The Merry Devils

'And who was that other young lady, Edmund?'

'What other young lady?'

The point was taken. Nicholas withdrew his enquiry. After letting his friend unpack his heart about Grace, he tried to guide him back to the reason that had brought them together on their walk. Shoreditch had now become Bishopsgate Street. Through a gap between two houses, they could see cows grazing in the distance.

"Why did you seek me out?' said Nicholas.

'Why else but to talk of Grace?'

'You had some other purpose, I fancy.'

'Oh.' Hoode's face clouded. 'I had forgot.' -

As the conversation took on a more serious tone, they stopped in their tracks. Neither of them noticed that they were standing outside Bedlam. Nor did they guess that something which might have an important bearing on their own lives was going on behind its locked doors. The hospital was simply a backdrop to their exchange.

'It is Ralph Willoughby,' said Hoode.

'What of him?'

'I need his help with The Merry Devils'

'But he has been outlawed by Master Firethorn.'

'That will not deter me.'

There was a defiant note in his voice but a question in his raised eyebrow. He was ready, of course, to disregard a major decision taken by Lawrence Firethorn. What he needed to know was whether or not Nicholas would support him in his action

'I'll not betray you, Edmund.'

'Thank you.'

'Ralph was not well-treated by us,' said Nicholas. 'I've no quarrel with him and would be glad of his advice about the play.' 'He wrote that scene and only he should alter its course.'

'I accept that.'

'It would be wrong to proceed without him.'

'Work together in private and nobody will be the wiser.'

'I am vexed by a problem, Nick.'

'Of what nature?'

'There is no sign of Ralph.'

'You have been to his lodging?'

'He has not slept there for nights,' said Hoode. 'I can gain no clue as to his whereabouts. That is why I came to you for some counsel. Ralph Willoughby has vanished from London.'

*

The house in Knightrider Street was a large, lackadaisical structure whose half-timbered frontage sagged amiably forwards. Through the open window on the first floor came the rich aroma of a herbal compound, only to lose its independence as it merged with the darker pungencies of the street. A face appeared briefly at the window and a small quantity of liquid was dispatched from a bowl. It fell to the cobbled surface below and sizzled for a few seconds before spending itself in a mass of bubbles. The face took itself back into the chamber.

Evening shadows obliged Doctor John Mordrake to work by candlelight. Up in the cluttered laboratory with its array of weird charts and bizarre equipment, its learned tomes and its herbal remedies, he crouched low over a table and used a pestle and mortar to pound a reddish substance into a fine powder. There was an intensity about him which suggested remarkable concentration and he was not deflected in the least by any of the harsh sounds that bombarded him through the window. He had created his own peculiar world around him and it was complete in itself.

Mordrake was a big man who had been made smaller by age and by inclination. His shoulders were round, his spine curved, his legs unequal to the weight placed upon them. Time had cruelly redrawn the lines on his visage to make it seem smaller and less open than it was. Long, lank, sliver-grey hair further reduced the size of his face, which terminated in a straggly beard. He wore a black gown and black buckled shoes. A chain of almost mayoral pretension hung around his neck and gold rings enclosed several of his skinny fingers.

Old, tired, even ravaged, Doctor John Mordrake yet conveyed a sense of power. There was an inner strength that came from the possession of arcane knowledge, a glow of confidence that came horn a surging intellect. Here was an ordinary man in touch with the extraordinary, an astrologer who could foretell the future, an alchemist who could manipulate the laws of nature, a cunning wizard who could speak to the dead in their own language. Mordrake was an intercessory between one life and the next. It gave him a luminescent quality.

Footsteps creaked on the oak stairs outside and there was a knock on the door. The servant showed in a visitor, bowed humbly and shuffled out. Mordrake did not even look up at the satin-clad gallant who had called on him and who now stood tentatively near the door. The old man worked patiently away and a thin smile flitted across his lips.

'Good evening, sir. I thought you would come again.'

'Did you so?' said the visitor. I have been expecting you for days.'

'Have you?'

'We both know what brings you to Knightrider Street.'

'I am afraid, sir.'

Ralph Willoughby had come to talk about devils.

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Chapter Five

Bankside was anathema to the Puritans, tt was the home of all that was lewd and licentious and most of them sedulously avoided its fetid streets and lanes. Isaac Pollard was a rare exception. Instead of shunning the area, he frequently sought it out on the grounds that it was best to measure the strength of an enemy whom you wished to destroy. He hated his journeys through the narrow passages of Bankside but they always yielded some recompense. New outrages were found on each visit. They served to consolidate his faith and to make him continue his mission with increased, vigour. If London were to be purged of sin, this was the place to start.

Pollard belonged to the hard core of activists in the Puritan fold. Although there were no more than a few hundred of them, they were powerful, well-organised and fearless in the pursuit of their cause. With influential backing in high places, they could on occasion exert strong pressure. Their avowed aim was to remodel the Church of England on Calvinist or Presbyterian lines, introducing a greater simplicity and cutting away what they saw as the vestigial remains of Roman Catholicism. But the Puritan zealots did not rest there. They wanted everyone to live the life of a true Christian, observing a strict moral code and abjuring any pleasures.

It was this aspect of their ministry that brought Isaac Pollard for another walk in the region of damnation that evening. In his plain, dark attire with its white ruff, he was an incongruous figure among the gaudy gallants and the swaggering soldiers. From beneath his black hat, he scowled fiercely at all and sundry.

Believing that integrity was its own protection, he nevertheless carried a stout walking stick with him to beat off any rogues or pickpockets. Pollard was more than ready to strike a blow in the name of the Lord.

A group of revellers tumbled noisily out of a tavern ahead of him and leaned against each other for support. Laughing and belching, they made their way slowly towards him and jeered when they recognised what he was. Pollard bravely stood his ground as they brushed past, hurling obscenities at him and his calling. Even in the foul stench of the street, he could smell the ale on their breaths.