The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘To disable the book holder.’

  ‘That would not stop the performance – which was the intention in the other three cases – but it might impair the quality and that would reflect badly on our patron.’

  Firethorn was impressed and punched him softly.

  ‘You did some thinking in that prison, sir.’

  ‘I’d choose more fragrant places for my contemplation.’

  ‘You’ll be in one tonight unless I’m mistaken,’ said the other with a roguish grin. ‘Mistress Hendrik came looking for you. When she sees that bruise on your face, I’m sure she’ll make you lie down so that she can tend it properly.’ He cocked an ear to listen to the action on stage. ‘Why did such a beautiful Englishwoman marry such a boring Dutchman?’

  ‘That has never come up in conversation.’

  Firethorn stifled his mirth so that it would not distract.

  ‘The Counter was a grim experience,’ said Nicholas, ‘but it gave me one valuable piece of information.’

  Firethorn made another entry to stab a rival in the back and deliver a soliloquy of thirty lines while straddling the corpse. He sauntered off to applause then shook the Venetian court away to turn once more to his book holder.

  ‘Valuable information, you say?’

  ‘I know where to find our merry devil.’

  Francis Jordan lay on the bed with a glass of fine wine beside him. It was a warm evening and the casements were open to let in the cooling air and the curious moon. He was naked beneath a gown of blue and white silk that shimmered in the light from the candelabra on the bedside table. Everything was in order for his tryst with Jane Skinner. The room had been filled with vases of flowers and a second goblet stood beside the wine bottle. He felt languid and sensual.

  The clock struck ten then there was a timid knock on the door. She was a punctual lover and that suggested enthusiasm. Jordan was pleased. He rolled over on his side.

  ‘Come in!’ he called.

  Jane entered quickly, closed the door behind her and locked it. He did not see that she withdrew the key to hold it behind her back.

  ‘Welcome!’ he said and toasted her with his goblet.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I want you to enjoy this, Jane.’

  He appraised her with satisfaction. She wore a long white robe over a plain white shift and had a mob cap on her head. Her feet were bare. Even with its worried frown, the face had warmth to it and there was a country succulence about her body which roused him at once.

  ‘Did my brother ever bring you to his bedchamber?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘The master respected me.’

  ‘Virgins among the chambermaids! I never heard the like.’

  ‘We were treated well before, sir.’

  ‘You’ll be treated well tonight, Jane.’ He waved an arm. ‘These flowers are for your benefit. Come, share some wine with me and we’ll be friends. Take up that goblet.’

  ‘I will not drink, sir.’

  ‘Not even at my request?’ Her silence annoyed him slightly. ‘I see that I am too considerate, Jane Skinner. You give me no thanks for my pains. So let us forget the flowers and the wine. Step over here.’

  She began to tremble but did not move at all.

  ‘Come,’ he said, putting his goblet aside. ‘Now, Jane!’

  ‘No, sir,’ she murmured.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Do you know who I am and what I am?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then do as you’re told girl, and come over here.’

  Jane Skinner took a deep breath and stayed where she was. Her hands tightened on the large brass key in her hands. Prickly heat troubled her body. Her mouth was quite dry.

  ‘I’ll give you one more chance,’ he said with menace.

  ‘No, sir,’ she replied with her chin up. ‘I will not.’

  ‘Then I will have to teach you.’

  He hauled himself off the bed but he was far too slow. Caught between disgrace and dismissal, Jane wanted neither and chose a third, more desperate course. As Francis Jordan tried to come for her, she tripped across the room, jumped up on to the window sill then leapt out into the darkness.

  There was a scream of pain as she landed with a thud on the gravel below.

  Jordan rushed to the window and looked down. She was squirming in agony. Doors opened and lighted candles were taken out. Two bodies bent over her in concern. Jordan was both furious and alarmed. Lying beside her was the key to his bedchamber. Before he could pull back from the window, one of the figures looked up to catch his eye.

  It was Joseph Glanville.

  It was good to be back in the saddle again. Nicholas Bracewell was a fine horseman who knew how to get the best out of his mount. He was proceeding at a steady canter along the rough surface of the road. It was early on Saturday evening and Westfield’s Men had not long given a performance of Mirth and Madness to a small but willing audience at Newington Butt. Instead of staying to supervise their departure, Nicholas was allowed to ride off on important business. The fair which had been at Hoxton the previous week had now moved south of the river. It was at the village of Dulwich.

  He heard the revelry a mile off. When he reached the village green, he first saw to his horse then went to explore. The fair was in full swing and it was not difficult to understand why Leonard had enjoyed it so much. Booths and stalls had been set up in a wide circle to bring a blaze of garish colour to the neighbourhood. People from all the surrounding districts had converged in numbers to see the sights, eat the food, drink the ale, buy the toys, watch the short plays, enjoy the entertainments and generally have fun.

  Visitors could see a cow with three legs or a sheep with two tails, a venomous snake that wound itself around its female keeper and hissed to order, a dancing bear or a dog that did tricks, a cat that purported to sing in French, a strong man who bent horseshoes and the self-styled Heaviest Woman in the World. The wrestling booth struggled on without the Great Mario and Nicholas spared a thought for Leonard.

  Vendors wandered everywhere. They sold fans, baskets, bonnets, aprons, fish, flowers, meat, even a powder that was supposed to catch flies. Kindheart was pulling out teeth with his pincers and the ratcatcher was selling traps. One of the most popular vendors had a tray of cosmetics and a melodic voice.

  Where are you fair maids,

  That have need of our trades?

  I’ll sell you a rare confection.

  Will you have your faces spread

  Either with white or with red?

  Will you buy any fair complexion?

  The village girls giggled with high excitement.

  Nicholas eventually saw them. They were three in number, tiny men in blue shirts and hose, demonstrating their agility to the knot of spectators who gathered around their booth. They were midgets, neat, perfectly-formed and seemingly ageless, doing somersaults and cartwheels for the delight of the crowd. They came to the climax of their routine. One braced his legs as his partner climbed up on to his shoulders. The third then climbed even higher to form a human tower. Applause broke out but changed to a moan of fear as the tower appeared to fall forward. Timing their landing, they did a forward roll in unison and stood up to acknowledge even louder clapping. A woman in a green dress, smaller than any of them, came out from the booth with a box and solicited coins. The villagers gave freely.

  He could hear them talking as he went around to the rear of their booth. The woman entered and discussed the takings. Nicholas called out and asked if he could come in.

  ‘What do you want, sir?’ said a high voice.

  ‘To discuss a business proposition.’

  The flap of the booth opened and a midget studied him. At length, he held the flap back so that Nicholas could enter. The other two men and the woman were resting on benches. Now that he could see them closer, Nicholas could discern that there were age differences. The man who had let him in was older th
an the others.

  ‘I am Dickon, sir,’ said the man, then indicated the others with his doll-like hand. ‘This is my wife and these are our two sons.’

  ‘You mentioned a business proposition,’ said the woman.

  ‘It’s one that concerned Westfield’s Men,’ he said.

  The two sons started guiltily but the father calmed them by showing the palms of his hands. He confronted Nicholas without fear.

  ‘What are you talking about, sir?’

  ‘Merry devils.’

  ‘We do not understand.’

  ‘I think your sons do.’

  They tried not to fidget so much and averted their eyes.

  ‘Leave us alone!’ said Dickon with spirit. ‘You caused a great deal of trouble, sir.’

  ‘We are poor entertainers.’

  ‘I saw your entertainment at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Curtain in Shoreditch. The Rose in Bankside. I was not amused.’

  ‘Get out of our booth, sir!’

  Dickon had the ebullience of a man twice his height and weight. He was going to admit nothing unless he had to do so. His sons, however, were less skilled in deception. Nicholas decided to play on their fears with a useful fiction.

  ‘Lord Westfield is a very influential man,’ he said.

  ‘So?’ replied Dickon.

  ‘He could close this whole fair down if he chose. He could get your licence revoked, then your booths would not be able to stand anywhere. That is what he threatened to do, but I tried to talk him out of it.’

  Dickon had a brief but wordless conversation with the others. Alarm had finally touched him and he was not sure what to do about it. Nicholas quickly exploited his advantage.

  ‘Unless I go back with some answers, Lord Westfield will pursue this fair through the courts. He wants revenge.’

  Another silent exchange between the midgets then one of the sons cracked, jumping up and running across to the visitor.

  ‘We did not mean to do any harm, sir.’

  ‘Who put you up to it?’

  ‘It was all in jest, sir. We are clowns at a fair.’

  ‘There’s nothing clownish in the sight of a dead man.’

  ‘That was my doing, sir!’ wailed the son. ‘I still have nightmares about it. I did not mean to fright him so.’

  The mother now burst into tears, both sons talked at once and Dickon tried to mediate. Nicholas calmed them all down and asked the father to give a full account of what happened. Dickon cleared his throat, glanced at the others, then launched into his narrative.

  The fair was at Finchley when a young man approached them and asked if they would like to earn some money. All that they had to do was to play a jest on a friend of his. Dickon undertook the task himself. A costume was provided and details of when and how to make his sudden appearance. The young man was evidently familiar with the details of the performance.

  ‘How did you get into the Queen’s Head?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘In the back of a cart, sir.’

  ‘Then you hid beneath the stage?’

  ‘When you are as small as us, concealment is not difficult.’

  ‘You were told to cause an uproar then disappear.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘What about The Curtain?’

  ‘I did not even have to dress up for that,’ said Dickon. ‘When you all withdrew after the rehearsal, I came out from behind the costume basket where I lay hidden. It was the work of five minutes or so to saw through that maypole.’

  ‘Did you not think of the damage it could cause?’

  ‘The young man assured us nobody would be hurt.’

  ‘What of The Rose?’

  ‘My sons were both employed there.’

  Dickon’s account was straightforward. Instructed in what they had to do, the two boys had visited the theatre in costume on the eve of performance to search for places of concealment and to rehearse their antics. Hearing footsteps up on the stage, they could not resist shooting up through the trap-doors to startle whoever it was. Nicholas admitted that he had been duly startled.

  The boys had slipped under the stage after the performance had started and lay hidden under sheets in a corner. When Roper Blundell came down to prepare for his own ascent from Hell, he tripped over one of the sheets and lifted it. The mere sight of a crouching devil had been enough to frighten him to death. Terrified themselves, the two brothers fled as soon as they could and did not make the double entry on stage that had been planned.

  Nicholas felt that he was hearing the truth. The midgets were not responsible for what they did. They were only pawns in the game. Paid for their services, they were told that everything was a practical joke on friends. That joke turned sour at The Rose and they refused to work for the young man again. Nicholas saw no virtue in proceeding against this peculiar family. It was the person behind them who was the real villain. He sought help.

  ‘Was he a well-favoured young man with a ring on his right hand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Dickon. ‘It bore his initials.’

  ‘Do you know what they stand for?’

  ‘No, sir. Except that … well, there was one time when his coachman called him Master Gregory.’

  G.N. Master Gregory. It was enough for Nicholas.

  He now knew who their enemies really were.

  Chapter Ten

  Sunday was truly a day of rest for Henry Drewry. It was the end of the worst week of his life and he was exhausted from his labours. He could not even stir to take himself off to matins. Having tried to prevent his daughter from going to the country with Grace Napier, he felt an immense relief when she actually left the house. Her presence now diminished him in every way. Terrified to offend her lest she speak to her mother about a Bankside theatre, he crept around quietly and kept out of her way. All hope of marrying the girl off could now be abandoned. He had too much compassion to wish such a creature on any other man.

  As he reclined in his chair in the parlour with a restorative pint of sherry, he saw how much he had squandered by one foolish action. He was an opinionated Alderman of the city of London, yet he dared not assert himself any longer in his own home.

  There was a tap on the door and a manservant entered. ‘Master Pollard is without, sir.’

  ‘Tell him that I am not here.’

  ‘But he says he has called on a most important matter.’

  ‘Get rid of the fellow!’

  The servant went off to implement the order but Isaac Pollard would not be sent away. Knocking on the door of the parlour, he surged in like a monstrous black bat and fluttered over Drewry.

  ‘Why do you send me lies, sir?’

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ said the other with a gulp.

  ‘I am told you are not at home and you sit here drinking sherry.’

  The Puritan glared disapprovingly at the liquid.

  ‘I take it on medical advice,’ said Drewry quickly. ‘I am unwell.’

  ‘You must be if you tell untruths on the Sabbath.’

  ‘What brings you here, Isaac?’

  ‘Profanity, sir!’

  ‘Again?’ muttered the other wearily.

  ‘Wickedness is abroad.’

  ‘I have not yet been out to see.’

  ‘The Merry Devils is to be performed again.’

  ‘Do not mention that play to me!’ howled Drewry.

  ‘But I hear that it will be given at Parkbrook House on the estate of Lord Westfield. It must be stopped.’

  ‘If it is a private performance, we can do nothing. Besides, we have no power in the county of Hertfordshire.’

  ‘We have the power of God Himself,’ said Pollard impressively, ‘and that covers every shire in the land. There is a way to halt this performance if we but move swift enough.’

  ‘And what is that, sir?’

  ‘Get the play declared a blasphemous document and have its authors incarcerated for their sins. There must be legislation that favours us. We
must attack with a statute book in our hand.’

  Henry Drewry preferred to relax with a pint of sherry in his.

  ‘I grow tired of all this, Isaac,’ he said.

  ‘Tired of God? Tired of our Christian duty? Tired of the paths of righteousness?’ Pollard rippled the eyebrow at him. ‘We must fight harder than ever against the Devil.’

  ‘He has a strong voice at our meetings.’

  ‘What say you?’

  ‘My fellow Aldermen do not share your opinion of the theatre.’

  ‘It is a market-place of bestiality!’

  ‘Haply, that is what draws them thither,’ said Drewry under his breath. ‘I put the case against the Queen’s Head and they would not hear me.’

  ‘Speak louder, Henry.’

  ‘Alderman Ashway has more powerful lungs.’

  ‘Shout him down.’

  ‘Nothing is so vociferous as a brewer whose inn is under threat.’

  ‘Strong drink is the potion of Hell.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the other, downing some sherry. ‘But it can bring a man more comfort than a pinch of salt.’ Disillusion set in. ‘I chose the wrong trade, I see it now.’

  ‘What’s this, sir? Are you slipping?’

  ‘I tried, Isaac, but they will not enforce the law against the Queen’s Head. It will still be used as a playhouse.’

  ‘We must fight on regardless!’

  ‘I’ll lay down my weapon and take my ease.’

  ‘Do I hear you aright, Henry?’ said Pollard with horror. ‘You cannot stand aside from the fray, sir. That is to condone what goes on at that vile place. Have you so soon forgot what we said on our journey back from The Rose? You saw the depravity there with your own eyes.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ recalled the other with nostalgia.

  ‘Would you let your daughter visit such a place?’

  Fatigued by being browbeaten, the Salter hit back with the truth.

  ‘I would, sir.’

  ‘Expose the child to corruption?’

  ‘It is her own choice and she is old enough to make it. Isobel went to the Queen’s Head on Wednesday, on Thursday and again on Friday. She saw three plays and came home smiling each time. I would not vote to close an entertainment so dear to her.’ He took a long defiant sip of his sherry. ‘Changes have occurred, Isaac, and you must bear the blame. It was you that got me to The Rose. It has cost me more than I can say. Wave your puritanical fist at the theatre alone, sir. I withdraw!’