The Merry Devils nb-2

by Edward Marston

  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 lilted 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 lie had got to know since he had been there and he found their cases heart-rending, but lie 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 lie 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 luke-warm 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 tine jakes, sir,' lie 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.'
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  '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.

  *

  Vincenlio'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. lo 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 demanded 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.'

  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.' Roper Blundell did,' murmured the other.

  'Think on hope and do your duty.'

  George Dart went willingly off on his errand and several others volunteered to join in the search. Nicholas was a popular member of the company and everyone was keen to find out what had befallen him.

  'Let me go, too,' said Hoode.

  'No, sir.'

  'But I am implicated, Lawrence.'

  'You are needed here.'

  'Nothing is as important as this.'

  'It is--our art. We must serve it like professional men." Firethorn raised his voice for all to hear. 'The rehearsal will go on.'

  'Without Nick?' said Hoode.

  'It is exactly what he would have wished, Edmund.'

  'Yes,' agreed Anne. 'It is. Nick always put the theatre first.'

  'To your places!'

  Firethorn's command sent everyone scurrying off into the tiring-house. A difficult couple of hours lay ahead of them. They all knew just how much the book holder contributed to the performance.

  Anne Hendrik searched for a crumb of reassurance.

  'Where do you think he can be, Master Firethorn?'

  'Safe and sound, clear lady. Safe and sound.'

  'Is there no more we can do, sir?'

  'Watch and pray.'

  Anne took his advice and headed for the Church of St Benet.

  *

  Francis Jordan gave her a couple of days to muse upon her fate then issued his summons. He wanted Jane Skinner to come to his bedchamber that night. Implicit in his order was the threat of reprisal if she failed to appear, but he had no doubt on that score. The girl had been meek and submissive when he spoke to her and all resistance had gone. He would enjoy pressing home his advantage.

  Glanville reacted quickly to orders. He had drafted in some extra craftsmen and work on the Great Hall was now advancing at a much more satisfying pace. Jordan gave instructions for the banquet and the invitations were sent out. He began to relax. The steward ran the household efficiently an
d gave him no real cause for complaint so the new master could enjoy the fruits of his position. Jane Skinner was one of them. Riding around his estate was another.

  'Good morning, sir.'

  'What do you want?'

  'A word, sir.'

  'We've said all we need to say to each other.'

  'No, sir.'

  'Get out of my path.'

  'Listen.'

  The unkempt man with the patch over one eye was lurking around the stables as Jordan rode out. There was the same obsequiousness and the same knowing smirk as before. He bent and twisted as he put his request to the master of Parkbrook House.