The Counterfeit Crank

by Edward Marston

  ‘How long have you been on my trail?’

  ‘Since you first set out.’

  ‘But you had no need to come that way.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Curtis. ‘Walk on and I’ll explain.’

  Nicholas was surprised. Curtis lived in a tenement, several streets away. His route to London Bridge should not have taken him anywhere near Anne Hendrik’s house. The carpenter was a big man with the wide shoulders and thick forearms of his trade. Strong, industrious and dependable, he was a true craftsman who made the scenery and the properties for all of the company’s plays. Nathan Curtis was constantly employed to build new items of furniture or to repair old ones. He enjoyed an easy friendship with the book holder and the two men had often travelled back together to Bankside at night, either by foot or, from time to time, by boat across the Thames.

  Distance seemed to shrink miraculously when they talked on their journeys and, as a rule, Curtis had much to say for himself. Today, however, he was unusually reticent. They had gone a hundred yards before he ventured his first remark.

  ‘What work do you have for me today, Nick?’ he asked.

  ‘Repairs are needed to the throne for The Corrupt Bargain. When he carried it from the stage yesterday, George tripped and threw it to the ground. Two legs snapped off. There’s more besides, Nathan. It will be a busy morning for you.’

  ‘George Dart will always keep me in work. The lad is so clumsy.’

  ‘Only when he is shouted at,’ said Nicholas. ‘Left to himself, he’d break nothing at all.’ He glanced at his companion. ‘But you did not lie in wait for me in order to berate George Dart. What brought you out of your way like this?’

  Curtis licked his dry lips. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

  ‘Could it not have waited until I saw you at the Queen’s Head?’

  ‘That’s too public a place, Nick. I sought a word in private.’

  ‘As many as you wish.’

  The carpenter obviously felt embarrassed. It was another hundred yards before he finally broached the subject. Having found the right words, he gabbled them.

  ‘I-need-to-borrow-some-money-Nick-please-say-that-you’ll-help-me.’

  ‘Slow down, slow down,’ counselled Nicholas. ‘What’s this about a loan?’

  ‘I must have money.’

  ‘Everyone will be paid at the end of the week.’

  ‘I cannot wait until then,’ said Curtis with an edge of desperation. ‘I need the money now. Believe me, Nick, I’d not ask, except under compulsion.’

  ‘Compulsion?’

  ‘I’ve debts to settle.’

  ‘We all have those, Nathan.’

  ‘Mine are most pressing.’

  Nicholas was the victim of his own competence. Because he discharged his duties as the book holder so well, he was always being given additional responsibilities by Lawrence Firethorn. One of them was to act as the company’s paymaster, to keep an account book that related to the wages of the hired men. If an actor was engaged by Westfield’s Men for the first time, Nicholas was even empowered to negotiate his rate of pay. The largest amounts went to the sharers, who were given an appropriate slice of the company’s profits, but the hired men, including actors, musicians, stagekeepers, tiremen, gatherers, who took entrance money for performances, and people like Nathan Curtis, had a fixed weekly wage. With a family to support, the carpenter had always been careful with his money before. It was the only time he had ever asked for a loan and he was very upset at having to do so. Nicholas was sympathetic.

  ‘Do you have troubles at home, Nathan?’ he asked.

  ‘I will have, if you spurn my request.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Master Firethorn would never lend a penny in advance. When others tried to borrow from him in the past, they were sent away with a curse or two. And I know that it’s your strict rule to pay wages at the end of the week.’

  ‘Except in particular circumstances.’

  Curtis was rueful. ‘These are very particular.’

  ‘May I know what they are?’ The carpenter hung his head. ‘If it’s a personal matter, I’ll not pry. And I’ll tell you this, Nathan. If most people came to me with the same plea, I’d turn them down at once because I know that they’d drink the money away that same night. You, however, can be trusted.’

  ‘Thank you, Nick. How much will you let me have?’

  ‘Three shillings. Will that suffice?’

  ‘I was hoping for more,’ said Curtis.

  ‘Then you’ll have the full amount. Does that relieve your mind?’

  ‘Mightily.’

  ‘It’s heartening to know that I’ve done one good deed this day,’ said Nicholas, happily. ‘I’ll pay you when we reach Gracechurch Street, then you can settle your debts.’

  ‘God bless you, Nick! I knew that I could count on you for help.’

  ‘Do not make a habit of this,’ warned the other.

  ‘I’d never do that,’ vowed Curtis. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson, I promise you.’

  Propped up in bed at his lodging, Edmund Hoode spent most of the day vainly trying to remember favourite speeches from his plays. It was a pointless exercise. His mind was so befuddled that he could not even recall the names of the plays themselves. His landlady, a considerate woman with a real affection for her lodger, brought him food and drink, yet when her buxom daughter bathed his face tenderly with cold water, Hoode could not feel even the faintest stirrings of lust. That mortified him. His mind and body seemed to have surrendered the power to react. Sleep was his only escape.

  It was late afternoon when the doctor eventually called. Emmanuel Zander was a short, round, fussy man in his forties with a black beard that reached to his chest and eyebrows so thick that he had to look at the world through curling strands of hair. When he opened his satchel, he revealed a collection of surgical instruments that made Hoode gurgle with fright but the doctor only extracted a tiny bottle of medicine. He spoke with a guttural accent.

  ‘I’ve brought something new,’ he said, putting the bottle on the table.

  ‘Will it cure me?’ asked Hoode.

  ‘It may or it may not. That remains to be seen, Master Hoode. What I do know is that it will not make your condition any worse.’ He bent over the patient to scrutinise his face. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

  ‘Much the same, Doctor Zander.’

  ‘Have you recovered your appetite?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What of your memory?’

  ‘Far too uncertain. That worries me most, doctor.’

  ‘It worries me as well,’ confessed Zander, clicking his tongue. ‘In all my years in medicine, I’ve not seen a condition like this. You’ve lost weight and remain in a state of fatigue. Have you suffered any pain?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Hoode. ‘There are times when I feel quite numb.’

  Zander scratched his head. ‘Why should that be?’

  He pulled back the sheets to examine Hoode in more detail, feeling his body and limbs for any sign of swelling before producing an instrument from his satchel to listen to the patient’s heart. When he had finished, he put the instrument away.

  ‘I’ll need another sample of your water.’

  ‘You’ll find it in a jar under that cloth,’ said Hoode, pointing to the table. ‘It was darker than ever this morning. Is that good or bad?’

  ‘It’s disappointing.’

  They heard a knock on the front door below. The landlady opened it to admit someone and there was a brief conversation. Feet then ascended the stairs. There was a tap on Hoode’s door and it swung back for Nicholas Bracewell to step into the room. Tears welled up in Hoode’s eyes at the sight of his friend.

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’ he cried. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

  ‘I’m glad that I came in time to meet Doctor Zander.’

  Nicholas introduced himself and shook hands with the doctor.

  ‘How does he fare?’


  ‘Not well, not well,’ said Zander, peering at Hoode with a frown. ‘If I knew the exact nature of his malady, I could treat it accordingly but I’ve not seen a case like this before. I’ve been through every book that I possess, but none describe a disease such as the one we have before us.’

  ‘How, then, can he be cured?’

  ‘By trial and error.’ He indicated the potion on the table. ‘He is to have two drops of that, three times a day. If nothing else, it will stop the spread of the infection.’

  ‘It’s already spread too far,’ wailed Hoode.

  ‘Be brave, be patient. We’ll find the remedy in due course.’

  ‘How much longer must I suffer, Doctor Zander?’

  The doctor clasped his hands across his stomach. ‘We’ve conquered the pain,’ he said, defensively. ‘Do not forget that. And we’ve brought some colour back to your cheeks. That, too, is encouraging. Rest is still your best medicine, Master Hoode.’ He closed his satchel, collected the jar from the table and made to leave. ‘I’ll come again in two days.’ He gave Nicholas a glance. ‘Do not stay too long, sir. Company tires him.’

  Nicholas opened the door then closed it behind him. He crossed to sit beside the bed so that he could hold his friend’s hand. There was no strength in Hoode’s grip. The playwright managed a pale smile.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Nick,’ he said. ‘The very sight of you revives me.’

  ‘How do you feel, Edmund?’

  ‘As if I’m beyond feeling. It’s strange and worrying. I’m in another world.’

  ‘Come back to ours, for we miss you dreadfully.’

  ‘I’m no use to you like this, Nick. My mind is a ball of wool. No sooner do I try to think than it unravels.’ He looked balefully around the room. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of plays written in here for Westfield’s Men. I’ve penned hundreds of scenes and thousands of lines. Yet I struggle to recall a single speech. All those wondrous words have gone as if they were never there. I shake with terror. What’s happening to me, Nick?’ he implored, grabbing his friend with both hands. ‘Has my brain grown dull? Am I to end my days as a gibbering idiot in Bedlam?’

  ‘No, Edmund,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘Put away that thought.’

  ‘I fear that I may wake up one day and not know who I am.’

  ‘We know who you are, and we’ll not rest until you’re restored to us in rude health. The truth may be that we are to blame,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘The company asks you to carry too burdensome a load and you’ve cracked under the weight. As well as writing new plays for us, you keep old ones, by other hands, in a goodly state of repair. Yet you still manage to tread the boards as often as anyone else.’

  ‘The theatre is my home,’ said Hoode, simply. ‘At least, it was until now.’

  ‘It shall be so again.’

  ‘Tell me what you played this afternoon. Rekindle my spirit, Nick.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Nicholas told him about the second successful performance of Caesar’s Fall and made him laugh at some of the antics that took place behind the scenes. Hoode began to show some animation at last. He was even able to quote a few lines that he had learnt as Casca in the play. It brought a cry of joy to his lips. Nicholas crossed to the table to pick up the bottle left by Doctor Zander. Uncorking it, he sniffed the contents. A sweet odour invaded his nostrils. He corked the bottle and put it back.

  ‘The doctor will not treat you out of charity, Edmund,’ he said. ‘Let me know how much we owe him and I’ll gladly pay the amount. I’ll not have you worrying about such things as that.’

  ‘But I’ve no need to worry. Doctor Zander’s services are free.’

  ‘Free?’

  ‘They come at no cost to me,’ explained Hoode. ‘That was made clear at the start of my illness. The doctor told me that my bills would be paid by a friend of mine, who insists on bearing all the expenses.’

  Nicholas was puzzled. ‘A friend of yours? Who can that be?’

  ‘The author of Caesar’s Fall – one Michael Grammaticus.’

  The cottage in Cornhill had stood for over a hundred and fifty years, long enough for the beams to settle and to distort the original shape of the half-timbered structure. Light was partially restricted to the upper rooms because the thatched roof overhung the windows, and the problem was compounded by the property on the opposite side of the street. Built and owned by a wealthy merchant, it rose to four storeys and left the thatched cottage in permanent shadow. Michael Grammaticus had particular cause to complain. Since the room in which he lodged was at the front of the cottage, it enjoyed very little natural light. Even on a fine summer’s evening, therefore, he was obliged to work with the aid of a candle. It made him squint more than ever.

  Grammaticus was slow and methodical. Dipping his quill in the ink, he wrote with great care and with frequent pauses for meditation. Every line of the Epilogue was subjected to scrutiny and revision. It would be the last memory of the play that an audience would carry away with them and he wished it to have a lasting impact. Since it was in the form of a sonnet, each word had to earn its keep and dovetail neatly with its fellows. Grammaticus was tired and his eyes were burning slightly but he pressed on. Buoyed up by the second performance of Caesar’s Fall that afternoon, he longed to hear the ringing cheers of acclaim once more. London had accepted him as a playwright of rare promise. His position now had to be confirmed.

  Hunched over the table in the window, he cudgelled his brain for a telling rhyme.

  As he turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head, the first person that Nicholas Bracewell saw was a giant of a man, who was wheeling an empty barrel along before standing it beside two others. Wiping his hands on his leather apron, he was about to go back into the building when he noticed the book holder. A broad grin ignited his face.

  ‘Nick!’ he said. ‘I wondered where you had gone after the play.’

  ‘I promised to call on Edmund,’ explained Nicholas.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Much the same, alas. I saw no change on him, Leonard.’

  ‘Be sure to give him my best wishes when you see him next. Edmund Hoode has always been kind to me. I look upon him as a friend.’

  Leonard was a shambling man with slow speech and limited intelligence but Nicholas was very fond of him. They had met by chance in the Counter, one of the city’s most notorious jails, where the book holder had been wrongly imprisoned for a short time. Fortunate to be absolved of his own crime, Leonard was unable to resume his former occupation as a brewer’s drayman. It was Nicholas who found him work at the Queen’s Head and the latter was eternally grateful to him, even though he was at the mercy of Alexander Marwood’s strictures.

  ‘Do you miss your old landlord, Leonard?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Yes, Nick. As a dray horse misses the whip.’

  ‘You have a kinder master now, I think.’

  ‘It’s a joy to work for such a man,’ said Leonard, folding his arms. ‘He treats us with respect and knows how to get the best out of us. Everyone will tell you the same. Adam Crowmere is a saint. I’ve not met a better landlord, and I met dozens when I was working for the brewery. He’s even talked of putting up our wages.’

  ‘He recognises your true worth.’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Nick. We’ll make the most of it while we can, for it will all change when he leaves. Summer will be over then,’ he sighed, ‘and the cold winter will return in the shape of our landlord and his wife.’

  ‘They left the Queen’s Head in excellent hands.’

  Leonard nodded sadly. ‘There’ll be tears when he goes back to Rochester.’

  Nicholas was glad to have his own impression confirmed. Adam Crowmere had not merely made the inn more congenial to those who visited it. He put new spirit into those employed there so that even someone like Leonard, who did menial chores, felt the benefit of his arrival. The Queen’s Head was a different place under Crowmere.

  ‘It grieves me that Edmund is no
t here to witness the transformation,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was struck down at the very moment when your landlord took his leave.’

  ‘We are all praying that our master is away for a very long time.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men will join you in those prayers.’

  He waved farewell to Leonard and headed for the taproom. The place was full and the atmosphere boisterous, but Nicholas was surprised to see that a number of people were missing. There was no sign of Owen Elias or Frank Quilter, and some of the hired men who invariably congregated there of an evening had somehow vanished as well, Nathan Curtis among them. Given the improvements under the new landlord, it seemed strange that so many of Westfield’s Men had chosen to leave. Nicholas crossed to a table where Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were sitting.

  ‘Well, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘How is he?’

  ‘As weary as before,’ replied Nicholas, taking the empty chair. ‘Edmund has no fever, no pain and no evident sickness. Yet he is so listless that he needs help to walk across the room. Doctor Zander is perplexed beyond measure.’

  ‘So are we,’ said Gill, gloomily. ‘A new comedy was promised to us.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ruffling his beard. ‘That’s our other concern. Edmund was contracted to deliver it within ten days.’

  ‘Then you must release him from the contract,’ advised Nicholas. ‘There is no way that he’ll be able to fulfil its terms. Edmund is not even able to read a play, let alone write one. You’ll have to wait.’

  Gill was tetchy. ‘I cannot bear to wait,’ he said, ‘nor can my host of admirers. They have not seen me in a new comedy for months. Instead of creating fresh wonders to dazzle them, I am forced to rescue dark tragedies like Caesar’s Fall from the boredom into which they would otherwise sink.’

  ‘There’s nothing boring about my Julius Caesar,’ boomed Firethorn, striking his barrel chest with a palm. ‘Distraction only sets in when the soothsayer is onstage.’

  ‘Yes, Lawrence. I distract the audience from the misery, carnage and tedium that you inflict upon them. Tragedy needs the saving grace of a clown.’