The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (41 page)

‘What do you want, sir?’ said a high voice.

‘To discuss a business proposition.’

The flap of the booth opened and a midget studied him. At length, he held the flap back so that Nicholas could enter. The other two men and the woman were resting on benches. Now that he could see them closer, Nicholas could discern that there were age differences. The man who had let him in was older than the others.

‘I am Dickon, sir,’ said the man, then indicated the others with his doll-like hand. ‘This is my wife and these are our two sons.’

‘You mentioned a business proposition,’ said the woman.

‘It’s one that concerned Westfield’s Men,’ he said.

The two sons started guiltily but the father calmed them by showing the palms of his hands. He confronted Nicholas without fear.

‘What are you talking about, sir?’

‘Merry devils.’

‘We do not understand.’

‘I think your sons do.’

They tried not to fidget so much and averted their eyes.

‘Leave us alone!’ said Dickon with spirit. ‘You caused a great deal of trouble, sir.’

‘We are poor entertainers.’

‘I saw your entertainment at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Curtain in Shoreditch. The Rose in Bankside. I was not amused.’

‘Get out of our booth, sir!’

Dickon had the ebullience of a man twice his height and weight. He was going to admit nothing unless he had to do so. His sons, however, were less skilled in deception. Nicholas decided to play on their fears with a useful fiction.

‘Lord Westfield is a very influential man,’ he said.

‘So?’ replied Dickon.

‘He could close this whole fair down if he chose. He could get your licence revoked, then your booths would not be able to stand anywhere. That is what he threatened to do, but I tried to talk him out of it.’

Dickon had a brief but wordless conversation with the others. Alarm had finally touched him and he was not sure what to do about it. Nicholas quickly exploited his advantage.

‘Unless I go back with some answers, Lord Westfield will pursue this fair through the courts. He wants revenge.’

Another silent exchange between the midgets then one of the sons cracked, jumping up and running across to the visitor.

‘We did not mean to do any harm, sir.’

‘Who put you up to it?’

‘It was all in jest, sir. We are clowns at a fair.’

‘There’s nothing clownish in the sight of a dead man.’

‘That was my doing, sir!’ wailed the son. ‘I still have nightmares about it. I did not mean to fright him so.’

The mother now burst into tears, both sons talked at once and Dickon tried to mediate. Nicholas calmed them all down and asked the father to give a full account of what happened. Dickon cleared his throat, glanced at the others, then launched into his narrative.

The fair was at Finchley when a young man approached them and asked if they would like to earn some money. All that they had to do was to play a jest on a friend of his. Dickon undertook the task himself. A costume was provided and details of when and how to make his sudden appearance. The young man was evidently familiar with the details of the performance.

‘How did you get into the Queen’s Head?’ said Nicholas.

‘In the back of a cart, sir.’

‘Then you hid beneath the stage?’

‘When you are as small as us, concealment is not difficult.’

‘You were told to cause an uproar then disappear.’

‘That is so.’

‘What about The Curtain?’

‘I did not even have to dress up for that,’ said Dickon. ‘When you all withdrew after the rehearsal, I came out from behind the costume basket where I lay hidden. It was the work of five minutes or so to saw through that maypole.’

‘Did you not think of the damage it could cause?’

‘The young man assured us nobody would be hurt.’

‘What of The Rose?’

‘My sons were both employed there.’

Dickon’s account was straightforward. Instructed in what they had to do, the two boys had visited the theatre in costume on the eve of performance to search for places of concealment and to rehearse their antics. Hearing footsteps up on the stage, they could not resist shooting up through the trap-doors to startle whoever it was. Nicholas admitted that he had been duly startled.

The boys had slipped under the stage after the performance had started and lay hidden under sheets in a corner. When Roper Blundell came down to prepare for his own ascent from Hell, he tripped over one of the sheets and lifted it. The mere sight of a crouching devil had been enough to frighten him to death. Terrified themselves, the two brothers fled as soon as they could and did not make the double entry on stage that had been planned.

Nicholas felt that he was hearing the truth. The midgets were not responsible for what they did. They were only pawns in the game. Paid for their services, they were told that everything was a practical joke on friends. That joke turned sour at The Rose and they refused to work for the young man again. Nicholas saw no virtue in proceeding against this peculiar family. It was the person behind them who was the real villain. He sought help.

‘Was he a well-favoured young man with a ring on his right hand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Dickon. ‘It bore his initials.’

‘Do you know what they stand for?’

‘No, sir. Except that … well, there was one time when his coachman called him Master Gregory.’

G.N. Master Gregory. It was enough for Nicholas.

He now knew who their enemies really were.

S
unday was truly a day of rest for Henry Drewry. It was the end of the worst week of his life and he was exhausted from his labours. He could not even stir to take himself off to matins. Having tried to prevent his daughter from going to the country with Grace Napier, he felt an immense relief when she actually left the house. Her presence now diminished him in every way. Terrified to offend her lest she speak to her mother about a Bankside theatre, he crept around quietly and kept out of her way. All hope of marrying the girl off could now be abandoned. He had too much compassion to wish such a creature on any other man.

As he reclined in his chair in the parlour with a restorative pint of sherry, he saw how much he had squandered by one foolish action. He was an opinionated Alderman of the city of London, yet he dared not assert himself any longer in his own home.

There was a tap on the door and a manservant entered. ‘Master Pollard is without, sir.’

‘Tell him that I am not here.’

‘But he says he has called on a most important matter.’

‘Get rid of the fellow!’

The servant went off to implement the order but Isaac Pollard would not be sent away. Knocking on the door of the parlour, he surged in like a monstrous black bat and fluttered over Drewry.

‘Why do you send me lies, sir?’

‘You must be mistaken,’ said the other with a gulp.

‘I am told you are not at home and you sit here drinking sherry.’

The Puritan glared disapprovingly at the liquid.

‘I take it on medical advice,’ said Drewry quickly. ‘I am unwell.’

‘You must be if you tell untruths on the Sabbath.’

‘What brings you here, Isaac?’

‘Profanity, sir!’

‘Again?’ muttered the other wearily.

‘Wickedness is abroad.’

‘I have not yet been out to see.’

‘
The Merry Devils
is to be performed again.’

‘Do not mention that play to me!’ howled Drewry.

‘But I hear that it will be given at Parkbrook House on the estate of Lord Westfield. It must be stopped.’

‘If it is a private performance, we can do nothing. Besides, we have no power in the county of Hertfordshire.’

‘We have the power of God Himself,’ said Pollard
impressively, ‘and that covers every shire in the land. There is a way to halt this performance if we but move swift enough.’

‘And what is that, sir?’

‘Get the play declared a blasphemous document and have its authors incarcerated for their sins. There must be legislation that favours us. We must attack with a statute book in our hand.’

Henry Drewry preferred to relax with a pint of sherry in his.

‘I grow tired of all this, Isaac,’ he said.

‘Tired of God? Tired of our Christian duty? Tired of the paths of righteousness?’ Pollard rippled the eyebrow at him. ‘We must fight harder than ever against the Devil.’

‘He has a strong voice at our meetings.’

‘What say you?’

‘My fellow Aldermen do not share your opinion of the theatre.’

‘It is a market-place of bestiality!’

‘Haply, that is what draws them thither,’ said Drewry under his breath. ‘I put the case against the Queen’s Head and they would not hear me.’

‘Speak louder, Henry.’

‘Alderman Ashway has more powerful lungs.’

‘Shout him down.’

‘Nothing is so vociferous as a brewer whose inn is under threat.’

‘Strong drink is the potion of Hell.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the other, downing some sherry. ‘But it can
bring a man more comfort than a pinch of salt.’ Disillusion set in. ‘I chose the wrong trade, I see it now.’

‘What’s this, sir? Are you slipping?’

‘I tried, Isaac, but they will not enforce the law against the Queen’s Head. It will still be used as a playhouse.’

‘We must fight on regardless!’

‘I’ll lay down my weapon and take my ease.’

‘Do I hear you aright, Henry?’ said Pollard with horror. ‘You cannot stand aside from the fray, sir. That is to condone what goes on at that vile place. Have you so soon forgot what we said on our journey back from The Rose? You saw the depravity there with your own eyes.’

‘Ah, yes,’ recalled the other with nostalgia.

‘Would you let your daughter visit such a place?’

Fatigued by being browbeaten, the Salter hit back with the truth.

‘I would, sir.’

‘Expose the child to corruption?’

‘It is her own choice and she is old enough to make it. Isobel went to the Queen’s Head on Wednesday, on Thursday and again on Friday. She saw three plays and came home smiling each time. I would not vote to close an entertainment so dear to her.’ He took a long defiant sip of his sherry. ‘Changes have occurred, Isaac, and you must bear the blame. It was you that got me to The Rose. It has cost me more than I can say. Wave your puritanical fist at the theatre alone, sir. I withdraw!’

Isaac Pollard could not believe that he had heard such words on a Sunday. He had put on the whole armour of
God and now found that it was full of chinks. His eyebrow writhed across his forehead like a snake impaled on a spike as he tried to cope with a new experience.

He was rendered speechless for the first time ever.

Nicholas made an early start to his long journey. It was the best part of twenty miles to Lord Westfield’s estate which lay to the north of St Albans. He needed to nurse his horse carefully over such a distance. Since there was no performance on the next day, he was to stay the night at Parkbrook and ride back at his leisure on the Monday. Anne Hendrik was sad to be parted from him. She had spent two long nights comforting him after his ordeal at the Counter and had hoped to spend a third in like fashion, but his visit was important and she had to accept it.

He made frequent stops at hostelries along the way to rest his mount, refresh himself and gather what information he could. One coaching inn had an observant landlord. He saw Lord Westfield’s crest driven past on Thursday evening and remembered two fine young ladies who stopped their carriage there on Saturday and talked of reaching St Albans before nightfall.

It was late afternoon when Nicholas reached his own destination. Westfield Hall was a familiar landmark to him now but he had never been to Parkbrook House before. As he viewed it from the crest of the hill, he was struck by its severity and sense of proportion. If the Hall was the visual embodiment of its master, Parkbrook could claim to be the like. Francis Jordan was echoed in his architecture. The
place was cold, unyielding, ungenerous behind a striking facade.

Nicholas Bracewell soon met the new master.

‘Welcome to Parkbrook, sir!’

‘Thank you, Master Jordan.’

‘Your journey was a long but necessary one. An event like this needs careful forethought and preparation.’

‘We are honoured to be invited to such a fine house,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘Master Firethorn sends his regards and assures you that we will strive to please you in every particular.’

‘Good. I must have
The Merry Devils
played here. It will be a rousing start to my time here at Parkbrook and I feel that it will somehow bring me luck.’

It had not done that for Westfield’s Men.

Francis Jordan conducted him across to the Great Hall. Progress had been marked. Plasterers and carpenters had now completed their work and only the masons and the painters remained, the former providing a musical clink as they chiselled away at the bay window and the latter adding an astringent smell with their paint. Nicholas noted that none of the men dared to stop working and he could sense their resentment of their employer.

The new master pointed to the far end of the room.

‘I think that the stage should be set up there to catch the light on two sides. Tables will be arranged in a horseshoe so that our guests may eat and drink while they view the entertainment. There is a door in the corner, as you see, sir, and the room beyond can be your tiring-house.’ He smiled
complacently. ‘I believe I have thought of everything.’

‘Not quite, Master Jordan,’ said Nicholas, looking around with interest. ‘It would far better suit our purposes if we played at
this
end of the hall.’ He used his hands to indicate. ‘There is a minstrels’ gallery above that is ideal for our musicians. If we hang curtains down from that, it forms a tiring-house beneath the balcony. The stage will thrust out in this direction and your tables can be set the other way around. Your guests may still dine while we act.’

‘But you throw away the best of the light.’

‘That is the intention, sir. We would in any case draw the curtains on all the windows to darken the interior. You have seen
The Merry Devils
and know its supernatural elements. They will flourish more by candlelight. We have to take advantage of our playing conditions, sir. We are open to the sky in London and may not control the light at all. Here we may manipulate it to our own ends and to the greater pleasure of our spectators.’

The argument was convincing but Jordan was nevertheless peeved that his suggestions had been ruled out so effortlessly. He threw up another objection out of churlishness.

‘If you play at this end of the hall, sir, you block the main entrance. How are my guests to come into the place?’

‘Through that door you commended to me but now,’ said Nicholas. ‘I notice that the room looks out upon that broad lawn. If the weather is as fine as we have a right to expect, you would receive your guests in the garden,
conduct them into that room for drinks then usher them through into here for the banquet and the performance.’

‘Leave the arrangements to me, please, sir!’ snapped Jordan.

‘I was only replying to your question, master.’

The book holder was right and the other finally conceded it. A practical man of the theatre knew how to pick his ground and his view had to be respected.

‘You’ll need to take measurements and make drawings,’ said Jordan curtly. ‘I’ll send my steward in to attend to your needs.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I still feel that
my
idea was the most sensible.’

He flounced out and left Nicholas in the hall. The book holder did not waste his time. In the two minutes that it took Glanville to appear, Nicholas chatted to one of the painters and learned why the new master was so disliked, how the forester had been dismissed and what happened to one of the chambermaids. Parkbrook House was not a happy place. The coldness of its exterior was reflected inside as well.

A tall stately figure glided in through the entrance.

‘Master Bracewell?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I am Joseph Glanville, steward of the household.’

‘Well met!’

‘How may I best help you?’

‘I have a number of enquiries …’

There was something about the steward that alerted
Nicholas. Accustomed to working among actors, he could usually discern when someone was masking his true self. Glanville was altogether too plausible and controlled for his liking. The man answered all his questions very courteously but he was holding something back all the time, and Nicholas was keen to know what it was.

‘What about your stage, sir?’ asked the steward.

‘We shall bring our own and set it up on trestles.’

‘Master Jordan is anxious to spare you that trouble. We have enough carpenters at our command and they can build to order. You will have plenty to bring from London as it is.’

Nicholas closed with the offer. Transporting the stage was a problematic business as they found when they were obliged to go on tour in the provinces. Besides, the one used at the Queen’s Head was far too high for their needs at Parkbrook House. Glanville was surprised when told this.

‘Will you not need trap-doors for your devils, sir?’

‘They will enter by some other means.’

‘Not from below, as Master Jordan described to me?’

‘No, sir,’ said the other. ‘A height of eighteen inches will content us. Two feet at most. There will be no crawling beneath the stage on this occasion.’ He thought of George Dart and Caleb Smythe. ‘That will gladden the hearts of our devils, I can tell you.’

They talked further then Glanville escorted him up to show him the bedchamber that had been assigned to him. It was on the first floor in the west wing and as they walked down the long corridor towards it, Nicholas probed.

‘I hear that one of your chambermaids had an accident.’

‘That is so, sir.’

‘A broken leg, they say.’

‘The girl is recovering in the servants’ quarters.’

‘I may find time to visit her,’ volunteered Nicholas. ‘I know the misery of a leg in splints.’

‘Oh. I could not permit that, sir,’ said Glanville firmly. ‘Jane Skinner is in a state of shock. The physician has advised against stray callers. They tire the girl.’

Nicholas did not believe the explanation and wondered why he was being kept from the invalid. They stopped outside a door. Noting the circular staircase at the far end of the corridor, the guest asked if it led down to the Great Hall.

‘It is not for general use,’ said Glanville smoothly. ‘I am the only person allowed to use it, Master Bracewell, and it is a privilege that I jealously guard.’

‘Is it not a quicker way down for me?’ said Nicholas.

‘That is immaterial. You may not use it.’

‘What is the punishment for offenders, sir?’

There was a note of ironic amusement in the question, but the steward did not hear it. His response was deadly serious. Behind the unruffled calm was a surge of hostility.

Nicholas saw that he had made an enemy.

He sold the horse and cart in the first village. All that he kept or needed was his axe and it was always by his side. Jack Harsnett went to the nearest inn and drank himself to distraction. It was a few days before he was ready to move
on. A morning’s trudge brought him to a wayside tavern and he slumped down on to the settle that stood out in the sun. Food and drink was brought out to him and he began to recover his breath. He was far too old to tramp the roads for long.

Laughter from inside the tavern made him prick his ears and a few snatches of conversation drifted out. Though he could not hear what was being said, he recognised the principal voice in the group. It made him sit tight and wait. One by one, the customers tumbled out and went back to their work or their homes. The man for whom Harsnett was waiting was the last to leave. Drink had blurred the sight of his one eye and he walked past the forester without paying any heed.