‘Will you see the sights of Bankside with me, ladies?’ he said with pompous lechery. ‘Or shall we ride back into the city to find our pleasures there? I can judge your quality and will treat you both accordingly.’
Isobel Drewry was profoundly shocked. It was amazing to find her own father at The Rose, but to be accosted by him was mortifying. She had always seen him before as a tiresome self-important man who lived for his work and his Aldermanic ambition. Since he ignored both her and her mother, she never suspected him of the slightest interest in the opposite sex. But Henry Drewry did have passions. Behind that fat over-ripe tomato of a face and that round ridiculous body was a creature of flesh and blood with sensual needs. As she saw him now in his true colours, shock gave way to disgust then was mortified by something else. Sheer amusement. The absurdity of the situation took her close to a giggle.
‘What do you say to my kind offer, ladies?’ he pressed, quite unaware of their identity. ‘I am a man of some estate, I warrant you.’
Grace Napier decided that action spoke louder than words. It would also have the vital advantage of preserving their anonymity. Lifting her chin in disdain, she took Isobel by the arm and led her purposefully away. They were soon swallowed up in the departing crowd. Henry Drewry was unabashed: he looked around for new game to hunt and soon found it.
‘Well met, good sir.’
‘How now, dear lady?’
‘Was not that the most excellent play in Creation?’
‘I have never seen the like.’
‘It has left me in such a mood for pleasure.’
The courtesan was a shapely young woman of middle height in a tight red bodice with patterning in gold thread, an ornate ruff that was decorated with cut-work embroidery and edged with lace, and a French wheel farthingale with the skirt gathered in folds. She was no punk from the stews of Bankside. She plied her trade in the upper echelons and had picked Drewry out as a man of substance. They were soon standing arm in arm and exchanging banter.
The relationship lasted only a few minutes.
‘What brings you to this hideous place, Henry?’
‘Oh!’
‘I did not expect to find you here, sir.’
Isaac Pollard stood in front of the Alderman and the four supplementary Puritans surrounded him. He was ringed by religion and shook off his new acquaintance as if she were diseased.
‘It was your playbill that fetched me here, Isaac,’ he said.
‘Indeed?’
‘That and the holy fire of your sermon.’
‘You have read it?’
‘Twice,’ lied Drewry who had not struggled beyond the first paragraph. ‘It is an inspiration to us all. I intend to read it to my wife and daughter this very evening. Isobel is a good girl but a trifle wayward at times. I shudder at the thought of her frequenting such a vile establishment as this.’
‘My brethren here were astounded by what they saw.’
‘So was I, sir. I came hither to judge for myself and I am now totally of your opinion. The Rose is a flower of indecency.’
‘Tear the place down, Henry.’
‘Alas, we cannot. It lies outside the city boundary.’
‘Then close the Queen’s Head,’ insisted Pollard. ‘Plays demean the human soul and players are men who prostitute their art. Let us begin in Gracechurch Street.’
‘I will look diligently into the matter.’
‘We shall discuss it on our journey. You have your coach here?’
‘It is at hand, Isaac.’
‘My brethren and I will gladly accept your transport,’ said Pollard. ‘We all have views that we would impress upon you.’
Drewry gazed wistfully across at the courtesan who had now transferred her attentions to an elderly nobleman who leaned upon a stick. In place of her charms, the Alderman had to settle for five earnest Puritans. Pollard observed the woman as well and his eyebrow rippled quizzically. Drewry threw in a hasty explanation.
‘A widowed lady who dwells in my ward,’ he said. ‘She seeks advice about her husband’s estate. An Alderman must help such stricken wives.’
Flanked by the five, he turned his back on pleasure.
Roper Blundell lay on the table in the private room to which Nicholas Bracewell carried him. The corpse was covered in a piece of hessian, a rough but not inappropriate shroud. Small in life, the body looked even smaller in death, the shrunken relic of a man who had served the theatre in his lowly capacity for many years. Word of Blundell’s demise had now been released to the company and there was a whirlwind of panic. Nicholas stood guard over the body to ensure it some privacy. Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill were his agitated companions.
‘Why was I not told?’ said Gill angrily. ‘I would have not acted with a dead man beneath my very feet.’
‘That is why I withheld the intelligence,’ said Nicholas.
‘You were right,’ decided Hoode.
‘I am a sharer in this company and should know everything that happens when it happens!’ Gill went stamping around the room. ‘Lawrence was informed and so should I have been!’
Nicholas glanced meaningfully at the corpse. Gill accepted the reproof and showed his respect by reducing his voice to a hiss. Not surprisingly, he saw the incident entirely from his own point of view.
‘This is aimed at me, sirs.’
‘How can you think that?’ said Hoode.
‘It is as plain as a pikestaff.’
‘Not to us, master,’ said Nicholas quietly.
‘At the Queen’s Head, I summon up a devil and Hell itself answers my call. During Cupid’s Folly, I climb up a pole and some fiend contrives my downfall. Here at The Rose, I sprinkle my magic powder and one of my devils is killed. Can you not see the connections? In every case, it is I who stand at the centre of the action.’
‘The wish was father to the thought,’ observed Hoode.
‘Do not mock me, Edmund!’
‘Then do not invite mockery.’
‘I remind you of my rank in this company!’
‘Will you ever let us forget it, sir?’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Nicholas, indicating the shrouded figure. ‘Roper had little enough respect from us when he was here. Let us give the poor fellow his due amount now that he has gone.’
They mumbled an apology. Gill drifted over to the window.
‘Where is Lawrence?’
‘Lord Westfield sent for him,’ said Nicholas.
‘He should be here.’
‘His lordship was insistent.’
‘I could have dealt with our patron,’ said Gill airily. ‘Lawrence’s place is in this room.’
He stared out of the window and brooded on what had happened and how it affected him. Hoode had a whispered conversation with the book holder.
‘What caused the death, Nick?’
‘We will not know until the surgeon arrives.’
‘Did Caleb Smythe not enlighten you?’
‘He is as ignorant as the rest of us.’
‘But he was down there with the others.’
‘His back was to Roper,’ explained Nicholas. ‘It is gloomy and they were in any case half-hidden from each other’s gaze by the props that hold up the stage. Caleb saw nothing.’
‘He must have heard something was amiss?’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘He was deafened by the first explosion. He could not hear if Roper’s powder went off or if his trap-door opened. Besides, Caleb had much to do. He had to pull his own tray of gunpowder into position, set the charge, mount the steps and make his entrance. That left him no time to look across at Roper Blundell.’
‘I understand it now.’
‘The first that Caleb knew of any accident was when he popped up on the stage and saw that George Dart was the only devil there. He took the action he saw fit.’
‘We must be grateful that he did.’
Hoode walked across to the table and uncovered the face of the corpse. Roper Blundell still stared upwar
ds with his mouth agape. A costume which might have provoked horror and humour on stage looked singularly out of place now. Blundell had worked on all the playwright’s work for the company. Hoode spared him the tribute of a passing sigh. It grieved him that something he had written should be the scene of the man’s death.
There was a faint knock on the door and it opened to reveal a wizened figure in a long robe. He introduced himself with a dark smile.
‘Doctor John Mordrake!’
His reputation gained him a polite welcome. Even Barnaby Gill was temporarily cowed in the presence of so eminent a man. Mordrake saw the corpse and crossed to it in triumph.
‘I knew it, sirs!’ he said. ‘I foretold tragedy.’
‘We await the surgeon’s opinion,’ said Nicholas.
‘But I can tell you the cause of death, my friend.’
Mordrake reached down to close the eyes of Roper Blundell then pulled the hessian back over his face. He turned to the others and spoke with devastating certainty.
‘He saw the Devil himself.’
Fine wine after an excellent programme put Lord Westfield in a warm and generous mood. He showered Lawrence Firethorn with compliments that were taken up and embroidered by the circle of hangers-on. It was generally agreed that, notwithstanding the thunderstorm, the second performance of the play was better than the first. Firethorn lapped up the praise, especially when it came from the three ladies present and he managed some assiduous hand-kissing by way of gratitude. While a hired man in the company lay dead in one room, its patron celebrated in another. Westfield’s Men covered a wide spectrum.
‘I puzzled over one omission, Master Firethorn.’
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘At the Queen’s Head, you gave us three merry devils.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘And the third was hottest from Hell.’ A collective titter was heard. ‘Why did we see only two of them this afternoon?’
‘Three were rehearsed, my lord.’
‘What prevented the third from appearing?’
‘An unforeseen difficulty,’ said Firethorn smoothly.
‘It was a loss.’
‘We accept that, my lord.’
Firethorn decided to say nothing about the death of Roper Blundell. He did not want to ruin the festive atmosphere or bother his patron with news of someone who was, in the last analysis, a disposable menial. For the sake of the nobleman’s peace of mind, Blundell’s fate was softened into a euphemism.
‘I hope that you can overcome this – unforeseen difficulty.’
‘My lord?’
‘During the private performance, I mean.’
‘Ah, yes. At Parkbrook House.’
‘My nephew will expect a full complement of devils.’
‘He will get them, my lord.’
‘Francis is a very determined young man.’ said Lord Westfield with avuncular affection. ‘He’s ambitious and industrious. He knows what he wants and makes sure that he gets it. He’ll not be stinted.’
‘We’ll bear that in mind, my lord.’
‘He writes to tell me that your visit to Parkbrook has been brought forward. It will now be in two weeks or so.’
‘That is rather short notice.’
‘He is my nephew.’
‘Oh, of course, of course.’
‘I trust you’ll oblige him, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, my lord,’ said Firethorn apologetically. ‘It will necessitate a few changes in our plans, that is all.’
‘Work on the house was proceeding too slowly for his taste so Francis speeded it up. I can imagine him doing that. He knows the value of a firm hand.’ There was a hint of a sigh. ‘Unlike his elder brother, who always erred on the side of sentiment.’
‘As to the performance itself, my lord …’
‘It will take place in the Great Hall.’
‘I only know the property by repute,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have played at Westfield Hall many times but never at Parkbrook.’
‘Send a man to make drawings and note the dimensions.’
‘Nick Bracewell is the one for such an errand.’
‘I’ll write to warn of his arrival.’
Lord Westfield accepted another goblet of wine when it was offered and talked about the pride he felt in his company. They wore his livery and carried his name before the London playgoing public. He chose the moment to apply a little pressure.
‘I would have you give of your best at Parkbrook.’
‘We will do no less, my lord.’
‘Francis is very dear to me, sir,’ said the other warningly. ‘We have much in common, he and I. This banquet has been arranged to establish him as the new master of Parkbrook so I would not have it fall short of expectation.’
‘Westfield’s Men will be worthy of their patron!’
Firethorn’s declaration drew gloved applause from the others.
‘You shall not lose by it,’ continued Lord Westfield. ‘Francis will pay you handsomely for your services.’
‘That thought was far from my mind,’ lied Firethorn.
‘He’ll draw the contract up himself, if I know him. Though he enjoys his pleasures, he has never neglected his studies. Francis is no idle wastrel. He is an astute lawyer.’
‘He sounds a remarkable person in every way.’
‘Very remarkable.’
‘And so young to occupy such a position,’ observed Firethorn. ‘Tell me, my lord, was not his elder brother master before him?’
‘That is so, sir.’
‘I am sorry to hear that the gentleman has died.’
‘Alas, sir! If only he had!’ The sigh gave way to an impatient note. ‘But I will not brood on poor David. What’s done is done and there’s no changing it. Francis Jordan owns Parkbrook now. His brother, David, must fade away from our minds.’
Kirk’s duties at Bedlam were far too onerous to permit him anything more than brief visits to his favourite patient. He was therefore never able to sustain any progress that had been made. David would make some small advance in the morning yet be unsure about it by the same evening. He was constantly taking two steps forward then one back. It was deeply frustrating but the keeper did not give up.
He tried to find a way to help the patient when he himself was not there. Without telling his colleagues, he smuggled some writing materials into David’s room. At first, the patient reacted like a child and scrawled over the parchment. Then he began to make simple drawings of cows and sheep and horses. He would sit for hours and smile fondly at his collection of animals. The next stage came when he tried to form words. A whole morning might result in nothing more than one illegible word, but Kirk was nevertheless pleased. The breakthrough would surely come.
That afternoon condemned him to the duty that he liked least. With some of the other keepers, he supervised the Bedlam patients who were on display to members of the public. Respectable men and women came to watch with ghoulish fascination as disturbed human beings enacted their private dreams. It was a gruesome event at any time but the thunderstorm made it particularly bizarre. As the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the lunatics kicked and bolted like horses in a stable fire. Their antics became wilder, their screams more piercing, their hysteria more frightening, their pain indescribably worse, but the spectators liked the sight and urged the keepers to beat more madness out of their charges.
When it was all over, Kirk began his round of the private rooms. He glanced in through the grille in David’s door and saw the latter bent over a table with a quill in his hand, writing something with great concentration. He looked serene, preoccupied, harmless. No sooner had the door been unlocked, however, than he underwent a change. David became such a mass of convulsions that he knocked over the table and fell writhing to the floor. Kirk jumped to his aid and thrust his hand into David’s mouth to prevent the latter from biting off his tongue. It was a far more violent and dramatic attack than the earlier one witnessed by the keeper.
Event
ually the spasms subsided and David lay there gasping. Kirk helped him on to the bed and mopped the patient’s fevered brow. Beside the overturned table was the parchment on which David had been writing with such care. The keeper reached down for it and saw that ink had been thrown all over it in the accident. Whatever words had been slowly extracted from David’s mind had now been obliterated.
‘What did you write?’ asked Kirk.
The only reply was the stertorous breathing.
‘David, can you hear me? Are you listening, David?’
The patient stared up with blank incomprehension. He no longer even recognised his name. He was back once more in his twilight world. Kirk was dejected. All their hard work had been thrown away.
There was now a further problem to hold them back. ‘What goes on here, sir?’
Rooksley stood in the doorway and read the scene with unfriendly eyes. He crossed to take the ink-stained parchment from Kirk’s hand. The head keeper made no secret of his anger.
‘Who gave him this?’
‘I did, Master Rooksley, to help him recover his wits.’
‘Writing materials are forbidden.’
‘I thought that—’
‘Thought is forbidden, Master Kirk! You are paid to obey rules and not to change them.’
‘This man has the falling sickness. He needs a physician.’
‘We are his physicians.’
‘But he is a danger to himself.’
‘Only when you interfere here. He must be left alone.’
‘Master Rooksley, he was responding to my help.’
‘You’ll not visit this chamber again, sir!’ said the head keeper with a snarl. ‘It is closed to you from this day forward. And if you will not discharge your duties to my satisfaction, you’ll leave Bedlam altogether.’
Kirk bit back his protest. There was no point in antagonising Rooksley. Only if he remained on the staff could Kirk have the slightest hope of helping the patient. The head keeper motioned him out then he locked the door behind them. Kirk glanced back in through the grille.
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 36
