The Devil and His Boy

by Anthony Horowitz

  He was halfway back to the stage before he knew something was wrong and even then he wasn’t sure what it was. At first he thought he had forgotten something. He had the pitchforks, the rope, the horns. What else was there? On the stage, Dr Mobius was coming to the end of another soliloquoy and Tom knew he had only moments before he had to go back on. He was wearing horns. He had put on his tail.

  And then he understood what it was. The pitchforks were much too light. Being careful not to drop them, Tom turned them over in his hands and examined them. He quickly saw what had happened. The forks at the top were the same but the long metal tubes had been replaced with lengths of wood. This made them much lighter to carry and easier to handle too. But Tom was surprised that Dr Mobius should have changed them at this late stage and that he should have done so without telling him.

  “Here comes Antonio now!”

  Caught up with the pitchforks, Tom had almost missed his cue. He hurried on to the stage, almost dropping them as he went and although Dr Mobius glared at him, this got another laugh from the audience. The rest of the scene was a nightmare. Tom twisted one of his lines so it came out all wrong and completely forgot another. But try as he might, he found it almost impossible to concentrate. Ever since he had joined the Garden Players all sorts of questions had been tapping at the window of his mind. He had tried to ignore them. But now, at the worst possible time, they had returned, louder and more insistent than ever.

  Somehow he made it to the end of the scene but when he got backstage a furious Dr Mobius – looking more devilish than ever – marched up to him and grabbed him.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. His eyes were bulging with the effort of not shouting and his make-up had begun to run.

  “I’m sorry…” On the other side of the screen, Francis and Frances, the two musicians, were playing a duet.

  Dr Mobius closed his eyes, forcing himself to regain control. “Remember what you are doing,” he said. “Concentrate!” He glared at Tom, then withdrew into the shadows.

  Tom took a deep breath, angry with himself. Dr Mobius was right. Whatever his doubts about the play, the Garden Players and everything to do with them, he couldn’t worry about them now. And what was so important about the pitchforks anyway? Once they had been metal. Now they were wood.

  The pitchfork rolling across the deck. Florian diving and catching it. Dr Mobius hitting him. “You idiot! You fool! …You almost lost it!”

  Tom shook his head, forcing himself to forget it. Behind the screen, the duet finished. The next scene began.

  There were no further mishaps. Tom made no more mistakes, and an hour later he left the stage knowing that he would not be needed now until the very end of Act Five. It was the interval.

  With the actors safely hidden behind the screen, the doors were opened and the audience retired for refreshments in another part of the palace. Tom was exhausted. Performing had sucked all the energy out of him. The other actors seemed as tired as he was. They also looked nervous and this was surprising. The play was more than half over. The most difficult scenes were behind them. Why should they seem so nervous now?

  Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels, had come backstage. The man with the scar came with him. Sir Richard seemed to have caught a cold. He was pale and sweating.

  “Her Majesty will be returning for the second half,” Tilney said.

  “We are honoured.” Dr Mobius bowed low.

  “Yes. You are.” Tilney coughed drily. “The play’s too long and it’s rather dull. I’d be grateful if you could speed up Acts Four and Five. However, Her Majesty likes the boy – and the one playing the girl. She also likes the music. I take it there is more music?”

  “A great deal more,” Dr Mobius assured him.

  “Good.” Tilney glanced at his Clerk Comptroller. “I must say, Sir Richard,” he snapped, “this hasn’t been one of your best recommendations.”

  He turned to leave but Dr Mobius stopped him. “Wait until the end of the performance before you pass judgement, my lord,” he said. “I think I can promise you that it is a play that Her Majesty will not forget. Nor you either!”

  Tilney raised his eyebrows at this but said nothing. He left the room, Sir Richard hurrying after him.

  Dr Mobius and the other actors were sitting on benches, some lying on their backs with their eyes closed. Florian was on his own, gnawing at his finger-nails and staring into space. It was very dark behind the stage. Tom was glad about that. The darkness helped him think.

  Someone had changed the pitchforks. Why? Back on the ship, Dr Mobius had almost killed him when he had dropped one of them. But why had the pitchforks been made of metal in the first place – and why metal tubes?

  Metal tubes. For some reason that made Tom think of something. But what? Tom buried his head in his hands and searched through his memory. A metal tube, pointing at him. Of course! He was back in the forest with Hawkins. He was looking at Ratsey’s gun.

  There were guns in Act Five of The Devil and his Boy as well. Tom still hadn’t solved the puzzle but suddenly he was filled with dread. The Master of the Revels had checked the muskets himself. Tom remembered what Dr Mobius had said.

  “The barrels of the guns are fashioned from wood.”

  Moving slowly, trying to act as natural as possible, Tom went over to the artificial wall behind which the props were kept. He took one last look to make sure nobody was watching. Then he slipped behind the wall.

  The muskets were lying in the right place, waiting for their appearance in Act Five. They looked exactly the same as they had earlier that afternoon when Tilney had examined them, but even as he reached for the nearest one, Tom knew it had changed. Sure enough, it was heavier. He turned it round. The barrel of the gun was no longer made of wood. Nor was it solid.

  And in that moment, Tom knew everything.

  It was very simple.

  Dr Mobius was planning to kill the Queen! He was going to do it at the end of Act Five with muskets that, with the metal rods from the pitchforks screwed into place, were now real muskets. One shot for the Queen. One shot for the guard by the door. Maybe Dr Mobius and the Garden Players planned to fight their way out. But Tom had seen the fanatical light in Dr Mobius’s eyes. He had a job to do. He wouldn’t care what happened to him when it was over.

  Gently, Tom lowered the musket back on to the table. What could he do?

  He had to save the Queen – but that might be easier said than done. How could he even leave the backstage area without the others seeing? And if he did manage to slip away, where could he go? Who could he tell? Sir Richard was obviously a traitor. What about Edmund Tilney? But if he did speak out, would anyone believe him?

  The problem was solved for him.

  Tom hadn’t heard anyone creeping round behind the wall but the next moment something cold and hard crashed into the back of his neck. His legs buckled under him. The darkness came rushing in. He tried to fight it. But then Dr Mobius hit him again and he was gone.

  Tom woke up slowly with a pain in his head and a neck that felt as if it had been tied in a knot. He was lying underneath the table, his face pressed against the floor. He could taste straw and sawdust in his mouth. Even before he opened his eyes, he heard the play being performed in what seemed like the far distance. It took him a minute to make out the words and another minute to recall where they came from. Act Five, Scene Two. Just a few pages until Lucio and Antonio were chased out of Venice by soldiers armed with…

  He remembered the muskets and crawled painfully out from under the table. The muskets weren’t there. He looked over to the side of the screen and saw Frederick and Philip, two of the actors, dressed as soldiers and carrying the muskets, waiting for their cue. He knew what was going to happen. In about one minute’s time, they would walk on to the stage. Nobody would even think of stopping them. They would raise their muskets, loaded and primed. There would be two explosions and the audience probably wouldn’t even realize what had ta
ken place. Until they saw the Queen’s blood.

  Tom had to stop them. But even now he didn’t know what to do. Shout out a warning? It wouldn’t work. The two actors would fire before the Queen had time to move. Throw himself at Frederick and Philip? No. Even assuming he could get anywhere near them, he couldn’t take on two men at once.

  These merry devils must be banished hence.

  Go! Call the watch…!

  Tom knew the lines. The shooting was about to begin. There was no time to call out a warning. No time to try and explain.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he was running – round behind the screen and out onto the stage. All the actors had their backs to him so none of them saw him as he broke into the light and kept on going. Tom just had time to glimpse Florian, turning his head towards him, his eyes widening, and next to him, Dr Mobius himself, his mouth half-open in mid-sentence. He had no real plan. All he knew was that he must put himself in front of the Queen, protect her with his own body if he had to. Only seconds remained before Mobius would fire the first shot. Even now he might be taking aim.

  Tom had reached the front of the stage. Everything was a whirl. He tried to position himself, spreading his arms to give the Queen more cover. And it was then that his foot came down on a loose plank. The wood tilted and he lost his balance. With a great cry he pitched forward and, carried by his own momentum, plunged down on to the Queen herself.

  Then things didn’t so much happen as explode. Tom fell on top of the Queen, knocking her chair backwards and sending her flying. There was a gasp of disbelief from the surrounding courtiers, screams from the Maids of Honour. Tom just caught sight of the Queen’s face, wide-eyed with shock. He was vaguely aware of black teeth and skin with too much make-up. To his horror, the Queen seemed to be wearing a wig which had come loose. He closed his eyes. The very fact that he was touching her was beyond belief. Actually to be lying on top of her, his body on hers, his hands around her throat … it was enough to give an Archbishop a heart attack. He couldn’t look. He didn’t dare.

  But even though it had all gone horribly wrong, he knew that he had succeeded in what he set out to do. His attack had taken Dr Mobius by surprise. Already the audience had closed in on the Queen. The Gentlemen Pensioners were running in from all sides to pull him off.

  Tom didn’t know if Dr Mobius had a musket now or not. But it didn’t matter.

  He had no clear aim.

  Dr Mobius did have a musket. He had snatched it from Frederick even as Tom ran past. Standing at the front of the stage, he waved it at the writhing, panicking mass that had been a courtly audience only seconds before. He caught sight of a stockinged leg, a jewelled foot and fired.

  The sound of the explosion seemed huge and suddenly the hall was filled with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. But the shot had missed. One of the courtiers had been shot in the back of his leg. With blood spurting from the wound, he cried out and fell to the ground.

  The gunshot only added to the panic in the hall. Nobody quite knew where it had come from. All they knew was that one of the actors, the boy, had gone mad and thrown himself at the Queen and now somebody else had decided to join him. At least a dozen pairs of hands had grabbed Tom and he felt himself being ripped apart while, still underneath him, the Queen had brought up her fists and was vigorously punching him on the nose and the stomach.

  But at least some of the courtiers had kept their heads. The boy on top of the Queen was an outrage. But now there was a musket somewhere in the room – and that was a deadly danger. Acting out of instinct, the courtiers had moved to surround the Queen, forming a human wall for her protection. At the same time, the Gentlemen Pensioners had formed a front line, making for the stage.

  Dr Mobius knew he was finished. He grabbed the second musket and once again stared into the commotion. But now there was no sign of the Queen at all. With a loud oath, he fired again, as if he could aim through so much writhing flesh and blood and still, miraculously find his target. The second shot did get some way through. It hit Tom in the shoulder. He felt it slamming into his body, white hot and furious. It was like the sting of some terrible insect. Tom screamed. At the same time he felt himself being plucked away. He opened his eyes and caught one last sight of the Queen. It was as if she were being sucked into a tunnel in front of him. A fist hit him on the side of the face. Another hand tore at his hair. He was flung to the floor, his bones crashing into wood, and when he tried to move he found that he was pinned there, held down by at least five men.

  Up on the stage, the actors were trying to fight their way out. But the two muskets, with their single shots gone, were useless now and they had no other weapons. It was all over very quickly. Only two of the actors – the two who had also played musical instruments – were killed. Later on it would be agreed that they had run on to the swords held up to stop them leaving, preferring to kill themselves rather than face imprisonment, torture and a more protracted death.

  The Queen had been helped to her feet and disappeared with a swirl of silk. She was followed by bishops and courtiers, secret agents and councillors, already arguing amongst themselves, and by ladies-in-waiting who had turned into ladies-in-wailing as they sobbed in both terror and relief.

  Someone rapped out an order and Tom was scraped off the floor and lifted out of a puddle of his own blood. He stood, swaying on his feet. A couple of men supported him. He could never have stood on his own. Somehow he managed to bring his eyes into focus and saw Sir Richard, standing at the edge of the crowd. The Clerk Comptroller’s face had gone completely white – all of it except for the scar which stood out, dark red and throbbing. His eyes were filled with terror.

  But then another man, someone Tom had never seen before pushed his way forward. This man was dressed in black and grey with a chain of office around his neck and a sword in his belt. The man had soft, green eyes. His face was long and thin. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Tom tried to answer. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

  The man with green eyes looked at him more in puzzlement than in anger. “Why did you do it?” he asked.

  “I didn’t…” It took all Tom’s strength to whisper the two words and even as he spoke them he knew it would be no good. Everyone in the room had seen what had happened. Nobody would believe him.

  “Take him away!” the man said. “The others to the Tower for interrogation. This boy to Newgate. He has lain a hand on the most glorious person of Her Majesty. He has … attacked her! Such sacrilege is unheard of and we must ensure that no one does hear of it. Hang him tomorrow at first light. We’ll learn from the others the reason for what happened here.”

  “Wait…” Tom began.

  But already he was being dragged backwards out of the Banqueting Hall. He felt the cold night air rushing over his shoulders and its touch brought fresh pain from the wound in his back. There was a cart and a horse already waiting and brutally, like a sack of potatoes, he was thrown into the back. Two guards climbed in with him. The horse was whipped forward.

  Tom thought he was going to faint with the shock, the pain, the knowledge of what was to come. The night began to spin but before he let it take him, he forced his eyes open and looked out. They had just passed through the Holbein Gate. There were a few late-night revellers on the other side, making their way home with a servant – a link boy – lighting their way. Tom lifted himself in the cart and before his two guards could stop him, called out, “Find Moll Cutpurse! Tell her it wasn’t me! Tell her that Tom—!”

  Then the guards reached him, grabbed him and pulled him down and Tom could say no more. Had the link boy even heard him? Tom didn’t know and he was too exhausted to care. He closed his eyes and drifted into sleep as the cart rattled on through the night.

  on the scaffold

  It was seven o’clock in the morning and Gamaliel Ratsey was enjoying a healthy breakfast of hot porridge, bread, honey and milk in the tavern where he had been staying since his arrival in London. The owners of
the tavern had let him have his bed and breakfast at a special rate. In return, Ratsey had promised not to kill them.

  He looked up. Someone was standing over him, watching him with soft, attentive eyes. Automatically, Ratsey’s hand twitched for the hilt of his sword. Then he relaxed. It wasn’t a man but a boy, and not a boy but a girl. He knew at once who it was.

  “Moll Cut-throat!” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise.”

  “It’s Cutpurse,” Moll replied. “May I join you?”

  “It looks like you already have.” Ratsey scooped up a mouthful of porridge. “Have you come to bring me the boy?”

  “Not exactly.” Moll gazed curiously at Ratsey as if trying to make him out. “I have something to tell you,” she said.

  “Go on.” Ratsey gave her his best, choirboy smile

  “Tom Falconer is in Newgate. He’s going to be hanged at eleven o’clock this morning.”

  Ratsey chuckled. “Is he, indeed? How do you know?”

  “I heard last night.”

  Quickly, Moll told Ratsey how she had been woken by the link boy and how, at first light she had gone to Newgate Prison to find out what had taken place. Nobody had wanted to tell her anything but she had bribed one of the guards with sixpence and heard the complete story from him.

  “Tom is accused of trying to kill the Queen,” she told Ratsey now.

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Of course it is. Tom would never try to kill anyone. All he wanted to do was act in a play. But these people he got involved with … they called themselves the Garden Players, but I’ve been asking around and nobody has heard of them – and from what Tom told me they weren’t English.”

  “Maybe they were French.”

  “Or Dutch. Or Spanish. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Tom can’t have had anything to do with it. But he’s going to hang in less than four hours if you and I don’t do something.”