Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘What do you want?’ asked Orr gruffly.

‘We’re looking for a missing boy,’ said Nicholas.

‘He’s not here. I live alone.’ He tried to close the door in their faces but Elias put out a hand to stop it. ‘I’ve no business with you, sirs. Away with you.’

‘Not so fast,’ said Elias, noting his Puritan attire. ‘Would you happen, by any chance, to be Master Reginald Orr?’

‘What if I am?’ came the defiant reply.

‘I’ve a feeling we met before on the road.’

‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’

Nicholas took over. ‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell and this is Owen Elias,’ he said. ‘We’re members of a theatre company visiting Silvermere.’ Orr’s face darkened. ‘I understand that you object to our being there, Master Orr.’

‘Very strongly.’

‘So what have you done to stop us?’ challenged Elias.

‘Nothing outside the law.’

‘You weren’t involved in an ambush a few days ago?’

‘No, sir!’

‘Yet you were heard swearing to keep us out of Essex.’

‘I’ll not bandy words with you,’ said Orr contemptuously. ‘In my view, actors are nothing but rats who gnaw away at everything that’s decent and wholesome.’

Elias grinned provocatively. ‘He likes us, Nick.’

‘You and your kind should be wiped from the face of the earth.’

‘That’s a harsh judgement, Master Orr,’ said Nicholas calmly, ‘and it’s not one shared by Sir Michael Greenleaf. He and Lady Eleanor are good Christians yet they see no harm in letting us into their beautiful home. Would you wipe Sir Michael and his wife from the face of the earth as well?’

‘Good day to you,’ snapped the Puritan but he was again prevented from shutting the door by Elias’s strong hand. ‘Let go at once, man.’

‘Not until you tell us where you were last night,’ warned Elias.

‘I’m not answerable to you.’

‘You’re answerable to the law of the land,’ said Nicholas, ‘and the constable will be asking the same question that my friend just put to you.’

‘He’s already done so,’ sneered Orr, ‘and I sent him packing. I was here in my house last night and did not stir from it. So, Master Elias,’ he added, glaring at the Welshman, ‘may I be allowed to close my own front door?’

Nicholas nodded his assent and Elias stepped back. The door was firmly shut.

Vexed in the extreme, Lawrence Firethorn tried to assimilate all the facts in order to make sense of them. Since their arrival in Essex, his company had been ambushed, his voice had deserted him at an embarrassing moment on stage, the stables adjacent to their sleeping quarters had been a target for arson, his new apprentice had deliberately tried to spoil the afternoon performance and a member of the audience had died in time to rob them of their curtain call. Set against those disasters, the flight of Davy Stratton might be seen as a bonus rather than an additional crisis. When he applied calm thought to the problems, however, Firethorn saw that he might have been leaping to conclusions. The death of an anonymous spectator had not been foreshadowed in Egidius Pye’s play even though the victim was a lawyer. What worried him was Sir Michael’s suggestion that the man might have been poisoned. Had he been murdered in order to disrupt The Insatiate Duke? Did the company have an enemy inside Silvermere?

To learn more about the sudden death of Robert Partridge, he walked back to the house to seek out its owner. Sir Michael was in the entrance hall, talking with an agitated Doctor Winche. Lurking in the background, inevitably, was Romball Taylard. The actor ignored the steward and hurried across to the others.

‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Sir Michael,’ he said with a gesture of apology, ‘but I simply had to hear the latest news.’

Sir Michael smiled sadly. ‘The guests have all departed, Master Firethorn, as you see. Apart from those who are staying under my roof, of course. In the circumstances, they felt that they wanted to get away.’

‘That’s understandable but my real concern is for the unfortunate victim.’

‘Robert Partridge’s body has been removed to the mortuary,’ said Winche. ‘I’ll be able to give it a proper examination there.’

‘Were you able to confirm death by unnatural means, doctor?’

Winche registered surprise. ‘No, Master Firethorn. Why should I?’

‘Sir Michael had the impression that the man may have been poisoned.’

‘It was only an impression,’ stressed Sir Michael.

‘There was no hint of poison,’ said Winche firmly. ‘Robert Partridge died by natural means. It may seem unusual for an apparently healthy man to suffer heart failure but it does happen, especially in winter.’

‘Sir Michael spoke of a strange smell on the victim’s breath.’

‘Doctor Winche explained that,’ said Sir Michael. ‘There was nothing sinister in it, according to him. It could be put down to the rich food on which he dined before coming to the play. I’m sorry if I misled you Master Firethorn. I’m an experimental scientist rather than a physician. My true skill lies in astrology. Indeed, I have better news for you on that score,’ he said with inappropriate glee. ‘When I read the constellations last night, I thought I detected joyful events for Westfield’s Men.’

Firethorn spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Your astrology may be as inexact as your medical knowledge, Sir Michael. We’ve seen no signs of joy as yet.’

‘It will come, dear fellow, it will come.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’

‘Well, I must be off,’ said Winche. ‘I need to visit the mortuary.’

‘Before you go, doctor,’ said Firethorn, detaining him with a hand, ‘do I have your word that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding this death?’

Winche detached his arm. ‘None, Master Firethorn.’

‘Then what provoked the heart attack?’

‘ You might be partly to blame, sir.’

‘Me, doctor?’

‘I fear so,’ said the other with a frown. ‘This is no criticism of your art, Master Firethorn, quite the reverse, but the fact is that you gave such a powerful performance as Duke Cosimo that we were all swept along by it. I’ll confess that you had my own heart pounding in the final scene when I thought you were about to ravish Emilia.’

‘That goes for me, too,’ said Sir Michael. ‘I was throbbing with emotion.’

‘A worthy tribute to an actor’s skill.’

‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Firethorn. ‘But I still don’t see that I’m to blame.’

‘You may not be, sir, but you may unwittingly have contributed to his death. Robert Partridge was a man of high passion. Your performance would have worked on his emotions as it did on ours. It’s not inconceivable that, at the very height of the tragedy, he could take no more. In short, his heart burst with pity, Master Firethorn.’

‘Spectators are not in the habit of dying during my performances.’

‘This was a special case,’ said Sir Michael.

‘A very special one,’ agreed Winche. ‘If any poison was involved, it was administered on stage by brilliant actors. The Insatiate Duke was so affecting that it took hold of Robert Partridge and shook him until he died.’ He moved away. ‘And now, you must excuse me. I promised his widow I’d examine the body properly as soon as I can.’

Firethorn was silenced for a moment but not altogether convinced.

‘What sort of man was the deceased, Sir Michael?’ he asked.

‘Robert Partridge was an able lawyer with a good reputation.’

‘Was he a popular man?’

‘Lawyers are never popular,’ said Sir Michael with a wry smile. ‘They’re rather like undertakers. An unappealing necessity.’