Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

'I puzzled over one omission, Master Firethorn.'

'Yes, my lord?'

At the Queen's Head, you gave us three merry devils.'

'Indeed, sir.'

'And the third was hottest from Hell.' A collective titter was heard. 'Why did we see only two of them this afternoon?'

'Three were rehearsed, my lord.'

'What prevented the third from appearing?'

'An unforeseen difficulty,' said Firethorn smoothly.

'It was a loss.'

'We accept that, my lord.'

Firethorn decided to say nothing about the death of Roper Blundell. He did not want to ruin the festive atmosphere or bother his patron with news of someone who was, in the last analysis, a disposable menial. For the sake of the nobleman's peace of mind, Blundell's fate was softened into a euphemism.

'I hope that you can overcome this-unforeseen difficulty.'

'My lord?'

'During the private performance, I mean.'

'Ah, yes. At Parkbrook House.'

'My nephew will expect a full complement of devils.'

'He will get them, my lord.'

'Francis is a very determined young man,' said Lord Westfield with avuncular affection. 'He's ambitious and industrious. He knows what he wants and makes sure that he gets it. He'll not be stinted.'

'We'll bear that in mind, my lord.'

'He writes to tell me that your visit to Parkbrook has been brought forward. It will now be in two weeks or so.'

'That is rather short notice.'

'He is my nephew.'

'Oh, of course, of course.'

'I trust you'll oblige him, sir.'

'Yes, yes, my lord,' said Firethorn apologetically. 'It will necessitate a few changes in our plans, that is all.'

'Work on the house was proceeding too slowly for his taste so Francis speeded it up. I can imagine him doing that. He knows the value of a firm hand.' There was a hint of a sigh. 'Unlike his elder brother, who always erred on the side of sentiment.'

'As to the performance itself, my lord…'

'It will take place in the Great Hall.'

'I only know the property by repute,' said Firethorn. 'We have played at Westfield Hall many times but never at Parkbrook.'

'Send a man to make drawings and note the dimensions.'

'Nick Bracewell is the one for such an errand.'

'I’ll write to warn of his arrival.'

Lord Westfield accepted another goblet of wine when it was offered and talked about the pride he felt in his company. They wore his livery and carried his name before the London playgoing public. He chose the moment to apply a little pressure.

'I would have you give of your best at Parkbrook.'

'We will do no less, my lord.'

'Francis is very dear to me, sir,' said the other warningly.

'We have much in common, he and I. This banquet has been arranged to establish him as the new master of Parkbrook so I would not have it fall short of expectation.'

'Westfield's Men will be worthy of their patron!'

Firethorn's declaration drew gloved applause from the others.

'You shall not lose by it,' continued Lord Westfield. 'Francis will pay you handsomely for your services.'

'That thought was far from my mind,' lied Firethorn.

'He'll draw the contract up himself, if I know him. Though he enjoys his pleasures, he has never neglected his studies. Francis is no idle wastrel. He is an astute lawyer.'

'He sounds a remarkable person in every way.'

'Very remarkable.'

'And so young to occupy such a position,' observed Firethorn. 'Tell me, my lord, was not his elder brother master before him?'

'That is so, sir.'

'I am sorry to hear that the gentleman has died.'

'Alas, sir! If only he had!' The sigh gave way to an impatient note. 'But I will not brood on poor David. What's done is done and there's no changing it. Francis Jordan owns Parkbrook now. His brother, David, must fade away from our minds.'

*

Kirk's duties at Bedlam were far too onerous to permit him anything more than brief visits to his favourite patient. He was therefore never able to sustain any progress that had been made. David would make some small advance in the morning yet be unsure about it by the same evening. He was constantly taking two steps forward then one back. It was deeply frustrating but the keeper did not give up.

He tried to find a way to help the patient when he himself was not there. Without telling his colleagues, he smuggled some writing materials into David's room. At first, the patient reacted like a child and scrawled over the parchment. Then he began to make simple drawings of cows and sheep and horses. He would sit for hours and smile fondly at his collection of animals. The next stage came when he tried to form words. A whole morning might result in nothing more than one illegible word but Kirk was nevertheless pleased. The breakthrough would surely come.

That afternoon condemned him to the duty that he liked least. With some of the other keepers, he supervised the Bedlam patients who were on display to members of the public. Respectable men and women came to watch with ghoulish fascination as disturbed human beings enacted their private dreams. It was a gruesome event at any time but the thunderstorm made it particularly bizarre. As the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the lunatics kicked and bolted like horses in a stable fire. Their antics became wilder, their screams more piercing, their hysteria more frightening, their pain indescribably worse but the spectators liked the sight and urged the keepers to beat more madness out of their charges.

When it was all over, Kirk began his round of the private rooms. He glanced in through the grille in David's door and saw the latter bent over a table with a quill in his hand, writing something with great concentration. He looked serene, preoccupied, harmless. No sooner had the door been unlocked, however, than he underwent a change. David became such a mass of convulsions that he knocked over the table and fell writhing to the floor. Kirk jumped to his aid and thrust his hand into David's mouth to prevent the latter from biting off his tongue. It was a far more violent and dramatic attack than the earlier one witnessed by the keeper.

Eventually the spasms subsided and David lay there gasping. Kirk helped him on to the bed and mopped the patient's fevered brow. Beside the overturned table was the parchment on which David had been writing with such care. The keeper reached down for it and saw that ink had been thrown all over it in the accident. Whatever words had been slowly extracted from David's mind had now been obliterated.

'What did you write?' asked Kirk.

The only reply was the stertorous breathing.

'David, can you hear me? Are you listening, David?'

The patient stared up with blank incomprehension. He no longer even recognised his name. He was back once more in his twilight world. Kirk was dejected. All their hard work had been thrown away.

There was now a further problem to hold them back.

'What goes on here, sir?'

Rooksley stood in the doorway and read the scene with unfriendly eyes. He crossed to take the ink-stained parchment from Kirks hand. The head keeper made no secret of his anger.

'Who gave him this?'

'I did, Master Rooksley, to help him recover his wits.'

'Writing materials are forbidden.'

'I thought that-'

'Thought is forbidden, Master Kirk! You are paid to obey rules and I did not to change them.'

'This man has the falling sickness. He needs a physician.'

'We are his physicians.'

'But he is a danger to himself.'

'Only when you interfere here. He must be left alone.', 'Master Rooksley, he was responding to my help.'

'You'll not visit this chamber again, sir!' said the head keeper with a snarl. 'It is closed to you from this day forward. And if you will not discharge your duties to my satisfaction, you'll leave Bedlam altogether.'