The Devil and Drusilla

by Paula Marshall

  ‘You can take Vobster,’ she told him. ‘He’s such a steady fellow and he thinks the world of you.’ She did not tell him that Devenish might be missing, but when Cordelia relieved her so that she might eat a little dinner, she wondered as she walked downstairs, whether bad news might revive him rather than good.

  If he was ever going to revive again, that was. The oddest thing about his condition being that when he was lifted up and a cup of warm milk was put to his lips, he drank it eagerly. Which, no doubt, was why the doctor asserted that, for some reason, he did not wish to regain full consciousness.

  And now she had two men to worry about, for the thought that Devenish might be in trouble was yet another burden for her sad heart. Rob Stammers had not returned, which was something of a relief, since it must mean that he had found nothing to indicate that Devenish might be in trouble.

  Now there was nothing either of them could do: it was merely a question of waiting for Rob’s messenger to return from London. She could only hope that his news might be good and that it would not be necessary to send Devenish’s letter to Lord Sidmouth.

  Devenish, whose only hope was that Rob had remained true to him and was trying to discover why he had not returned to Tresham, was lying on the floor of his cell. He was waiting for one of his captors to bring him his meagre dinner. He had little idea of the time. All his possessions and most of his clothing had been stripped from him, leaving him wearing only his shirt and breeches.

  Wattie, his largest gaoler, had been particularly pleased to inherit his gold watch and the signet ring which was the only gift which he had ever received from his grandfather. To his surprise the loss of that had grieved him even more than the privations he was suffering.

  One reason for his ability to endure the long days of solitary confinement was that he had continued to practise the yoga which Master Gabriel had taught him—much to the disgust of Wattie and his henchman.

  He refused to sit on the stool which was all the furniture allowed him and instead lay on the cell’s floor, summoning up mental pictures of himself and Drusilla walking hand in hand in the most beautiful scenery which he could imagine.

  Never once did he try to visualise the pair of them in bed, enjoying themselves, because Master Gabriel had told him that tranquillity and peace were essential. Images of battle and of sexual intercourse were to be avoided. His other occupation was to try to think up ways and means of escaping from his deadly predicament—and this involved reconstructing in his head the ground plan of Marsham Abbey.

  The main problem he had to face was that the only way out of the Abbey from the cell in which he was confined was through the Great Hall and the main doorway—which would make any escape difficult.

  Wattie’s disgust was roused by his constantly discovering m’lord lying supine on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He had never made the slightest effort to defy him, or to rail at him, as most of those whom Wattie previously held prisoner had done.

  ‘Why, he’s no more spunk than a puling priest,’ he had told Mr Harrington, a sneer on his face as well as in his voice.

  Mr Harrington said, ‘Are you sure? Such is not his reputation.’

  ‘Ah, well, but he’s allus been in charge afore, hasn’t he? Not so clever now, is he?’

  Mr Harrington remained uneasy. When Wattie took his next frugal meal to Devenish, he, and not the other large bruiser, accompanied him. As Wattie had said, they found Devenish lying peacefully on the floor, on his back, his eyes shut.

  For some reason this irritated Mr Harrington mightily. He snarled through the bars as Wattie opened the door to push Devenish’s dinner inside, ‘Get up, man. I wish to speak to you.’

  Devenish opened his eyes, and turning his head sideways without making any attempt to do as he was ordered, said mildly, ‘Indeed not. I am quite comfortable as I am. My position is no bar to us having a pleasant chat, if that is what you want.’

  He had always found that these tactics had infuriated his grandfather beyond belief. Mr Harrington was no different. He wished that he had brought Wattie’s fellow with them, but Wattie would doubtless be able to make Devenish see reason on his own.

  ‘Kick him to his feet,’ he roared. ‘I refuse to talk to him until he behaves sensibly.’

  Wattie duly obliged by kicking Devenish in the ribs, hard. Devenish rolled away into a corner where he took up a position with his head between his knees which he had drawn up to his chin, so that he was now in the shape of a ball.

  Furious, Wattie caught him under the armpits and tried to pull him to his feet. This proved difficult since Devenish refused to co-operate and hung, a dead weight, from Wattie’s paws.

  ‘Should have brought Jem with us,’ panted Wattie as Mr Harrington roared.

  ‘Let the fool drop, Wattie. What game are you playing with us, Devenish?’

  ‘No game,’ returned Devenish pleasantly, rolling on to his face so that his voice was muffled. ‘I much prefer the view of the floor to the view of you and friend Wattie. Say what you have to say—and go.’

  Prisoner he might be, dishevelled and barefoot, his civilised hauteur stripped from him, but in some odd way he still managed to hold the whip hand in a situation where he ought to have been a humiliated victim.

  Devenish could have told them that he had been taught by two masters how to conduct himself in a tight corner. Master Gabriel and his grandfather could not have been less alike, but both of them had done their share in making him the man he was. Master Gabriel because he had helped him, his grandfather because he had not.

  ‘Shall I do him over, sir?’ ground out Wattie. ‘He needs a sharp lesson.’

  ‘No, leave him alone and take his dinner away. If all he does is lie on the floor he doesn’t need to eat. I wonder at you, Devenish, I really do. Where is your dignity, man?’

  Devenish did not answer him. Before Wattie could bend down to remove his dinner, he rolled over again, seized the plate, and began to cram into his mouth as much as possible of the meagre fare on it before it disappeared.

  ‘Too hungry to be dignified,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘Do go away, Harrington. Your conversation was never your best point, and any virtue it once had seems to have disappeared.’

  Wattie wrestled the tin plate away from him and kicked him for good measure before leaving the cell. He turned at the door and roared, ‘You’ll sing another tune tomorrow night when we tie you to the altar.’

  Mr Harrington nodded agreement, and added briskly, dwelling lovingly on each sadistic word, ‘Indeed he will. Remember the girls, Wattie, how they screamed at the end—and that pair of traitors, Jeremy Faulkner and my valet. They didn’t relish their punishment overmuch, either. Nor will you, Devenish, you’ll be no different from the rest when the devil claims you.’

  ‘Exactly, and now you know why I’m lying on the floor. I’m rehearsing for the pantomime Harrington here is going to put on tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to let him down. Must get my screams out in the right order.’

  He grinned infuriatingly up at Mr Harrington who turned away and, without speaking to Devenish again, ordered Wattie to lock him up and give him nothing more to eat or drink until the morning.

  ‘He’s not a puling priest,’ he informed Wattie crossly as they made their way back to the Abbey’s living quarters. ‘Far from it. He made fools of the pair of us. It will be a pleasure to cut his throat for him tomorrow.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Wattie whined at his master, ‘is why you won’t let me duff him up. That would change his tune, for sure.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t want him disfigured, because after we have sacrificed him we shall unmask him so that all the Brotherhood will see and know that the strongest power of all belongs to our master Apollyon if even such as Devenish cannot stand against him.’

  The other reason, of which he did not inform Wattie, was he thought that, by involving all of the Brotherhood in Devenish’s murder, not only had he made them accessories to it but none would d
are stand against him in case they, too, ended on Apollyon’s altar. Nor would they dare to inform on him to the authorities if, by doing so, they chanced sharing his punishment…

  And that little scene, Devenish said to himself somewhat morosely when his tormentors had departed, was all very fine and clever tonight, but, God help me, unless I can think up something tricky between now and tomorrow night which will get me out of this confounded pickle, I shall be cat’s meat for all my haughty lordship.

  He lay down again and contemplated the price of failure, before going on to try to plan success. His plans of necessity were vague. He would need to improvise—something which he had often done in Spain—and he could only trust that the talent had not left him. After that he dreamed of Drusilla and before he knew it Master Gabriel’s magic had worked again and he was asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Drusilla started up from sleep in the night, suddenly wide awake. She had been dreaming of Hal—she rarely thought of him now as Devenish—and some nameless fear drove her out of her bed and into the little study which opened off her bedroom. The moon was almost full, which normally would have cheered her, for she did not care for the dark, but tonight the moon offered her no solace.

  She drew the study curtains, used her tinder box to light a candle and opened her escritoire; a charming, graceful piece which had been a present from her dead father. She then pulled from its pigeon hole the letter which Hal had given her. For a moment she held it in her hand like a talisman before laying it down on the desk.

  Was Rob Stammers right? Ought she to open it? Was it her duty to Hal to do exactly as he had asked, or did a higher duty require her to disobey him, if by doing so, she could help him immediately in whatever danger he might be in.

  Moved again by instinct rather than reason she picked up the letter and the candle and returned to her bedroom. She climbed into bed, tucked the letter under her pillow—it was as near as she could get to him in his absence—blew out the candle and tried to sleep.

  He was in her dreams again. She was promenading with him in a city which she had never visited, but had once seen in a coloured print. It was Venice. They were walking by the Grand Canal—and how did she know that?—and then they were in a gondola drifting past noble palazzos and under delicately pretty bridges. He had an arm around her and was speaking to her—only she could not hear what he was saying. She only knew that they were together and that they were happy.

  The sun was up and shone on the water. Then, without warning, it disappeared, and she was in a dark, strangely suffocating place. From being pleasantly warm she was icy cold. There were bars in the room. She knew that although she could not see them.

  And then that vision was gone, and she was back in Venice, but only for a moment for the shock of these sudden changes woke her up again, shivering this time. Hal had been trying to tell her something—but what? She pulled the letter from under her pillow and held it in her hand.

  Drusilla was sure of one thing, and one thing only. Hal was in danger. She was certain of that, if of nothing else. She had no notion of where he might be, nor of how she might help him. She would give Rob Stammers one more day, and if, by then, he had no more news, she would open the letter herself.

  In his cell Devenish lay shivering. He had been lying awake and had conjured up Drusilla. Remembering his dreams he had taken her to Venice and had told her that he loved her and wished to marry her. Only, she had not answered him, but looked at him with great wondering eyes. He had tried so hard to make her hear what he was saying that he forgot what Master Gabriel had taught him. The vision had vanished and he was back in his cell once more.

  After a short time, when he had composed himself again, he tried to revisit Venice, but for some reason the vision would not hold for more than a few seconds, so he let it go.

  He was bound to Drusilla now by such deep emotional ties that their very existence destroyed his ability to recall her without breaking the calm which Master Gabriel had told him was necessary if he were to be successful in removing his essential self from any place where he might be suffering.

  Instead, he thought himself back into the gardens at Tresham where as a boy he had taken his book in order to avoid his grandfather. He lay on a bench again, in a late spring afternoon, and sleep came at last, shortly before the dawn of the day which Leander Harrington had promised him would be his last.

  It was the longest day of his life. Wattie brought him black bread and water for his breakfast. Luncheon never came. What he thought must be an early dinner was gruel. In between them he tried to rest, and, using the neck strings which he had ripped from his shirt, he practised a few more of Master Gabriel’s tricks.

  When Wattie finally came into the outer room his henchman, Bart, trailed behind him. He was a stocky man with a woebegone face—Devenish thought that he looked like the second murderer in a Shakespearean play. He was carrying black monk’s robes, rope and what appeared to be masks.

  Devenish could hear a great bustle outside. Men were shouting, and Leander Harrington’s voice could be heard. Then Wattie shut the heavy door, which cut off the noise, and impatiently ordered Bart to lay down the robes before he unlocked the door of Devenish’s cell.

  ‘Stand up,’ he ordered, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’

  ‘Such originality,’ mocked Devenish as he did as he was told—somewhat to Wattie’s surprise.

  ‘Decided to be reasonable, have you?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by reasonable,’ drawled Devenish, ‘but I think a man ought to go to his death with a little dignity, don’t you?’

  Wattie sniggered, ‘Going to miss my fun with you, am I?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ returned Devenish. ‘I’m sure that, like the rest of the audience, you’ll enjoy watching me sacrificed in the crypt.’

  Wattie, disappointed at being deprived of a chance to do his victim over, shouted, ‘Bart, help me to tie his hands behind his back. I’ll hold him for you. And as for you,’ he added, turning on Devenish, ‘you’re wrong about the crypt. Seeing as how you’re such an important fellow my master has chosen the Great Hall for our ceremony tonight. We’ve spent all day transforming it—you should be honoured.’

  He stopped taunting his victim long enough to grab him by the shoulders and swing him round. ‘Put your hands behind your back, sirrah, so we can truss our goose.’

  Devenish duly obliged. He felt Bart fumble with the rope behind him and smiled to himself. Master Gabriel’s tuition had not been lost on him. He offered Bart no resistance—indeed, he appeared to be helping him.

  Wattie stood back, his hands on his hips, watching Bart at work and grinning at Devenish’s apparent subservience. ‘Not so noisy now, are we, m’lord? Have you nothing clever left to say?’

  ‘Only that I am quite aware of the honour that you are doing me. I trust that my mask is different from yours. I wouldn’t like Apollyon to become confused and sacrifice the wrong victim.’

  Wattie began to laugh. ‘Oh, he thinks of everything, does Apollyon. As he told you, you’ve the mask of the archangel Gabriel, and we’ve the masks of Apollyon’s attendant devils. I wanted a pitchfork to carry wi’ me, but he said we weren’t at Drury Lane.’

  ‘Indeed, not,’ said Devenish, who was busy working his hands free of Bart’s knots, and blessing the man who had taught him how to do it. ‘Much better organised and real life, too. Hurry up and bring on the mummery. I can’t wait to see what Gabriel looks like. I rather fancy meeting my maker looking like an archangel.’

  ‘Fetch the masks and robes, Bart,’ ordered Wattie importantly. He kicked the cell door open and turned back to face Devenish who was now sitting on the stool which he had previously rejected.

  For the first time Wattie felt some compunction over what he was doing. ‘You’re taking this mighty cool. You won’t suffer much, you know. He’s a rare hand with the knife is Apollyon.’

  ‘Charmed to know that,’ murmured Devenish feelingly, ‘it makes me fee
l much better.’

  ‘Aye, there is that,’ agreed Wattie. He shouted through the open door, ‘What’s taking you so long, Bart?’

  Bart glumly held out the robes and the masks. ‘There’s only two on ’em here, not three. I’ve left one behind.’

  ‘Oh, hellfire and damnation,’ returned Wattie, an exclamation which seemed highly appropriate given the circumstances, thought Devenish. ‘You great fool, can you never do anything right! Here, come and guard our man, I’ll have to fetch them myself.’

  ‘I can’t really count,’ said Bart apologetically to Devenish as he entered the cell after Wattie had roared impatiently away. ‘Me mam couldn’t afford to send me to the Dame’s school.’

  ‘A pity, that,’ agreed Devenish sympathetically, rising from his stool and walking towards Bart. A horrified expression crossed his face. ‘For God’s sake, man, there’s a rat over there!’

  ‘There is? Where?’ shouted Bart, his face more hangdog than ever.

  ‘Over there,’ cried Devenish, motioning with his head in the direction of the outer door. ‘I hate the damn’d things, always have.’

  ‘Me, too,’ agreed Bart. ‘I’ll kill it.’ He swung round, offering Devenish a splendid view of his back.

  Without further ado Devenish sprang. He flung the rope with which Bart had tied him up—and which he had straight away undone—around Bart’s neck and pulled. Gasping and gurgling, Bart fell against him, his hands rising uselessly to try to save himself from strangulation.

  Devenish bore him to the floor, took off one of Bart’s heavy shoes and knocked him out with it. He then used the rope to tie Bart’s hands behind his back.

  Praying that Wattie would not return too soon he darted through the door, picked up the two robes and masks—one of which he was happy to see was Gabriel’s—and wrestled the unconscious Bart into one of the robes before tying the Gabriel mask on to him.