The Counterfeit Crank

by Edward Marston

  ‘Nor have I.’

  ‘When we have a moment, I’ll divulge my plan.’

  ‘I hope that it involves slitting the throats of those two villains.’

  ‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave are certainly my targets. But, now that I’ve met the pair, I know that it will not be so easy to hit them.’ He saw Firethorn ride into the yard with a stranger. ‘We’ll talk anon, Owen.’

  ‘I hope that Lawrence is in a better mood today. He was roaring like a lion yesterday and James told us the reason for his distemper.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Lawrence ventured into Master Lavery’s room and lost heavily at cards.’

  Nicholas was taken aback. ‘But he spoke so strongly against it.’

  ‘Temptation got the better of him, Nick. I thought I saw him sneaking off upstairs last night. If he lost again, our ears are in for another roasting.’ He saw Firethorn bearing down on them. ‘Here he is,’ he noted, ‘and his eye is still inflamed. That means he had another defeat at the card table.’ He moved away. ‘I’ll leave him to you, Nick.’

  Having given his horse to an ostler, Firethorn abandoned his companion and marched across to the book holder. The actor was torn between fury and resignation.

  ‘We are doomed,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘Every way I turn, I spy disaster.’

  ‘Then you have not looked at our wardrobe,’ said Nicholas with smile. ‘Owen and I have brought some new costumes and others have promised to do the like. We’ll have enough to dress the play this afternoon.’

  ‘But what about tomorrow’s, Nick? The Knights of Malta calls for better apparel than we can ever muster, and The Loyal Subject, that we play on Friday, needs a queen in all her glory. Are we to put Dick Honeydew on stage in sackcloth when he takes the part? How regal will the lad look in that?’

  ‘By then, we may have our own wardrobe back.’

  ‘How can that be? It will already have been sold.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘To anyone who’ll buy it. Our rivals would seize on such a purchase.’

  ‘Then they’d be foolish to do so,’ said Nicholas. ‘We’d recognise our wardrobe anywhere. As soon as one of us went to The Curtain, The Theatre or The Rose, we’d know who had our costumes and demand them back. No,’ he went on, ‘they’ll have to be sold singly to individuals. That will take time. No shop would buy such a range of attire. And there’s another thing to remember.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Hugh Wegges showed me the full inventory of what was taken. Some of those cloaks and gowns were heavy to wear. No one man could carry them all away himself.’

  ‘He had accomplices?’

  ‘Either that or one man made a number of visits to our wardrobe.’

  ‘What thief would risk doing that?’

  ‘One who knew where to hide his booty nearby,’ said Nicholas. ‘It may even be someone who is staying at the inn. Our landlord has opened up more rooms to guests. I mean to ask what their names are.’

  ‘I’ll do that office, Nick,’ volunteered Firethorn. ‘It never occurred to me that our costumes might be hidden right in front of us. That’s the last place we’d think to look. Let me speak to Adam. I’ll have him search every room.’

  ‘Cautiously, though. We must not spread commotion.’

  Firethorn bristled. ‘I’ll spread much more than commotion if I find that the thief is still here.’ He became aware of a figure standing nearby and gave him a token smile. ‘One moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll just speak to my book holder.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Here’s another scourge for my back, Nick. This fellow is Jonathan Jarrold, a bookseller from Cambridge, the dullest creature on two legs. But he’s Margery’s brother-in-law so I must indulge him.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘To watch us at rehearsal. He has appointments with other booksellers this afternoon so he cannot see the performance itself. Margery insisted that I let him view our morning’s turmoil.’

  Nicholas was confident. ‘We’ll give a better account of ourselves than you fear.’

  ‘Get him from under my feet, that’s all I ask. The fellow unnerves me.’ He swung round to beam at the visitor. ‘Come and meet Nick Bracewell,’ he said. ‘He’ll look after you, Jonathan. I must away.’

  Firethorn headed for the tiring-house and left the two men to exchange greetings. Nicholas had heard mention of Jonathan Jarrold before and he knew that Firethorn had little time for the man, even though he had great admiration for the actor. Jarrold was short, thin and studious, his nervous eyes glinting behind spectacles, his body hunched apologetically in its plain garb. He rubbed his palms together.

  ‘I fear that I come at an inopportune moment,’ he said.

  ‘Rehearsals are always prone to misadventure,’ explained Nicholas, ‘so you’ll have to bear with us. Lawrence will have told you of the troubles we face.’

  ‘He talked of nothing else over breakfast.’

  ‘Then you’ll understand our shortcomings.’ Nicholas glanced upwards. ‘The best place to sit is in the lower gallery. It commands a fine view and you’ll have it all to yourself.’ He turned back to Jarrold. ‘Have you seen Westfield’s Men before?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jarrold, nodding enthusiastically. ‘On my rare visits to London, I always come to the Queen’s Head, and you played at Cambridge last year.’

  ‘The plague forced us to go on tour.’

  ‘I’ll not forget your visit. We saw The Merchant of Calais, as fine a play as I’ve ever had the privilege to witness. Comedy, tragedy and romance were so sweetly co-mingled. Lawence was kind enough to introduce us to the author.’

  ‘Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘I’d hoped to renew the acquaintance today, but I hear that he’s indisposed.’

  ‘Illness keeps him from us,’ said Nicholas, ‘but we’ve a new playwright to fill his absence. As it happens, he hails from Cambridge as well.’

  ‘Oh, what is his name?’

  ‘Michael Grammaticus.’

  ‘But I know him,’ said Jarrold, clapping his hands together. ‘A true scholar, if ever there was one. When he was in Cambridge, he was always in my shop, searching for Greek and Latin texts. The both of them were.’

  ‘The both of them?’

  ‘Michael and his friend, Stephen Wragby. They were never apart. They lived together, studied together and taught together. Michael was the finer scholar but Stephen had the better imagination. I miss him so much,’ he went on, stifling a sigh. ‘He was far too young to die.’

  ‘Stephen Wragby is dead?’

  ‘Of the plague. It is not confined to London, alas. It reached out its long hand and snatched him away from us. Michael was utterly destroyed,’ recalled Jarrold. ‘Careless of his own health, he nursed Stephen until the bitter end. One friend died, the other was somehow spared. And I lost two of the best customers I ever had.’

  ‘Is that why Michael decided to leave Cambridge?’

  ‘He could not bear to stay without Stephen.’ He adjusted his spectacles. ‘Yet you say that Michael is a playwright now?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘One of his plays has already been staged and a second will be back from the scrivener any day. It’s a pity you missed Caesar’s Fall. It was the work of a brilliant intelligence.’

  ‘That is an accurate description of Michael Grammaticus.’

  ‘His new play is called The Siege of Troy.’

  Jarrold laughed. ‘That proves my point. They were like twins. Michael and Stephen did everything together. Their minds coalesced into one.’

  ‘In what sense, Master Jarrold?’

  ‘Look at the title of this new play.’

  ‘The Siege of Troy?’

  ‘I saw a play by Stephen Wragby performed at Cambridge only a few years ago. It was on exactly the same subject,’ said Jarrold. ‘Except that it was written in Greek.’

  Ralph Olgrave would never have identified the man on the slab at the morgue if it had not been for the da
mage to his skull. He moved some yards away from the stink of decay to speak to the coroner.

  ‘And they gave his name as Hywel Rees?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Master Olgrave.’

  ‘Did they give you their names as well?’

  ‘I insisted on it,’ said the coroner, fussily. ‘I do not admit strangers to the morgue to view the cadavers. That’s a ghoulish occupation and I’ll not allow it.’

  ‘So who were they? Was one of them called Nicholas Bracewell?’

  ‘Yes, I believe that he was.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘A sturdy Welshman by the name of Owen Elias.’

  ‘A Welshman?’

  Olgrave was unhappy to hear that. It suggested that the dead man had a relative or friend who was searching for him, someone who would feel obliged to join the hunt for the killer of Hywel Rees. That was worrying. Nicholas Bracewell had an assistant.

  ‘How would I find these gentlemen?’ said Olgrave.

  ‘They left no address with me, sir.’

  ‘Have you any idea where they might have come from?’

  ‘I cannot answer for the one,’ said the old man, ‘but I could hazard a guess about the other. The Welshman is an actor. There was something about the way he dressed and spoke and held himself. Owen Elias belongs on a stage. If you wish to find him, search the playhouses for that is where he’ll be.’

  ‘I fancy that Nicholas Bracewell might be there as well,’ said Olgrave to himself, as he remembered their earlier encounter. ‘For he is no mean actor.’

  Adversity usually brought out the best in Westfield’s Men but that was not the case with Love and Fortune. Dressed in assorted costumes that were visibly the wrong size, shape and colour, the actors were inexplicably tentative in a play that they had performed many times. Entrances were missed, lines forgotten or gabbled too quickly, and properties knocked clumsily over. None of the actors rose above competence. Lawrence Firethorn was uninspired, Barnaby Gill lacklustre and Owen Elias strangely out of sorts. Even the reliable Richard Honeydew, taking the role of the heroine in a wig and a borrowed costume, was unable to lift the play. The audience grew restive.

  Some of the unintended humour worked to their advantage. Spectators who were unfamiliar with the play, shook with glee when James Ingram inadvertently dropped a chalice to the floor or when Frank Quilter came onstage too soon and collided with the departing George Dart, sublimely unsuited to all three of the small parts allotted to him. Those who had seen the comedy before, however, found it disappointing fare and several began to drift away long before the performance ended. A tepid round of applause told the company what it already knew. They had failed.

  Firethorn was relieved to escape into the safety of the tiring-house. Flinging himself down on a bench, he put his head in his hands. Nicholas came over to him.

  ‘It might have been worse,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes,’ moaned Firethorn, ‘Lord Westfield might have been here to witness our shame.’

  ‘You redeemed yourselves in the last act.’

  ‘That was fear and not redemption, Nick. We had to get something right or they’d have started throwing things at us. As it was, the insults were beginning to fly.’

  ‘We’ll make amends tomorrow.’

  ‘How? By playing The Knights of Malta in these borrowed costumes?’ He plucked at his doublet. ‘Whoever heard of a proud knight in remnants such as these?’

  Elias heard him. ‘Do you mind, Lawrence?’ he said, indignantly. ‘You happen to be wearing my finest apparel.’

  ‘It was certainly not tailored to fit me, Owen. It ruined my performance.’

  ‘It’s a poor actor who blames his costume.’

  ‘And a poor judge of taste who chooses this as his best doublet?’

  ‘I’ll not be insulted,’ warned Elias, pugnaciously.

  ‘Stand off, Owen,’ said Nicholas, easing him away. ‘He does not mean to upset you. The fault lies not in our wardrobe but in the effect that our losses have had upon us. To lose Edmund was bad enough. To have our takings stolen and our wardrobe plundered has put a strain on all of us. We’ll vindicate our reputation tomorrow.’

  ‘Our reputation as what?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Fools and imbeciles? Did you see what happened out there today? We were all blundering about the stage like so many demented George Darts.’

  ‘I did my best, Master Firethorn,’ said Dart, meekly.

  Nicholas gave him a kind smile. ‘You always do, George. Thank you.’

  ‘That was the idiot you designated to hold the book today,’ remarked Firethorn. ‘Imagine how much worse it would have been if that had happened. Fire and brimstone! They’d have skinned us alive for our mistakes.’

  ‘Tomorrow, we’ll improve,’ said Nicholas. ‘Crying over our mistakes achieves nothing. We must strive to put them right.’

  ‘How can we do that, if our book holder wants to leave us?’

  ‘I’ll be here. I give you my word.’

  ‘That’s some relief at least.’

  ‘You’ll gain some more, if you go home early this evening,’ advised Nicholas, quietly. ‘Master Jarrold told me how late you returned last night. I think we both know the reason why.’ Firethorn looked guiltily up at him. ‘How can you condemn others for going astray when you take the same path yourself?’

  ‘But I came so close to winning,’ said Firethorn in a whisper.

  ‘Would that have made it right to set such an example to the others?’

  ‘No, Nick. I’m justly reproached. The lure of gain blinded me to all else. Margery must never find out, or she’ll ban me from her bed in perpetuity.’

  ‘She’ll hear nothing from me.’

  ‘Nor me.’ He pursed his lips in recrimination. ‘Oh, I rue the day that Philomen Lavery came to stay at the Queen’s Head. He corrupted all our judgements.’

  ‘Put him and his pack of cards behind you. He’ll soon be gone.’

  ‘So will Margery’s brother-in-law, thank heaven. Dear God! Why did Jonathan have to visit us now when we are at our wits’ end? He’s one more burden on my back. Let him go back to Cambridge and stay there.’

  ‘I was pleased to meet him at last.’

  ‘Jonathan Jarrold? The man is tedium made manifest.’

  ‘Not so,’ said Nicholas, recalling what he had been told about Cambridge. ‘I found his conversation very illuminating.’

  He broke away to supervise the dismantling of the stage and the storing of costumes and properties. Since so many garments had been borrowed, he asked Wegges to take particular care of them. Nicholas was following an established routine but he was impatient, tied to his duties at the Queen’s Head when he wanted to be investigating a murder. While he laboured for Westfield’s Men, his mind was on Bridewell.

  Joseph Beechcroft was still perturbed. He and his partner were in the room at Bridewell that they used as an office. Beechcroft drummed his fingers nervously on the table.

  ‘How do we even know that the fellow was an actor?’ he said. ‘That was only the coroner’s guess. Owen Elias could just as easily have been a weaver or a tailor.’

  ‘No,’ said Olgrave. ‘Have faith in the coroner. His whole life is spent in making judgements of character. He’ll weigh a man up, whether he be alive or dead. If he picked this one out as an actor, then I trust his word.’

  ‘But we sent someone to enquire at The Rose and they came back empty-handed. It was so at the two playhouses in Shoreditch. Owen Elias was not there.’

  ‘That still leaves the company that plays at the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘No, Ralph,’ said Beechcroft. ‘I think we are following a false trail.’

  ‘Only because you did not speak to the gatekeeper, as I just did.’

  ‘The gatekeeper?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Olgrave. ‘I reasoned that, if anyone wanted to know more about us, and the way that we run Bridewell, they’d come knocking at the door. And that’s exactly what a certain Welshman did.’


  ‘Owen Elias?’

  ‘He did not give his name, it seems, but claimed to be the cousin of Hywel Rees. When told that the fellow had been discharged, he produced the name of Dorothea Tate.’

  Beechcroft was alarmed. ‘They are closing in on us!’

  ‘The gatekeeper gave nothing away.’

  ‘He did not need to, Ralph. They know that that troublesome Welshman was killed and hurled into the river, and they have the girl to help them.’

  ‘Her voice will not convince any court in the land.’

  ‘It might, if they provide the evidence to back it up.’

  ‘How can they do that?’ asked Olgrave with a mocking laugh. ‘Take us to the torture chamber and wring confessions out of us, as if we were scheming Papists? For without that, they have nothing.’

  ‘They have enough to unsettle my stomach, I know that.’

  ‘The cure is at hand. We simply remove Nicholas Bracewell and the girl.’

  ‘What of this other man, Owen Elias?’

  ‘He’s Welsh,’ said Olgrave with a sneer. ‘I’ll send him to join his countryman.’

  Nicholas Bracewell was kept waiting at the lawyer’s office until Cleaton had finished talking to a client. The book holder spent the time examining the sketch of Bridewell that Anne Hendrik had drawn under the guidance of someone who had actually been inside the institution. How accurate Dorothea Tate’s memory had been, Nicholas did not know, but the sketch gave him an idea of the basic design of the building with its three courtyards and its wharf beside the Thames. The girl had marked the position of the room where she had slept, and of the hall where the feast had taken place. A small cross told Nicholas where Ralph Olgrave’s private chamber was located.

  Henry Cleaton appeared from his office and shepherded an elderly woman to the front door. After greeting Nicholas, he invited him into the cluttered room and both of them sat down.

  ‘I still have qualms about this,’ admitted the lawyer.

  ‘All that you are doing is to give advice, as you would to any client.’

  ‘I’d never urge them to break the law, Nicholas.’

  ‘I believe that I’m working strictly within it.’