The Devil's Apprentice (24 page)

‘A
black
boar, by any chance?’

‘Beelzebub is as black as can be, sir. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s an odd coincidence,’ he said, thinking of
The Witch of Colchester.
‘A character in one of our plays keeps a black boar. But I didn’t come here to discuss our repertoire with you. I wanted your advice.’

She was circumspect. ‘About what?’

‘Poisons.’

‘You want to buy one, sir?’

He watched her closely. ‘Could you provide it if I did?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But you’d have the means to make poison, I suspect.’

‘Some herbs can save, others can kill.’

‘Would you prepare a compound that could kill?’

‘I work to save lives, sir,’ she said defensively, ‘not to take them.’

‘What if someone wanted to get rid of rats or other vermin?’ he pressed. ‘Surely you’d have something you could sell to them?’

‘I might.’

‘Then that same poison could be used on a human being.’

‘Not with my blessing, sir,’ she said vehemently. ‘If I did sell rat poison – and I’m not saying that I do – it would be solely to poison rats. I can’t be called to account for what use it was put to when it left here. I made a potion for your
friend but I had no means of stopping it from being given to a horse or a cat instead.’

‘I’m not here to accuse you, Mother Pigbone,’ he assured her. ‘I merely wanted to establish how well you knew Doctor Winche and to ask about poisons.’

‘Then you’ve no need to linger, have you?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Unless you want some ointment for those bruises,’ she said, softening her tone. ‘You must’ve taken a lot of punishment to get those. Who cracked open your head?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘You’ve clearly not had a happy time since you came to Essex.’

‘It’s not been without its pleasures. Meeting you is one of them.’

Mother Pigbone cackled again. ‘Your flattery comes twenty years too late for me or I might invite you in for refreshment. If you could stand the smell, that is. Most people can’t. They have the gall to complain that Beelzebub stinks. What else is a pig to do?’

Nicholas was glad to be leaving on a less hostile note. Hauling himself back up into the saddle, he gave her a smile of gratitude then pretended to have an afterthought.

‘You’re rather isolated out here in the woods,’ he observed.

‘That’s the way that Beelzebub and I prefer it.’

‘Visitors would only come for a special reason.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Like you, sir.’

‘Have you had many callers recently? Apart from Doctor Winche, that is.’

‘That’s for me to know and you to guess.’

‘Then my guess is that somebody may have come here to buy some poison from you, Mother Pigbone. From what I hear, there’s nobody else in this part of the county who could supply it. It had to have come from here.’ He looked down at her. ‘Did it?’

‘Ride on, sir.’

‘Did it?’ he repeated.

Mother Pigbone turned on her heel and walked around to the sty at the bottom of the garden. When she unhooked the gate, the black boar came charging straight out with its mouth open and its teeth glinting. Nicholas did not wait to be formally introduced to Beelzebub. He had his answer and rode swiftly away.

The euphoria of the previous night had entirely disappeared. During the rehearsal next morning, Westfield’s Men were sluggish and jaded. Having celebrated the fortuitous capture of Isaac Upchard, they had now learnt of the flight of Davy Stratton and it unsettled them deeply. Two of the apprentices, Martin Yeo and Stephen Judd, rejoiced in the news and hoped that their young colleague would never return but Richard Honeydew was so upset by the loss of his friend that he was hopelessly distracted. Some actors were merely depressed by the news, others were extremely irritated. When work was so scarce, they felt utterly betrayed that someone should run away from the company and imperil their chances of giving good performances, all the more so since his disappearance meant that they also incurred the far more serious loss of their book holder. Nicholas Bracewell had never been missed more painfully.

‘You idiot! Consumption take thee!’

‘Yes, Master Firethorn.’

‘Stupidity, thy name is George Dart!’

‘If you say so.’

‘Use what little sense you have!’ shouted the actor. ‘Are you deaf?’

‘No, Master Firethorn.’

‘Blind?’

‘No, Master Firethorn.’

‘Then employ those ears and eyes to good purpose for once,’ railed Firethorn, looming over Dart in the Great Hall as if about to strike him. ‘We’re rehearsing Act Two, Scene Three, you imbecile, so do not try to prompt us with Act Three, Scene Two open before you.’

Dart quailed. ‘I’m truly sorry.’

‘Is there
nothing
you can do properly?’

‘I don’t yet know the play well enough to prompt, Master Firethorn.’

‘How can we master the lines if you feed us the wrong ones?’

Dart was a proving a feeble substitute for the book holder. Promoted to the role of prompter, he sat with a copy of
The Witch of Colchester
in his lap, wondering from time to time if he even had the right play, let alone the correct scene. So chaotic was the rehearsal that most of the lines spoken seemed to bear little resemblance to those penned by Egidius Pye. They were devoting another full day to the new comedy even though Edmund Hoode’s chronicle play,
Henry the Fifth
, would be staged on the following evening. The latter was a known quantity and well within their
compass.
The Witch of Colchester
, by contrast, was taking them into uncharted territory. Fresh hazards greeted them every inch of the way.

Barnaby Gill was among the first to voice a shrill protest.

‘I thought that there was a dance at some point,’ he said.

‘We moved it to the end of the scene,’ said Firethorn impatiently.

‘Why wasn’t I told, Lawrence?’

‘You just have been.’

‘I prefer my jig where it is.’

‘The decision has already been taken.’

‘By whom?’

‘Edmund and me.’

‘But you can’t just change things to suit yourselves.’

‘It suits the play, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn irritably, ‘and not us. Believe me, if I wanted to suit myself, the only dance you’d execute would be at the end of a rope as you were hanged from that gallery.’

‘That’s a monstrous suggestion!’ howled Gill over an outburst of laughter.

‘Then stop pestering me, man.’

‘I demand to have my jig restored.’

‘We’ll cut it out altogether if you keep holding up the rehearsal.’

‘This is impossible!’ said Gill, stalking towards the door. ‘I’ll talk with my feet.’

‘They can’t say their lines any worse than you, Barnaby.’

‘A pox on this play!’

As Gill flounced out, there was more sadness than amusement among the company. Fierce rows between the
two men were normal events but they rarely occurred with such venom and both parties were quickly reconciled by the tactful intercession of Nicholas Bracewell. Dart was no peacemaker. Whoever else took on ambassadorial duties, it would not be the assistant stagekeeper, too terrified of both men to approach either in the spirit of harmony. In the event, it was Hoode who volunteered to take on the difficult assignment. He sauntered across to Firethorn.

‘You’ll have to go after him and apologise, Lawrence,’ he said.

‘Never!’

‘How can we rehearse without Barnaby?’

‘We can’t rehearse
with
him when he’s in this mood.’

‘You were the one who made him choleric.’

‘He was born choleric, Edmund,’ snarled Firethorn. ‘God’s blood! Why on earth did we give the part of Doctor Putrid to him?’

‘Because it fits him like a glove.’

‘Putrid by name and putrid by nature.’ He waved a peremptory hand. ‘I’ll not say sorry to that freakish homunculus.’

‘Then at least let me convey your apologies to him, Lawrence.’

‘It’s Barnaby’s apologies that need to be conveyed to me.’

‘Do neither of you have the grace to give way?’

‘No, Edmund. It would be a sign of weakness in me and a sign of humanity in Barnaby. Forget the wretch,’ he ordered, walking to the centre of the stage. ‘We’ll continue the rehearsal without him.’

‘Act Two, Scene Three?’ asked Dart, flicking the pages.

‘No, George. Act Three, Scene Two. Since we lack our Doctor Putrid, we’ll move on to the Lord Malady’s confrontation with Longshaft and Shortshrift.’

‘I can’t seem to find it.’

‘Well, look more carefully, you dolt!’

‘Is it the scene with the witch?’

‘See for yourself, you lunatic!’

When Dart eventually found the correct page, he sat on a stool at the front of the stage to watch the action and prompt accordingly. He was soon employed. Hoode and Elias had mastered their roles as the two lawyers but Richard Honeydew had only an approximate recollection of his lines as Lord Malady’s wife. He tripped over them so often that Dart ended up reading out the majority of his part. Firethorn was enraged. Storming onstage to upbraid the apprentice, he was so incensed that he did not see a wooden chest that had been incorrectly set for the scene. Instead of laying hands on the gibbering Honeydew, he fell headlong over the chest, knocked Hoode on to his haunches in the process, lost his wig, dropped his walking stick and broke wind uncontrollably.

Egidius Pye chose that inopportune moment to enter the hall by the main door.

‘I could stay away no longer,’ he said breathlessly. ‘How does my play fare?’

Nicholas Bracewell could hear the argument clearly. As he tethered his horse to a yew tree in the churchyard, the voices came ringing through the open door. He had no difficulty in identifying the rasping tones of Reginald Orr.

‘Do you intend to go there or don’t you?’ he demanded.

‘That’s a matter between me and my conscience, Reginald.’

‘Attend a play and you
have
no conscience.’

‘Sir Michael has invited me,’ explained the vicar. ‘It’s a courtesy to accept.’

‘And if he invited you to jump off the top of your church or drown in the lake at Silvermere, would you still show him the courtesy of accepting?’ Orr was roused to a pitch of anger. ‘Are you a priest or a mere sycophant? Do you do everything your precious Sir Michael tells you? Or do you have the courage to take a moral stand?’

‘I’m taking one against you at this moment, Reginald.’

Nicholas removed his hat and entered the church. ‘Am I interrupting?’ he enquired, sensing that the vicar needed to be rescued. ‘Ah, Master Orr,’ he went on, smiling politely at the Puritan. ‘We meet again though I never thought to encounter you in such a place as this.’

‘Ordinarily, you would not,’ grunted the other. ‘It’s a Popish temple. But you’re a heathen, sir. I wouldn’t have expected you to venture onto consecrated ground.’

‘St Christopher is the patron saint of travellers.’

‘Not when they travel in the name of Satan.’

‘Lord Westfield is the banner under which we ride.’

‘Then he, too, is a child of hell.’

‘I’m so pleased to see you, Master Bracewell,’ said Anthony Dyment, coming down the nave to greet him, ‘albeit sad to see you in such a condition. Look at your poor face! Sir Michael has told me of your bravery. You’re to be congratulated. Thanks to you, a dangerous man is in custody.’

‘Isaac Upchard is innocent,’ asserted Orr.

‘He tried to burn down the stables at Silvermere,’ said Nicholas.

‘You’re mistaken, sir. I’ll depose that Isaac was with me at the time when this outrage is supposed to have taken place. He slept at my house.’

‘I should imagine that he needed to after the punishment he took. We had a fight in the dark. I twisted his ankle and cut his wrist with my sword. Isaac Upchard still has the limp and the wound that I inflicted.’

‘In the dark. When you could not be sure that it was him.’

‘There’s evidence enough.’

‘Not to my way of thinking.’

‘Nothing is to your way of thinking, Reginald,’ said the vicar, bolstered by the presence of Nicholas. ‘So I’ll thank you to stop causing an affray in the house of God and go about your business.’

‘Keeping you on the straight and narrow path
is
my business.’

‘The vicar is entitled to watch a play, if he chooses,’ said Nicholas.

‘Not when it sets such an appalling example to the rest of the parish. I don’t expect you to understand,’ sneered Orr. ‘You’re one of them, steeped in sin and wallowing in corruption. But some of us have the zeal to fight you.’

‘Is that what Isaac Upchard was showing the other night? Zeal?’

‘Isaac is a man with spiritual values.’

‘So am I!’ insisted Dyment.

‘Then why surrender them for a seat at a playhouse? You’re a Judas, sir!’

‘That’s slanderous talk.’

‘It’s also unbecoming language to hear inside a church,’ said Nicholas, moving to the door. ‘Perhaps we should take this argument outside, Master Orr.’

‘I’ll not argue with you,’ said the other, brushing past him. ‘You’ve sold your soul to the Devil and I’ll not have you near me for a second longer.’

He went out of the door like a gust of wind and a restorative silence followed. The vicar was patently harassed. After first closing the door to ensure privacy, he turned wearily to his visitor.

‘I’m very grateful to you, Master Bracewell,’ he said. ‘You saved me from being harangued though that’s not the only reason he came here this morning.’

‘Why else? Surely not to take Communion?’

Dyment gave a hollow laugh. ‘Hardly. You’re far more likely to find Mother Pigbone ringing the church bell than to see Reginald Orr kneeling before me. No, his real purpose in coming was to engage me to speak up on behalf of Isaac Upchard in court. The two of them treat their vicar with utter contempt but they’re not above using my good opinion if they can secure it.’

‘Can they?’

‘No, Master Bracewell.’

‘Did you refuse to vouch for Isaac Upchard?’

‘I simply said that it was not my place to do so. That’s when he began to shout.’

‘I heard him from churchyard.’

‘Puritanism has powerful lungs.’

‘Oh, we’ve discovered that, sir.’

‘I’m sure, I’m sure. Still,’ said the vicar obligingly. ‘How may I help you? I take it you’ve come for advice of some sort?’

‘I have,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Our new apprentice, Davy Stratton, has run away.’

‘Saints preserve us!’

‘We believe that he’s still in the locality.’

‘Sir Michael made no mention of this when I saw him earlier.’

‘We’ve deliberately kept him unaware of the situation and will continue to do so. It’s our problem and not Sir Michael’s. Please say nothing to him.’

‘As you wish,’ said Dyment uneasily. ‘What of Jerome Stratton?’

‘He, too, is ignorant of the boy’s flight.’

‘But he’s Davy’s father. He must be told.’

‘The lad belongs to Westfield’s Men now. We’re
in loco parentis.
Our aim is to find Davy quickly so that nobody is any the wiser about his disappearance.’

When he explained his reasons for believing that the apprentice was still in the neighbourhood, Nicholas drew a nod of agreement from the vicar. The latter was duly impressed at the number of places he had visited.

‘You’ve been very thorough,’ he said admiringly.

‘I was in the saddle at dawn.’

‘Riding in one big circle around Silvermere, by the sound of it.’

‘I wanted to know if there’s anywhere that I missed,’
said Nicholas. ‘I wasn’t able to follow every path I came across.’

‘You seem to have explored most.’ Dyment pondered. ‘But I didn’t hear any word of Oakwood House in that list you gave me?’

‘Oakwood House?’

‘Yes, it’s on the other side of the forest and well hidden by trees. You could ride within a hundred yards and not even know that it was there.’

‘Who lives there?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘Clement Enderby and his wife. Good, honest, upstanding Christians.’

‘Is Davy related to them in any way?’

‘No, and he’d have little reason to go there either. Clement Enderby was just one more person unlucky enough to fall out with Jerome Stratton. There have been a number of them over the years, I fear. Well,’ he said, recalling the death that had occurred at Silvermere. ‘Robert Partridge was another. For some reason, he and Master Stratton became sworn enemies. That was not the case with Master Enderby but he somehow found himself on the wrong side of our friend at Holly Lodge.’

‘A less than friendly friend, it seems.’

‘Davy was forbidden to go anywhere near Oakwood.’

‘Why should he want to do so?’

‘To play with the children there.’

Nicholas pursed his lips reflectively. ‘How would I find the house?’

‘Follow, me I’ll point the way,’ said the vicar.

Dyment took him outside, relieved to see that Orr was
no longer on church property. The violent argument with the Puritan had upset him and he was still jangled. When he had given Nicholas precise directions, he wished him well.

‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’ he offered.

‘There is one thing, as it happens,’ said Nicholas casually. ‘How well do you know Doctor Winche?’

‘As well as anyone in the parish. A vicar and a doctor have to work closely together. Where medicine fails, prayers can sometimes succeed. Doctor Winche and I have sat beside a lot of beds together in our time.’