The Devil's Apprentice

Chapter Eleven

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.’

‘He seems a very able man.’

‘One of the best in the county.’

‘Yet he resorts to Mother Pigbone in an emergency.’

‘So do many people,’ admitted the vicar with a sigh. ‘Mother Pigbone has rare gifts, there’s no denying it but they smack too much of sorcery for my liking. But I’m in a minority, no question of that. If a respected doctor finds her potions helpful, there’s no better advertisement for them.’

‘She keeps a black boar called Beelzebub.’

‘Had it been named Matthew, Mark, Luke or John, I’d view her more kindly.’

He walked with Nicholas to the waiting horse. ‘Before you go, perhaps you could give me some advice.’

‘Willingly,’ said Nicholas.

Dyment was embarrassed. ‘It concerns the dispute you overheard in the church.’

‘I won’t breathe a word about that to anybody.’

‘That’s immaterial, Master Bracewell. I need your help, not your discretion. The plain truth of it is this,’ he went on, blurting it out. ‘Reginald Orr caught me on a very raw spot. Sir Michael has not merely invited me to watch a play at Silvermere, he’s more or less insisted that I go. As his chaplain, I can hardly refuse but, as vicar here at St Christopher’s, I find it more difficult to accept.’

‘Do you fear that your congregation would disapprove?’

‘Eyebrows would certainly be raised.’

‘Then why tell them you’re going to Silvermere? It’s a personal matter.’

‘Some of my parishioners are bound to see me there.’

‘Then you can raise your eyebrows at them,’ countered Nicholas, producing a sudden giggle from the vicar. ‘They can hardly censure you for something that they themselves are doing. When are you bidden to the house?’

‘That’s the problem,’ said Dyment. ‘On Sunday.’

‘Ah. I see your quandary.’

‘Do theatre companies in London flout the day of rest?’

‘They do, I fear, yet not in any shameful way. Westfield’s Men do not play on the Sabbath because we’re under city jurisdiction but our rivals in Shoreditch and Bankside open their doors regularly. If people are not allowed to work, they argue, then they’re entitled to be entertained.’

‘But entertainment is work, Master Bracewell.’

A deep sigh. ‘None of us would gainsay that.’

‘So what am I to do?’ asked Dyment, washing his hands in the air. ‘Stay in the safety of the church and risk insulting Sir Michael? Or come to a play and leave myself open to moral condemnation?’

Nicholas smiled. ‘Why not simply repay a compliment?’ he suggested.

‘Compliment?’

‘Regardless of what Master Orr might think, actors are not outlandish heathens. When you take matins on Sunday, you’ll find Master Firethorn and the entire company joining you for worship. We’re Christian souls. So,’ continued Nicholas, untying the reins from the yew tree, ‘you can do unto us as we do unto you.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Since we’ll come to see you performing in church on Sunday morning, it’s only fair recompense for you to watch us at work that same afternoon.’ Nicholas saw the look of dismay on his face. ‘Forgive my glib suggestion. It was not meant to offend.’

‘Oh, I’m not offended,’ said Dyment. ‘Far from it. There’s a comforting logic to your argument. But I don’t think that it would persuade Reginald Orr.’

‘Is he likely to be at Silvermere on Sunday?’

The vicar rallied. ‘No, Master Bracewell. Whereas I have a legitimate reason to call at the house for I always take a private service in the chapel. If I happen to dally long enough to peep into the Great Hall, who can blame me?’

‘Nobody. I hope that you enjoy the play.’

Nicholas mounted his horse and thanked the vicar for his help. He rode off at a brisk trot, following a track that led in the direction of the forest. Eyes on the way ahead, he did not notice the tall man who stepped out from behind a tree after he went past.

Reginald Orr was positively smouldering with hatred.

Lawrence Firethorn was horrified to see the author. When Egidius Pye had arrived at Silvermere without warning, the actor had stared at him as if seeing a ghost. Nobody was less welcome at that moment. Given the suffering that the play had already inflicted on Firethorn, his first impulse had been to flee from the man who wrote it but Pye’s meek and apologetic demeanour kept him there. Edmund Hoode had introduced the newcomer to the company and suggested that they prove themselves worthy of presenting The Witch of Colchester. Put on their mettle and aware how badly they had worked that morning, the actors made an effort to vindicate themselves. A small miracle occurred. Not only did they rehearse one of the most difficult scenes in the play without a single blemish, their momentum carried them on until the end of Act Three. Watching them sulkily through the window, Barnaby Gill had been so impressed that he had rejoined the others to take his place on stage and complete the final scene with one of his jigs.

Pye was overjoyed and clapped his hands until his palms were stinging. With the author’s praise still ringing in their ears, the company went off to the kitchen for their midday meal. Firethorn and Hoode lingered in the hall with the lawyer.

‘Extraordinary!’ said Pye. ‘Quite extraordinary!’

‘You liked it?’ asked Firethorn.

‘I adored every moment, sir. I could not believe you’ve done so much to the piece in so short a time. As for the play itself,’ he said, turning to Hoode, ‘your touch has been magical. Your name should be placed alongside my own as co-author.’

‘No,’ insisted Hoode, taking care to stand outside the range of Pye’s bad breath. ‘That would be unjust. Take all the credit, sir. The play is essentially yours. I’ve added little enough but been proud to be associated with such an accomplished piece of work.’

‘Thank you, Master Hoode!’

‘The whole company, as you saw, was inspired by the play.’

‘Their performance was faultless.’

‘And what of mine?’ asked Firethorn, fishing for individual praise. ‘Did I bring out the best in Lord Malady?’

‘It was a revelation!’

‘I missed nothing of the humour in his plight?’

‘Neither the humour nor the pathos. You were sublime, Master Firethorn.’

The actor beamed with false modesty. ‘I always strive to please an author.’

‘You delighted this one, sir!’

‘Which of my scenes excited you the most?’

‘All were equally wonderful,’ declared Pye. ‘You were Lord Malady to the life!’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, his smile vanishing at once. ‘That’s something I need to speak to you about, Master Pye. When I agreed to take on the role of Lord Malady, I did not expect him to pursue me so relentlessly.’

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Let me explain,’ said Hoode quickly, hearing the ire in his friend’s voice. ‘In the course of your play, Master Pye, the villainous Sir Roderick arranges for Lord Malady to be spellbound. He is struck down by fever, then convulsions and even loses his voice. All three things happened to Lawrence in real life.’

Pye was shocked. ‘Never!’

‘They did,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘I thought the play bewitched.’

‘Lawrence suffered grievously,’ said Hoode.

‘That was not the end of it, Edmund. Tell him about the lawyer.’

Hoode nodded sadly and explained how the final moments of The Insatiate Duke had been interrupted by the sudden death of Robert Partridge. In spite of assurances from Doctor Winche that the man died from a heart attack, he added, the use of poison could not be ruled out. Pye was both disturbed and chastened by what he heard. He seemed to withdraw into himself like a snail seeking the refuge of its shell. Firethorn did not let him escape.

‘What’s going on, Master Pye?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t know,’ mumbled the other.

‘You know something, man. I can see that.’

‘I might do and I might not.’

‘Stop talking like a lawyer.’

‘But that’s what I am, Master Firethorn.’

‘Not when you take up your pen. You turn into something ever nastier.’

‘There must be some explanation,’ said Hoode, using a gentler tone to coax the truth out of Pye. ‘No sooner did Lawrence take on the role of Lord Malady than he began to be afflicted by these horrendous diseases. What prompted you to invent the spells that are used in your play, Master Pye?’

‘I didn’t invent them,’ confessed Pye.

‘Then where did they come from, man?’ asked Firethorn.

‘A witch.’

‘A real witch?’

‘So it now appears.’

‘Then I have been at the mercy of some evil spells.’

‘Not intentionally, Master Firethorn,’ said Pye sheepishly. ‘And the spells did not last long. You recovered quickly each time.’

‘That’s no consolation. I was in torment. Fever was bad enough, collapse in the middle of church was even worse but there’s no humiliation to compare with being robbed of my Epilogue in Double Deceit by Barnaby Gill. A plague on your witchcraft!’ he roared. ‘You filched my voice from me.’

‘Yet it was soon restored,’ noted Hoode.

‘Do you recall how, Edmund?’

‘By a potion from Mother Pigbone.’

Pye was puzzled. ‘Who is Mother Pigbone?’

‘Another witch, I’ll warrant!’ Firethorn was livid. ‘What’s the use of a play that turns me into a permanent invalid? I thought that Davy Stratton was the devil’s apprentice but I see that his true name is Egidius Pye.’

‘All may yet be well,’ said Pye, trembling under the onslaught.

‘It had better be, sir. I don’t relish being blinded.’

‘Then we change the spell that’s used to blind you in the play.’

‘What of the others?’ asked Hoode.

‘We alter each one to take the sting out of them all. When I began to write the play,’ admitted Pye, ‘I thought witchcraft arrant nonsense that was only fit for derision. Then I met a woman who claimed to be able to conjure up evil spirits and began to have doubts. She had strange powers that unnerved me. You’ve met her as Black Joan in my play where I made her a much more likeable character than she is.’

‘Did she tell you how to cast spells?’

‘Yes, Master Hoode, and charged me handsomely.’

‘It was money well spent,’ growled Firethorn. ‘Her witchcraft was deadly.’

‘We don’t know that, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘It may just be that the play made such a profound impression on you that you imagined the afflictions of Lord Malady.’

‘Imagined!’

‘You became the character.’

‘How can anyone imagine fever, convulsions and a lost voice? That’s nonsense! You saw me on that stage, Edmund. Do you believe I’d let Barnaby poach my Epilogue if I could possibly stop him? I was in despair.’

‘If the play is to blame,’ said Pye, ‘I offer you my abject apology. It clearly has a power that reaches out from the page. Let me amend the lines here and now. I’ll render the spells harmless then you’ll have no fear of blindness.’

‘What must I suffer in its place?’ said Firethorn sourly. ‘Impotence?’

‘Lord Malady’s complaints will be confined to the play.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It stands to reason.’

‘Not when we’re dealing with witchcraft. That defies reason.’

‘Give me the play,’ said Pye, ‘and I’ll remove its venom.’

‘You’re too late to do that for Robert Partridge.’

‘We’re not sure that there’s any connection between his death and The Witch of Colchester,’ said Hoode. ‘The deceased just happened to be a lawyer.’

‘Who was poisoned just like the lawyer in the play.’

‘Are you certain of that?’ asked Pye.

‘Nick Bracewell is and he’s seen the effects of poison before.’ He rounded on the playwright. ‘You were supposed to have written a comedy, sir, not a stark tragedy.’

‘Blame the witch, sir, and not me.’

‘I blame you for purchasing her spells.’

‘Her sorcery was limited,’ said the other. ‘There’s no way that her incantations could have brought about the death of a member of the audience. If the gentleman was poisoned, as you claim, it was done by human agency.’

Firethorn threw up his arms. ‘Who would want to do such a thing?’

‘Someone determined to bring us down, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘We’ve too many enemies to name.’

‘I think we can put a name to this one. He’s desperate enough to arrange an ambush for us and to set someone to burn down the stables. Master Pye is innocent of those charges. The man I’d accuse is that rabid Puritan.’

‘Reginald Orr?’

‘He’ll do anything in his power to expel Westfield’s Men.’

‘Anything?’ said Firethorn quietly as he was seized by a dreadful thought. ‘Is there no crime to which he’ll not stoop? Do you think he would even try to murder our book holder?’

Oakwood House was over five miles from Silvermere. When he eventually found it, Nicholas Bracewell realised why he had missed it on his earlier ride through the area. Situated on the far side of the forest, the house was set in a hollow and encircled by a protective ring of oak trees that blocked it from view. The place was old and rambling but kept in good repair. Thatch had given way to slate on some roofs. Wood had been replaced by brick in the most recent addition to the property, a series of outbuildings. Clement Enderby was evidently a man of substance with a fondness for his home. Even in its winter garb, the formal garden that fronted the house was a remarkable sight. Smoke curled up from every chimney. The place looked warm and welcoming.

When Nicholas dismounted, he first stole a glance over his shoulder, convinced that he had been followed for some part of the journey. Nobody was in sight. He decided that he was mistaken and rang the doorbell. When the visitor asked to see the master of the house, he was invited into a little hall with a fire burning brightly in its grate. Portraits hung on every wall and he was still scrutinising them when Clement Enderby came out to meet him. Enderby was a broad-shouldered man in his forties with the manner and attire of a merchant. Having been brought up in a merchant’s household, Nicholas recognised the telltale signs at once. Enderby winced when he saw his visitor’s injuries. After introducing himself, Nicholas explained the purpose of his visit.

‘Bless me!’ said Enderby with alarm. ‘Young Davy has gone astray?’

‘I wondered if he might have come here,’ said Nicholas.

‘Why should he do that?’

‘I understand that he used to play with your children, Master Enderby.’

‘He did, sir,’ admitted the other, face darkening. ‘But that was some time ago when his father and I were on speaking terms. Jerome Stratton was a friend of mine once even though we are rivals in business. Yet he suddenly announced that his son would never come here again and that my children were no longer welcome at Holly Lodge.’

‘Did he give no reason?’

‘None that made any sense.’

‘Might not Davy be defying his father on purpose in coming here?’

‘He might,’ said Enderby, ‘but that’s not the case. It would be a wasted journey on the lad’s part because my children are not even at Oakwood House. My wife has taken them to visit their aunt and uncle in Chelmsford.’

‘I see.’

‘They’ll not be back until tomorrow and I’ll hold them to that.’

‘Will you, Master Enderby?’

‘Of course,’ replied the other with a chortle. ‘We’ve been invited to Silvermere to watch Henry the Fifth. How often do we get a chance out here to see a famous theatre company from London? Sir Michael is keeping open house while you’re here.’

‘His hospitality has been overwhelming.’

‘I’m sorry that Davy Stratton has not found it to his taste. But, then, I’m rather surprised that the lad has been apprenticed to you in the first place. I’d assumed that he’d follow his father into trade.’

‘Not all sons of merchants wish to ape their fathers, Master Enderby.’

‘Mine do,’ said Enderby firmly. ‘I made sure of that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘It will be interesting to see how Jerome Stratton greets us at Silvermere. He’s sure to be there.’

‘By that time, we hope to have Davy back in harness.’

‘Did you have any forewarning of his disappearance?’

‘A little,’ conceded Nicholas. ‘He hasn’t taken to the life. Davy’s been fretful and picked fights with the other apprentices.’

‘That doesn’t sound like him. Whenever he was here, Davy always behaved very well. It was my own sons who had to be schooled for rough play. Poor lad! He must be so unhappy to run away from you like that.’

‘It’s upset us all, Master Enderby.’

‘What does his father say?’

‘He knows nothing about it yet,’ said Nicholas, ‘and there’s no reason why he should if we can retrieve Davy. The one certain fact is that he’s not gone home to Holly Lodge. I don’t think Master Stratton would be too pleased to see him.’

‘No, Jerome could be very strict with the lad.’

‘So I gather. But I’ll trespass on your time no longer, sir. Davy is not here, alas, so I’ll have to continue my search elsewhere.’

‘How are you finding things at Silvermere?’

‘We’ve no complaints at all, Master Enderby. Sir Michael has seen us like old friends. He could not have done more for Westfield’s Men.’

‘Romball Taylard is the man to thank.’

‘Yes, we’ve seen rather a lot of the steward.’

‘He runs the household superbly,’ said Enderby. ‘Taylard is not the most appealing individual but he knows how to control his staff. Anyone who has worked at Silvermere is a cut above the ordinary servant. Well,’ he added, tossing a look over his shoulder. ‘Kate is a perfect example.’

‘Kate?’

‘Katherine Gowan. One of my own servants here. A splendid young woman. She was employed at Silvermere for a while then she moved to Lincoln. When she wanted to come back to the area, I offered her a post at once and have never regretted it. Silvermere leaves its mark upon people.’

Nicholas gave a pained smile. ‘I fancy it will do that to us, Master Enderby.’

‘Good luck with your search.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I hope to see young Davy back on stage tomorrow,’ said Enderby, opening the front door. ‘What can we expect from Henry the Fifth?’

‘Stirring words and hard-fought battles.’

Enderby grinned. ‘Those may occur if I bump into Jerome Stratton.’

‘Has he always been so truculent?’

‘It’s got worse since the death of his wife. That changed everything.’

Nicholas bade him farewell and went out to his horse. Though he had not found Davy, he had learnt facts about him that helped him to understand the boy a little better. He rehearsed them in his mind as he rode through an avenue of trees past the neat lawns with their rectangular flowerbeds and well placed statuary. Nicholas noticed for the first time that the ice in the fountain had melted in the midday sun but all that concerned him was where Davy Stratton had spent a cold night.

When he reached the forest, he had the sensation once more that he was being watched. He could hear no sound of pursuit and wondered if his imagination was playing tricks on him. There was one way to make sure. Instead of looking behind him, he waited until he came to a thick outcrop of bushes that would obscure him from anyone on his tail. Swinging his horse around, he waited for several minutes in his hiding place. It was all to no avail. The only sounds that disturbed the forest were those of the birds. Nicholas pressed on, kicking his horse into a canter along the winding path. Sunshine was slanting in through the branches above him. He was in the heart of the forest when the attack came and it caught him off guard. As he came round a bend and slowed his horse to cross a little stream, there was a sudden explosion only yards away. The horse reared in fright, lost its footing and staggered violently. Nicholas was unseated and thrown into the water. Pulling out his dagger on instinct, he stood up to defend himself but nobody came. Hoofbeats departed at speed among the trees but he could not be sure in which direction they went. What was clear was the fact that he had just had a fortunate escape. Someone had trailed him in order to ambush him.

After reclaiming his own horse, he tethered the animal securely while he went to investigate. The loud report could only have come from a musket. If the ball had missed him, it must have spent its venom elsewhere. He began a long, lonely, painstaking search, first working out where his attacker had been when he fired the shot then trying to guess at its likely trajectory. He poked among bushes, studied the trunks of trees and felt along the ground. It was taxing work but his patience was eventually rewarded. The musket ball had passed perilously close to his head and embedded itself in the mossy interior of a hollow yew. Nicholas used the point of his dagger to dig it out. Aimed at his skull, it soon lay in the palm of his hand. It was a valuable clue.

Mother Pigbone emptied the food into the trough and watched with satisfaction as Beelzebub guzzled it down. She leant over to pat him on the back then played fondly with his ears. Without warning, the boar suddenly raised its head and exposed its teeth.

‘Is someone coming, Beelzebub?’ she asked, listening hard. ‘I’m getting old. Your hearing is so much better than mine.’ She soon picked up the drumming of hoofbeats. ‘Yes, another visitor. As always, you’re right.’

The animal remained alert until the rider brought his horse to a halt. Beelzebub then relaxed and addressed himself to his meal once more. Mother Pigbone grinned.

‘A friend this time, is it?’ she said. ‘Good. No need to let you out again.’

As she turned around, she saw a familiar figure waddling towards her on bow legs, his face pale and lined with anxiety. He touched his hat in a token greeting.

‘Good day, Mother Pigbone.’

‘And to you, sir. What can I do for you this time, Doctor Winche?’

When they resumed their work in the Great Hall, the company continued to work well. It was almost as if Egidius Pye’s arrival had lifted a cloud from them. It soon descended again. Nicholas Bracewell returned without their missing apprentice and there was general disappointment. Lawrence Firethorn was grateful that the book holder had come back unharmed. Calling a break in the rehearsal, he took Nicholas aside to hear the details of his search. Owen Elias joined them.

‘No luck at all?’ said Firethorn.

‘None so far,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘I’ll do a wider sweep this afternoon and I’d value your company on the ride, Owen.’

‘Gladly,’ said the Welshman.

‘But we can’t spare Owen,’ said Firethorn. ‘Why do you need him, Nick?’

‘Because I’d prefer to stay alive.’

Nicholas told them about the attempt on his life in the forest. Both men were outraged. Elias wanted to ride off immediately in search of the would-be assassin but Firethorn took a more cautious view.

‘I think that both of you should stay here,’ he said anxiously.

‘When someone has tried to kill Nick?’ asked Elias. ‘We need to catch the villain and string him up from the nearest tree.’

‘But we don’t know who the man is.’

‘I think we do, Lawrence. A name is easily put to him.’

‘Perhaps too easily,’ observed Nicholas.

Elias was adamant. ‘It simply has to be Reginald Orr.’

‘Does it, Owen?’

‘That would be my fear,’ said Lawrence, ‘and it’s the reason I’d prefer the pair of you to remain at Silvermere where it’s safe.’

‘There was no safety here for Robert Partridge,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘If my guess is right, he was murdered under this roof. And we can’t just wash our hands of Davy. The search for him must continue.’

‘That lunatic Puritan is the man we should be searching for,’ said Elias, waving a fist. ‘Heavens, Nick, the man tried to shoot a hole through your head.’

‘Did he?’

‘Why else was he lurking in the forest?’

‘To give me a fright, Owen. Yes,’ he said, holding his hands up to stifle the protest he saw coming, ‘I know that you disagree but I’ve had time to reflect on it during the ride back. Reginald Orr is an enemy who’s vowed to chase us out of Essex. And, as it happens, he and I exchanged hot words when we met at the church earlier.’

‘That’s all the evidence you need, Nick!’ urged Elias. ‘You provoked him.’

‘Into a rage, perhaps, but that does not mean he became an assassin. I’ve met the man twice now and seen him breathe fire at us. Master Orr may be an awkward Christian but he’s a Christian nevertheless and that might stay his hand.’

‘It didn’t stay his hand during that ambush,’ noted Firethorn.

‘We’ve yet to prove his involvement in that.’

‘What about the attempt to burn our stables? You caught Orr’s confederate in the act. Thanks to you, Isaac Upchard is rotting in a cell.’

‘Rightly so, Lawrence,’ said Elias. ‘Reginald Orr should join him there.’

Nicholas was patient. ‘Let me make my point. The ambush and the fire were both attempts to scare us off. No attempt was made to kill any of us. Look at me,’ he said, indicating the bandage on his head. ‘When I was cudgeled to the ground, I couldn’t defend myself. If they’d wanted to kill me, they had the chance there and then.’

‘They were too eager to get away, Nick.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘Since then, you’ve given Reginald Orr a stronger motive to want you dead. You not only arrested his friend, Isaac Upchard, you’ll be the principle witness against him. What are the chances of guilty verdict against him if there’s no Nicholas Bracewell to speak against him in court?’

‘Whoever fired that musket was trying to kill you,’ asserted Elias. ‘I think that we should lay violent hands upon him before he tries again.’

‘What of Davy?’ asked Nicholas.

Firethorn was blunt. ‘Better a missing apprentice than a dead book holder.’

‘We can’t just abandon the lad.’

‘Davy is the one who abandoned us, Nick.’

The argument continued for a long while until Nicholas finally persuaded them to accept his advice. He and Elias were to continue the search. Before doing that, however, Nicholas had someone else to see.

‘Saddle your horse, Owen,’ he instructed, ‘I’ll join you in a while.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To see a man about a musket ball.’

Sir Michael Greenleaf was standing on the top of the tower, cleaning the lens of his telescope with a cloth. The breeze made the wisps of hair on his uncovered head dance in all directions. He was too absorbed in his work even to notice the arrival of two people. Romball Taylard cleared his throat to attract his master’s attention. Sir Michael looked up and gave Nicholas a warm greeting.

‘Have you come to take a peep through my telescope?’ he said, patting it gently.

‘No, Sir Michael. I need your advice.’

‘Then my advice is to come up here at night when the stars are out. I’ll show you how to read them. The portents for Westfield’s Men are excellent.’

Nicholas had doubts on that score but he suppressed them. Instead, he glanced at Taylard who was hovering meaningfully in the background. He did not wish to have a private discussion with Sir Michael while the steward was present.

‘I’d value a word alone with you, Sir Michael,’ he said pointedly.

‘Feel free to speak in front of Romball. I’ve no secrets from him.’

Nicholas was firm. ‘But I have, I’m afraid.’

‘Then I won’t intrude,’ said Taylard politely. ‘I’ve more than enough work to keep me occupied elsewhere. The visit of Westfield’s Men has placed extra burdens on us all.’ He gave a faint nod. ‘Please excuse me.’

Nicholas waited until the steward had shut the door behind him before he spoke.

‘What I have to say is strictly confidential, Sir Michael,’ he warned.

‘Of course, dear fellow, of course.’

‘There are two things I need to raise with you, neither particularly pleasant.’

‘Dear me!’ said Sir Michael. ‘I hope you have no complaints.’

‘None at all.’

‘I told Romball that Westfield’s Men were to have everything they wanted.’

‘And we have done,’ said Nicholas gratefully.

‘The one thing we could not legislate for was that unfortunate business during The Insatiate Duke. I know that it ruined the final moments of the play and I offer my apologies. We had no idea that Robert Partridge would be struck down by a heart attack.’

‘I’m not certain that he was, Sir Michael.’

‘No?’

‘It’s the first matter I wanted to discuss,’ said Nicholas. ‘You may remember telling us that your first impression was that the victim had not died from natural causes at all. You spoke of poison.’

‘Too hastily. Doctor Winche overruled me.’

‘Then perhaps he spoke too hastily as well.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The case interested us, Sir Michael. It’s not every day that someone drops down dead during one of our performances. Master Firethorn and I decided to pay our respects to the victim. I hope that you don’t think it presumptuous of us,’ said Nicholas, ‘but we entered your chapel without asking permission.’

‘It’s always open to my guests.’

Nicholas told him what they had found in the mortuary, explaining his own familiarity with death by poisoning and calling into question the doctor’s diagnosis.

Sir Michael was shocked. ‘Doctor Winche is an experienced physician.’

‘Everyone makes mistakes.’

‘Well, yes, I know. It’s what I did when I first saw the body.’

‘Your opinion is supported by my own, Sir Michael.’

‘Then why do we differ from Doctor Winche?’

‘Who knows?’ replied Nicholas. ‘Perhaps we are both in error. All I ask is that you take a closer look at the victim with me now.’

‘But that’s impossible, my friend.’

‘I merely wish to point out the signs that I detected.’

‘You’re too late,’ said Sir Michael. ‘The body of Robert Partridge was removed from here first thing this morning. He lives in the parish of St Margaret’s. Since the church is big enough to have its own mortuary, that’s where he’s been taken. Doctor Winche was here to supervise the transfer of the cadaver.’

‘I see.’

‘He takes his duties very seriously, Master Bracewell.’

Nicholas was not sure that the man’s duties involved the removal of a dead body from one mortuary to another but he said nothing. Sir Michael’s faith in Doctor Winche was clearly unshaken. The whole subject needed to be postponed.

‘What’s the other matter you have to raise with me?’ asked Sir Michael.

‘It concerns this,’ said Nicholas, opening the palm of his hand to disclose the musket ball. ‘It was fired at me earlier today.’

Sir Michael was startled. ‘By whom?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Where did the shot occur?’

‘A few miles away. In the middle of the forest.’

‘May I see it?’

‘Please do, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, passing it to him. ‘There can’t be too many people in this part of the county who possess a musket. You have several in your arsenal and are clearly an expert on firearms.’

‘They’ve always fascinated me.’

‘When I was at sea, I was trained in the use of a musket so I know how unreliable they are. Even over short distances, aim is sometimes difficult.’

‘That fact may have been your salvation, sir,’ said Sir Michael, holding the musket ball to his eye to study it. ‘This would have killed you outright.’ He looked across at Nicholas. ‘What were you doing in the forest?’

‘Returning from Oakwood House.’

‘You had business with Clement Enderby?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, careful not to divulge the full details. ‘Davy Stratton went across there this morning to visit Master Enderby’s children who are old friends of his. When the lad was late returning, I went in search of him but Davy had already come back to Silvermere by another route so my journey was in vain.’

‘And almost fatal.’

‘So it seems.’

‘How did you find Clement Enderby?’

‘In good spirits, Sir Michael, and looking forward to the performance of Henry the Fifth tomorrow. He was delighted that you invited him to Silvermere. He spoke very well of someone who used to be in service here.’

‘Oh? Who was that?’

‘A young woman called Kate, I believe.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Katherine Gowan. We were sorry to lose her. My wife, especially. But the girl upset Romball in some way and she had to go. I never interfere in disputes between my steward and his staff. That would be foolish.’ He handed the musket ball back to Nicholas. ‘My eyes are not what they were, Master Bracewell. Look closely. Do you see any marks upon it?’

‘What sort of marks, Sir Michael?’

‘Three dots in the form of a triangle.’

‘I can see one, I think,’ said Nicholas, peering at the ball. ‘And there’s a trace of a second. If there was a third, it was scraped away when the ball hit the tree.’ He licked a finger and rubbed. ‘There are certainly two dots. I can see the second clearly now.’

‘As I suspected.’

‘Do you know what sort of musket fired it?’

‘Only too well,’ admitted Sir Michael, tugging nervously at his beard. ‘That musket ball was made here in one of my own moulds. We mark all ammunition with three dots when the molten iron starts to harden.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I regret to tell you that you came close to being killed by one of my own muskets.’

‘Who has access to them?’

‘Nobody but myself. As you saw, they’re kept under lock and key.’

‘Somebody must have got into your arsenal.’

Sir Michael paled. ‘They didn’t need to, Master Bracewell. I’ve just remembered. I lent a musket and some ammunition to a friend when he was overrun with rabbits. He borrowed the weapon to control their numbers.’

‘And who was this friend, Sir Michael?’

‘I hesitate to say his name.’

‘Why?’ pressed Nicholas. ‘Who was it?’

‘Jerome Stratton.’