‘Clement Enderby and his wife. Good, honest, upstanding Christians.’
‘Is Davy related to them in any way?’
‘No, and he’d have little reason to go there either. Clement Enderby was just one more person unlucky enough to fall out with Jerome Stratton. There have been a number of them over the years, I fear. Well,’ he said, recalling the death that had occurred at Silvermere. ‘Robert Partridge was another. For some reason, he and Master Stratton became sworn enemies. That was not the case with Master Enderby but he somehow found himself on the wrong side of our friend at Holly Lodge.’
‘A less than friendly friend, it seems.’
‘Davy was forbidden to go anywhere near Oakwood.’
‘Why should he want to do so?’
‘To play with the children there.’
Nicholas pursed his lips reflectively. ‘How would I find the house?’
‘Follow, me I’ll point the way,’ said the vicar.
Dyment took him outside, relieved to see that Orr was no longer on church property. The violent argument with the Puritan had upset him and he was still jangled. When he had given Nicholas precise directions, he wished him well.
‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’ he offered.
‘There is one thing, as it happens,’ said Nicholas casually. ‘How well do you know Doctor Winche?’
‘As well as anyone in the parish. A vicar and a doctor have to work closely together. Where medicine fails, prayers can sometimes succeed. Doctor Winche and I have sat beside a lot of beds together in our time.’
‘He seems a very able man.’
‘One of the best in the county.’
‘Yet he resorts to Mother Pigbone in an emergency.’
‘So do many people,’ admitted the vicar with a sigh. ‘Mother Pigbone has rare gifts, there’s no denying it but they smack too much of sorcery for my liking. But I’m in a minority, no question of that. If a respected doctor finds her potions helpful, there’s no better advertisement for them.’
‘She keeps a black boar called Beelzebub.’
‘Had it been named Matthew, Mark, Luke or John, I’d view her more kindly.’
He walked with Nicholas to the waiting horse. ‘Before you go, perhaps you could give me some advice.’
‘Willingly,’ said Nicholas.
Dyment was embarrassed. ‘It concerns the dispute you overheard in the church.’
‘I won’t breathe a word about that to anybody.’
‘That’s immaterial, Master Bracewell. I need your help, not your discretion. The plain truth of it is this,’ he went on, blurting it out. ‘Reginald Orr caught me on a very raw spot. Sir Michael has not merely invited me to watch a play at Silvermere, he’s more or less insisted that I go. As his chaplain, I can hardly refuse but, as vicar here at St Christopher’s, I find it more difficult to accept.’
‘Do you fear that your congregation would disapprove?’
‘Eyebrows would certainly be raised.’
‘Then why tell them you’re going to Silvermere? It’s a personal matter.’
‘Some of my parishioners are bound to see me there.’
‘Then you can raise your eyebrows at them,’ countered Nicholas, producing a sudden giggle from the vicar. ‘They can hardly censure you for something that they themselves are doing. When are you bidden to the house?’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Dyment. ‘On Sunday.’
‘Ah. I see your quandary.’
‘Do theatre companies in London flout the day of rest?’
‘They do, I fear, yet not in any shameful way. Westfield’s Men do not play on the Sabbath because we’re under city jurisdiction but our rivals in Shoreditch and Bankside open their doors regularly. If people are not allowed to work, they argue, then they’re entitled to be entertained.’
‘But entertainment is work, Master Bracewell.’
A deep sigh. ‘None of us would gainsay that.’
‘So what am I to do?’ asked Dyment, washing his hands in the air. ‘Stay in the safety of the church and risk insulting Sir Michael? Or come to a play and leave myself open to moral condemnation?’
Nicholas smiled. ‘Why not simply repay a compliment?’ he suggested.
‘Compliment?’
‘Regardless of what Master Orr might think, actors are not outlandish heathens. When you take matins on Sunday, you’ll find Master Firethorn and the entire company joining you for worship. We’re Christian souls. So,’ continued Nicholas, untying the reins from the yew tree, ‘you can do unto us as we do unto you.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Since we’ll come to see you performing in church on Sunday morning, it’s only fair recompense for you to watch us at work that same afternoon.’ Nicholas saw the look of dismay on his face. ‘Forgive my glib suggestion. It was not meant to offend.’
‘Oh, I’m not offended,’ said Dyment. ‘Far from it. There’s a comforting logic to your argument. But I don’t think that it would persuade Reginald Orr.’
‘Is he likely to be at Silvermere on Sunday?’
The vicar rallied. ‘No, Master Bracewell. Whereas I have a legitimate reason to call at the house for I always take a private service in the chapel. If I happen to dally long enough to peep into the Great Hall, who can blame me?’
‘Nobody. I hope that you enjoy the play.’
Nicholas mounted his horse and thanked the vicar for his help. He rode off at a brisk trot, following a track that led in the direction of the forest. Eyes on the way ahead, he did not notice the tall man who stepped out from behind a tree after he went past.
Reginald Orr was positively smouldering with hatred.
Lawrence Firethorn was horrified to see the author. When Egidius Pye had arrived at Silvermere without warning, the actor had stared at him as if seeing a ghost. Nobody was less welcome at that moment. Given the suffering that the play had already inflicted on Firethorn, his first impulse had been to flee from the man who wrote it but Pye’s meek and apologetic demeanour kept him there. Edmund Hoode had introduced the newcomer to the company and suggested that they prove themselves worthy of presenting The Witch of Colchester. Put on their mettle and aware how badly they had worked that morning, the actors made an effort to vindicate themselves. A small miracle occurred. Not only did they rehearse one of the most difficult scenes in the play without a single blemish, their momentum carried them on until the end of Act Three. Watching them sulkily through the window, Barnaby Gill had been so impressed that he had rejoined the others to take his place on stage and complete the final scene with one of his jigs.
Pye was overjoyed and clapped his hands until his palms were stinging. With the author’s praise still ringing in their ears, the company went off to the kitchen for their midday meal. Firethorn and Hoode lingered in the hall with the lawyer.
‘Extraordinary!’ said Pye. ‘Quite extraordinary!’
‘You liked it?’ asked Firethorn.
‘I adored every moment, sir. I could not believe you’ve done so much to the piece in so short a time. As for the play itself,’ he said, turning to Hoode, ‘your touch has been magical. Your name should be placed alongside my own as co-author.’
‘No,’ insisted Hoode, taking care to stand outside the range of Pye’s bad breath. ‘That would be unjust. Take all the credit, sir. The play is essentially yours. I’ve added little enough but been proud to be associated with such an accomplished piece of work.’
‘Thank you, Master Hoode!’
‘The whole company, as you saw, was inspired by the play.’
‘Their performance was faultless.’
‘And what of mine?’ asked Firethorn, fishing for individual praise. ‘Did I bring out the best in Lord Malady?’
‘It was a revelation!’
‘I missed nothing of the humour in his plight?’
‘Neither the humour nor the pathos. You were sublime, Master Firethorn.’
The actor beamed with false modesty. ‘I always strive to please an author.’
‘You delighted this one, sir!’
‘Which of my scenes excited you the most?’
‘All were equally wonderful,’ declared Pye. ‘You were Lord Malady to the life!’