'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.
Eventually 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 Kirks 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 I did 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 wa
s 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.
'Who is he, master?'
'A lunatic'
'But who pays to keep him here?'
'One who would stay unknown.'
*
The storm which had struck London that afternoon had ravaged the Home Counties as well. Eager to ride out on his estate, Francis Jordan was confined to Parkbrook by the lashing rain. He took out his disappointment on anyone within reach and Glanville had to soothe the hurt feelings of many of the domestics. Jordan's mood altered with the weather. As soon as the sun came out to brighten up the countryside, he became happy and affable. Kind words were thrown to his staff. Compliments reached those who worked on in the Great Hall. The new master could exude charm when it suited him.
His horse had been saddled by the time he reached the stables and he was helped up by the ostler. Giving the man a cheery wave, Jordan rode off at a rising trot. Parkbrook glistened like a fairytale palace and the land all around was painted in rich hues. It gave him an immense feeling of well-being to know that he was master of it all. The wait had been a long one but it had served to sharpen his resolution and heighten his anticipation.
He now owned Parkbrook House. All that he lacked was a wife to grace it with her presence and share in its bounty. Francis Jordan let his mind play with the notion of marriage. He would choose a wife with the utmost care, some high-born lady with enough wit to keep him amused and enough beauty to sustain his desire. She would dignify his table, widen his social circle, bear his children and be so bound up with her life at Parkbrook that she would not even suspect her husband of enjoying darker pleasures on his visits to London. Jordan wanted someone whom he could love in Hertfordshire and forget in Eastcheap.
His thoughts were soon interrupted. There was a copse ahead of him and a figure stepped out from the trees as he approached. The man was short, squat and ugly. One eye was covered by a patch that matched the colour of his black beard. His rough arrive was soaked from the rain and he looked bedraggled. Jordan took him for a beggar at first and was about to berate him for trespass. When he got closer, however, he recognized the man only too well.
'Good day, sir!'
Deferential to the point of obsequiousness, the man touched his cap and shrunk back a pace. But there was a calculating note in his behaviour. As he looked up at the elegant gentleman on the horse, he gave a knowing smirk. Jordan was forced to acknowledge him.
Good day,' he said.
Then he rode on past a memory he wished to ignore.
*
Ralph Willoughby rolled out of the Bull and Butcher in a state of guilty inebriation. No matter how much he drank, he could not forget what had happened that afternoon at The Rose. When only two merry devils emerged from beneath the stage, he knew that tragedy had struck though it was only later that he learned what form it took. His association with the play was fatal. Willoughby believed that he had murdered Roper Blundell as surely as if he had thrust a dagger into the man's heart. There was blood on his hands.
More rain was now falling on London and turning its streets into miry runnels. Willoughby's unregarding footsteps shuffled through mud and slime and stinking refuse. Impervious to the damp that now fingered his body, he lurched around a corner and halted as if he had walked into solid rock. St. Paul's Cathedral soared up to block his vision and accuse him with its purpose. Tears of supplication joined the raindrops that splattered his face.
Lumbering across the churchyard, he eventually reached the safety of the cathedral wall. As he leaned against its dank stone, it seemed at once to welcome and repel him, to offer sanctuary to a lost soul and to rebuke him for his transgressions. He was still supporting himself against religion when he heard a wild, maniacal screech that rang inside his head like a dissonant peal of bells. His eyes went upward and a lance of terror pierced his body. High above him, dancing on the very edge of the roof, was a hideous gargoyle in the shape of a devil.
He stared up helplessly as the malign creature mocked and cackled in the darkness. Taking his huge erect penis in both hands, the devil aimed it downwards and sent a stream of hot, black, avenging urine over the playwright's head. Willoughby burned with the shame of it all and collapsed on the floor in humiliation.
Those who later found him could not understand why he lay directly beneath a foaming water spout.
*
Anne Hendrik took him into her bed that night and made love with that mixture of tenderness and passion that typified her. Nicholas Bracewell was both grateful and responsive. Deeply upset by the death of Roper Blundell, he came home late from the theatre and was very subdued over supper. Sensing his need, Anne led him to her bedchamber and found an answering need in herself. They were friends and casual lovers. Because their moments of intimacy only ever arose out of mutual desire, they were always special and always restorative.
They lay naked in each other's arms in the darkness.
'Thank you,' he whispered, kissing her softly on the cheek.
'Does it help?'
'Every time.' He smiled. 'Especially tonight.'
'So you will not change your lodging, sir?"
'Not unless you come with me, Anne.'
She kissed him lightly on the lips and pulled, him close.
'Nicholas...'
'My love?'
'Ate you in danger?" she asked with concern.
'I think not.'
'All these accidents that befall Westfield's Men are disturbing. Might not you be the victim of the next one?
'I might, Anne, but it is unlikely.'
'Why?'
'Because I am not the target.'
'Then who is? Ralph Willoughby?'
'He is involved, certainly,' said Nicholas with a sigh. 'We cannot lightly dismiss the word of Doctor John Mordrake. On the other hand...'
'You still do not believe in devils.'
'No, Anne.'
'Then what did Roper Blundell see beneath the stage?'
'Only he knows and his lips are sealed for ever.'
'Could the surgeon throw any light?'
'He was mystified, Anne.'
'Why?'
'There were no signs upon the body.'
'What was his conclusion?
'Death by natural causes,' said Nicholas sceptically. 'He told us that Roper died of old age and a verminous profession.'
'Poor man! Does he leave a family?"
'None.'
'Is there nobody to mourn for him?'
'We few friends.'
They fell silent for a while then she rolled over on top of him and put her head on his chest. Nicholas ran his hands through her downy hair and traced the contours of her back. Her skin was silky to the touch. When she finally spoke, her voice was a contented murmur.
'I like that.'
'Good.'
'I like you as well.'
'That pleases me even more.'
She propped herself up on her arms so that she could look down at him. A shaft of moonlight was striking the side of his face. She kissed the streak of light then nuzzled his cheek.
'Who is the target?' she asked.
'I do not know, Anne.' ; 'What does your instinct tell you?'
'Someone hates the company.'
'Someone human?'
'That's my feeling.'
'Why does the attack always come during a performance?'
'Because that is how to hurt us most,' he argued. 'There are a hundred ways to damage Westfield's Men but our enemy strikes during a play to discredit us in front of an audience. If we had abandoned a performance in the middle, it would have done enormous harm to our reputation, and reputation means everything in the theatre.'
'But you were not forced to stop, Nick.'
'Master Firethorn and Master Gill were the heroes there,' he said. 'When that creature leapt
out of the trap-door at the Queen's Head, everyone turned tail except Master Firethorn. He held the play together when it might have collapsed in ruins.'
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