Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘There’s another aspect of this, Sir Michael,’ said the steward. ‘They had no right to sneak into your private chapel. How would Master Partridge’s widow feel if she knew that two complete strangers had been staring at his corpse? It’s indecent.’

‘And wholly unnecessary,’ added Winche with an edge to his voice. ‘Exactly how long has this Nicholas Bracewell been practicing medicine?’

‘He sailed with Drake,’ explained Sir Michael, ‘and saw a lot of death aboard, including those poor souls who died of food poisoning.’

‘Is that what he thinks Robert Partridge did? Ate some weird fish from the Pacific Ocean and died in agony? The man had a heart attack, Sir Michael,’ he affirmed. ‘Brought on by overwork. Robert pushed himself too hard.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I thought he looked unwell when I saw him before the play.’

‘So did I,’ agreed Taylard. ‘He also drank more wine than the other guests.’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Robert was always fond of his wine.’

Winche chortled. ‘I don’t blame a man for that. I enjoy a cup of Canary myself. But over-indulgence can be dangerous.’ A thought nudged him. ‘Nobody likes a drink more than actors. After their performance, I daresay they went off to celebrate.’ He turned to the steward. ‘Were wine and ale laid on for them?’

‘As much as they wanted,’ said Taylard.

‘What state were the two men in when you found them in the mortuary?’

‘Drink had certainly been taken, doctor. I smelt it on their breath.’

‘There we are, then, Sir Michael,’ said Winche. ‘On one side, you have the opinion of a doctor who has seen dozens of people struck down by a heart attack. On the other, you have the ludicrous claim of two drunken men who stole into your mortuary on impulse and examined the body by the light of a candle. Whom do you believe?’

‘When you put it like that,’ said Sir Michael, ‘I obviously trust you .’

‘Thank you.’

‘Yet Nicholas Bracewell seemed so convinced.’

‘Mistakenly.’

‘So it appears.’

‘Robert Partridge has been a patient of mine for years. I knew what to look for.’

‘I accept that, doctor, but, as you know, the possibility of poison did occur to me as well. That strange colour in his cheeks.’

‘Too much wine.’

‘That might explain it, I suppose.’

Winche was categorical. ‘Robert Partridge died of a massive heart attack.’

‘You should be grateful to hear that, Sir Michael,’ said Taylard quietly.

‘Grateful that a guest of mine died, Romball?’ asked the old man.

‘No, that was regrettable. It was a dreadful thing to happen. But since it did, Sir Michael, surely it’s better that Master Partridge died from natural causes rather than by any other means.’

‘Be more explicit, man.’

‘The visit of Westfield’s Men means a lot to you.’

‘And even more to my wife.’

‘To you and to Lady Eleanor. Both of you, Sir Michael, have gone to immense pains to offer entertainment to your friends.’

‘Wonderful entertainment!’ said Winche.

‘Everyone accepts that,’ continued Taylard, his face expressionless. ‘But ask yourself this, Sir Michael. How many of your friends would choose to come to the remaining plays if they thought that one of your guests had been poisoned here?’

It was a sobering idea and it made Sir Michael shudder.

Lawrence Firethorn decided that it was time to assert his authority. When they came back empty-handed to Silvermere, he told Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias that their place henceforth was with the rest of the company. They could not be spared again.

‘But we haven’t found Davy Stratton yet,’ said Nicholas.

‘Nor will you,’ said Firethorn. ‘He’s done enough damage to us already. I’ll not have him robbing us of our book holder any longer. To be honest, I don’t care if we never see hide nor hair of him again.’

‘He’s tied to us by contract, Lawrence,’ said Elias.

‘So are you, Owen, and I’m enforcing that contract.’

‘What if his father learns that Davy has given us the slip again?’

‘I’m afraid that he’d show scant interest,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘You heard the way that he talked about his son earlier on. He’s effectively disowned him.’

Firethorn glowered. ‘So have I.’

Nicholas gave him a terse account of their travels that afternoon but the actor was only concerned with his own woes. The rehearsal of The Witch of Colchester had ended in bitterness and confusion. Late into the evening, Firethorn still bore the scars.

‘Forget the musket in the forest,’ he ordered. ‘Ignore a miserable lawyer who might have been poisoned. There’s murder enough in Westfield’s Men to keep the pair of you occupied.’ He pointed a finger as he reeled off the names of his intended victims. ‘I plan to put a hundred musket balls into Egidius Pye. I mean to tip a hogshead of poison down Barnaby Gill’s throat. And, as for that mooncalf, George Dart, I’ll shoot, poison and bury him alive in cow dung. The three of them have tormented me.’

Nicholas and Elias listened patiently while he rid himself of some more bitterness. The three men were seated at a table in the kitchen, eating a meal with those members of the company brave enough to stay within Firethorn’s range. Pye cringed over his food at the table farthest away from them, Gill conversed with Edmund Hoode in a corner and the embattled Dart hid behind a side of beef that swung from a hook and hoped that nobody could see him. It was only when he had finished his recriminations that Firethorn thought of another reason why his companions should stay at Silvermere.

‘Isaac Upchard has escaped,’ he announced.

‘How?’ said Nicholas.

‘The constable went to sleep and his prisoner walked calmly out. The vicar brought the news because he was so anxious to warn us. Upchard is a vengeful man. He’ll be on your trail, Nick.’

‘I’ll be ready for him.’

‘No, you won’t. You’ll be here in the safety of Silvermere, doing the job for which we pay you and saving George Dart from an early death.’

‘This is Reginald Orr’s work,’ said Elias. ‘He must have set his friend free.’

‘So the vicar thought but there’s no proof. And if it’s left to the local constable to find it,’ said Firethorn gloomily, ‘there never will be.’

Elias was rueful. ‘I knew that we hadn’t heard the last of Reginald Orr.’

‘He’ll not bother us if we stay here, Owen, and that’s what we’ll do. There’ll be no more expeditions for you or Nick. Everywhere but Silvermere is out of bounds.’

‘I fear for young Davy,’ said Nicholas.

‘He was the one who chose to run away.’

‘I’d hoped to widen the search still further tomorrow morning.’

‘No!’ said Firethorn, banging the table with his fist. ‘You won’t stir an inch from here. We’ve a large audience coming to see us in Henry the Fifth tomorrow. I refuse to rehearse a single line with that mumbling fool, George Dart, as our prompter. We need to have the play in good order.’

‘I agree,’ said Nicholas with reluctance. ‘It’s the least we owe Sir Michael for his hospitality. For tomorrow’s play, he’s offered to loan me gunpowder for some of our alarums. That should keep the spectators awake.’

Firethorn was soulful. ‘I don’t mind them sleeping, Nick, as long as none of them drops down dead on me. Henry the Fifth is supposed to kill the French, not the audience.’

They finished their meal then drifted back to their lodging with the rest of the company. A row of torches burnt in front of the cottages. Two men were on duty with muskets over their shoulders. Romball Taylard was giving them instructions. When he saw the actors coming, he turned to explain.