Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘Where exactly did this attack take place?’ said Stratton.

‘In the forest,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I was returning from Oakwood House.’

‘Oakwood? What took you there?’

‘Private business. Though your name did come into the conversation.’

Stratton was sour. ‘I’m sure that it did. Clement Enderby wastes no opportunity to run me down. You’ll get no endorsements for me at Oakwood House, sir, and none at all at Holly Lodge for Enderby.’

‘Yet it was not always so, I hear,’ probed Nicholas.

‘That’s our affair.’

‘According to Master Enderby, you and he were friends at one time.’

‘I thought you came to Essex to stage some plays,’ said Stratton, ‘not to listen to the local tittle-tattle. Be about your business, the both of you.’

‘We’ve not finished here yet,’ said Elias. ‘The local tittle-tattle has it that you and Robert Partridge were not exactly brothers-in-arms either. Is that true?’

‘Your question is offensive.’

‘Then give me an offensive answer,’ taunted Elias.

‘What Owen was intending to say,’ interrupted Nicholas, silencing his friend with a glance, ‘was that there’s been a new development. It appears that Master Partridge may not, after all, have been the victim of a heart attack.’

Stratton shrugged. ‘But that was Doctor Winche’s verdict.’

‘We have reason to believe otherwise, sir. Poison was used.’

‘Poison!’

‘It’s conceivable that he may have been murdered.’

‘But that’s a ludicrous notion. Who would possibility want to murder him?’

‘Someone who fell out with him,’ said Elias levelly.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Stratton, surprise turning to anger. ‘You’re going to accuse me of that as well, are you? What did I do? Put a supply of poison in the end of the musket and fire it down Robert Partridge’s throat?’

‘Nobody is accusing you of anything, Master Stratton,’ said Nicholas gently.

‘Then be so good as to leave my house.’

‘At once, sir. We apologise for this intrusion.’

‘Let it be the last you ever make on my property.’

Before Elias could deliver a tart rejoinder, Nicholas hustled him out. When they mounted their horses, the Welshman was still holding the musket. He held it up.

‘It’s a pity it’s out of action, Nick, or I’d have put a ball between his eyes.’

‘Jerome Stratton was not my assassin,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’d willingly be his.’

‘He’ll still repay watching, Owen. Did you hear the way that he talked about Davy? When he first brought the lad to London, he played the doting father but not any more. He’s obviously glad to get rid of the boy.’

‘I’d like to know why.’

‘So would I,’ said Nicholas, ‘and there’s another question that intrigues me.’

‘What was that?’

‘Who was listening to us from the parlour?’

It was all that Lawrence Firethorn could do to keep the company together during the rehearsal that afternoon. Deprived of his book holder, shorn of the actor who played the key role of Sir Roderick Lawless and deserted by his latest apprentice, he was finding it hard to concentrate. Egidius Pye’s presence, an unlikely boon at first, became an intense irritation to them all. It was not long before tetchiness crept in. George Dart was a convenient whipping boy.

‘George!’ bellowed Firethorn.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You’re getting worse.’

‘Am I?’

‘Dreadfully so. I begin to fear for your sanity.’

‘I’m doing my best, Master Firethorn,’ said Dart, deputising as prompter.

‘Well, it’s nowhere near good enough. What is Master Pye to think when he sees his wonderful play ripped to shreds by the galloping incompetence of its prompter? When you say the lines,’ continued Firethorn, exposing him to the ridicule of the company, ‘we can’t hear them. When we hear them, we can’t understand them. And when we finally do understand them, we realise that they’re from entirely the wrong scene in the play.’

‘I went astray, sir.’

‘You were born astray, George.’

Cruel laughter broke out as Dart once again bore the brunt of Firethorn’s abuse. When another break in rehearsal was taken, it was Barnaby Gill who came to Dart’s aid.

‘It’s unjust to single George out for condemnation,’ he said.

‘Yes, Barnaby,’ returned Firethorn. ‘You certainly deserve your share.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re completely out of sorts this afternoon.’

‘It’s you who should take most of the blame, Lawrence. You hardly got through a speech without a stumble. Lord Malady’s malady is forgetfulness.’

‘And yours is spite.’

‘I’m entitled to point out your mistakes.’

‘Not when you make far more yourself, Barnaby.’

Gill stood on his dignity. ‘What mistake did I make?’

‘Entering the profession of acting.’

‘At least I did enter it,’ said the other haughtily. ‘You stumbled into it like a drunken man falling through the door of a leaping house. My mistake was in joining Westfield’s Men while it had someone like you in it.’

Firethorn inflated his chest. ‘I’m not in the company, I am the company.’

Edmund Hoode was poised to intervene before hot words provoked one or other of them to stalk out for effect but his placatory talents were not needed. The door of the Great Hall opened and Anthony Dyment came scurrying over the oaken floor.

‘I need to speak to Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said.

Firethorn rolled his eyes. ‘So do we all, sir.’

‘Is he here?’

‘Alas, no, as you would have seen from the carnage upon this stage.’

Introductions were perfunctory. The vicar did not linger over the niceties.

‘Where might I find him?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Is he still searching for your missing apprentice?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ said Firethorn, looking around to make sure that nobody else heard the visitor. ‘Do not voice it abroad, sir. When Nick confided our little problem to you, he expected you to be discreet not to preach a sermon on the subject.’

‘I’m sorry, Master Firethorn. My lips are sealed on that matter. But if you know that he called at the church, you’ll also know that he fell foul of Reginald Orr.’

‘Who does not?’

‘An apt question, sir.’

‘Has the bellicose Christian been making threats against Nick?’

‘Worse than that, I fear.’

‘Oh?’

‘He’s gone strangely quiet.’

‘Then perhaps God has taken pity on us all and whisked him up to heaven before his time. Is this all your news?’ teased Firethorn. ‘A noisy Puritan has been silenced?’

‘Two noisy Puritans, Master Firethorn.’

‘Two?’

‘The other one’s name is Isaac Upchard.’

‘The very same rogue who tried to serve us charred horse meat for breakfast. Nick caught him setting alight the stables then captured him later in the day. You can forget about Upchard,’ Firethorn assured him. ‘He’s languishing in a cell and wishing he’d never heard of Westfield’s Men.’

‘But that’s the whole point, sir,’ said the vicar. ‘He isn’t.’

‘You mean that he’s glad we happened to cross his path?’

‘Far from it, Master Firethorn.’

‘Your words confuse me, sir. Could you try them in English, please?’

‘Isaac Upchard is languishing in a cell no longer,’ declared Dyment. ‘That’s why I had to warn Nicholas Bracewell. The prisoner has escaped and he was last heard vowing to get his revenge on your book holder.’

‘The devil take him!’

‘The constable thinks that Master Orr may have devised the escape but there’s no proof of that. When the prisoner slipped out of his cell, the constable was fast asleep.’