‘What caused the death, Nick?’
‘We will not know until the surgeon arrives.’
‘Did Caleb Smythe not enlighten you?’
‘He is as ignorant as the rest of us.’
‘But he was down there with the others.’
‘His back was to Roper,’ explained Nicholas. ‘It is gloomy and they were in any case half-hidden from each other’s gaze by the props that hold up the stage. Caleb saw nothing.’
‘He must have
heard
something was amiss?’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘He was deafened by the first explosion. He could not hear if Roper’s powder went off or if his trap-door opened. Besides, Caleb had much to do. He had to pull his own tray of gunpowder into position, set the charge, mount the steps and make his entrance. That left him no time to look across at Roper Blundell.’
‘I understand it now.’
‘The first that Caleb knew of any accident was when he
popped up on the stage and saw that George Dart was the only devil there. He took the action he saw fit.’
‘We must be grateful that he did.’
Hoode walked across to the table and uncovered the face of the corpse. Roper Blundell still stared upwards with his mouth agape. A costume which might have provoked horror and humour on stage looked singularly out of place now. Blundell had worked on all the playwright’s work for the company. Hoode spared him the tribute of a passing sigh. It grieved him that something he had written should be the scene of the man’s death.
There was a faint knock on the door and it opened to reveal a wizened figure in a long robe. He introduced himself with a dark smile.
‘Doctor John Mordrake!’
His reputation gained him a polite welcome. Even Barnaby Gill was temporarily cowed in the presence of so eminent a man. Mordrake saw the corpse and crossed to it in triumph.
‘I knew it, sirs!’ he said. ‘I foretold tragedy.’
‘We await the surgeon’s opinion,’ said Nicholas.
‘But I can tell you the cause of death, my friend.’
Mordrake reached down to close the eyes of Roper Blundell then pulled the hessian back over his face. He turned to the others and spoke with devastating certainty.
‘He saw the Devil himself.’
Fine wine after an excellent programme put Lord Westfield in a warm and generous mood. He showered Lawrence
Firethorn with compliments that were taken up and embroidered by the circle of hangers-on. It was generally agreed that, notwithstanding the thunderstorm, the second performance of the play was better than the first. Firethorn lapped up the praise, especially when it came from the three ladies present and he managed some assiduous hand-kissing by way of gratitude. While a hired man in the company lay dead in one room, its patron celebrated in another. Westfield’s Men covered a wide spectrum.
‘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 Kirk’s 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 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 was 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 attire 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 comer 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.