'I am the master here!' shouted Francis Jordan. 'Nothing changes that! Parkbrook is mine!'
Jack Harsnett crept into the hall and kept in the shadows as he worked his way towards the stage. Francis Jordan had dominated his mind for weeks. When he looked at the new master, he saw his wife buried in a mean grave, he saw the cottage they had shared for so many years, he saw the horse and cart they had owned. He also heard the voice of a one-eyed man who had been paid to frighten the mount of David Jordan as the latter rode at full gallop along a ride. The accident had not brought about the death that Francis Jordan had intended for his brother but it nevertheless made him into the new squire.
'Parkbrook is mine? he repeated. 'I defy anyone to take it from me.'
Harsnett accepted the challenge willingly.
He struck with terrifying force. Charging on to the stage with his axe held high, he needed only one vicious downward sweep of the blade to split the skull wide open. Blood spurted everywhere. In the general panic that ensued, Nicholas Bracewell darted forward to grapple with the forester and relieve him of his weapon. Burly servants came to his aid and they dragged Harsnett out.
The new master of Parkbrook lay dead on stage. With a gesture that was at once theatrical and tactful, Lawrence Firethorn removed his cloak and spread it over the corpse. Lord Westfield was stunned by it all and all the guests were dumbfounded. They were transfixed by the sight of the dead body of Francis Jordan.
Nicholas spared a thought for the elder brother and looked up at the gallery in time to see a breathless Grace Napier arrive. She walked towards David with her arms outstretched. He took time to recall who she was then he took her into a warm embrace. As one brother had met with grim justice, another was given a new lease of life. David Jordan was far from well but he would continue to recover now that he had Grace to nurse him.
The drama was not yet over. While everyone was still dazed by the spectacular murder on stage, a massive explosion went off and the Mouth of Hell was wheeled forward yet again. The flames were much bigger this time because they were consuming the prompt book of The Merry Devils, and because they were being intensified by sterner action on the bellows. As the fire blazed away in front of them, the audience saw the most extraordinary sight yet. A tall, elegant man, clad in red and black, stepped out of the Mouth of Hell in such a way that he seemed to be on fire. When they looked again, they saw that the flames were real.
Ralph Willoughby was burning to death before their eyes.
He was not afraid and seemed to be in no pain. He was even able to execute a short comic dance. Willoughby had planned it all with meticulous care. As he took his own life, he was also destroying the play which had caused so much disaster. There was a poetic justice to it all. Arms aloft in a gesture of farewell, he became a solid ball of flame and collapsed in the centre of the stage. When buckets of water finally arrived, they were years too late.
Willoughby had gone back to his Maker.
*
Problems during performance were not confined to Westfield's Men. Ten days later, at The Theatre in Shoreditch, Banbury's Men presented their new play, The Witch of Oxford. It was well played and equally well received until the moment when the witch cast her first spell. As she tried to summon up a black dog to act as her familiar, it appeared out of the air with gnashing savagery and chased everyone within reach. The play was abandoned and the company spent the night in prayer.
Ralph Willoughby had tricked them from beyond the grave.
'You must take most of the credit, Nick.'
'Oh, I do not think so,' said the book holder modestly.
'But you tracked down those acrobats and forced Grace to confess the truth. Yes, and you also suffered much for our sakes at the Counter.'
'That is behind me now, Edmund.'
The two friends were walking up Gracechurch Street on their way to the Queen's Head. Their voices were raised above the babble all around them. Parkbrook still bulked large in their minds.
'The house is to have a new guest,' noted Hoode.
'The miller's son from Bedlam.'
'Thanks to Doctor John Mordrake.'
'Yes,' said Nicholas. 'That is something else we owe to Ralph. He introduced us to that remarkable man. It was Mordrake's belief that the patient would slowly improve if taken away from Bedlam. The young man will get plenty of care at Parkbrook.'
'Master Jordan feels indebted to the fellow.'
'He is indebted to his steward as well.
'And to Grace!' said Hoode fondly. 'I worshipped her, Nick, and part of me always will, but I can see that he is better for her than me. Sonnets to beauty are all very well bin who reads verses when they have been married a fortnight? No, she and David Jordan have earned each other. We endured much to bring them together but our afflictions are now easy to bear. He needs the loving attention that only she can provide. Th.u is true devotion.'
They turned in through the main gates of the Queen's Head and strolled into the yard. The stage was set for another play and they stopped to gaze at it for a few seconds.
Hoode heaved a long sigh of regret.
'I will miss Ralph,' he said.
'Yes, he brought something rare to Westfield's Men.'
'Lawrence thought he betrayed us when he wrote that play for Banbury's Men but he was only setting a trap for them.' Hoode turned to his friend. 'Where is he now, do you think?'
'I am not sure.'
'Ralph wanted to go to Hell.'
Nicholas considered the matter then smiled affectionately.
'He was far too merry for Heaven."
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The End
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