at her with smouldering eyes.

‘Did you come up that staircase?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, sir. I wanted to see you about—’

‘It is for my personal use! You have no right, Jane Skinner.’

‘No, sir.’

‘How dare you flout my privilege!’

‘But I needed to—’

‘It is quite inexcusable,’ he said angrily. ‘You have no business coming to my apartments. Nothing is so important that it cannot wait until I am available. You must never come here again, Jane. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes, master.’

‘And you must never use that staircase again. I forbid it!’

Glanville withdrew and closed the door in her face. She heard the key turn in the lock. Jane was totally shattered. A man who had always shown her consideration in the past was now openly hostile. The one person who might stand between her and Francis Jordan had let her down in the most signal way. Her position was worse than ever.

The hut had been built on rising ground and it nestled in a hollow. Used by shepherds in earlier days, it had fallen into decay now that the land had been put under the plough. The roof was full of holes, the door hung off its hinges and the timbers of one wall had rotted through, but it still offered a degree of comfort. Bare and inhospitable though it was, the hut was an improvement on sleeping rough along the way. He helped his wife down from the cart then carried her over to their dwelling for that night. When he had cleared a space for her in one corner, he lay her gently down on some sacking.

Jack Harsnett was consumed with bitterness and grief. His wife had a short enough time to live. The least he had hoped was that she might pass away in the comfort and dignity of her own home. But that small consolation was rudely taken from them by the new master of Parkbrook. Shelter in a dilapidated hut was the best that they could manage now. It was a warm afternoon and the place had a quaint charm in the sunlight, but it would be different in the long reaches of the night. That was when they would miss their old cottage.

He went back to the cart to unhitch the horse. Removing the harness, he tethered the animal to a tree with a long rope that gave it a wide circle of operation. There was a good bite of grass on the verge and the horse whinnied as it lowered its head. Harsnett lifted a bucket out of the cart then went to check that his wife was settled. She gave him a pale smile before she started to cough again. He touched her shoulder with a distant tenderness then went out. Harsnett set off to forage. They had no food left.

Alexander Marwood was actually pleased to see them. Fortune had smiled on him over the last couple of days. His wife had shown him affection, his daughter had obeyed him, his customers had refrained from starting any fights in the taproom and some long-outstanding accounts had been settled in cash. He had every reason to be happy and it unsettled him. The return of Westfield’s Men allowed him to indulge in creative misery once more. That was where his true contentment lay.

‘I hear that a member of the company died, Master Firethorn.’

‘It happens, sir.’

‘Is foul play suspected?’

‘Roper Blundell was poisoned,’ said Firethorn with a teasing glint in his eye. ‘He drank too much of your venomous ale, sir.’

‘I have never had a complaint before!’ said Marwood defensively,

‘Your victims keel over before they can make it.’

‘You do me wrong, Master Firethorn.’

‘That is my pleasure, sir.’

‘My customers constantly praise my ale, sir.’

‘A sure sign of drunkenness.’

‘They speak well of its taste and potency.’

‘Condemned men in love with the noose that hangs them.’

Devoid of a sense of humour himself, Marwood never saw when he was the butt of someone else’s amusement. He stiffened his back and made a bungled attempt at dignity.

‘The Queen’s Head has a fine reputation.’

‘You may put that down to Westfield’s Men, sir.’

‘And to our own endeavours.’ He became businesslike. ‘I come for my rent, Master Firethorn.’

‘It will be paid at the end of the performance.’

‘You still owe me money from last week, sir.’

‘An unfortunate oversight.’

‘It is one of your habits.’

‘Do not pass remarks on my character,’ warned Firethorn. ‘All accounts will be paid in full.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Marwood glanced across at the stage which had been set up in his yard. The sight always lowered his spirits deliciously. He recalled what happened at The Rose.

‘I want no devilry on the boards today, sir.’

‘We play
Love and Fortune
,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘It is a comedy of harmless proportions but none the worse for that.’

‘Good,’ said Marwood. ‘I want no corpses at my inn.’

‘Then stop serving that dreadful ale or you’ll unpeople the whole neighbourhood!’

Unable to find a rejoinder, Marwood beat a retreat with Firethorn’s ripe chuckle pursuing him. Westfield’s Men might venture out to the custom-built theatres in the suburbs but the Queen’s Head remained their home. The place would not be the same without some domestic upset with their cantankerous landlord. It added spice to the day.

Nicholas Bracewell came across to join his employer.

‘You should have let me handle him, master.’

‘The only way to handle that rogue is to throttle him!’

‘He needs much reassurance.’

‘He needs to be put in his place which is why I spoke to him.’ Firethorn inhaled deeply. ‘I’ll not be confined or questioned by some snivelling little innkeeper! By Heavens, sir, let him meddle with me and I’ll run him through with blank verse then cut off his stones with a rhyming couplet. A rank philistine!’

‘Master Marwood does not love the theatre,’ said Nicholas.

‘Nor does the theatre love him, sir!’

The book keeper let him sound off for a few minutes. Firethorn might enjoy his verbal feud with the landlord but the fact remained that the latter rented them his premises. Nicholas had been trying for some time to interest Marwood in the idea of converting his yard into a more permanent theatre and those negotiations were not helped by interference from the actor-manager.

‘Do you know what the wretch told me, Nick?’

‘What, master?’

‘That he did not want a dead body at the Queen’s Head. Zounds! That Marwood
is
a dead body! A walking cadaver with a licence to sell rank ale. He’s a posthumous oaf!’

‘Has he heard, then, of Roper Blundell?’

‘No bad news escapes that merchant of doom!’

‘Did you tell him the cause of death?’

‘I turned it into a joke against his drink.’

‘We must not let him think there was some supernatural force at work. That would only feed his anxiety.’

‘Nevertheless, it is the true explanation.’

‘Not in my opinion, master.’

‘You heard Doctor Mordrake.’

‘He was mistaken.’

‘Roper Blundell was killed by the Devil.’

‘If he was killed at all, it was by a human hand.’

‘The two go together,’ said Firethorn. ‘The Devil chose
to work through a human agent here and we both know his name.’

‘Ralph Willoughby is innocent of the charge.’

‘He’s the root cause of all our misfortunes.’

‘But he was sad when he learned of Roper’s end.’

‘That did not stop him helping to murder the man. Yes, I know you have a high regard for Willoughby, but he has never been a real friend to this company. This morning I was given clear proof of that. Do you know what that priest of Hell has done?’

‘What, sir?’

‘Sold his corrupt talents to the highest bidder.’

‘He is employed by one of our rivals?’

‘Ralph Willoughby has accepted a commission from Banbury’s Men.’

Nicholas was shocked. He felt profoundly betrayed.