‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, his smile vanishing at once. ‘That’s something I need to speak to you about, Master Pye. When I agreed to take on the role of Lord Malady, I did not expect him to pursue me so relentlessly.’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Let me explain,’ said Hoode quickly, hearing the ire in his friend’s voice. ‘In the course of your play, Master Pye, the villainous Sir Roderick arranges for Lord Malady to be spellbound. He is struck down by fever, then convulsions and even loses his voice. All three things happened to Lawrence in real life.’
Pye was shocked. ‘Never!’
‘They did,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘I thought the play bewitched.’
‘Lawrence suffered grievously,’ said Hoode.
‘That was not the end of it, Edmund. Tell him about the lawyer.’
Hoode nodded sadly and explained how the final moments of The Insatiate Duke had been interrupted by the sudden death of Robert Partridge. In spite of assurances from Doctor Winche that the man died from a heart attack, he added, the use of poison could not be ruled out. Pye was both disturbed and chastened by what he heard. He seemed to withdraw into himself like a snail seeking the refuge of its shell. Firethorn did not let him escape.
‘What’s going on, Master Pye?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ mumbled the other.
‘You know something, man. I can see that.’
‘I might do and I might not.’
‘Stop talking like a lawyer.’
‘But that’s what I am, Master Firethorn.’
‘Not when you take up your pen. You turn into something ever nastier.’
‘There must be some explanation,’ said Hoode, using a gentler tone to coax the truth out of Pye. ‘No sooner did Lawrence take on the role of Lord Malady than he began to be afflicted by these horrendous diseases. What prompted you to invent the spells that are used in your play, Master Pye?’
‘I didn’t invent them,’ confessed Pye.
‘Then where did they come from, man?’ asked Firethorn.
‘A witch.’
‘A real witch?’
‘So it now appears.’
‘Then I have been at the mercy of some evil spells.’
‘Not intentionally, Master Firethorn,’ said Pye sheepishly. ‘And the spells did not last long. You recovered quickly each time.’
‘That’s no consolation. I was in torment. Fever was bad enough, collapse in the middle of church was even worse but there’s no humiliation to compare with being robbed of my Epilogue in Double Deceit by Barnaby Gill. A plague on your witchcraft!’ he roared. ‘You filched my voice from me.’
‘Yet it was soon restored,’ noted Hoode.
‘Do you recall how, Edmund?’
‘By a potion from Mother Pigbone.’
Pye was puzzled. ‘Who is Mother Pigbone?’
‘Another witch, I’ll warrant!’ Firethorn was livid. ‘What’s the use of a play that turns me into a permanent invalid? I thought that Davy Stratton was the devil’s apprentice but I see that his true name is Egidius Pye.’
‘All may yet be well,’ said Pye, trembling under the onslaught.
‘It had better be, sir. I don’t relish being blinded.’
‘Then we change the spell that’s used to blind you in the play.’
‘What of the others?’ asked Hoode.
‘We alter each one to take the sting out of them all. When I began to write the play,’ admitted Pye, ‘I thought witchcraft arrant nonsense that was only fit for derision. Then I met a woman who claimed to be able to conjure up evil spirits and began to have doubts. She had strange powers that unnerved me. You’ve met her as Black Joan in my play where I made her a much more likeable character than she is.’
‘Did she tell you how to cast spells?’
‘Yes, Master Hoode, and charged me handsomely.’
‘It was money well spent,’ growled Firethorn. ‘Her witchcraft was deadly.’
‘We don’t know that, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘It may just be that the play made such a profound impression on you that you imagined the afflictions of Lord Malady.’
‘Imagined!’
‘You became the character.’
‘How can anyone imagine fever, convulsions and a lost voice? That’s nonsense! You saw me on that stage, Edmund. Do you believe I’d let Barnaby poach my Epilogue if I could possibly stop him? I was in despair.’
‘If the play is to blame,’ said Pye, ‘I offer you my abject apology. It clearly has a power that reaches out from the page. Let me amend the lines here and now. I’ll render the spells harmless then you’ll have no fear of blindness.’
‘What must I suffer in its place?’ said Firethorn sourly. ‘Impotence?’
‘Lord Malady’s complaints will be confined to the play.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It stands to reason.’
‘Not when we’re dealing with witchcraft. That defies reason.’
‘Give me the play,’ said Pye, ‘and I’ll remove its venom.’
‘You’re too late to do that for Robert Partridge.’
‘We’re not sure that there’s any connection between his death and The Witch of Colchester,’ said Hoode. ‘The deceased just happened to be a lawyer.’
‘Who was poisoned just like the lawyer in the play.’
‘Are you certain of that?’ asked Pye.
‘Nick Bracewell is and he’s seen the effects of poison before.’ He rounded on the playwright. ‘You were supposed to have written a comedy, sir, not a stark tragedy.’
‘Blame the witch, sir, and not me.’
‘I blame you for purchasing her spells.’
‘Her sorcery was limited,’ said the other. ‘There’s no way that her incantations could have brought about the death of a member of the audience. If the gentleman was poisoned, as you claim, it was done by human agency.’
Firethorn threw up his arms. ‘Who would want to do such a thing?’
‘Someone determined to bring us down, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘We’ve too many enemies to name.’
‘I think we can put a name to this one. He’s desperate enough to arrange an ambush for us and to set someone to burn down the stables. Master Pye is innocent of those charges. The man I’d accuse is that rabid Puritan.’
‘Reginald Orr?’
‘He’ll do anything in his power to expel Westfield’s Men.’
‘Anything?’ said Firethorn quietly as he was seized by a dreadful thought. ‘Is there no crime to which he’ll not stoop? Do you think he would even try to murder our book holder?’
Oakwood House was over five miles from Silvermere. When he eventually found it, Nicholas Bracewell realised why he had missed it on his earlier ride through the area. Situated on the far side of the forest, the house was set in a hollow and encircled by a protective ring of oak trees that blocked it from view. The place was old and rambling but kept in good repair. Thatch had given way to slate on some roofs. Wood had been replaced by brick in the most recent addition to the property, a series of outbuildings. Clement Enderby was evidently a man of substance with a fondness for his home. Even in its winter garb, the formal garden that fronted the house was a remarkable sight. Smoke curled up from every chimney. The place looked warm and welcoming.
When Nicholas dismounted, he first stole a glance over his shoulder, convinced that he had been followed for some part of the journey. Nobody was in sight. He decided that he was mistaken and rang the doorbell. When the visitor asked to see the master of the house, he was invited into a little hall with a fire burning brightly in its grate. Portraits hung on every wall and he was still scrutinising them when Clement Enderby came out to meet him. Enderby was a broad-shouldered man in his forties with the manner and attire of a merchant. Having been brought up in a merchant’s household, Nicholas recognised the telltale signs at once. Enderby winced when he saw his visitor’s injuries. After introducing himself, Nicholas explained the purpose of his visit.
‘Bless me!’ said Enderby with alarm. ‘Young Davy has gone astray?’