Nicholas Bracewell bent over the body and examined it as best he could in the circumstances. He saw no wound, no blood, no mark of any kind. There was nothing at all to indicate the cause of death. A decision now had to be made. Did he take the corpse away or leave it where it was? Decency suggested the former but practicalities had to be taken into account. Nobody else knew about the death of Roper Blundell. To walk back up to the tiring-house with the little body in his arms would be to disseminate terror. The play itself was still running. That was the main thing. Nicholas could not risk bringing it to a premature halt by revealing that it had somehow brought about the demise of an assistant stagekeeper.
Roper Blundell was to remain where he was, lying in state in his echoing tomb, occupying a rectangle of solitude in the very midst of a huge crowd. He had lost his part as well as his life. Realising that he could not chase two devils off the stage, Caleb Smythe, as the third foul fiend, had moved himself up in the order. He became the second devil and did everything in unison with George Dart. With Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill adapting instantly to the situation, the absence of Blundell was not noticed by the audience. Nicholas touched the old man beside him in a gesture of respect. The theatre could be a cruel place. It had just excised a human being from a drama as if the fellow had never existed.
A rumble of thunder made Nicholas look upward. Justice Wildboare did not miss the cue to work in some lines from another play.
‘God is angry, sirs! Hear how the Heavens rebuke us.
This thunder will send us all down into Hell!’
After one last look at the prostrate form, the book holder went back up to the tiring-house and ran into a flurry of enquiries about Blundell. He announced that the old man was not well enough to take any further part in the play and that he would rest where he was. It was important that nobody disturbed him. To this end, Nicholas stationed the venerable Thomas Skillen at the top of the steps and told him to let no man pass. The stagekeeper was a willing guardian.
Westfield's Men performed The Merry Devils with a zest and a commitment they would not have thought possible. Now that the danger zone had been safely passed-as they thought-they could devote themselves to the finer points of their art. Roper Blundell was forgotten. Instead of wondering what lay beneath the stage, the actors were more concerned with what stretched above. The sky was now full of swollen clouds and the thunder rumbled ominously.
Nicholas resumed his post and took the book from Ned Rankin. A scene ended and justice Wildboare came sweeping into the tiring-house. He made straight for the book holder.
'Where's Blundell?'
‘Indisposed.'
'What happened to him?'
'He has retired hurt, master.'
'I'll retire the rogue, so help me! Get him here.' He is too unwell to be moved,' said Nicholas, signalling in his glance what lay behind the fiction. 'Press on without him.'
'We have no choice, sir.' Firethorn understood but kept the secret well. More thunder was followed by a distant flash of lightning. 'Hell's teeth! This is all we need! Where's your seamanship now, Nick? What must we do, what must we do?'
'Run before the storm!'
'Clap on full sail?'
'That's my advice, master.'
'Will we do it?'
'We can but try, sir.'
'By Jove! This is good counsel.'
Firethorn made a graphic gesture with his hands and everyone in the vicinity understood. They were to speed things up. Their only hope lay in keeping ahead of the tempest that was bound to come. When Justice Wildboare made his next entrance, he did so with an alacrity that signalled a change of pace. Cues were picked up more quickly, speeches were dispatched more briskly, stage business was reduced to a minimum. Two small scenes were cut completely. The play scudded across the waves at a rate of several knots.
What made it all possible was the tacit bargain that was struck with the audience. They were in the same boat. Eager to watch the play, they did not want to get soaked while doing so. A shorter, sharper version was an acceptable compromise. The danger was that the play would gather so much momentum that it would get out of control but Wildboare made sure that it did not. No matter how fast the playing, he was always in judicious command.
They reached Act Five with no more interruption than a few rumbles of thunder. Their luck then ran out. A deep-throated roar came from directly ahead of them and forked lightning flashed with dazzling force. Within seconds, torrential rain fell and drenched the pit. Those in the galleries were protected by the overhanging eaves and anyone upstage had the shelter of the portico but the rest were pelted without mercy.
The groundlings complained bitterly and some ran for cover but most stuck it out so that they could see the end of the play. Sodden themselves, they gained much amusement from other victims of the downpour. Lucy Hembrow's wig was plastered to her face, the merry devils' tails were limp rags between their legs, Doctor Castrato talked about the scorching heat while splashing around in inches of water, Droopwell slipped and fell into a puddle, and the indomitable Youngthrust, shorn of his sighing by the dictates of speed, had to stand in the middle of the stage while the rain cascaded down from his codpiece as if it were the mouth of a drainpipe.
The miracle occurred at the start of the final scene.
As if a tap had just been turned off, the rain suddenly stopped. Clouds drifted apart and the sun burst through to turn everything into liquid gold. The marriage or Lucy Hembrow and Youngthrust took place in a positive blaze of glory. To the sound of stately music, the interior of a church-superbly made and cleverly painted-was winched down from above to act as a backdrop. It was a fitting climax to a play that had been supremely entertaining and intermittently moving and applause rang out for several minutes.
Roper Blundell was unable to take his bow.
*
Having bottled up the spectators for two hours, The Rose now squeezed them out in a steady jet. Some dispersed with laughter, others lingered to talk, others again loitered to thieve and cozen. The Merry Devils had been exhilarating and more than one man was looking for a way to take the edge off his excitement.
'Good afternoon, ladies!'
Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry curtseyed politely.
'Did you enjoy the play this afternoon?'
They both nodded behind their veils.
'Would not you like the pleasure to continue?' said the man, beaming at them as he tried to work out which was the more attractive. I can offer the comfort of my carriage to one or both of you.'
The two of them fought to hide their embarrassment.
'Come, ladies,' said the man persuasively. 'London is full of delights and you shall see them all. Will you not sup with me tonight? I promise you shall not lack for anything.'
He shared a flabby leer between the two of them.
Henry Drewry had forgotten how enjoyable an afternoon at the playhouse could be. Having bought a plentiful supply of ale from the vendors, he was further intoxicated by what happened on stage and came reeling out of the building in a state of euplioi i.i. The urge for female company was powerful and he had spoken to a dozen women before he stopped Grace and Isobel. Rejection did not deflate him. He propositioned each new target with unassailable buoyancy.
'Will you see the sights of Bankside with me, ladies?' he said with pompous lechery. 'Or shall we ride back into the city to find our pleasures there? I can judge your quality and will treat you both accordingly.'
Isobel Drewry was profoundly shocked. It was amazing to find her own father at The Rose but to be accosted by him was mortifying. She had always seen him before as a tiresome, self-important man who lived for his work and his Aldermanic ambition. Since he ignored both her and her mother, she never suspected him of the slightest interest in the opposite sex. But Henry Drewry did have passions. Behind that fat, over-ripe tomato of a face and that round, ridiculous body was a creature of flesh and blood with sensual needs. As she saw him now in his true colours, shock gave way to disgust then was mortified by something else. Sheer amusement. The absurdity of the situation took her close to a giggle.
What do you say to my kind offer, ladies?' he pressed, quite unaware of their identity. 'I am a man of some estate, I warrant you.'
Grace Napier decided that action spoke louder than words. It would also have the vital advantage of preserving their anonymity. Lifting her chin in disdain, she took Isobel by the arm and led her purposefully away. They were soon swallowed up in the departing crowd. Henry Drewry was unabashed. He looked around for new game to hunt and soon found it.
'Well met, good sir.'
'How now, dear lady?'
'Was not that the most excellent play in Creation?'; 'I have never seen the like.'
'It has left me in such a mood for pleasure.'
The courtesan was a shapely young woman of middle height in a tight red bodice with patterning in gold thread, an ornate ruff that was decorated with cut-work embroidery and edged with lace, and a French wheel farthingale with the skirt gathered in folds. She was no punk from the stews of Bankside. She plied her trade in the upper echelons and had picked Drewry out as a man of substance. They were soon standing arm in arm and exchanging banter.
The relationship lasted only a few minutes.
'What brings you to this hideous place, Henry?'
'Oh!'
'I did not expect to find you here, sir.'
Isaac Pollard stood in front of the Alderman and the four supplementary Puritans surrounded him. He was ringed by religion and shook off his new acquaintance as if she were diseased.
'It was your playbill that fetched me here, Isaac,' he said.
'Indeed?'
'That and the holy fire of your sermon.'
'You have read it?'
'Twice,' lied Drewry who had not struggled beyond the first paragraph. 'It is an inspiration to us all. I intend to read it to my wife and daughter this very evening. Isobel is a good girl but a trifle wayward at times. I shudder at the thought of her frequenting such a vile establishment as this.'
'My brethren here were astounded by what they saw.'
So was I, sir. I came hither to judge for myself and I am now totally of your opinion. The Rose is a flower of indecency.'
Tear the place down, Henry.'
Alas, we cannot. It lies outside the city boundary.
'Then close the Queen's Head,' insisted Pollard. 'Plays demean the human soul and players are men who prostitute their art. Let us begin in Gracechurch Street.'
'I will look diligently into the matter.'
'We shall discuss it on our journey. You have your coach here?' It is at hand, Isaac'
'My brethren and I will gladly accept your transport,' said Pollard. 'We all have views that we would impress upon you.'
Drewry gazed wistfully across at the courtesan who had now transferred her attentions to an elderly nobleman who leaned upon a stick. In place of her charms, the Alderman had to settle for five earnest Puritans. Pollard observed the woman as well and his eyebrow rippled quizzically. Drewry threw in a hasty explanation.
A widowed lady who dwells in my ward,' he said. She seeks advice about her husband's estate. An Alderman must help such stricken wives.'
Flanked by the five, he turned his back on pleasure.
*
Roper Blundell lay on the table in the private room to which Nicholas Bracewell carried him. The corpse was covered in a piece of hessian, a rough but not inappropriate shroud. Small in life, the body looked even smaller in death, the shrunken relic of a man who had served the theatre in his lowly capacity for many years. Word of Blundell's demise had not been released to the company and there was a whirlwind of panic. Nicholas stood guard over the body to ensure it some privacy. Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill were his agitated companions.
'Why was I not told?’ said Gill angrily. 'I would have not acted with a dead man beneath my very feet.'
'That is why I withheld the intelligence,' said Nicholas.
'You were right,' decided Hoode.
'I am a sharer in this company and should know everything that happens when it happens!' Gill went stamping around the room. 'Lawrence was informed and so should I have been!'
Nicholas glanced meaningfully at the corpse. Gill accepted the reproof and showed his respect by reducing his voice to a hiss. Not surprisingly, he saw the incident entirely from his own point of view.
'This is aimed at me, sirs.'
'How can you think that?' said Hoode.
'It is as plain as a pikestaff.’
'Not to us, master,' said Nicholas quietly.
'At the Queen's Head, I summon up a devil and Hell itself answers my call. During Cupid's Folly, I climb up a pole and some fiend contrives my downfall. Here at The Rose, I sprinkle my magic powder and one of my devils is killed. Can you not see the connections? In every case, it is I who stand at the centre of the action.'
'The wish was father to the thought,' observed Hoode.
'Do not mock me, Edmund!'
'Then do not invite mockery.’
'I remind you of my rank in this company!'
'Will you ever let us forget it, sir?'
'Gentlemen, please,' said Nicholas, indicating the shrouded Figure. 'Roper had little enough respect from us when he was here. Let us give the poor fellow his due amount now that he has gone.'
They mumbled an apology. Gill drifted over to the window.
'Where is Lawrence?'
'Lord Westfield sent for him,' said Nicholas.
'He should be here.'
'His lordship was insistent.'
'I could have dealt with our patron,' said Gill airily. 'Lawrence's place is in this room.'
He stared out of the window and brooded on what had happened and how it affected him. Hoode had a whispered conversation with the book holder.
'What caused the death, Nick?'
'We will not know until the surgeon arrives.'
'Did Caleb Smythe not enlighten you?'
'He is as ignorant as the rest of us.'
'But he was down there with the others.'
'His back was to Roper,' explained Nicholas. 'It is gloomy and they were in any case half-hidden from each other's gaze by the props that hold up the stage. Caleb saw nothing.'
'He must have heard something was amiss?'
Nicholas shook his head. He was deafened by the first explosion. He could not hear if Roper's powder went off or if his trap-door opened. Besides, Caleb had much to do. He had to pull his own tray of gunpowder into position, set the charge, mount the steps and make his entrance. That left him no time to look across at Roper Blundell.'
'I understand it now.'
'The first that Caleb knew of any accident was when he popped up on the stage and saw that George Dart was the only devil there. He took the action he saw fit.'
'We must be grateful that he did.'
Hoode walked across to the table and uncovered the face of the corpse. Roper Blundell still stared upwards with his mouth agape. A costume which might have provoked horror and humour on stage looked singularly out of place now. Blundell had worked on all the playwright's work for the company. Hoode spared him the tribute of a passing sigh. It grieved him that something he had written should be the scene of the man's death.
There was a faint knock on the door and it opened to reveal a wizened figure in a long robe. He introduced himself with a dark smile.
'Doctor John Mordrake!'
His reputation gained him a polite welcome. Even Barnaby Gill was temporarily cowed in the presence of so eminent a man.
Mordrake saw the corpse and crossed to it in triumph.
'I knew it, sirs!' he said. 'I foretold tragedy.'
'We await the surgeon's opinion,' said Nicholas.
'But I can tell you the cause of death, my friend.'
Mordrake reached down to close the eyes of Roper Blundell then pulled the hessian back over his face. He turned to the others and spoke with devastating certainty. 'He saw the Devil himself.'
*
Fine wine after an excellent programme put Lord Westfield in a warm and generous mood. He showered Lawrence Firethorn with compliments that were taken up and embroidered by the circle of hangers-on. It was generally agreed that, notwithstanding the thunderstorm, the second performance of the play was better than the First. Firethorn lapped up the praise, especially when it came from the three ladies present and he managed some assiduous hand-kissing by way of gratitude. While a hired man in the company lay dead in one room, its patron celebrated in another. Westfield's Men covered a wide spectrum.
'I puzzled over one omission, Master Firethorn.'
'Yes, my lord?'
At the Queen's Head, you gave us three merry devils.'
'Indeed, sir.'
'And the third was hottest from Hell.' A collective titter was heard. 'Why did we see only two of them this afternoon?'
'Three were rehearsed, my lord.'
'What prevented the third from appearing?'
'An unforeseen difficulty,' said Firethorn smoothly.
'It was a loss.'
'We accept that, my lord.'
Firethorn decided to say nothing about the death of Roper Blundell. He did not want to ruin the festive atmosphere or bother his patron with news of someone who was, in the last analysis, a disposable menial. For the sake of the nobleman's peace of mind, Blundell's fate was softened into a euphemism.
'I hope that you can overcome this-unforeseen difficulty.'
'My lord?'
'During the private performance, I mean.'
'Ah, yes. At Parkbrook House.'
'My nephew will expect a full complement of devils.'
'He will get them, my lord.'
'Francis is a very determined young man,' said Lord Westfield with avuncular affection. 'He's ambitious and industrious. He knows what he wants and makes sure that he gets it. He'll not be stinted.'
'We'll bear that in mind, my lord.'
'He writes to tell me that your visit to Parkbrook has been brought forward. It will now be in two weeks or so.'
'That is rather short notice.'
'He is my nephew.'
'Oh, of course, of course.'
'I trust you'll oblige him, sir.'
'Yes, yes, my lord,' said Firethorn apologetically. 'It will necessitate a few changes in our plans, that is all.'
'Work on the house was proceeding too slowly for his taste so Francis speeded it up. I can imagine him doing that. He knows the value of a firm hand.' There was a hint of a sigh. 'Unlike his elder brother, who always erred on the side of sentiment.'
'As to the performance itself, my lord…'
'It will take place in the Great Hall.'
'I only know the property by repute,' said Firethorn. 'We have played at Westfield Hall many times but never at Parkbrook.'
'Send a man to make drawings and note the dimensions.'
'Nick Bracewell is the one for such an errand.'
'I’ll write to warn of his arrival.'
Lord Westfield accepted another goblet of wine when it was offered and talked about the pride he felt in his company. They wore his livery and carried his name before the London playgoing public. He chose the moment to apply a little pressure.
'I would have you give of your best at Parkbrook.'
'We will do no less, my lord.'
'Francis is very dear to me, sir,' said the other warningly.
'We have much in common, he and I. This banquet has been arranged to establish him as the new master of Parkbrook so I would not have it fall short of expectation.'
'Westfield's Men will be worthy of their patron!'
Firethorn's declaration drew gloved applause from the others.
'You shall not lose by it,' continued Lord Westfield. 'Francis will pay you handsomely for your services.'
'That thought was far from my mind,' lied Firethorn.
'He'll draw the contract up himself, if I know him. Though he enjoys his pleasures, he has never neglected his studies. Francis is no idle wastrel. He is an astute lawyer.'
'He sounds a remarkable person in every way.'
'Very remarkable.'
'And so young to occupy such a position,' observed Firethorn. 'Tell me, my lord, was not his elder brother master before him?'
'That is so, sir.'
'I am sorry to hear that the gentleman has died.'
'Alas, sir! If only he had!' The sigh gave way to an impatient note. 'But I will not brood on poor David. What's done is done and there's no changing it. Francis Jordan owns Parkbrook now. His brother, David, must fade away from our minds.'
*
Kirk's duties at Bedlam were far too onerous to permit him anything more than brief visits to his favourite patient. He was therefore never able to sustain any progress that had been made. David would make some small advance in the morning yet be unsure about it by the same evening. He was constantly taking two steps forward then one back. It was deeply frustrating but the keeper did not give up.
He tried to find a way to help the patient when he himself was not there. Without telling his colleagues, he smuggled some writing materials into David's room. At first, the patient reacted like a child and scrawled over the parchment. Then he began to make simple drawings of cows and sheep and horses. He would sit for hours and smile fondly at his collection of animals. The next stage came when he tried to form words. A whole morning might result in nothing more than one illegible word but Kirk was nevertheless pleased. The breakthrough would surely come.
That afternoon condemned him to the duty that he liked least. With some of the other keepers, he supervised the Bedlam patients who were on display to members of the public. Respectable men and women came to watch with ghoulish fascination as disturbed human beings enacted their private dreams. It was a gruesome event at any time but the thunderstorm made it particularly bizarre. As the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the lunatics kicked and bolted like horses in a stable fire. Their antics became wilder, their screams more piercing, their hysteria more frightening, their pain indescribably worse but the spectators liked the sight and urged the keepers to beat more madness out of their charges.
When it was all over, Kirk began his round of the private rooms. He glanced in through the grille in David's door and saw the latter bent over a table with a quill in his hand, writing something with great concentration. He looked serene, preoccupied, harmless. No sooner had the door been unlocked, however, than he underwent a change. David became such a mass of convulsions that he knocked over the table and fell writhing to the floor. Kirk jumped to his aid and thrust his hand into David's mouth to prevent the latter from biting off his tongue. It was a far more violent and dramatic attack than the earlier one witnessed by the keeper.
Eventually the spasms subsided and David lay there gasping. Kirk helped him on to the bed and mopped the patient's fevered brow. Beside the overturned table was the parchment on which David had been writing with such care. The keeper reached down for it and saw that ink had been thrown all over it in the accident. Whatever words had been slowly extracted from David's mind had now been obliterated.
'What did you write?' asked Kirk.
The only reply was the stertorous breathing.
'David, can you hear me? Are you listening, David?'
The patient stared up with blank incomprehension. He no longer even recognised his name. He was back once more in his twilight world. Kirk was dejected. All their hard work had been thrown away.
There was now a further problem to hold them back.
'What goes on here, sir?'
Rooksley stood in the doorway and read the scene with unfriendly eyes. He crossed to take the ink-stained parchment from Kirks hand. The head keeper made no secret of his anger.
'Who gave him this?'
'I did, Master Rooksley, to help him recover his wits.'
'Writing materials are forbidden.'
'I thought that-'
'Thought is forbidden, Master Kirk! You are paid to obey rules and I did not to change them.'
'This man has the falling sickness. He needs a physician.'
'We are his physicians.'
'But he is a danger to himself.'
'Only when you interfere here. He must be left alone.', 'Master Rooksley, he was responding to my help.'
'You'll not visit this chamber again, sir!' said the head keeper with a snarl. 'It is closed to you from this day forward. And if you will not discharge your duties to my satisfaction, you'll leave Bedlam altogether.'
Kirk bit back his protest. There was no point in antagonising Rooksley. Only if he remained on the staff could Kirk have the slightest hope of helping the patient. The head keeper motioned him out then he locked the door behind them. Kirk glanced back in through the grille.
'Who is he, master?'
'A lunatic'
'But who pays to keep him here?'
'One who would stay unknown.'
*
The storm which had struck London that afternoon had ravaged the Home Counties as well. Eager to ride out on his estate, Francis Jordan was confined to Parkbrook by the lashing rain. He took out his disappointment on anyone within reach and Glanville had to soothe the hurt feelings of many of the domestics. Jordan's mood altered with the weather. As soon as the sun came out to brighten up the countryside, he became happy and affable. Kind words were thrown to his staff. Compliments reached those who worked on in the Great Hall. The new master could exude charm when it suited him.
His horse had been saddled by the time he reached the stables and he was helped up by the ostler. Giving the man a cheery wave, Jordan rode off at a rising trot. Parkbrook glistened like a fairytale palace and the land all around was painted in rich hues. It gave him an immense feeling of well-being to know that he was master of it all. The wait had been a long one but it had served to sharpen his resolution and heighten his anticipation.
He now owned Parkbrook House. All that he lacked was a wife to grace it with her presence and share in its bounty. Francis Jordan let his mind play with the notion of marriage. He would choose a wife with the utmost care, some high-born lady with enough wit to keep him amused and enough beauty to sustain his desire. She would dignify his table, widen his social circle, bear his children and be so bound up with her life at Parkbrook that she would not even suspect her husband of enjoying darker pleasures on his visits to London. Jordan wanted someone whom he could love in Hertfordshire and forget in Eastcheap.
His thoughts were soon interrupted. There was a copse ahead of him and a figure stepped out from the trees as he approached. The man was short, squat and ugly. One eye was covered by a patch that matched the colour of his black beard. His rough arrive was soaked from the rain and he looked bedraggled. Jordan took him for a beggar at first and was about to berate him for trespass. When he got closer, however, he recognized the man only too well.
'Good day, sir!'
Deferential to the point of obsequiousness, the man touched his cap and shrunk back a pace. But there was a calculating note in his behaviour. As he looked up at the elegant gentleman on the horse, he gave a knowing smirk. Jordan was forced to acknowledge him.
Good day,' he said.
Then he rode on past a memory he wished to ignore.
*
Ralph Willoughby rolled out of the Bull and Butcher in a state of guilty inebriation. No matter how much he drank, he could not forget what had happened that afternoon at The Rose. When only two merry devils emerged from beneath the stage, he knew that tragedy had struck though it was only later that he learned what form it took. His association with the play was fatal. Willoughby believed that he had murdered Roper Blundell as surely as if he had thrust a dagger into the man's heart. There was blood on his hands.
More rain was now falling on London and turning its streets into miry runnels. Willoughby's unregarding footsteps shuffled through mud and slime and stinking refuse. Impervious to the damp that now fingered his body, he lurched around a corner and halted as if he had walked into solid rock. St. Paul's Cathedral soared up to block his vision and accuse him with its purpose. Tears of supplication joined the raindrops that splattered his face.
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?'
'Ate 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 ir, 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?'
'By force, if need be.'
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!'
'Her friend confirms that it was you.'
'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 hither 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.