Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘I was there as well, Barnaby,’ said Elias.

‘Fetching the horses. Yes, we’ve heard.’

‘Owen came along at just the right time,’ said Nicholas, shielding his friend from further derision. ‘I couldn’t have done it without him. We pinioned Master Upchard then hauled him off to the constable.’

Firethorn frowned. ‘That’s the only bit that worries me. These country constables are even worse than our London watchmen. You only get to hold the office if you’ve one eye, one arm, one leg, one tooth, and one foot in the grave.’

‘How many testicles, Lawrence?’ asked Elias, chuckling.

‘Three,’ retorted the other, ‘so you can apply for the post tomorrow.’

‘Is the prisoner safely under lock and key?’ asked Gill over the merriment.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The constable is elderly but he knows his job and has put Master Upchard in a cell from which he’ll not escape. I doubt that he’d have strength to do so. I landed on top of him when we fell to the ground.’

‘We should have buried him where he lay,’ said Elias.

Nicholas was pleased to be able to bring back such heartening news. It cheered the whole company. Firethorn had said nothing to them about the flight of their new apprentice and the story of Upchard’s capture diverted attention away from Davy Stratton. With unlimited ale at their disposal, the actors caroused for hours before they began to peel away. Gill was among the first to leave.

‘A word in your ear, Nicholas,’ he whispered to the book holder. ‘Give that young scamp fair warning from me. I’m the clown in this company. If Davy tries to steal a laugh from me on stage again, I’ll cut him into pieces and feed him to the ducks.’

As the kitchen slowly cleared, Nicholas was left alone at the end of the table with Firethorn. The actor was able to confide his worries about the death of Robert Partridge. He recounted in detail the conversation with Sir Michael and Doctor Winche.

‘I felt that the doctor was lying, Nick.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘I’ve no idea but he wouldn’t even discuss the notion that the man had been poisoned.’ Firethorn bristled. ‘He had the nerve to suggest that I was responsible for the man’s heart attack. Duke Cosimo overexcited the fellow, that was his claim.’

‘A strange diagnosis for a doctor to make.’

‘Yet he cured me when I lost my voice so he’s a competent physician.’

‘I’m sure that he is,’ said Nicholas, ‘or he would not enjoy Sir Michael’s confidence. But we must remember that it was not his medicine that brought back your voice. It was a potion from this Mother Pigbone.’

‘He called her a local wise woman.’

‘How many doctors rely on such an unusual source?’

‘None that I know of, Nick.’

‘I’d like to meet this Mother Pigbone at some point,’ said Nicholas. ‘She must be an extraordinary woman if she can win the trust of someone like Doctor Winche. As to his diagnosis, he may have been simply trying to ward off panic.’

‘In what way?’

‘Sudden death like that is always disturbing. To announce that the victim had been poisoned would have spread even more alarm and distressed the widow beyond bearing. Perhaps that’s why the doctor concealed any hint that the death might be by unnatural means. Besides,’ added Nicholas, ‘he only examined the man in the hall when he had a small audience around him. How could he make a proper diagnosis there?’

‘It was impossible,’ said Firethorn, finishing his drink. ‘The doctor was anxious to make a fuller examination of the corpse. It’s been removed to the mortuary.’

‘Here at Silvermere?’

‘I believe so. It’s at the rear of the family chapel.’

Nicholas ran a meditative finger around the rim of his tankard. ‘Do you think that we should pay our respects to Master Partridge?’ he said at length.

‘Why?’

‘He might tell us something that Doctor Winche is keeping from us.’

‘But he’s stretched out on a slab.’

‘I’ve looked on death more times than I care to remember,’ said Nicholas a pained expression, ‘and it has many guises. When I sailed with Drake around the world, we lost a large number of men. Some were drowned, some killed by hideous accidents on board, a few perished at the end of a rope. Others died of fever, scurvy, fatigue, sweating sickness, eating strange fish or even drinking their own infected urine when fresh water ran out. You can tell by a man’s face if he died happily or not.’

‘Say no more,’ decided Firethorn, reaching for a candle. ‘Let’s introduce ourselves to this lawyer. I can ask him if he enjoyed my performance.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘Don’t expect an answer.’

They left the kitchen and made their way along a passageway. Having been given a tour of the house on his first visit, Nicholas knew how to find the chapel. It was in the east wing of the property, close to the private apartments of Sir Michael and his wife. The mortuary was at the rear of the chapel, a small, stone-flagged chamber that was reached by a flight of steps. Nicholas and Firethorn went slowly down the steps and opened the door. A candle burnt inside the mortuary, casting a pale glow over the corpse on the marble slab. Herbs had been scattered to sweeten the atmosphere but the smell of death and damp was still paramount. Holding his own candle, Firethorn took it across to the body of Robert Partridge and held it close to his head. Nicholas peeled back the shroud to reveal the tortured features of the deceased. He studied the face carefully before pulling the shroud back further in order to look at the torso and arms. Stripped naked, the corpse was still in an attitude of torment.

‘Is this what I did to him?’ whispered Firethorn.

‘Not without help from someone else,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think he was poisoned.’

‘That was Sir Michael’s feeling.’

‘He may be a sounder physician than Doctor Winche.’

‘Or simply a more honest one.’

Nicholas pulled the shroud back over the face of the cadaver and they turned to leave. Both of them started when they saw a tall figure standing in the doorway. In the wavering light of the two candles, they saw the expression of cold anger on the face of Romball Taylard. They had not heard him arrive and had no idea how long he had been there. The steward’s voice was heavy with disapproval.

‘This is private property,’ he said.

Firethorn gave a shrug. ‘We got lost.’

Mother Pigbone sang quietly to herself as she put another log on the fire and adjusted the iron pot that hung above the flames. It was early morning but she had been up since dawn to feed Beelzebub before getting her own breakfast. The black boar was not merely an agreeable companion for her. It gave her warning of the approach of strangers. When she heard a series of loud grunts from the sty, she knew that somebody was coming. Wiping her hands on her grubby apron, she went outside to see who it was. The rider was following the twisting path through the woods before he emerged into the clearing. He came to a halt in front of her hovel and looked down at her.

‘Mother Pigbone?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I offer you greetings and thanks,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, touching his hat politely. ‘I belong to a company of players who are performing at Silvermere. When one of our number was struck down, you supplied a potion to recover him.’

‘I believe that I did,’ she said cautiously, peering at his bruised features. ‘Have you come for medicine on your own account, sir? I can see that you need it.’

‘It’s information that I seek.’

‘Would you not like some ointment to take away the pain?’