The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 attire 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 comer 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?’

  ‘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, ever
yone 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 deep
ened. 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.

  Chapter Eight

  Glanville 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.