The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  The Witch of Oxford would be a fitting epitaph.

  Nicholas Bracewell was candidly surprised. As he sat in the parlour of the house and listened to Grace Napier, he saw that his major assumption had been wrong.

  ‘I thought that you used Edmund Hoode to get information at the request of your brother,’ he said. ‘You needed an inside knowledge of our work and friendship with our playwright was a way to obtain it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I am sorry to have taken advantage of Master Hoode in this way. It must seem to you that I toyed cruelly with his affections, but I took no pleasure in it, sir, and it caused me much heartache. But my hand was forced. The end justified the means.’

  ‘What was that end?’ he asked.

  ‘Revenge.’

  If Nicholas was surprised then Isobel Drewry was openly amazed. She sat alongside Gregory Napier and heard the truth emerge for the first time. It showed her just how little she really knew her friend.

  ‘You are a deep one, Grace!’ she said.

  ‘I was not able to confide in you, Isobel.’

  ‘It is just as well,’ added the other with a giggle. ‘I could never keep a secret. As it was, I had no notion that any of this was going on and can now understand why you were always a little disappointed at the performances.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘My plans did not quite work out. I wanted to humiliate Westfield’s Men in public but we failed each time. I own that I needed your company at the theatre to hide my purposes. I hope that you will not feel too abused, Isobel.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the other chirpily. ‘I had some wonderful afternoons that have helped to change my whole life.’

  ‘Let us come back to the revenge,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘What reason could you have for hating Lord Westfield so?’

  ‘His callous treatment of his nephew.’

  ‘Master Francis Jordan?’

  ‘Do not mention that foul name to me, sir,’ she said with asperity. ‘It is not to stand alongside that of his brother. I am speaking of David Jordan.’ A mixture of pride, anger and intense passion made her features glow. ‘David is the cause of all that has happened.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I will tell you, sir.’

  Grace Napier was calm, poised and highly articulate. Her story was a revelation. Instead of being simply a mercer’s daughter who liked to visit the theatre, she was a young woman so deeply and desperately in love that she would stop at nothing to avenge what she saw as the terrible wrong done to her inamorato. She had met David Jordan over a year earlier when she was out riding near the boundary of his land. He was in a severely depressed state. His wife had died recently and the baby daughter who survived her lingered for only four days before she went off to join her mother. David was distraught. The double blow shattered him completely.

  Friendship with Grace Napier slowly helped to restore him. It was a gentle, unforced courtship that lasted many months. Drawn more and more together, they reached the point where they could think of nothing but sharing their whole lives together.

  Tears sparkled in Grace’s eyes as she recalled it.

  ‘David proposed to me in the wood nearby. The sky was blue and the sun was slanting down through the branches of the trees. Birds were singing. Everything was so beautiful and tranquil.’

  ‘The romance of it!’ said Isobel, carried away.

  ‘Naturally,’ continued Grace with a soft smile, ‘I accepted the proposal. It was arranged that I would go to Parkbrook next day and the engagement would be formally announced.’

  ‘What happened?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I never saw David again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was thrown from his horse and badly injured.’

  ‘Did you not rush to his bedside?’ said Isobel.

  ‘Immediately, but they would not admit me.’

  ‘But you were his fiancée.’

  ‘They would not accept that,’ said Grace. ‘Our courtship had been conducted in secret for obvious reasons. Father is wealthy but he is still only a tradesman. David comes from a family with noble blood. He wanted to announce our engagement when it was too late for anyone to stop the marriage from going ahead.’ She winced as a memory haunted her. ‘I was turned away from Parkbrook.’

  ‘Did you not speak with Master Jordan’s physician?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘That was forbidden as well.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Master Francis Jordan. He was staying at Parkbrook when the accident occurred and he took charge. Nobody was allowed in. I called, I wrote, I even tried to bribe the servants for information, but it was to no avail. David was kept from me.’

  ‘You must have been in despair!’ said Isobel.

  ‘I was. In the end, I turned to Lord Westfield for help, but he would not see me. I was told that his lordship could not spare the time. He was always too busy at court or spending time with his company. His nephew was in a parlous condition and Lord Westfield was watching plays! You can see I came to hate the company. Westfield’s Men became a symbol of all the things I detested.’

  ‘Lord Westfield has his faults,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but I cannot believe there was anything calculated in his behaviour. He was not to know that you had been on the point of joining the family.’

  ‘That was not the only reason I despised him, sir,’ she said. ‘It was he who allowed Parkbrook to be taken from David. It was Lord Westfield who helped his other nephew to become the new master.’

  ‘How was that done?’ wondered Nicholas. ‘Yes,’ said Isobel in bewilderment. ‘I know little of such things, but how could one man inherit when his elder brother was still alive and well?’

  ‘David was alive – but far from well.’

  ‘That does not alter the situation, Grace.’

  ‘It does, Isobel. I puzzled over that very point because it had such significance for me. After all, I was to have been the new mistress of Parkbrook. I felt that both David and I had been robbed.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I consulted a lawyer in the Inns of Court. He explained that there was a way that David could lose his inheritance. If he railed to pass an inquiry de idiota inquirendo then he could be dispossessed. It is unusual but not unknown. The lawyer told me of a case in which he was involved some years ago. It concerned a large house in Petersfield. I cannot remember all the details, but it was to do with the conveyance of the fee simple and involved a breach of the entail. Anxious to get the house for himself, the offended party challenged the conveyance on the grounds of the vendor’s incompetence by reason of idiocy to conduct affairs. The Queen’s Escheator in Sussex was charged with an inquiry to establish the vendor’s sanity, with a view to placing the estate under the Court of Wards and Liveries.’

  ‘Stop, stop!’ cried Isobel. ‘This is far too complicated for me, Grace. What are you trying to tell us?’

  ‘If it can be proved that someone is too insane to manage his own affairs, he can legally be relieved of ownership. David’s brother would be well aware of this because he has been a student of the law.’

  ‘Are you certain that this is what happened?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘There can be no other explanation, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How else could they keep me away from him? I was within six weeks of becoming his wife. No two people could have been closer. No matter how bad his injuries, David would have sent for me.’

  ‘Then why did he not do so?’ said Isobel.

  ‘It was not just his body that was damaged,’ said Grace. ‘It was his mind.’

  The cottage was exactly the same and yet there were some radical changes. All sign of habitation had gone. The rough cosiness had been replaced by an atmosphere of neglect. His wife was no longer there to clean and tend and fill the place with her chatter. It was no longer a home.

  Jack Harsnett threw down his axe and walked to the window. He looked in the direction of Parkbrook H
ouse. All his misfortunes could be placed at the door of the new master and he wanted recompense. After his talk with the one-eyed man, it was not only on his own behalf that he sought redress. Others had been wronged, too.

  There was no hurry. He was safely hidden away in his woodland clearing and nobody would bother him there for a while. He would bide his time until his moment came.

  Then he would pay a call on Master Francis Jordan.

  The ride back gave Nicholas time to reflect on the extraordinary development in the situation. He had been so moved by Grace’s story and by the poignancy with which she told it that he could almost forgive her what she had done in the name of revenge. Convinced that Lord Westfield was most to blame, she launched her attack at something that was very dear to him. She became involved with Edmund Hoode so that he could, unwittingly, feed her the information she required, even down to precise details of text, staging and costume.

  Another point struck Nicholas. The theatre was the only place where Grace Napier could get anywhere near Lord Westfield. To cause him maximum embarrassment, she seized on the opportunity provided by The Merry Devils, a play discussed freely in advance by its co-author. Had the performance ended in the fiasco she hoped, it would have taken Westfield’s Men a long time to regain their credibility.

  Grace Napier had caused untold upset. Having learned how vital the book holder was to the staging of Vincentio’s Revenge, she was even ready to contrive the arrest of Nicholas Bracewell to keep him out of the way. He still felt jangled by the experience but now took a more philosophical view about his night in the Counter. If nothing else, it had introduced him to Leonard who had pointed him in the direction of the fair. There was thus a gain as well as a loss involved.

  It was dark when Nicholas reached Parkbrook. He stabled his horse and strolled towards the west wing, intending to go right around to the main entrance of the house. Something alerted him. There was a clump of rhododendron bushes ahead of him and he thought he caught a glimpse of movement behind them. Preparing himself for trouble, he continued his walk as if he had seen nothing. When he reached the bushes, he jumped into them to confront whoever lurked in wait.

  The horse whinnied and tried to nuzzle his shoulder.

  He could not understand why it was tethered in such a secluded place then he noticed the small door at the rear of the west wing. He tried it, found it open and went in. To his right was the corridor that ran towards the main building but directly ahead of him was something of much more interest. It was the steward’s private staircase and he could hear muffled voices at the top of it.

  Nicholas withdrew into the shadows as feet descended with an echoing clatter. Joseph Glanville led a middle-aged man in dark attire to the door and showed him respectfully out. The horse was heard trotting off with the visitor then the steward returned.

  He was startled when Nicholas came over to him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded angrily.

  ‘I lost my way.’

  ‘The main staircase is that way.’

  ‘Can I not get up to my room here?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Glanville sharply. ‘I have told you before that this is my private mode of access. You may not use it.’

  Nicholas watched him shrewdly then put a question.

  ‘You do not like plays, do you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘If it was left to you, Westfield’s Men would not come here.’

  ‘Most certainly not.’

  ‘What do you have against us?’

  ‘I do not care for strangers in my house.’

  Glanville went off up the staircase with dignity.

  Nicholas returned to his own room by the recommended means and slept well. After breakfast early next morning, he completed his work in the Great Hall then got ready to leave. He managed to spare a few minutes to call on Jane Skinner. Lying in bed with splints on her leg, she was flattered by his interest and told him how the accident had occurred. He also pumped her about Glanville and heard how she had revised her former good opinion of the man.

  The book holder wished her a speedy recovery and went off to begin the long ride home. Francis Jordan detained him at the stables.

  ‘We look forward to your next visit, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Jordan.’

  ‘The cream of the county will be your audience.’

  ‘It is a pity that your brother will not be among them, sir.’

  ‘My brother?’ Jordan shot him a hostile glance.

  ‘I hear that he was very fond of plays.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Jane Skinner.’

  Francis Jordan squirmed. The incident with the chambermaid was still a grave embarrassment to him. He had warned his staff not to speak about it to anyone. If the guest had actually talked with the girl herself, he might know the story and be in a position to carry it to Lord Westfield. Jordan’s manner became openly antagonistic.

  ‘Goodbye, sir!’ he said dismissively.

  ‘May I ask you one question?’ said Nicholas casually. ‘Where is your brother now?’

  ‘Don’t be so damned impertinent, man!’

  ‘Nobody seems to know, sir, and he must be somewhere.’

  Jordan treated him to a glare of fierce hatred.

  ‘He is in the best place he could be.’

  Nell was pleased to see him again. Of all her regular clients, Ralph Willoughby was the most generous and the most likeable. His departures were sometimes abrupt but they usually enjoyed themselves together. When Nell came into the taproom of the Bull and Butcher that night, she saw Willoughby through the thick fug. Drink in hand and dressed with his customary extravagance, he was singing a bawdy ballad to his companions. Seeing her amble over to him, he put an arm around her and welcomed her with a warm kiss.

  ‘Nell, my heart’s delight!’ he said effusively.

  ‘Away with that talk, you traitor,’ she teased. ‘I have been lying in a cold bed since you left me, sir. I have not seen hide nor hair of you for five or six nights.’

  ‘That is all changed, Nell.’

  ‘I think you have another sweetheart.’

  ‘Oh, I do! She is called The Witch of Oxford and she has kept me groaning with pleasure at night. I have been bent over her until now, but her hold on me is at an end. She went off to Banbury today so I am a free man again. That is why I came post haste to you, Nell.’

  ‘Will you stay the night?’ she coaxed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You scurvy rogue! Am I not good enough for you any longer?’

  ‘Shall I tell you why I will not stay the night?’

  ‘Go back to your witch of Oxford!’

  ‘But you may like my reason,’ he said. ‘I will not stay the night because I intend to stay the whole week.’

  Nell let out a roar of approval and flung herself at him.

  Bedlam was vibrating with noise. The public came to see the lunatics at play and egged them on to wilder antics. There was trouble in a private cell from an old man who tried to hang himself. Another patient attempted to escape and had to be restrained. It was a day when Rooksley was under immense pressure and he did not welcome casual visitors.

  ‘I am sorry, but I may not speak with you now,’ he told them.

  ‘Stay awhile, sir,’ said the younger of the two men.

  ‘Bedlam has gone mad and I must doctor its madness.’

  ‘That is my interest,’ said the older man.

  Nicholas Bracewell had brought Grace Napier and Doctor John Mordrake with him to the hospital. Her love for David Jordan had been proved beyond a doubt. No matter how sad or wretched his condition, she wished to dedicate herself to his care. While she was excited at the prospect of a reunion, therefore, she was also fearful. To be locked away in Bedlam would turn a sane man into a lunatic. She wondered what state her beloved would now be in.

  ‘We have come to see Master David Jordan,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Who, sir?’ Rooksley
was uncooperative.

  ‘You heard the name.’

  ‘I hear it but I do not recognise it,’ said the keeper. ‘We have nobody of that name here, sir, and I am acquainted with them all. I can tell you their date of birth, the colour of their hair and eyes, what food they eat each day and at what time of the morning they are like to pass water. I know everything in Bedlam, sir, but I do not know a Master Jordan.’

  Grace Napier looked crushed but Nicholas did not give up.

  ‘He must be here,’ he insisted. ‘Lord Westfield would not let a nephew of his rot away in a county asylum. This is the only place to which he would commit the young man.’ He indicated the others. ‘You do not know what distinguished company you are in, sir. This is Mistress Napier, who is affianced to Master Jordan, and beside her is Doctor John Mordrake, sometime astrologer to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth.

  Rooksley was impressed. Mordrake’s name was known to everyone.

  ‘Come, sir,’ said Nicholas briskly. ‘You are busy, we can see. Do but have someone conduct us to Master Jordan and we will trouble you no longer. Do I have to go back to Lord Westfield himself to get a written permission from him?’

  The head keeper pondered. The clamour of madness intensified. Nicholas helped him to reach a decision by slipping some coins into his hand. Rooksley pocketed them and nodded.

  ‘That will buy you five minutes with him.’ He went off for a moment and Grace turned to thank Nicholas.

  ‘You are wonderful, sir. I thought of Bedlam and sent my brother here to enquire, but he did not get past the door. They told him the lies that we have just heard.’

  ‘Nobody should be in this place,’ said Mordrake, looking around with scholarly disgust. ‘The insane need special care.’

  Rooksley returned with Kirk and handed the keeper a bunch of keys. Kirk led the visitors down a long corridor then swung right. Grace Napier was increasingly tense and Nicholas understood how difficult this moment might be for her. The man whom she loved had parted from her in prime health. What she would now see would be a grotesque shell of that same person.