Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

Kirk bit back his protest. There was no point in antagonising Rooksley. Only if he remained on the staff could Kirk have the slightest hope of helping the patient. The head keeper motioned him out then he locked the door behind them. Kirk glanced back in through the grille.

'Who is he, master?'

'A lunatic'

'But who pays to keep him here?'

'One who would stay unknown.'

*

The storm which had struck London that afternoon had ravaged the Home Counties as well. Eager to ride out on his estate, Francis Jordan was confined to Parkbrook by the lashing rain. He took out his disappointment on anyone within reach and Glanville had to soothe the hurt feelings of many of the domestics. Jordan's mood altered with the weather. As soon as the sun came out to brighten up the countryside, he became happy and affable. Kind words were thrown to his staff. Compliments reached those who worked on in the Great Hall. The new master could exude charm when it suited him.

His horse had been saddled by the time he reached the stables and he was helped up by the ostler. Giving the man a cheery wave, Jordan rode off at a rising trot. Parkbrook glistened like a fairytale palace and the land all around was painted in rich hues. It gave him an immense feeling of well-being to know that he was master of it all. The wait had been a long one but it had served to sharpen his resolution and heighten his anticipation.

He now owned Parkbrook House. All that he lacked was a wife to grace it with her presence and share in its bounty. Francis Jordan let his mind play with the notion of marriage. He would choose a wife with the utmost care, some high-born lady with enough wit to keep him amused and enough beauty to sustain his desire. She would dignify his table, widen his social circle, bear his children and be so bound up with her life at Parkbrook that she would not even suspect her husband of enjoying darker pleasures on his visits to London. Jordan wanted someone whom he could love in Hertfordshire and forget in Eastcheap.

His thoughts were soon interrupted. There was a copse ahead of him and a figure stepped out from the trees as he approached. The man was short, squat and ugly. One eye was covered by a patch that matched the colour of his black beard. His rough arrive was soaked from the rain and he looked bedraggled. Jordan took him for a beggar at first and was about to berate him for trespass. When he got closer, however, he recognized the man only too well.

'Good day, sir!'

Deferential to the point of obsequiousness, the man touched his cap and shrunk back a pace. But there was a calculating note in his behaviour. As he looked up at the elegant gentleman on the horse, he gave a knowing smirk. Jordan was forced to acknowledge him.

Good day,' he said.

Then he rode on past a memory he wished to ignore.

*

Ralph Willoughby rolled out of the Bull and Butcher in a state of guilty inebriation. No matter how much he drank, he could not forget what had happened that afternoon at The Rose. When only two merry devils emerged from beneath the stage, he knew that tragedy had struck though it was only later that he learned what form it took. His association with the play was fatal. Willoughby believed that he had murdered Roper Blundell as surely as if he had thrust a dagger into the man's heart. There was blood on his hands.

More rain was now falling on London and turning its streets into miry runnels. Willoughby's unregarding footsteps shuffled through mud and slime and stinking refuse. Impervious to the damp that now fingered his body, he lurched around a corner and halted as if he had walked into solid rock. St. Paul's Cathedral soared up to block his vision and accuse him with its purpose. Tears of supplication joined the raindrops that splattered his face.

Lumbering across the churchyard, he eventually reached the safety of the cathedral wall. As he leaned against its dank stone, it seemed at once to welcome and repel him, to offer sanctuary to a lost soul and to rebuke him for his transgressions. He was still supporting himself against religion when he heard a wild, maniacal screech that rang inside his head like a dissonant peal of bells. His eyes went upward and a lance of terror pierced his body. High above him, dancing on the very edge of the roof, was a hideous gargoyle in the shape of a devil.

He stared up helplessly as the malign creature mocked and cackled in the darkness. Taking his huge erect penis in both hands, the devil aimed it downwards and sent a stream of hot, black, avenging urine over the playwright's head. Willoughby burned with the shame of it all and collapsed on the floor in humiliation.

Those who later found him could not understand why he lay directly beneath a foaming water spout.

*

Anne Hendrik took him into her bed that night and made love with that mixture of tenderness and passion that typified her. Nicholas Bracewell was both grateful and responsive. Deeply upset by the death of Roper Blundell, he came home late from the theatre and was very subdued over supper. Sensing his need, Anne led him to her bedchamber and found an answering need in herself. They were friends and casual lovers. Because their moments of intimacy only ever arose out of mutual desire, they were always special and always restorative.

They lay naked in each other's arms in the darkness.

'Thank you,' he whispered, kissing her softly on the cheek.

'Does it help?'

'Every time.' He smiled. 'Especially tonight.'

'So you will not change your lodging, sir?"

'Not unless you come with me, Anne.'

She kissed him lightly on the lips and pulled, him close.

'Nicholas…'

'My love?'

'Ate you in danger?" she asked with concern.

'I think not.'

'All these accidents that befall Westfield's Men are disturbing. Might not you be the victim of the next one?

'I might, Anne, but it is unlikely.'

'Why?'

'Because I am not the target.'

'Then who is? Ralph Willoughby?'

'He is involved, certainly,' said Nicholas with a sigh. 'We cannot lightly dismiss the word of Doctor John Mordrake. On the other hand…'

'You still do not believe in devils.'

'No, Anne.'

'Then what did Roper Blundell see beneath the stage?'

'Only he knows and his lips are sealed for ever.'

'Could the surgeon throw any light?'

'He was mystified, Anne.'

'Why?'

'There were no signs upon the body.'

'What was his conclusion?

'Death by natural causes,' said Nicholas sceptically. 'He told us that Roper died of old age and a verminous profession.'

'Poor man! Does he leave a family?"

'None.'

'Is there nobody to mourn for him?'

'We few friends.'

They fell silent for a while then she rolled over on top of him and put her head on his chest. Nicholas ran his hands through her downy hair and traced the contours of her back. Her skin was silky to the touch. When she finally spoke, her voice was a contented murmur.

'I like that.'

'Good.'

'I like you as well.'

'That pleases me even more.'

She propped herself up on her arms so that she could look down at him. A shaft of moonlight was striking the side of his face. She kissed the streak of light then nuzzled his cheek.

'Who is the target?' she asked.

'I do not know, Anne.'; 'What does your instinct tell you?'

'Someone hates the company.'

'Someone human?'

'That's my feeling.'

'Why does the attack always come during a performance?'

'Because that is how to hurt us most,' he argued. 'There are a hundred ways to damage Westfield's Men but our enemy strikes during a play to discredit us in front of an audience. If we had abandoned a performance in the middle, it would have done enormous harm to our reputation, and reputation means everything in the theatre.'