Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

Hiding his annoyance behind a broad smile, he strutted back on to the stage with the company on his heels. Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor set an example by rising to their feet to clap their hands hard but they had few imitators. Applause was polite but subdued. The tragedy being played out in the middle of the hall was claiming much more attention. After only two bows, Firethorn decided to cut his losses and beat a hasty retreat. Once in the tiring-house, he made straight for the book holder.

‘Where is he, Nick?’ he demanded.

‘Who?’

‘Davy Stratton. The Devil’s apprentice. This is his doing.’

‘You can’t blame him for what just happened out there,’ said Nicholas.

‘I blame him for everything . From the instant he came to us, Davy’s brought nothing but strife. Look what he did to me on stage!’ he wailed. ‘The rascal handed me a carrot instead of a scroll. I was supposed to read a message not eat a vegetable. Davy’s wilful. He set out to mar my performance.’

‘Nobody could ever do that.’

‘No,’ said Gill spitefully, walking past, ‘you do it so well yourself, Lawrence.’

‘Let me at him,’ snarled Firethorn. ‘Bring Davy over here.’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I ordered him back to the cottage so that he could do no more damage. Before you censure him, I suggest you calm down a little.’

‘Calm down! When that imp tries to ruin my reputation?’

‘Davy knocked me flying,’ moaned George Dart.

‘He trod on my robe,’ complained Hoode.

‘And spilt some of that wine over me,’ said Elias.

‘Wait your turns,’ said Firethorn vengefully. ‘I want the first go at him.’

Nicholas did his best to placate him but he was inconsolable. After the success of Double Deceit , they had faltered and Firethorn wanted a scapegoat. Nothing was more important to him than the integrity of his performance. To have it threatened by a mere apprentice was unpardonable. Nicholas let him fulminate. The Great Hall, meanwhile, was being rapidly emptied. When he peeped through the curtains, he saw a small group of people clustered around the fallen man. Doctor Winche was kneeling beside him. From the attitudes of the others, Nicholas realised that the situation was serious. He went back into the tiring-house where the actors were getting out of their costumes in a mood of resignation. It had been a fraught afternoon for them. A meal awaited them in the kitchens but they went off to it without alacrity.

Firethorn was the last to change out of his costume. Nicholas stayed close, anxious to keep him away from Davy Stratton until his hot temper had cooled. He was still angry with the boy himself but felt it more important to probe the reasons for his bad behaviour instead of simply punishing it. Firethorn read his thoughts.

‘You’ll not keep my hands off his hide this time, Nick.’

‘I’ll not try,’ said Nicholas. ‘He deserves rebuke.’

‘I’ll rebuke his buttocks until they glow with pain.’

‘That may not be the best way to treat the lad.’

Firethorn bridled. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that I overlook his treachery?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He must be made to understand how serious his lapses were. We’ll certainly keep him offstage from now on even if his father is in the hall to watch him. In fact, I’m wondering if that was the trouble.’

‘What?’

‘The presence of Jerome Stratton out there. When he handed the boy over to us, the father was all smiles and benevolence but there’s no love lost between him and Davy. Could it be that he wanted to embarrass his father by his naughtiness on stage?’

‘Who cares about his father, Nick? He embarrassed me .’

‘I know,’ sighed Nicholas.

‘Nobody does that with impunity.’

‘There could be another explanation.’

‘Davy is a little demon — that’s the explanation.’

‘Is it? I think we’re forgetting the death of his mother. That’s still fairly recent. It must have upset the boy deeply,’ said Nicholas thoughtfully. ‘I noticed how drawn he was to Anne when he stayed with us in Bankside. She treated him like a son of her own and he showed real affection towards her. Could it be that Anne resembles his mother in some way?’

‘No,’ retorted Firethorn. ‘His mother was some foul witch and the child was fathered on her by the Devil himself. He’s the progeny of Satan and there’s no room for him in Westfield’s Men.’

‘But a contract was drawn up and signed.’

‘I repudiate it!’

‘Do that and Master Stratton will bring an action against us.’

Firethorn was contemptuous. ‘I don’t care a fig for Master Stratton! As for that little brat he foisted on to us,’ he said, grabbing a walking stick that had been used in the play, ‘I’ll see if I can beat some manners into him with this.’

Before Nicholas could stop him, he stalked off towards the door but his exit was blocked by the arrival of Sir Michael Greenleaf. Their host was disconcerted.

‘Thank heaven I’ve caught you, Master Firethorn,’ he said with relief. ‘I wanted a private word with you before you go. First, dear sir, let me congratulate you on your performance as Cosimo, Duke of Parma.’

‘It was abysmal,’ said Firethorn bluntly.

‘It deserved an ovation. I’m sorry that you didn’t get one.’

‘One of your guests decided to steal my applause from me.’

‘Not intentionally, I promise you.’

‘How is the man, Sir Michael?’ asked Nicholas solicitously.

‘That’s the second thing I have to tell you,’ replied the old man. ‘The news is desperate, I fear. Robert Partridge — for that’s his name — collapsed and died in our midst. That’s what robbed you of your due reward, Master Firethorn. I can only apologise. Don’t blame Robert Partridge for the interruption. It was beyond his control.’

Firethorn was saddened. ‘Then I take back what I said, Sir Michael.’

‘What was the cause of death?’ said Nicholas.

‘That’s the curious thing,’ said Sir Michael. ‘At first sight, it looked as if the poor fellow had succumbed to a heart attack and Doctor Winche gave that as his opinion when he examined the body just now. But I have my doubts.’

‘Why?’

‘Robert Partridge was not young but neither was he old. Indeed, he was very robust for his age and had no symptoms of a weak heart. He was a successful lawyer who was seen out riding at a gallop this very morning. Yet he drops down dead in the middle of the Great Hall.’

‘If only he could have waited another two minutes!’ said Firethorn.

Nicholas turned prompter. ‘You say that you have doubts, Sir Michael.’

‘Yes,’ confessed their host. ‘Far be it from me to contradict Doctor Winche but my researches as a scientist have given me certain insights. I can read dead bodies as other men read books. When I looked at Robert Partridge, I don’t believe that I was staring at a man who died of heart failure. His face was contorted, his skin a strange colour and his hands bunched tightly. It was a sudden death and an agonising one. Then there was the strange smell on his breath. That’s what really convinced me.’

‘Of what?’ said Nicholas.

‘I think that he may have been poisoned.’

Firethorn angered again. ‘Do you mean that he was poisoned deliberately so that he’d wreck the crowning moment of the whole play?’

Sir Michael shrugged. ‘I could be wrong, of course.’

‘Supposing that you’re not,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then we have to face a hideous possibility,’ admitted Sir Michael, running a hand across his brow. ‘Robert Partridge was murdered.’

Firethorn fell silent as his mind grappled with the tidings. Making his excuses, Sir Michael withdrew to comfort the grieving widow and to attend to the large gathering of friends who had been badly ruffled by the incident. Firethorn lowered himself to a bench as he brooded. Nicholas sat beside him. The actor suddenly clicked his fingers.