The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  There was one tiny consolation. The squalor of his surroundings brought him fully awake and helped him to shake off the lingering effects of the bang on the head. Though he still could not remember what happened between his arrest and his arrival at the Counter, his brain was no longer swimming. Revolted by his situation, it was working madly to get him out of it.

  He reconstructed his day in his mind. An early start after a nourishing breakfast at his lodgings. Rehearsal then performance of Love and Fortune. The removal of one load of costumes, properties and scenic items followed by the organisation of another for the morrow. An evening with Edmund Hoode and too much drink. The walk home and the unexpected attack by three men with a firm purpose.

  They had succeeded in what they had set out to do. Nicholas sat up stiffly as realisation dawned. He now saw why he had been the target of the assault and what the men hoped to achieve.

  It was all part of a logical pattern. He was next.

  Chapter Nine

  Night was far worse than day in the hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem. It seemed longer, darker and infinitely more sinister. While the rest of London slumbered peacefully, madness was abroad in Bedlam. Strange, unreal, inhuman cries would pierce the ear and reverberate around the corridors. Someone sang hymns at the top of his voice until he was beaten, then religion became a long howl of pain. Those who could not sleep woke those who could. There were fights among inmates, attacks on keepers and lacerating self-scourging. Tumescent males tried to reach the female patients. Wild-eyed maniacs tried to escape. There was such a fierce mixture of nocturnal suffering that it sounded as if the whole of Bedlam was in the process of committing suicide.

  Kirk hated it. He had been put on night duty as a punishment and spent most of his time rushing to different parts of the building to cope with an emergency. The whip was even more effective than the kind word at night. He was ashamed of his skill with the former. It had long since dawned on him that he could stay at the hospital for ever. It was destroying his soul and his belief in God. All that kept him there was the hope that he might be able to rescue at least one man from the shackles of his madness.

  David was now out of reach. Rooksley had taken away Kirk’s key to the young man’s chamber. All that the new keeper could do was to peer at his friend through the grille on the door. David was quiet that night. As pandemonium raged around him, he lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Watching him from outside, Kirk wondered what thoughts were going through the man’s mind and what secrets lay hidden there. If he could find the key to unlock that mind, it would unlock the doors of Bedlam for David as well.

  A more immediate duty called. There was a bloodcurdling scream from the far end of the corridor that made Kirk break into a run. When he reached the cell, he looked in through the grille to see a short grey-haired old man in the murky darkness, trying to destroy his few sticks of furniture in a paroxysm of rage. The table had been hurled against a wall, the chair had been smashed to pieces and the man was now hurling himself on his mattress in a frenzy to shred it with his bare hands.

  Letting himself in, Kirk went over to restrain the patient but the latter had a strength that belied his age and he struggled hard. Only when another keeper came to his aid did Kirk subdue the man, who sank to his knees and wailed as the whip did its work. Wearing nothing but a blotched and tattered shirt, he had no protection against the sting and the bite so he curled himself up into a ball on the ground and wept piteously. Kirk stopped his companion from administering any more punishment and eased him out of the room. The old man would be no more trouble that night. A priest who toured the hospital to bring some comfort now arrived and helped the old man up. The keepers went back to their patrol.

  Diverted for a time by the latest incident, Kirk’s thoughts went back to David and he resolved to find out more about him. It would be risky but that would not deter him. As he walked around the corridors, he made his way towards the room near the main entrance which the head keeper used as his office. First making sure that he was not observed, Kirk reached the door and found it locked. He tried everything on his bunch of keys and found one that worked. Slipping quickly into the room, he closed the door behind him then lit the candle that was standing in a holder on the table. Stealth was essential as Rooksley himself lived and slept in the adjoining chamber.

  In the centre of the room was the high desk that contained all the records of the establishment, the accumulated misery of generations of men and women who had lost their wits and been sent to Bedlam to make sure that they did not recover them again. The hospital had been dedicated to a high moral purpose but Kirk knew the reality that lay behind it. Many came to the hospital but few were released and those that were deemed to have been cured were turned out to beg in the streets or forage among the refuse.

  The desk was scarred by age and pitted by usage. Kirk lifted the lid and took out a large, leather-bound book. He opened it to find rows of squiggles and columns of figures, both autographed with many blots. It was the account book for the hospital and not what he sought. Putting it back, he took out in its place a similar volume with covers that shone brightly from all the handling they had been given. It was the register of inmates, the endless list of unfortunates who had been coaxed, tricked or forced into Bedlam and whose whole lives were now summed up in the few lines that accompanied their names in the book.

  Kirk flipped through until he came to those who had been recently committed. They were all patients he had got to know since he had been there and he found their cases heartrending, but he could not dwell on them now. He was searching for one name that would bring clarity to his speculations and equip a dear friend with an identity.

  Rooksley’s hand was rough and unstylish but Kirk could manage to decipher the writing. Then he saw it and caught his breath in the thrill of discovery.

  The name in the register was David Jordan.

  His dream was a bruising nightmare of threatening phantoms and he came out of it with a shudder. There was no relief. A further horror beckoned. Finding that he was not alone in the bed, he looked down to see that he lay in the arms of a devil, a deformed, hideous, grotesque creature that was covered in red scales and tufted with thick furry hair. Its touch was clammy and its odour was nauseating. As it slumbered beneath him, it snored gruffly.

  Ralph Willoughby leapt out of the bed and grabbed his clothes. Not pausing for an instant, he opened the door and ran naked along the passageway, throwing himself down the staircase and racing towards the door. When he got into the narrow yard at the back of the tavern, he ducked his head in the barrel of scummed rainwater. Then he pulled on his clothes as fast as he could and lurched out into the lane.

  Up in the chamber he had just left, the girl in the bed woke for an instant, wondered where he had gone, then slept again.

  The cold water and the cool night air revived his brain but brought no peace of mind. Willoughby was no longer guilty about his decadent pleasures or revolted by their nature because he had come to accept himself for what he was, but fear still disturbed him. They were calling him more often now and he was not yet ready to go. As a black cat came shrieking out of a doorway, he gasped in terror and hurried on with more speed.

  Only when he finally reached his lodging did he feel a degree of safety. Pouring water into a bowl from a pitcher, he immersed his head again then dried it on a cloth. He felt better, more settled, more ready to address the task he had set himself. He lit a candle, sat down at his table and reached for the knife to sharpen his quill. When it was ready, he dipped it into the inkwell then wrote something in bold letters on the title page of his new play.

  Ralph Willoughby regarded it with an interest that soon turned to a macabre amusement and he put back his head to let out a long, low, sardonic cackle. He wanted his play to be memorable and its title gave him a mischievous satisfaction.

  The Witch of Oxford.

  Day began early at the Counter. Straw began rustling at first light and gaolers came
round with lukewarm porridge to sell to the prisoners for their breakfast. Having finally managed to fall asleep, Nicholas Bracewell was almost immediately roused from his slumber. One whiff of the food made him decline it, but the others in his cell slurped it down eagerly. They were a motley crew that included a cutpurse, a horse thief and the master of a brothel. There was even a confidence trickster who claimed to have a tenuous connection with the theatre.

  ‘In Bristol once, I had some handbills printed for a lavish entertainment that was never going to take place, and I raised fifteen pounds against the promise of it. By the time my audience discovered the truth, I was far away in Coventry selling the deeds of a silver mine that I invented on the journey there.’

  They were cheerful rogues who had been in and out of prisons all their lives. Nicholas did not have to ask them anything. They volunteered their stories and told them with a skill that showed long practice. When the newcomer claimed that he was in prison as a result of wrongful arrest, they mocked him with their jeers.

  ‘Arrest is arrest, sir,’ said the horse thief sagely. ‘If it be rightful or wrongful, there’s no difference, for the prison food still tastes the same either way.’

  Their attitude was not encouraging and Nicholas was dejected when he heard tales of men who had languished in prison for years for crimes that they had never committed. He wondered again if his message had been delivered. Unless he could make contact with the outside world, nobody would know that he was locked away and his dwindling funds would eventually oblige him to shift to the Hole, which was a prospect too gruesome to contemplate. The cutpurse described what might be expected in the third grade of lodging at the Counter.

  ‘Here, we are but next to the jakes, sir,’ he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘There, you are in it!’

  Nicholas was appalled. He had to escape somehow.

  While most of his companions were frankly garrulous, there was one who never uttered a word. A huge, bearded giant of a man who seemed about to burst out of his clothes, he sat quietly in a corner with a wistful expression on his beefy face. Nicholas saw that the man did not fit in with the others. They were habitual criminals for whom a prison was second home while he was weighted down by the ignominy of his situation. Nicholas moved across to sit beside him and talked to him kindly. He gradually drew the man’s tale out of him.

  ‘My name is Leonard, sir. I am a brewer’s drayman.’

  ‘What’s your offence?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Too much drink at Hoxton Fair.’

  ‘They arrested you for that?’

  ‘No, sir,’ explained the other. ‘The ale led to something else that I am ashamed to talk of and yet, God knows, I must for a sin must be admitted before it can be pardoned.’

  There was a gentle sadness about the man that touched Nicholas. Here was no son of the underworld who lived on his wits. Leonard was an honest workman who had been led astray by friends when he was in his cups and who was now paying a dreadful price for it.

  ‘Have you heard of the Great Mario, sir?’ asked the drayman.

  ‘The wrestler who travels the fairs?’

  ‘He’ll wrestle no more, sir,’ said the other with sombre guilt. ‘Mario came from Italy to try his skill in England. He fought for six years and was never bested until he came to Hoxton.’

  ‘You took up his challenge?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. I’m no brawler. I want a quiet life.’ He sighed. ‘But God made me strong and my fellows at the brewery know how I can toss the heavy barrels around so they put me up to it. The Great Mario was at Hoxton Fair all week. Younger men and bigger men tried to lower his reputation but he was master of them all. Then I and my fellows went to the fair on Saturday last and took some ale along the way.’

  ‘They talked you into it,’ guessed Nicholas.

  ‘I saw no harm in it, sir, so I did it in fun to please them. There was no thought of winning the bout.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He hurt me,’ said Leonard simply. ‘We wrestled but Mario could not throw me because I was too strong for him, so he uses tricks on me that were no part of a fair fight. He pokes and punches, puts a finger in my eye and another down my throat, stamps on my foot and bites me on the chest as if he would eat me. I still bear the mark.’

  ‘You lost your temper.’

  ‘It was the ale, sir, and the shouting of the crowd and the Great Mario cheating his way to victory. Yes, I lost my temper. When we grappled once more, I was angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. And there were my fellows urging me on and telling me to break his neck.’ He gave a shrug. ‘And so I did. I snapped him in two. He died within the hour.’

  ‘Is that why they brought you here?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘The Counter is but a place for me to rest, sir. They mean to hang me when they can find a rope strong enough for the task.’

  The vast frame shivered involuntarily then lay back against the wall. Nicholas was sufficiently moved by his predicament to forget his own for a moment. It was a cautionary tale. Leonard was the victim of his own body. Had he been a smaller or a weaker man, he would not have been forced into the contest by his friends. He had led a blameless life yet would go to his death with a shadow across his heart.

  As Nicholas reflected on it all, he was halted by a sudden thought.

  ‘Was Hoxton Fair a large one this year?’

  ‘Bigger than ever, sir,’ said Leonard with a sad grin. ‘They had fools and fire-eaters, ballad singers, a sword-swallower, hobby horses, gingerbread, roasted pig, games for children, a play for those of wiser sort, drums, rattles, trumpets and old Kindheart, the tooth-drawer. They had everything you care to mention at Hoxton, sir.’

  ‘Acrobats?’

  ‘Oh yes! The strangest creatures you ever did see, sir.’ Nicholas listened with total fascination.

  Vincentio’s Revenge was not just a play which gave Lawrence Firethorn unlimited opportunity to display his art, it was a highly complex drama that required enormous technical expertise. Spectacular effects were used all the way through it. A large cast swirled about a stage that gradually became more and more littered with dead bodies as the ruthless Vincentio began to depopulate the city of Venice. Since actors became properties once they were killed, they had to be lugged away somehow and this called for careful organisation. The vital but unobtrusive work of Nicholas Bracewell was everywhere in the production. He devised the effects and orchestrated the action. Important to every play performed by Westfield’s Men, the book holder was absolutely crucial to this one. To stage it without him was inconceivable.

  ‘Where is Nick?’ demanded Firethorn.

  ‘Master Bracewell is not here, sir,’ said George Dart.

  ‘Of course he is here, you ruinous pixie! He is always here. Rather tell me that the Thames is not here or that St Paul’s has tip-toed away in the night. Nicholas is here somewhere.’

  ‘I have searched for him in vain.’

  ‘Then search again with your eyes open.’

  ‘No fellow has seen him today, master.’

  ‘You will be the first. Away, sir!’ He watched the other trudge slowly away. ‘Be more speedy, George. Your legs are made of lead.’

  ‘And my heart, sir.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I miss Roper.’

  ‘So do we all, so do we all.’

  Firethorn saw the tears in his eyes and crossed to put a hand of commiseration on his bowed shoulder. For all his bravado, the actor-manager had been shaken by the incident at The Rose.

  ‘Roper died that we may live,’ he said softly. ‘Cherish his memory and serve the company as honestly as he did.’

  George Dart nodded and went off more briskly.

  Almost everyone had arrived by now and it was time for the rehearsal to begin. The musicians, the tiremen, the stagekeepers all needed advice from Nicholas Bracewell The carpenters could not stir without him. The players grew restless at his absence. Barnaby Gill caused another scene and dema
nded a public reprimand for the book holder. He and Firethorn were still arguing when George Dart returned. He had been diligent in his search. Nicholas was nowhere at the Queen’s Head.

  ‘Then run to his lodgings and fetch him from his bed!’

  ‘Me, sir?’ asked Dart. ‘It is a long way to Bankside.’

  ‘I will kick you every inch of it if you do not move, sir!’

  ‘What am I to say to Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Remind him of the name of Lawrence Firethorn.’

  ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘That will be sufficient.’

  ‘I fly.’

  But George Dart’s journey was over before it had even begun. As he turned to leave, the figure of a handsome woman swept in through the main gates and crossed the inn yard towards them. Anne Hendrik moved with a natural grace but there was no mistaking her concern. Firethorn gave her an extravagant welcome and bent to kiss her hand.

  ‘Is Nicholas here?’ she said.

  ‘We hoped that he would be with you, dear lady.’

  ‘He did not return last night.’

  ‘This is murky news.’

  ‘I have no idea where he went.’

  ‘I can answer that,’ said Edmund Hoode, stepping forward. ‘Nick came with me to my lodging to share some ale and discuss some private business. It was late when he left for Bankside.’

  ‘He never arrived,’ said Anne with increased anxiety.

  Firethorn pondered. He knew the dangers that lurked in the streets of London and trusted his book holder to cope with most of them. Only something of a serious nature could have detained Nicholas.

  ‘George Dart!’ he called.

  ‘Here, master.’

  ‘Scour the route that he would have taken. Retrace his steps from Master Hoode’s lodging to his own. Enquire of the watch if they saw anything untoward in that vicinity. Nicholas is a big man in every way. He could not vanish into thin air.’