The Merry Devils

'Malleus Malleficarum?'

'Yes,' replied Mordrake, clutching the book to his chest like a mother cradling a child. 'Hexenhammer, as it is sometimes called. The Hammer of Witches. First printed in 1486. Written by two Dominicans from Germany. Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer, scholars of great worth and reputation.' He sat on the stool again. 'It is a wondrous tome.'

'Can it help me, Doctor Mordrake?'

'It can help any man.'

'Truly, sir?'

'Here is the source of all enlightenment.'

Ralph Willoughby touched the book with a reverential hand before looking up to search his companion's grey eyes. Hope and apprehension mingled in his breathless enquiry.

'Will it save my soul?'

*

Westfield Hall was a vast, rambling mansion set in the greenest acres of Hertfordshire. From a distance, it looked mote like a medieval hamlet than a single house, being a confused mass of walls, roofs and chimneys on differing levels. It presented to the world a black and white face that glowed in the afternoon sun beneath hair of golden thatch. The house was as splendid and dramatic as its owner, with a hint of Lord Westfield's paunch in its sagging eaves and a reflection of his capricious nature in its riotous angles.

Francis Jordan stayed long enough to feel a twinge of envy then he turned his head away. Spurring his horse, he went on past Westfield Hall for half a mile or so and came to a long, wooded slope. His bay mare took him through the trees at a steady canter until they reached a clearing. A sturdy man in rough attire was carrying a wooden pail of water towards a small cottage. Jordan brought his mount to a sudden halt and directed a supercilious stare at the man. Instead of the deferential nod that he expected, he was given a bold glance of hostility. Jordan fumed. His horse felt the spurs once again.

When he emerged from the woods and got to the top of the ridge, he reined in the animal once more. From his vantage point, he gazed down at the dwelling in the middle distance. Parkbrook House was true to its name. Set in rolling parkland, it was almost encircled by a fast-running brook that snaked its way through the grass. The house was built of stone and replete with high casements. With its E-shaped design, it was more austere and symmetrical than Westfield Hall and could lay claim to none of the latter's antiquity, but it still did not suffer by comparison in the mind of Francis Jordan. There was a unique quality about Parkbrook House that lifted it above any other property in the county.

It was his.

As soon as he began to ride down the hill, he was spotted. By the time Jordan arrived, an ostler was waiting to help him dismount and take care of his horse. The steward was standing nearby.

'Welcome, master!' he said with formal enthusiasm.

'Thank you, Glanville,'

'All is ready for your inspection.'

'I should hope so, sir.'

'They have worked well in your absence.'

Joseph Glanville was a tall, impassive, dignified man of forty. As steward of the household, he had power, privilege and control over its large staff of servants. He was dressed with a restrained smartness that was made to look dull beside the colourful apparel of his master. Over his grey satin doublet and breeches, Glanville wore a dark gown that all but trailed on the ground. A small, tricornered hat rested on his head and his chain of office was worn proudly. He had been at Parkbrook House for some years and addressed his duties with the utmost seriousness.

'Take me in at once,' said Jordan peremptorily.

'Follow me, sir.'

The steward conducted him across the gravel forecourt and in through the main door. A group of male servants were standing in a line in the entrance hall and they bowed in unison as their master passed, Jordan was pleased and rewarded them with a condescending nod. He walked behind Glanville across the polished oak floor. When they reached the Great Hall, the steward stood aside to let him go in first.

Francis Jordan viewed the scene with a critical eye.

'I thought the work would be more advanced.'

'Craftsmanship of this order cannot be rushed, sir.'

'There is hardly any progress since my last visit.'

'Do not be misled by appearances.'

'I wanted results, Glanville!'

His barked annoyance caused everyone in the hall to stop what he was doing. The plasterers looked down from their scaffolding. The painters froze on their ladders. Carpenters working on the moulded beams held back their chisels and the masons at the far end of the room put down their hammers. Francis Jordan had wanted to redesign and redecorate the Great Hall so that it could become a focal point of his social life. As he strolled disconsolately over sheets of canvas, it seemed to him that the work was not only behind schedule but contrary to his specification. He swung round to face his steward.

'Glanville!'

'Yes, sir?

'This is not good. It is less than satisfactory.'

'If I might be permitted to explain...'

'This is explanation enough,' said Jordan, waving an arm around. 'I looked to have the place finished ahead of time.'

'Problems arose, sir. Some materials were difficult to come by.'

'That is no excuse.'

'But the men are working to the very limit of their capacity. I Can promise you that everything will be completed in a month.'

'A month! It must be ready in two weeks.'

'That is well-nigh impossible, master.'

'Then make it possible, sir!' snarled the other. 'Bring in more craftsmen. Let them work longer hours--through the night, if need be. I must and will have my Great Hall ready for the celebrations. I can wait no longer.'

'As you wish, sir,' said Glanville with a bow.

Jordan sauntered on down to the far end where the major alteration had occurred. A huge bay window had replaced the old wall and it allowed sunlight to flood in from the eastern aspect. As he shot a glance of reproof at them, the masons began to hammer away again in earnest. Jordan examined their work then looked back into the hall as if trying to come to a decision. He pointed a long finger.

'We will need the stage there, Glanville.'

'Stage, master?'

'A play will be performed at the banquet.'

'I understand, sir.'

'Westfield's Men will require a platform for their art.'

'They shall have it.'

Glanville bowed again, anxious not to incur any further displeasure. To be chastised so sharply in front of others was a blow to his self-esteem. He did not want to give his new master another chance to arraign him so openly. Joseph Glanville was a sensitive man.

'One last thing,' said Jordan.

'Yes, master?'