Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘A goodly number,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘That’s my office this morning. To find each one of them and spread the welcome news. Rehearsals begin tomorrow in earnest.’

‘What plays will you take?’

‘That’s still to be decided, Anne. We’re having the usual complaints from Master Gill who wants the whole repertoire to be built squarely around him. The one certain piece is the new one that Sir Michael Greenleaf requested.’

‘The Witch of Colchester.’

‘That’s it. Our first play by Egidius Pye. Not that it’s in a fit state for performance as yet. Edmund has a number of improvements to make.’

‘Will the author permit radical changes to his work?’

‘Gladly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve never met a more obliging fellow. Master Pye raised no objection. Edmund is to call on him this very day. They’ll need to work fast.’

‘What manner of man is Master Pye?’

‘An unusual one.’

‘In what way?’

‘It’s difficult to say,’ he admitted. ‘He was so unlike the person I imagined when I read his play that I began to doubt it was indeed his work. But it certainly is.’

‘How will Edmund get on with him?’

Nicholas thought of the strange creature he had met in the Middle Temple.

‘I think he’ll find Egidius Pye an object of profound interest,’ he said.

‘Come in, dear sir,’ said Egidius Pye, motioning him into the room. ‘This is an honour.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Edmund Hoode, stepping in out of the cold. ‘It’s good to make your acquaintance, Master Pye.’

‘Shall I take your cloak and hat?’

‘Thank you.’

Removing both, Hoode handed them to his host and immediately regretted doing so. The room was only marginally warmer than the street outside, its little fire issuing puffs of black smoke into the room but no discernible heat. Pye laid the cloak and hat on the table before waving his guest to the chair beside the grate. He perched precariously on the stool opposite Hoode. The lawyer’s eye fell on the sheaves of parchment in his hand.

‘I see that you’ve brought my play, Master Hoode.’

‘Along with my congratulations, sir.’

‘Do you mean that?’

‘It’s a clever piece of theatre.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ said the other effusively as if his life had just been saved by the intercession of a brave stranger. ‘Praise from you is praise indeed. This calls for a celebration,’ he decided, getting slowly to his feet and lumbering towards the door. ‘Excuse me for one moment.’

He left the room and gave his visitor time to take his bearings. Edmund Hoode looked around with macabre fascination. The place was even more soiled and disorderly than Nicholas Bracewell had led him to expect. Plates of discarded food stood in the most unlikely places and the floor was awash with bundles of documents. Thick dust lay everywhere while spiders frolicked openly in their webs. Hoode wondered how the lawyer could work effectively amid such chaos. It was minutes before Pye returned. When he did so, he was carrying a pitcher of wine and two goblets.

‘Allow me to offer you some of this,’ he said, placing the goblets on the table so that he could pour the liquid into them. ‘It has an excellent taste and was a present from a grateful client.’

‘I trust that she was not a witch,’ observed Hoode, attempting a little humour. ‘I’ve never been fond of dark potions made from obscene ingredients.’

Pye let out a cackle. ‘Bless you, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is no witch’s brew. You’ll find nothing more troubling in it than a frog’s eye and a slice of rat’s liver.’ He saw the look of disgust on Hoode’s face. ‘I jest, sir, I jest,’ he promised, handing one of the goblets to him. ‘As you see, it’s Canary wine of the finest vintage.’

‘Then I raise my cup in a toast to you, Master Pye.’ After lifting the goblet in the air, he sipped the wine. ‘Most pleasing to the palate.’

Pye resumed his seat. ‘I’m more concerned that the play is to your taste,’ he said with an unctuous smile. ‘It does not pretend to the quality of your own work, of course, but I like to think that it’s not without merit.’

‘Merit and true worth.’

‘Is that the general opinion?’

‘Barnaby Gill likes it and Lawrence Firethorn but a keener critic is the man you’ve already met. Nicholas Bracewell has sounder judgement than the lot of us. If he believes that a play will work on stage, it invariably does.’

‘It was a pleasure to meet him.’

‘Nick is the person who recommended The Witch of Rochester,’ explained Hoode. ‘He’s also responsible for the notion of shifting the location to Essex so that it will have a deeper resonance for our audience.’

‘I owe him my undying thanks.’

‘You’ll have far more cause to be grateful to Nick Bracewell before we’re done. The play calls for a number of effects that only he could devise.’ He sat back to appraise his host. ‘What made you write it in the first place?’

‘It wrote itself, Master Hoode.’

‘That’s what I sometimes say but I know the truth of it. Plays are like houses. They have to be constructed brick by patient brick. Imagination may design the shape of the house but much hard labour goes into its erection.’

‘It didn’t seem like labour at the time.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because witchcraft is a subject dear to my heart.’

‘An uncommon interest for a lawyer.’

‘I’m no lawyer,’ retorted the other with sudden vehemence before gulping down some of his wine. ‘I came into the law out of loyalty to my father rather than through natural inclination. It has vexed me ever since. Do you know how many of us there are, Master Hoode?’

‘Too many, I suspect.’

‘When my father entered the Middle Temple, barely fifty men a year were called to the bar. That figure is now past four hundred. As for attorneys, those who practice in the two common-law courts, their numbers have increased almost as dramatically. Two hundred or so could be counted in my father’s day. And now?’

‘Five hundred?’ guessed Hoode.

‘Well over a thousand. The city is being overrun with lawyers. They breed like flies and are just as bothersome. Please don’t number me among them, sir. I’ve grown to detest my colleagues for their hideous uniformity.’

‘Uniformity?’

‘When a lawyer breaks wind, he smells the same as all the others.’

The vulgarity of the remark made Hoode blink in astonishment. Egidius Pye looked too prim and polite to venture such a comment. He was an odd character. Hoode had been warned that it was not easy to take to the man and he could now understand why. Apart from his physical peculiarities, Pye had a disconcerting manner and breath that smelt in equal parts of vinegar, onions and rancid cheese. The man’s bachelor status was self-evident. No woman would let him near her. Working with him would not be without its drawbacks. After another sip of wine, Hoode tapped the play in his lap.

‘We need to discuss this, Master Pye.’

‘I’m all ears, sir,’ said the other seriously.

‘The plot is good, the characters engaging and the thrust of the piece well judged. There is, however, space for considerable improvement.’

‘Show me where it is, Master Hoode.’

‘I will but, before we tinker with what is already there, let’s first talk about what is not. Supplying the play’s deficiencies must be our initial task.’

‘Please list them.’

‘First, we need a Prologue, a speech of twenty lines or so that both explains what is to follow and gives the flavour of the piece.’

‘It shall be done,’ agreed the other.