The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  Kirk was interested that his friend had visitors.

  ‘Have you come from Parkbrook House?’ he asked.

  ‘Indirectly, sir.’

  ‘David is a good young man. We have no trouble from him.’

  ‘What state is he in, sir?’ asked Mordrake.

  ‘His brain is addled and he has the sleeping sickness.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ sighed the old man. ‘That often follows if a violent blow damages the mind. Memory will go and the patient will lapse back into childhood.’

  ‘Who committed him, sir?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Do you know that?’

  ‘His physician, master. ‘I have seen the records. One Francis Jordan pays the charges to keep him here, but he was delivered to Bedlam by another hand.’

  ‘What was the name?’

  ‘Joseph Glanville.’

  Nicholas reacted with interest but his companions did not even hear the keeper. They were peering eagerly through the grille of the door outside which Kirk stopped. Inside the chamber, sitting motionless with his back to them, was the young man in the now ragged white shirt and dark breeches. He was staring up at the window and humming quietly to himself.’

  As the door was unlocked, Grace Napier could hardly contain her emotions. A long and painful journey had at last come to an end. She had found the man she loved.

  Kirk had to hold her back as she tried to lunge in.

  ‘Do not touch him,’ he warned. ‘Stay by me.’

  He let them step into the room then spoke to the patient.

  ‘Hello, my friend.’

  The young man stirred as if waking from a deep sleep. ‘You have visitors.’

  He looked at the wall ahead of him in search of them.

  The tension was now agonising. Grace was biting her lip and shaking so much that she seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Nicholas supported her with one hand but kept his attention on the young man, anxious to meet the person who had indirectly caused such trouble for Westfield’s Men. Mordrake was there in his professional capacity as a physician to see if the patient was beyond hope or if there was some way that he could recover his wits.

  ‘Come, sir,’ said Kirk. ‘Welcome your friends.’

  ‘David,’ whispered Grace. ‘It’s me.’

  Mention of his name made the young man turn round. His face became a childlike beam when he saw Grace Napier but her expression changed at once. Pain and disappointment overwhelmed her.

  ‘What ails you?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Is this not David Jordan?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have never seen this man before.’

  Jack Harsnett was back on his own territory. He knew where to forage and how to hide. Nobody else on the estate was aware of his return or of the grim purpose which prompted it. He kept Parkbrook under surveillance. It was early on a Tuesday morning when he heard the rumble of carts and the trot of horses. Having broken their journey with a night at a nearby inn, Westfield’s Men now headed for their next venue with alacrity. While the rest of the company travelled in the carts with the scenery, costumes and properties, Lawrence Firethorn led the procession on a chestnut mare. Spotting the house, he waved a commanding arm. ‘Onward!’

  The forester hid behind some bushes and watched. Evidently, there was to be an entertainment of some sort at Parkbrook and that would mean that the whole household would be preoccupied. It could be just the chance for which Harsnett was waiting. As the last of the carts wended its way down the slope, he left the bushes and padded off through the wood until he reached his cottage. He picked up his axe and took from his pocket the stone which he kept to sharpen it.

  With patient care, he began to hone the blade.

  Westfield’s Men arrived at Parkbrook House to find a stage set up in the Great Hall. Curtains hung from the minstrels’ gallery to create a tiring-house beneath the balcony. Everything was exactly as requested. Glanville gave them a polite but muted welcome, then left them alone. Adapting at once to their new performing conditions, they set up and rehearsed. It was a surprisingly refreshing experience. A play which had always been so problematical before now unfolded smoothly and without error. The amended version of The Merry Devils worked uncannily well.

  It was as if a curse had been lifted from it.

  When the company adjourned for a meal at noon, they were in a happy, almost optimistic, mood. They now had three hours before they were due to give their command performance before a select audience. It gave them time to relax.

  Nicholas Bracewell did not join them. Ever since his visit to Bedlam, he puzzled over something that might now be resolved. While his colleagues enjoyed their food and their banter, he slipped off to the west wing of the building and ascended the private staircase, slapping his feet down hard so that there was an echoing clack on the oak treads. It achieved the desired result.

  Joseph Glanville appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘What does this mean, sir?’ he said with subdued anger.

  ‘I have come to see you, Master Glanville.’

  ‘This staircase is closed to all but me.’

  ‘Then why does the physician use it?’

  ‘Physician?’

  ‘I believe I saw him with you the other night,’ said Nicholas. ‘You descended together in earnest conference. He came down the steps like a man well-used to their peculiarities.’

  Glanville was as enigmatic as ever. His face betrayed nothing.

  ‘Return to your company, Master Bracewell,’ he said. ‘They have need of you. There is no reason for you to be here.’

  ‘There is, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘David Jordan.’

  The steward blinked but his voice was still calm.

  ‘I have nothing to say to you on that subject,’ he returned easily. ‘Your concern is solely with the staging of your play and I suggest that you go back to it now. I myself have urgent duties.’

  Nicholas caught at his sleeve as Glanville moved away.

  ‘Who is that young man in Bedlam?’ he asked.

  ‘Bedlam?’ There was more than a blink this time.

  ‘You delivered the wrong David Jordan. Why?’

  The steward glared at him then tried to push him away, but Nicholas would not be shifted. Grabbing the man by the shoulders, he pinned him against the door of his own room.

  ‘I have come for some answers, Master Glanville,’ he said with emphasis, ‘and I will not leave until I have them. It is not on my own account. I am here on behalf of Mistress Grace Napier who was contracted to marry Master Jordan. She is in grave distress and I would ease that distress with the truth.’ He tightened his hold. ‘Speak, sir. Tell me what happened to the gentleman.’

  Glanville was wrestling with his thoughts, quite unsure what to do. He made an attempt to fight his way free but he was overpowered by the book holder. The steward fell back on an excuse.

  ‘It was the physician who called the other night,’ he said. ‘He came to see Jane Skinner.’

  ‘At such a late hour?’

  ‘The girl was in some pain.’

  ‘Physicians do not come at the beck and call of a chambermaid,’ said Nicholas. ‘Besides, I called on Mistress Skinner the next morning. She told me she had not seen her physician for days.’ He exerted even more pressure on the other. ‘Tell me the truth, Master Glanville.’

  It was the only option left to the steward. His composure fell away to be replaced by candid apprehension. The calm voice now took on a note of apprehension.

  ‘Help us, sir. We are almost there.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Do not undo our good work.’

  ‘Explain, Master Glanville.’

  ‘Step into my room.’

  Nicholas released him then followed him into the room. The steward closed the door, turned the key in the lock and slid home the heavy bolt. The book holder glanced around. It was a small but neat apartment. The oak floor and the panelled walls gleamed. Clearly, the occupant had a passion for order and tidines
s. Nicholas turned on him.

  ‘Who is that patient at Bedlam?’

  ‘A miller’s son from the next county, sir.’

  ‘How came he there?’

  ‘He fell from a loft and injured his head badly. Doctor Renwick, the physician whom you saw, heard of the case. The symptoms were almost identical. The boy’s mother had died and there was nobody to tend him. Putting him into Bedlam was Doctor Renwick’s idea.’

  ‘So that Master David Jordan could be spared that ordeal.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Where he can be looked after properly,’ said Glanville with obvious sincerity. ‘I could never desert my old master, sir, nor see him consigned to a place like that. Though it cost my life, I would rescue him from such a fate. It has been difficult, Master Bracewell. It has been the Devil’s own work but we have stuck to our task and our caring has been rewarded. The old master is steadily recovering.’

  Nicholas studied him and realised how mistaken be had been in the man. Instead of being an enemy, Joseph Glanville was the most loyal friend. To protect David Jordan, he had risked everything. If the new master had learned what he had done, dismissal was the least that the steward would have faced. Glanville was brave as well as constant.

  Wrong about him, Nicholas was right about one thing.

  ‘I believe that he is here, sir.’

  ‘In the next room, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘I should like to meet him.’

  Glanville thought it over then crossed to the door.

  Distinguished guests began to arrive in their carriages from all over the county. Luxuriating in his role as the new master of Parkbrook House, Francis Jordan welcomed them on his lawn then guided them into the ante-room for a cup of wine. Word of the play had leaked out and provoked much excitement. The reputation of Westfield’s Men extended well outside the city. Last to appear, the company’s esteemed patron was the first to take his seat in the Great Hall where the sumptuous banquet had been laid out in the shape of a horseshoe. Francis Jordan sat beside his uncle at the very heart of the horseshoe, diametrically opposite the stage.

  Both men were resplendent in their finery and they competed for attention with their poses and their brittle laughter. Lord Westfield was, for once, outshone by his nephew who favoured doublet and hose of such a deep blood-red silk that it gave him a decidedly satanic look. Sleeves and breeches were slashed through with black and the high ruff was pink. Francis Jordan wanted to be his own merry devil.

  The banquet was lavish to the point of excess. Beef and mutton were followed by veal, lamb, kid, pork, coney, capon and venison besides a variety of fish and wild fowl. Wine and sherry were served in silver bowls, goblets and fine Venetian glasses. A wide range of desserts was supplemented by huge dishes covered with fresh fruit. No sooner had one course finished than another was brought in from the kitchens by liveried servants on loan from Westfield Hall. The entire assembly was soon lulled into a feeling of well-being. There were toasts and speeches and sustained overindulgence.

  Then it was time for the play.

  The curtains were closed to throw the hall into semi darkness. Flickering candelabra had been cunningly placed by Nicholas Bracewell to throw their light upon the stage. Up in the gallery, the musicians played in the gloom like so many ghosts. The effect was carefully judged so that the audience could only see what they were allowed to see. Francis Jordan was beside himself with glee, convinced that his guests would have an experience without compare.

  The third and last performance of The Merry Devils began.

  It exerted total control over its spectators. Lawrence Firethorn was as astonishing as ever in the role of Justice Wildboare. He even included an affectionate parody of Lord Westfield at one point and set off an explosion of mirth that lasted for several minutes. Richard Honeydew was enchanting as Lucy Hembrow and the other apprentices supported him well in the female roles. Droopwell amused everyone with his whining impotence. Doctor Castrato was an instant success.

  The major change came with Youngthrust. Still played with verve by Edmund Hoode, the part had been changed considerably in the very hour before performance. At the request of the book holder, the playwright had done a lot of last-minute alteration. Instead of being a young lover who pined for his mistress, Youngthrust now had a sinister streak to him. He still sighed for Lucy Hembrow but with an air of calculation. Here was a patent fortune-hunter masquerading as a passionate swain.

  Both Youngthrust and the actor who played him were changed men. Nicholas had taken on the delicate job of telling his friend the truth about Grace Napier. Devastated at first, Hoode eventually rallied by persuading himself that he was involved in a major romance after all. It was not between him and Grace but between her and David Jordan. To help her and to be somehow instrumental in reuniting her with her true love was a task that he took on with enthusiasm.

  Act Three stoked up fresh anticipation in the audience. The devils were due to appear. Lord Westfield and Francis Jordan had seen the play before when the creatures had popped up from below the stage, but that was impossible here. From where would they come? Both men leaned forward with gluttonous interest.

  Doctor Castrato extinguished several candles so that the stage was almost in darkness, save for a central barrage of light. It was now so dim in the hall, and everyone’s attention was so firmly fixed on the stage, that nobody saw the two figures flit in through the door at the back to watch from the shadows. Each had a special reason to be there.

  Grace Napier stood beside Joseph Glanville.

  Barnaby Gill savoured his best scene and summoned the devils in his high and ridiculous voice. There was a huge explosion from behind the curtains then they parted for Hell’s Mouth to be wheeled out with real flames shooting out of it so realistically that screams of fear went up from the ladies. The effect had been devised by the book holder who had taken Firethorn’s professional advice. Having been brought up in a forge, the actor-manager knew how to heat up a brazier and use bellows to produce dazzling flame.

  The spectators were spellbound as three merry devils came dancing out of the inferno, for all the world as if they had been spewed up from the mouth of Hell. George Dart, Caleb Smythe and Ned Rankin pranced about comically in their devil costumes then submitted themselves to their new master. Some additional material had been supplied by Hoode and mocking laughter was raised by some obvious allusions to the new master of Parkbrook.

  As the play brought new delights in each scene, an unexpected guest arrived. Lurking outside in the trees, he ran stealthily to a window and peered in through a chink in the curtain. Jack Harsnett could see little but hear everything. He crept along the wall with his axe over his shoulder and made his way furtively towards the kitchens.

  In the Great Hall, meanwhile, The Merry Devils approached its crowning moment. Justice Wildboare and Droopwell were discarded and the marriage of Lucy and Youngthrust was announced, a less than satisfying ending as the latter was such an arrant Machiavel. At the wedding ceremony itself, the priest brought the couple together at the altar and asked if anyone had any reason why they should not be joined together.

  A voice rang out from the gallery.

  ‘Yes!’

  It was David Jordan.

  He stood in a circle of light created by three candelabra and was surrounded by musicians who played soft, sacred music. There was a close resemblance to his younger brother, but David was altogether more poised and dignified. Grace Napier, who had not been let in on the secret, gasped as she looked up at the man she loved. He was safe and well.

  The spectators were astounded. Everyone knew about the sad case of David Jordan and yet here he was – apparently fit and healthy – standing up before them. He even went on to deliver a short speech at Youngthrust, accusing him of stealing his greatest treasure. The newcomer was no actor and declaimed the lines dully as if he had learned them by rote, but their effect could not have been greater if they
had been spoken by Firethorn himself. Through the medium of the play, David Jordan put his brother on trial at the banquet.

  Lord Westfield’s mind was blurred by drink but he could still catch the gist of what was going on. He turned angrily to his nephew.

  ‘Is this true, Francis?’

  ‘No, uncle!’

  The elder brother pointed a finger from on high and challenged the new master to step forward so that he could be judged by his peers.

  ‘Be quiet!’ yelled Francis Jordan, leaping up on to the table. ‘All of you – be quiet! None of this is true! David should be locked away in a madhouse! He’s insane!’

  But it was the younger brother who was now closer to insanity. Jumping off the table, he ran to the stage and looked up at David to hurl abuse at him. The audience was captivated as a play turned into a real-life drama of surging intensity.

  ‘I am the master here!’ shouted Francis Jordan. ‘Nothing changes that! Parkbrook is mine!’

  Jack Harsnett crept into the hall and kept in the shadows as he worked his way towards the stage. Francis Jordan had dominated his mind for weeks. When he looked at the new master, he saw his wife buried in a mean grave, he saw the cottage they had shared for so many years, he saw the horse and cart they had owned. He also heard the voice of a one-eyed man who had been paid to frighten the mount of David Jordan as the latter rode at full gallop along a ride. The accident had not brought about the death that Francis Jordan had intended for his brother but it nevertheless made him into the new squire.

  ‘Parkbrook is mine!’ he repeated. ‘I defy anyone to take it from me.’

  Harsnett accepted the challenge willingly.

  He struck with terrifying force. Charging on to the stage with his axe held high, he needed only one vicious downward sweep of the blade to split the skull wide open. Blood spurted everywhere. In the general panic that ensued, Nicholas Bracewell darted forward to grapple with the forester and relieve him of his weapon. Burly servants came to his aid and they dragged Harsnett out.