Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

Doctor John Mordrake had a personal stake in the event.

*

Superstition was the life-blood of the theatre. Most actors carried lucky charms or recited favourite pieces or went through an established ritual before a performance in the belief that it conferred good fortune. It was standard practice. Among Westfield's Men, it now became something far more. The Merry Devils enslaved them to superstition. Hardly a man in the company did not take some precautions. Several of them went to the cunning woman in Vixen Lane to purchase charms that would ward off evil spirits. Two of them spent the night in prayer. Three more had parted with a groat apiece for a phial of liquid that was guaranteed to preserve them from any supernatural manifestation, and they were not in the least put out by its close resemblance to vinegar both in appearance and taste. Other charlatans had made their profits in other ways from the credulous players. Their situation was desperate. They would try anything.

Lawrence Firethorn evinced the confidence of old. He had the seasoned calmness of the veteran before battle. Yet even he had made one concession to the possibility of an unexpected guest. He wore his rapier at his side and kept one hand upon it.

Nicholas Bracewell appraised him in the tiring-house.

'Justice Wildboare has no need of a sword,' he said.

'Lawrence Firethorn might.'

'There is no real devil, master.'

'Then a counterfeit one will feel my blade.'

'None will appear.'

'How can you say that after last night?'

They kept their voices low and both wore smiles to mask their inner doubts. It was their duty to set an example to the others and to instil some confidence.

'Has everything been checked?' asked Firethorn.

'Several times, master.'

'Below stage?'

'I was there myself but two minutes ago. All is in order. The gunpowder is in place and the trap-doors are ready.'

'And if something should go awry?'

'It will not, sir.'

'But if it does…'

'Ned Rankin holds the book for me during that scene,' said Nicholas. 'I'll be free to watch more closely and take action if the need arises. Trust in me.'

'I always do, dear heart!'

Firethorn clapped him on the shoulder then wandered off. Nicholas went across to the three men who suffered the most-the merry devils. Seen from behind, George Dart, Roper Blundell and Caleb Smythe looked identical in their startling costumes. Dart was silent, Blundell was wide-eyed with nervousness, Smythe was reciting a children's rhyme to himself by way of a diversion.

Nicholas gave what reassurance he could but it was wasted on Blundell and Smythe who were far too steeped in misery. Dart, however, responded with an uncharacteristic chuckle. The others stared at him. When the most timorous member of the company could face his ordeal with amusement, there was only one explanation.

'Have you been drinking, George? said Nicholas sternly.

'Yes, master,' came the happy reply.

You know where you are?'

'In Bankside at The Rose.'

'You know what you have to do?'

Another chuckle. 'Pop up through a trap-door and cry "Boo!"'

'Are you fit for this work?' said the book holder seriously.

'I'll not let you down, master.'

Nicholas did not have the heart to castigate him. It was a strict rule of the company that nobody went on stage inebriated. Dismissal was a real threat to offenders. George Dart was no drunkard. Apart from anything else, his meagre wage would not sustain such a habit. Only the need to combat a terrible fear could have sent him to a tavern. Nicholas understood and made allowances. Dart was sober enough to play his part and drunk enough not to worry about it.

'We count on you, George. Mark that.'

'I know my role, sir.'

'Then do not play it too close to Master Firethorn. You know his rule about drink. Be merry, George, but not to excess.'

'I'll be a devil to the life!'

*

When the black cloak of the Prologue swished on to the stage, there was a tumultuous reception. It was surpassed only by the cannonade of sound that greeted the entry of justice Wildboare. The audience surrendered to Lawrence Firethorn before he even opened his mouth. When he did finally launch into his first long, expository speech, he found humour in every phrase-sometimes, in a single word-and set the whole place at a roar. By the time: he other characters joined in the action, the spectators had been Thoroughly warmed up.

As the play gathered pace and the laughter intensified, it soon became clear that this performance was vastly better in every way than the earlier one. Some important changes had been made. Edmund Hoode had tightened the construction, introduced a new comic duel, provided some new songs and generally improved the whole texture of the play. The most notable alteration came with his own character. Youngthrust had even more prominence now-his codpiece was stupendous-and he wept buckets of glorious blank verse. Some of the words were written for Grace Napier but the whole theatre appreciated them.

Doctor Castrato had lost lines but gained extra stage business. His mincing steps and piping voice mined new veins of hilarity. When he promised Justice Wildboare that he would raise a devil, the loudest shout of the afternoon went up from the onlookers.

This was the moment which they had come to relish and they tensed themselves in readiness.

As she had been instructed, Anne Hendrik kept her eyes on the trap-doors. Henry Drewry stood up to look over the head of the man in front of him. Doctor John Mordrake felt a tingle of premonition. Isaac Pollard bunched his fists and lifted the single eyebrow. Lord Westfield nudged his companions to watch carefully.

Ralph Willoughby went faint with dread.

Castrato went into his attenuated chanting. Then he did an elaborate mime that culminated in his act of summons when he scattered a magic powder in two different places on the stage. Response was immediate. One trap-door opened and out jumped George Dart to the accompaniment of a blinding flash and a resounding bang. The effect was so well-timed that it completely stunned the audience. Emboldened by drink, the first merry devil scuttled around the stage with gleeful abandon.

Nicholas Bracewell was concealed behind the arras to get a better view. He wondered why the second trap-door did not open. Roger Blundell should have appeared simultaneously with Dart. Had there been a problem with the mechanism. He was given no time to speculate. There was a longer, louder, blighter explosion and Caleb Smythe catapulted up through the first trap-door. He did a wild jig, turned a somersault, then went with his co-devil to kneel before their new master.

Justice Wildboare took over.

Nicholas slipped quietly into the tiring-house and made his way to the steps at the rear. He went down under the stage to find it gloomy and permeated with the smells of the multitude. The play continued above his head. It was quite eerie. As he picked his way along, he could hear the actors strutting about on the boards and feel the roar of the spectators pressing in upon him.

Something sparkled in the half-light. It was the protruding eyes of Roper Blundell. He lay flat on his back in a little red heap, gazing up sightlessly at the drama that he should have joined. Nicholas knelt down beside him and learned the worst. Here was one merry devil who would never go up through a trap-door again.

Roper Blundell was dead.

Nicholas Bracewell bent over the body and examined it as best he could in the circumstances. He saw no wound, no blood, no mark of any kind. There was nothing at all to indicate the cause of death. A decision now had to be made. Did he take the corpse away or leave it where it was? Decency suggested the former but practicalities had to be taken into account. Nobody else knew about the death of Roper Blundell. To walk back up to the tiring-house with the little body in his arms would be to disseminate terror. The play itself was still running. That was the main thing. Nicholas could not risk bringing it to a premature halt by revealing that it had somehow brought about the demise of an assistant stagekeeper.