The Counterfeit Crank (21 page)

A short distance beyond the cottage, he reined in his horse and looked back over his shoulder, wondering whether or not he should call on the playwright. Certain that the man would be working on the new scenes for
A
Way to Content All Women,
he decided that it would be unwise to interrupt him, and he suspected that Grammaticus would be discomfited by an unheralded visit. Nicholas swung his horse around. He was about to ride back down the hill when he saw another familiar figure. The man was cantering towards him on a bay mare. Before he reached Nicholas, he brought the animal to a halt and dismounted
in front of the cottage where Grammaticus was working. Almost immediately, a servant emerged to take charge of the horse and lead it to the stables at the rear. The man, meanwhile, entered the cottage with a proprietary strut.

It was Doctor Emmanuel Zander.

When the stage had been dismantled and put away, all trace of the players may have vanished but not of the performance itself. The yard into which the spectators had been crammed was littered with discarded food and other rubbish. One of Leonard’s many tasks was to sweep the yard with a broom so that it was relatively clean when the audience filled it on the following afternoon. It was lonely and repetitious work but he did it with his customary zeal, using his strength to sweep everything into a huge pile that he could load into his barrow. As he brushed away with rhythmical strokes, Leonard sent a small shower of dust into the air. He did not see the man who came into the yard.

‘One moment, friend,’ said the stranger. ‘Do you work here?’

‘I do, sir,’ said Leonard, pausing to lean on his broom.

‘Then you’d know of the company that performs here.’

‘Westfield’s Men, the best players in London. And I’m part of the troupe, sir, for I sweep up after them.’ Leonard glanced around the yard. ‘This mess was made this afternoon during
Love and Fortune
.’

‘Do you know any of the actors?’

‘Know them, sir? Why, I’m friends with each and every one.’

The stranger, a small weasel of a man in his thirties, stepped in closer.

‘Would they include a fellow by the name of Owen Elias?’ he asked.

‘Yes, they would. Owen’s among the finest of them.’

‘A fiery Welshman, as I hear.’

Leonard chuckled. ‘Then you hear aright. Owen will let no man put him down. If you meet him in the taproom, be sure to treat him with respect or he’ll buffet you for certain.’ He looked down at the man. ‘What’s your business with him?’

‘The person I really seek,’ said the stranger, ‘is a friend of his, who may or may not have any dealings with Westfield’s Men. Have you ever heard tell of one Nicholas Bracewell?’ Leonard burst out laughing. ‘What did I say to set you off?’

‘Anyone who knows Westfield’s Men will know Nick Bracewell, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he holds them all together,’ said Leonard, proudly. ‘Nick is the best friend that I have in the company. He’s their book holder.’

Owen Elias juggled with three apples and kept them spinning through the air. As soon as Hoode applauded him, however, he lost his concentration and his timing. All three apples tumbled to the floor. Hoode bent down to retrieve them.

‘No, no, Edmund,’ said Elias. ‘I dropped them, so I must pick them up.’

‘It was my fault that they fell to the floor.’

‘I should not have been so easily distracted. It was Barnaby who taught me how to juggle. He can keep five apples in the air at one time and they are never in any danger of being dropped.’ He gathered up the fruit and replaced it in a bowl. ‘You may judge what that proves.’

‘Barnaby has quicker hands than you.’

Elias gave a coarse laugh. ‘Many young men have learnt that.’

After a long day without visitors, Hoode was relieved when the Welshman called to see him, but distressed to hear of the calamitous performance of
Love and Fortune
that afternoon. Hoode had felt well enough to get out of bed and dress, but he was tiring as the evening wore on. Elias did his best to entertain his friend with antics and anecdotes. They were both pleased when Nicholas Bracewell joined them.

‘I was beginning to think my friends had forgotten me,’ said Hoode.

‘We could never do that,’ promised Nicholas. ‘Owen will have told you of our tribulations today. We barely got through the play.’

‘I should have been there to help you.’

‘Not while you are still unwell,’ said Elias. ‘But what’s this I hear about Michael Grammaticus stealing your play away from you?’

‘That’s not the case at all, Owen.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He’s merely writing a couple of scenes to see if he can pick up Edmund’s voice. Michael believes that he can work just as well in a comedy.’

‘How?’ wondered Elias. ‘Comedy is about laughter and I’ve never seen the fellow crack his face. I’ve seen happier countenances on a slab at the morgue.’

Nicholas shot him a look of reproof. By prior arrangement, they had agreed to say nothing about Bridewell in Hoode’s presence, nor to worry him with details of what had been taking place there. Elias gave the book holder an apologetic shrug. After a few minutes, he bade farewell to his friends and went off. Left alone with him, Nicholas was able to take a closer look at Hoode.

‘How do you feel now, Edmund?’

‘I am well in the morning, when I take my medicine, then drowsy after I’ve dined. The medicine revives me again towards the end of the afternoon but I’m unable to stay awake late into the evening.’

‘There is a definite pattern, then?’

‘Oh, yes. Doctor Zander said that there would be.’

‘Has he called on you today?’

‘Not yet,’ said Hoode, ‘but he promised to come today or tomorrow. I worry about his frequent visits. It must be costing Michael so much money, yet he’ll not hear of my paying the bills. The wonder is that
he
has not been here today either, though he did warn me that he’d only come when he’d finished a scene for my comedy.’

‘Has Michael ever mentioned a friend called Stephen Wragby to you?’

‘No, he so rarely talks about himself.’

‘Did he tell you anything about his time at Cambridge?’

‘Very little, Nick – except that he was glad to escape from it.’

‘Why should a scholar want to flee a seat of scholarship?’

‘He yearns for the excitement that only a playhouse can offer.’

‘It’s offered us excitement of the wrong sort today,’ said Nicholas. ‘We’ve had mishaps before but nothing to rival this afternoon’s parade of accidents. We let our audience down badly, Edmund.’

‘Owen had even harsher criticism than that.’

‘Had Michael been there, he’d have doubted that we had a talent for comedy.’

‘Only one thing would keep him away from the Queen’s Head,’ said Hoode. ‘He must be penning that new scene for my new play.’

Nicholas thought about what he has seen earlier, Grammaticus bent over his work while someone stepped familiarly into the cottage as if he owned it. He also recalled that it was the playwright who had rushed to fetch a doctor when Hoode was stricken during the rehearsal of
Caesar’s Fall.
Nicholas came to a sudden decision.

‘I’ll bring someone else to see you, Edmund,’ he said.

‘But Doctor Zander is my physician.’

‘We need another opinion.’

‘We’ve already had that from Doctor Rime.’

‘A third pair of eyes will do no harm.’

‘Doctor Zander will be very hurt if we turn to someone else, Nick.’

‘Then we must make sure we do not tell him,’ said Nicholas.

Three glasses of Canary wine made Lawrence Firethorn feel much better about himself and the company that he led. As he sat in the taproom with Barnaby Gill and some of the other sharers, he felt almost strong enough to return home to endure an evening of boredom with Jonathan Jarrold.

‘The strange thing is,’ mused Gill, ‘that the rehearsal was so much better than the performance itself. We should have invited the spectators to that.’

‘We had an audience of one, as it happens,’ said Firethorn. ‘Margery’s brother-in-law is visiting us from Cambridge, filling the house with the musty smell of old books. He liked what he saw in rehearsal so will bear a kind report back to his wife.’

‘We earned no kind reports this afternoon, Lawrence.’

‘I blame you for that.’

Gill flared up at once. ‘Me! I was the company’s salvation.’

‘Not when you fell on your bum in the middle of a jig.’

‘That was the fault of the costume. It was far too big for me.’

‘The costume was the right size, Barnaby. You were too small for it.’

‘I demand the right to be dressed properly on stage,’ said Gill, rising to his feet. ‘How can I dance when I have breeches that trip me up like that? Find me something that fits me or I’ll not play at all tomorrow.’

Firethorn grinned wickedly. ‘We’ll offer up a prayer of thanks.’

But the barb was lost on Gill, who had already flounced
out. Firethorn drained his cup and thought about leaving. Adam Crowmere sauntered across to him.

‘We found nothing, Lawrence,’ he said with regret. ‘I’ve searched every room here and there’s no sign of your wardrobe. It could be miles away by now.’

‘Nick was wrong for once, then.’

‘I fear so.’ He nudged Firethorn. ‘Shall we see you again tonight, Lawrence?’

‘No, Adam. I’m done with it.’

‘But you might win back all that you lost. That’s what I did last night.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, mournfully. ‘I watched you doing it.’

‘My luck will doubtless change tonight. Why not find out?’

‘There’s no pleasure in watching someone take my money from me. I might as well have tossed it in the Thames as risk it on the turn of a card.’

‘But you
enjoyed
the game,’ Crowmere reminded him. ‘I could see it in your face. It set your pulse racing. Master Lavery will be leaving soon,’ he added. ‘Come now or you lose your opportunity to get your revenge on me. I, too, will be away.’

Firethorn was concerned. ‘You, Adam? But you are the best landlord that the Queen’s Head has ever had. We want you to stay forever.’

There was vocal agreement from the others at the table. Crowmere gave a bow.

‘My thanks to you all,’ he said, ‘but I, alas, do not own
the inn. Alexander does, and the letter I received today made that clear.’

‘Why?’ asked Firethorn, anxiously. ‘What does he say?’

‘His brother died in his sleep, it seems. Alexander will stay in Dunstable until the funeral then return to London post-haste.’ He gazed around the table with a benign smile. ‘You’ll soon have your old landlord back in the saddle again.’

Another day had done nothing to calm Dorothea Tate’s frayed nerves. She was still very apprehensive and constantly troubled by pangs of guilt. Though Anne Hendrik did her best to keep the girl occupied, she could not divert her for long. As the evening wore on, and the first candles were lighted in the house, Dorothea remained restless and unhappy. The two women were sitting in the parlour. Anne was sewing a dress.

‘Where is Nicholas?’ asked Dorothea, getting to her feet.

‘He will be back again soon.’

‘I pray that nothing untoward has happened to him.’

‘Nick can take care of himself,’ said Anne, looking up from her sewing. ‘Have no fears on his account, Dorothea.’

‘But the men who run Bridewell are so dangerous. They’ll stop at nothing.’

‘All the more reason to bring them to justice.’

‘What can one man do against them and the keepers at the workhouse?’

‘We shall see.’

‘I’m frightened for his safety, Anne.’

‘That’s only natural.’

‘I’ve lost one dear friend already,’ said Dorothea. ‘I’d hate to lose another.’

‘I’m glad that you see Nick as a friend. When he first brought you back here, you had grave doubts about him. You were afraid that he was trying to lead you astray.’ Anne smiled fondly. ‘Nick would never do that.’

‘I know. He’s such a kind man. But I worry about him – and so do you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, Anne,’ she said. ‘I’ve been watching you all evening. You pretend to be calm and collected but every time you hear a horse in the street you look up at the door. I think you are as worried as I am.’

‘I would like him back home, I admit that.’

‘You see? You call it his home, not his lodging.’

‘Nick is rather more than a lodger to me,’ said Anne, discreetly. ‘He’s a close friend. That’s why he knew I’d take you in and look after you.’ She finished her sewing and held up the dress. ‘Here we are. Wear this tomorrow. It’s an old dress of mine that I was going to throw out, but I’ve mended it instead.’

Dorothea took the dress from her. ‘Thank you, Anne.’

‘Try it on.’

‘I can see that it fits,’ said the girl, holding it against herself. ‘I’ve never worn anything as nice as this. You are so generous.’

‘There was a time when I was slim enough to wear it,’ said Anne, wistfully, ‘but no more, alas. I’d much rather you have it.’ She saw the remorse in Dorothea’s face. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Yes,’ replied the girl. ‘I wonder what I have done to deserve this.’

‘You need help. It would be cruel to turn you away.’

‘Yet that’s what everyone else did. Hywel and I begged on the streets for days and most people walked past without even noticing us. Some of those who did spat on us or called us vile names. London is a cruel city.’

‘Some people can be very selfish,’ agreed Anne, sadly.

‘If only Hywel could have lived to enjoy all this,’ said Dorothea, looking around the room. ‘To wear clean clothes and eat good food and have a roof over his head. It’s not fair that I should have it while he lies dead in the morgue.’

‘Do not see it that way, Dorothea.’

‘But I must. I still feel so guilty about what happened to him.’

‘Without reason.’

‘He came to my rescue,’ said Dorothea with feeling. ‘When Master Beechcroft was scolding me, Hywel attacked him and beat him to the ground. That’s why they killed him. It was because of me. And I fear that they’ll do the same to Nicholas. Stop him from
going to Bridewell,’ she implored, coming across to Anne. ‘Please, stop him. I don’t want his blood on my conscience as well.’

Doctor John Mordrake removed the cork from the tiny bottle and sniffed it. He was a big man whose face and body had suffered the ravages of time. His long, lank, silver-grey hair merged with a straggly beard. He wore a capacious black gown, black buckled shoes and a large gold chain that hung down to his chest. Astrologer, alchemist, wizard, seer and royal physician, he exuded a strange power. Nicholas Bracewell had befriended him years before and turned to him on more than one occasion. This time, he had brought Mordrake to examine Edmund Hoode.

Seated on the bed in his nightshirt, the patient watched with some trepidation. He feared that Doctor Zander might make an evening call at the house and catch him seeking another medical opinion. Seeing his concern, Nicholas gave him an encouraging smile. He wanted the playwright to be treated by a doctor who was not so closely connected to Michael Grammaticus. Some people thought Mordrake a mountebank, others decried him as a necromancer, but Nicholas had every faith in him. He turned to watch as the old man dipped his finger into the bottle, then tasted the medicine on the tip of his tongue. With a grunt of satisfaction, Mordrake put the bottle aside. He reached for one of the candles and held the flame close to Hoode’s face, moving it around so that he could conduct a detailed scrutiny.

‘Put out you tongue, sir,’ he ordered.

‘Yes, Doctor Mordrake,’ said Hoode, obeying.

The old man peered at it. ‘You feel no pain?’ Hoode shook his head. Mordrake felt both sides of the patient’s neck. ‘No swelling of the glands?’

‘Only at first, when the fever was upon me.’

‘What have you been eating?’

‘Lots of fruit,’ said Hoode, indicating the bowl. ‘Doctor Zander advised it.’

Mordrake selected an apple, took a large bite from it, then removed the piece from his mouth. He sniffed it and the rest of the apple before putting both on the table.

‘I’ll need to see your water, Master Hoode.’

‘The chamber pot is under the bed. It’s not been emptied.’

‘Good,’ said Mordrake, lowering himself with some difficulty to his knees and extracting the chamber pot. ‘I’ll take a specimen, if I may.’

From a pocket somewhere in his gown, he pulled out a stone bottle and uncorked it before filling it with urine. Once again, his nose made the diagnosis. Corking the bottle, he slipped it back into his pocket and eased the chamber pot beneath the bed. Nicholas stepped forward to help him up.

‘Thank you, Nicholas,’ said Mordrake, leaning heavily on his arm. ‘I can cure the plague, the pox and the sweating sickness, but I’ve yet to find a remedy for old age.’

‘Do you think that you can cure Edmund?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Without a doubt.’

Hoode was heartened. ‘That’s cheering news, Doctor
Mordrake,’ he said. ‘How long will it take? Doctor Zander said that it would take several weeks, perhaps even longer.’

‘Leave yourself in the hands of that impostor,’ warned Mordrake, raising a long finger, ‘and you may never recover. You suffer from no disease, Master Hoode.’

‘No? Then what is wrong with me?’

‘You are being poisoned.’

Margery Firethorn had run out of apologies. Expecting her husband to return in order to spend time with their guest, she was mortified to be left alone again in Shoreditch with her brother-in-law. They had always had an uneasy relationship. She found Jonathan Jarrold far too mild and self-effacing for her taste whereas he was patently intimidated by her potency. To be left alone in a room with Margery made him feel shy and inadequate, and he was eternally grateful that he had married the quieter of the two sisters. Since she had little interest in books, and even less in this particular bookseller, Margery had little to say to him. Their conversation was punctuated by long silences.

‘Lawrence will be back soon,’ she said for the fifteenth time.

‘I want to congratulate him on his performance at the rehearsal.’

‘As long as you do not mention this afternoon. According to the apprentices, it was a sorry affair. That will have put Lawrence in a choleric mood.’

‘He was not very cheerful this morning,’ he recalled with
a diffident smile. ‘How he yelled at his actors! I’d never heard such curses.’

‘He always snaps at their heels,’ said Margery.

‘Putting on a play is more difficult than I imagined. This is the first time I’ve witnessed a rehearsal and it opened my eyes. Lawrence was in fine voice himself, so was Barnaby Gill, the clown. I remember seeing him at Cambridge.’

‘Who else did you meet? Nick Bracewell, I daresay.’

‘Oh, he was most helpful,’ said Jarrold. ‘That was another revelation. I thought that a book holder simply prompted the actors, but this one did so much more than that. He even told people where to move and stand onstage.’

She gave an affectionate smile. ‘Nick is a jewel.’

‘It was he who told me about Michael Grammaticus. I knew him at Cambridge.’

‘Was he any livelier there? Lawrence says that the fellow is so morose.’

‘I think that Michael still mourns the death of his friend.’

There was another strained silence. Margery’s ears pricked up hopefully at the sound of a horse in the street outside, but it trotted past the house. She settled back in her chair with a grunt of annoyance. Jarrold was perched on the edge of his stool, conscious that his presence was irritating her yet unable to find words to win her over. Even at her most quiescent, he was wary of Margery. When she was fuming, as now, with barely contained rage, he found her nothing short of terrifying. The thought of sharing a bed with such a termagant made him shudder. Jarrold sensed that he would be devoured alive.

Feeling that it was his turn to initiate further conversation, he fell back on a sentence that she had already uttered time and again.

‘Lawrence will be back soon,’ he said.

Margery exploded. ‘Where, in the bowels of Christ,
is
the rogue?’ she howled.

Lawrence Firethorn watched from a corner as Philomen Lavery dealt the cards. Still reeling from the news of Marwood’s return, Firethorn had drunk far too much wine to be able to resist the landlord’s persuasive tongue. Adam Crowmere had taken him up to the room where three guests were playing cards with Lavery. The landlord advised Firethorn to watch while he took the empty chair at the table. It soon became clear that Crowmere’s run of luck had expired. Time after time he lost a game yet somehow maintained his good humour.

‘I’ll withdraw,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘while I still have money enough to feed myself. Take my place, Lawrence,’ he invited. ‘You can do no worse than me.’

Firethorn shook his head. ‘I’ll not play again.’

‘One game,’ suggested Lavery, gathering up the cards. ‘Just one game.’

‘One always leads to another.’

‘Not if your will is strong enough, Master Firethorn.’

‘My will is like iron,’ boasted the other.

‘Then you can play a single game and walk away.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘I could, if I wished.’

‘Prove it,’ coaxed Lavery. ‘Take the empty chair.’

With obvious misgivings, Firethorn lowered himself into the seat. Lavery dealt the cards to all the players. Crowmere stood directly behind Firethorn as the actor studied his cards. Seeing what the actor had been dealt, the landlord chortled.

‘Well done, Lawrence,’ he said, patting him on the back. ‘With those cards, I think you’ll win at last. I told you that your luck would change.’

Michael Grammaticus was still poring over his table when the servant entered the room to tell him that he had a visitor. The playwright was puzzled and disturbed. Few people in London even knew where he lodged. When he heard that the caller was Nicholas Bracewell, he relaxed somewhat but he was far from pleased at the intrusion. He told the servant to bring the visitor up then he glanced down again at the scene on which he had been working for so long. When Nicholas was shown in, Grammaticus gave him a guarded welcome.

‘I know why you’ve come,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘Edmund has sent you to chide me for not calling on him today, but I promised to finish this scene for his play first.’

‘How much have you written?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Far too much. Enough to furnish three scenes, in fact, but none of it worthy enough to show to anyone else.’ He gave a gesture of hopelessness. ‘Perhaps I do not have a gift for comedy, after all.’

‘What do you consider to be your strength as an author, Michael?’

‘My sense of drama, Nick. I believe that I have an eye for conflict.’

‘You have an eye for something,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘though I am not yet sure what it is. But forgive me for calling so late in the evening. It was important to see you.’

‘Does it concern
The Siege of Troy?’

‘Yes, it does.’

‘I knew that Lawrence would require more changes.’

‘This has nothing to do with Lawrence, but rather with his wife, Margery. Did you know that her sister lives in Cambridge?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Because her brother-in-law is an acquaintance of yours, one Jonathan Jarrold.’

‘The bookseller? Yes, I know Master Jarrold well. He keeps a good stock.’

‘He’s visiting London,’ said Nicholas, ‘and chanced to attend our rehearsal this morning. We talked at length. Master Jarrold was surprised to learn that you had turned playwright. That was always the ambition of your friend, Stephen Wragby.’

Grammaticus tensed. ‘Why have you come here, Nick?’

‘To find out who really wrote
Caesar’s Fall.’

‘I did!’ said the other, defiantly.

‘What of
The Siege of Troy?’

‘Every word of it is mine.’

‘The Epilogue was certainly penned by you,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘That’s why you took so long to finish it, is it not? And why it is such a poor addition to a rich drama. It
was the Epilogue that planted the first seed of doubt in my mind, Michael.’

‘If it will not serve,’ said Grammaticus, ‘I’ll write a new and better one.’

‘Do you really have the skill to do that?’

‘You know that I have!’

‘What I know is that
The Siege of Troy
was first written in Greek by Stephen Wragby. Every word of it may be yours, but only in the sense that you translated it.’

‘I worked on the play
with
Stephen,’ insisted the other. ‘I was a co-author.’

‘Taking the credit for someone else’s genius,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the sheets of parchment on the table. ‘As you are trying to do with
A Way to Content All Women.
Your friend was dead, and unable to stop you, but Edmund Hoode is still alive. So you had to render him helpless.’