The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Can I not help you?’ said Pollard.

  She answered the question with such a barrage of abuse that he went puce. Now that he was close enough to realise what they were doing, he was mortified. Far from protesting, the woman had been urging her client on to a hotter carnality. The last thing she needed during her transaction was the interference of a Puritan.

  ‘A plague upon you!’ she howled.

  ‘Cast out your sins!’ he retaliated.

  ‘Will you have me draw my sword?’ warned the other man.

  As a fresh burst of vituperation came from the woman, Pollard backed away then strode off down the street. Within only a short time of his arrival in Bankside, he had enough material for an entire sermon. There was worse to come. His steps now took him along Rose Alley, past the jostling elbows of the habitués and beneath the dangling temptation of the vivid inn signs. Crude sounds of jollity hammered at his ears then something loomed up to capture all his attention. It was London’s newest theatre – the Rose. Built on the site of a former rose garden in the Liberty of the Clink, it was of cylindrical shape, constructed around a timber frame on a brick foundation. To the crowds who flocked there every day, it was a favourite place of recreation.

  To Isaac Pollard, it was a symbol of corruption.

  As his anger made the single eyebrow rise and fall like rolling waves, he caught sight of a playbill that was stuck on a nearby post. It advertised one of the companies due to perform at The Rose in the near future.

  Westfield’s Men – in The Merry Devils.

  Pollard tore down the poster with vicious religiosity.

  ‘What you tell me is most curious and most interesting, Master Willoughby.’

  ‘Yet you do not seem surprised.’

  ‘Nor am I, sir.’

  ‘You knew that this would happen?’

  ‘I entertained the possibility.’

  ‘But you gave me no forewarning.’

  ‘That was not what you paid me to do.’

  Doctor John Mordrake was a man of encyclopaedic knowledge and sound commercial sense. Having devoted his life to his studies, he was going to profit from them in order to buy the books or the equipment that would help him to advance the frontiers of his work. He dealt with the highest and the lowest in society, providing an astonishing range of services, but he always set a price on what he did.

  Ralph Willoughby was conscious of this fact. He knew that his visit to Knightrider Street would be an expensive one. Mordrake’s time could not be bought cheaply and he had already listened for half-an-hour to the outpourings of his caller. Willoughby, however, had reached the point where he was prepared to spend anything to secure help. Doctor John Mordrake was his last hope, the one man who might pull him back from the abyss of despair that confronted him.

  They sat face to face on stools. Mordrake watched him with an amused concern throughout. Most people who consulted him came in search of personal gain but Willoughby had wanted an adventure of the mind. That pleased Mordrake who sensed a kindred spirit.

  ‘You were at Cambridge, I believe, Master Willoughby?’

  ‘That is so, sir.’

  ‘Which college?’

  ‘Corpus Christi.’

  ‘At what age did you become a student?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘That is late. I was barely fourteen when I went to Oxford.’ The old man smiled nostalgically. ‘It was an ascetic existence and I thrived on it. We rose at four, prayed, listened to lectures, prayed again, then studied by candlelight in our cold rooms. We conversed mostly in Latin.’

  ‘As did we, sir. Latin and Hebrew.’

  ‘Why did you leave the university?’

  ‘Its dictates became irksome to me.’

  ‘And you chose the theatre instead?’ said Mordrake in surprise. ‘You left academe to be among what Horace so rightly calls mendici, mimi, balatrones, hoc genus omne?

  ‘Yes,’ said Willoughby with a wistful half-smile. ‘I went to be among beggars, actors, buffoons and that class of persons.’

  ‘In what did the attraction lie?’

  ‘The words of Cicero.’

  ‘Cicero?’

  ‘Poetarum licentiae liberoria.’

  ‘The freer utterance of the poet’s licence.’

  ‘That is what I sought.’

  ‘And did you find it, Master Willoughby?’

  ‘For a time.’

  ‘What else did you find, sir?’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  ‘Cicero has spoken on that subject, too,’ noted Mordrake with scholarly glee. ‘Voluptas est illecebra turpitudinis. Pleasure is an incitement to vileness.’

  Willoughby fell silent and stared down at the floor. Though he was dressed with his usual ostentatious flair, he did not have the manner that went with the garb. His face was drawn, his jaw slack, his hands clasped tightly together. Mordrake could almost feel the man’s anguish.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he said.

  It was a full minute before the visitor answered. He turned eyes of supplication on the old man. His voice was a solemn whisper.

  ‘Did I see a devil at the Queen’s Head?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How came it there?’

  ‘At your own request, Master Willoughby.’

  ‘But you told me it could not happen in daylight.’

  ‘I said that it was unlikely, but did not rule it out. The devil would not have come simply in answer to the summons in your play.’

  ‘What brought it forth, then?’

  ‘You did, sir.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You have an affinity with the spirit world.’

  Willoughby was rocked. His darkest fear was confirmed. Words that he had written raised up a devil. The apparition at the Queen’s Head had come in search of him.

  ‘You should have stayed at Cambridge,’ said Mordrake sagely. ‘You should have taken your degree and entered the Church. It is safer there. The duty of a divine is to justify the ways of God to man. Christianity gives answers. The duty of a poet is to ask questions. That can lead to danger. Religion is there to reassure. Art disturbs.’

  ‘Therein lies its appeal.’

  ‘I will not deny that.’

  Mordrake pulled himself to his feet and shuffled across to a long shelf on the other side of the room. It was filled with large, dusty leather-bound volumes and he ran his fingers lightly across them.

  ‘A lifetime of learning,’ he said. ‘For ten years, I travelled all over Europe. I worked in the service of the Count Palatine of Siradz, King Stephen of Poland, the Emperor Rudolph, and Count Rosenberg of Bohemia. Wherever I went, I searched for books on myth and magic and demonology. In Cologne, I found the most important work of them all.’ He took down a massive volume and brought it across. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘Malleus Malleficarum?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mordrake, clutching the book to his chest like a mother cradling a child. ‘Hexenhammer, as it is sometimes called. The Hammer of Witches. First printed in 1486. Written by two Dominicans from Germany. Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer, scholars of great worth and reputation.’ He sat on the stool again. ‘It is a wondrous tome.’

  ‘Can it help me, Doctor Mordrake?’

  ‘It can help any man.’

  ‘Truly, sir?’

  ‘Here is the source of all enlightenment.’

  Ralph Willoughby touched the book with a reverential hand before looking up to search his companion’s grey eyes. Hope and apprehension mingled in his breathless enquiry.

  ‘Will it save my soul?’

  Westfield Hall was a vast rambling mansion set in the greenest acres of Hertfordshire. From a distance, it looked more like a medieval hamlet than a single house, being a confused mass of walls, roofs and chimneys on differing levels. It presented to the world a black and white face that glowed in the afternoon sun beneath hair of golden thatch.

  The house was as splendid and dramatic as its owner, with a hint of
Lord Westfield’s paunch in its sagging eaves and a reflection of his capricious nature in its riotous angles.

  Francis Jordan stayed long enough to feel a twinge of envy then he turned his head away. Spurring his horse, he went on past Westfield Hall for half a mile or so and came to a long wooded slope. His bay mare took him through the trees at a steady canter until they reached a clearing. A sturdy man in rough attire was carrying a wooden pail of water towards a small cottage. Jordan brought his mount to a sudden halt and directed a supercilious stare at the man. Instead of the deferential nod that he expected, he was given a bold glance of hostility. Jordan fumed. His horse felt the spurs once again.

  When he emerged from the woods and got to the top of the ridge, he reined in the animal once more. From his vantage point, he gazed down at the dwelling in the middle distance. Parkbrook House was true to its name. Set in rolling parkland, it was almost encircled by a fast-running brook that snaked its way through the grass. The house was built of stone and replete with high casements. With its E-shaped design, it was more austere and symmetrical than Westfield Hall and could lay claim to none of the latter’s antiquity, but it still did not suffer by comparison in the mind of Francis Jordan. There was a unique quality about Parkbrook House that lifted it above any other property in the county.

  It was his.

  As soon as he began to ride down the hill, he was spotted. By the time Jordan arrived, an ostler was waiting to help him dismount and take care of his horse. The steward was standing nearby.

  ‘Welcome, master!’ he said with formal enthusiasm.

  ‘Thank you, Glanville,’

  ‘All is ready for your inspection.’

  ‘I should hope so, sir.’

  ‘They have worked well in your absence.’

  Joseph Glanville was a tall, impassive, dignified man of forty. As steward of the household, he had power, privilege and control over its large staff of servants. He was dressed with a restrained smartness that was made to look dull beside the colourful apparel of his master. Over his grey satin doublet and breeches, Glanville wore a dark gown that all but trailed on the ground. A small tricornered hat rested on his head and his chain of office was worn proudly. He had been at Parkbrook House for some years and addressed his duties with the utmost seriousness.

  ‘Take me in at once,’ said Jordan peremptorily.

  ‘Follow me, sir.’

  The steward conducted him across the gravel forecourt and in through the main door. A group of male servants were standing in a line in the entrance hall and they bowed in unison as their master passed. Jordan was pleased and rewarded them with a condescending nod. He walked behind Glanville across the polished oak floor. When they reached the Great Hall, the steward stood aside to let him go in first.

  Francis Jordan viewed the scene with a critical eye.

  ‘I thought the work would be more advanced.’

  ‘Craftsmanship of this order cannot be rushed, sir.’

  ‘There is hardly any progress since my last visit.’

  ‘Do not be misled by appearances.’

  ‘I wanted results, Glanville!’

  His barked annoyance caused everyone in the hall to stop what he was doing. The plasterers looked down from their scaffolding. The painters froze on their ladders. Carpenters working on the moulded beams held back their chisels and the masons at the far end of the room put down their hammers. Francis Jordan had wanted to redesign and redecorate the Great Hall so that it could become a focal point of his social life. As he strolled disconsolately over sheets of canvas, it seemed to him that the work was not only behind schedule but contrary to his specification. He swung round to face his steward.

  ‘Glanville!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘This is not good. It is less than satisfactory.’

  ‘If I might be permitted to explain …’

  ‘This is explanation enough,’ said Jordan, waving an arm around. ‘I looked to have the place finished ahead of time.’

  ‘Problems arose, sir. Some materials were difficult to come by—’

  ‘That is no excuse.’

  ‘But the men are working to the very limit of their capacity. I can promise you that everything will be completed in a month.’

  ‘A month! It must be ready in two weeks.’

  ‘That is well-nigh impossible, master.’

  ‘Then make it possible, sir!’ snarled the other. ‘Bring in more craftsmen. Let them work longer hours – through the night, if need be. I must and will have my Great Hall ready for the celebrations. I can wait no longer.’

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ said Glanville with a bow.

  Jordan sauntered on down to the far end where the major alteration had occurred. A huge bay window had replaced the old wall and it allowed sunlight to flood in from the eastern aspect. As he shot a glance of reproof at them, the masons began to hammer away again in earnest. Jordan examined their work then looked back into the hall as if trying to come to a decision. He pointed a long finger.

  ‘We will need the stage there, Glanville.’

  ‘Stage, master?’

  ‘A play will be performed at the banquet.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men will require a platform for their art.’

  ‘They shall have it.’

  Glanville bowed again, anxious not to incur any further displeasure. To be chastised so sharply in front of others was a blow to his self-esteem. He did not want to give his new master another chance to arraign him so openly. Joseph Glanville was a sensitive man.

  ‘One last thing,’ said Jordan.

  ‘Yes, master?’

  ‘I rode past a cottage in the woods.’

  ‘Jack Harsnett lives there, sir.’

  ‘Harsnett?’

  ‘Your forester.’

  ‘Dismiss him forthwith. I do not like the fellow.’

  ‘But he has worked on the estate all his life.’

  ‘He goes today.’

  ‘For what offence, sir?’

  ‘Incivility.’

  ‘Jack Harsnett is a good forester,’ said Glanville defensively. ‘Times are hard for him just now, sir. His wife is grievously ill.’

  ‘Clear the pair of them off my land!’

  Francis Jordan brooked no argument. Having issued his command, he marched the full length of the Great Hall and stormed out. Glanville’s face was as impassive as ever but his emotions had been stirred.

  One of the carpenters came across for a furtive word.

  ‘Here’s a change for the worse!’

  ‘We must wait and see,’ said the steward tactfully.

  ‘Jack Harsnett turned out. The old master would not have done it.’

  ‘The old master is not here any longer.’

  ‘More’s the pity, say I!’ The carpenter put the question that was on all their lips. ‘Where is the old master, sir?’

  ‘He has gone away.’

  The hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem worked to an established routine. It could not be changed by one man, however much he might desire it. Kirk had been at Bedlam only a matter of days before he realised this. What he saw as the cruel and inhumane treatment of lunatics could not easily be remedied. Though he tried to show them more compassion himself, it did not always meet with their gratitude and he had been attacked more than once by impulsive patients. What distressed Kirk most was that he had himself reverted to the very behaviour he criticised in the other keepers. Bedlam was slowly brutalising him.

  At the end of one week, he was given a new assignment by Rooksley. He was to take over the care of some of the patients who were locked away in private rooms and did not consort with the others. They were sad cases. One emaciated man was convinced that he was on the point of freezing to death. Even on the hottest days, when his face was running with sweat, he would lie in bed and shiver uncontrollably beneath the thick blanket. Kirk fed him on warm soup and tried to talk him out of his delusion.

  Another of his
charges was a querulous old woman, the wife of a wealthy glover. Her husband committed her because of her obsession. Barren throughout her life and now well past the age of childbirth, she believed that she was pregnant and feared that she was in imminent danger of bringing a black baby into the world. Kirk learned to humour her and promised not to tell her husband about her imagined affair with a handsome Negro.

  But it was the young gentleman who most interested the keeper and engaged his sympathy. In the grim surroundings of Bedlam, the patient in the white shirt and the dark breeches still had an air of distinction. To all outward appearances, he was a normal, healthy, educated young person from a good family. Kirk was not told his name. All he knew was that the patient was incarcerated there by someone who paid a weekly rent and who stipulated that he was to come to no harm. He was supposed to be possessed by the Devil but Kirk saw little sign of this during his daily visits.

  ‘Good morning!’

  ‘Ah!’ The man looked up with childlike happiness.

  ‘I’ve brought you some food, my friend.’

  ‘Oo!’

  ‘Shall I sit down here beside you?’

  Kirk lowered himself to the floor where the patient was sitting cross-legged. The young man had been humming a song. He could make noises of pleasure and pain but he was unable to form words properly. It did not seem to bother him. He had an amiable disposition.

  Kirk lifted the plate from the tray across his lap.

  ‘It’s meat,’ he said.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Warm and tasty to tempt the palate.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Will you feed yourself today, my friend?’

  The patient grinned and shook his head violently.

  ‘Would you like me to help you again?’

  There was frantic nodding. The young man inhaled the aroma of the meat and his grin broadened. He thrust his head forward.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ said Kirk.

  The keeper offered him the first spoonful. It was a slow methodical process. The young man liked to chew his meat for a long time before he swallowed it and the other had to be patient. Eventually, the meal was almost over. Kirk loaded the spoon for the last time and raised it to the young man’s lips, but the latter had had enough. Shaking his head to indicate this, he caught the spoon with the side of his jaw and knocked the meat down the inside of his shirt. It threw him into a panic.