The Counterfeit Crank

by Edward Marston

  ‘A magistrate might take a contrary view.’

  ‘Then I’ll make sure I do not come up before one,’ said Nicholas with a grin. ‘What do you have for me, Master Cleaton?’

  ‘Only this.’ The lawyer handed him a writ. ‘It’s the paper that will commit you to Bridewell, but mark this well: I can simply get you inside the place. You’ll have to get out again yourself.’

  ‘I accept that.’ Nicholas studied the wording of the writ. ‘Is this a forgery?’

  ‘I’d never stoop to such a thing. What you hold there is quite authentic. I had it of a friend of mine who sits on the Bench. You’ll see that there is a gap where a name is to be inserted,’ said Cleaton. ‘Had I filled that in, I would have been guilty of forgery and I drew back from that.’

  ‘In any case, you would not know what name to use for I’ll have to invent a new one. If I’m committed to the workhouse as Nicholas Bracewell, I’m likely to suffer the same fate as Hywel Rees. They must not know who I am.’

  ‘You go there as a counterfeit.’

  ‘Only to reveal a much greater counterfeit,’ said Nicholas. ‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave pretend to be honest men, engaged in a worthy enterprise, but they are guilty of the most dreadful crimes. I mean to rip away their disguises.’

  ‘I fear for your safety, Nicholas. They are evil men.’

  ‘Then that evil must be exposed to the world, and I can only do that by getting cheek by jowl with them. Master Olgrave gave me the notion. If I would know how Bridewell is run, he told me, I’ve only to get myself imprisoned there.’

  ‘That puts you at their mercy.’

  ‘Only if they discover who I am,’ said Nicholas. ‘By the time that they do that, it will be too late. Now, Master Cleaton, teach me the way of it. What is the correct procedure when a vagrant is convicted in a court?’

  With some reluctance, the lawyer told him what he wanted to hear, describing the process from the moment a vagrant was arrested until he or she was committed to Bridewell. Though he warned Nicholas of the dangers, the latter was not deterred in the slightest. He was adamant that, whatever the risks involved, someone had to answer for the murder of Hywel Rees and the rape of Dorothea Tate. When the instruction was over, Cleaton took him to the front door.

  ‘Are you a lucky man by nature?’ he said.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because luck is what you’ll need once you are inside Bridewell.’

  Nicholas pondered. As he looked back, he could see nothing but a continuous stream of bad luck, culminating in the poor performance at the Queen’s Head that afternoon. Like those who had been enticed to the card table, he was involved in a game of chance. The difference was that he stood to lose far more than his money.

  ‘I am due some good luck, Master Cleaton,’ he said.

  ‘Then I hope that you get it, my friend.’

  Nicholas took his leave and mounted the horse that he had left tethered outside. He had intended to pay a visit to Edmund Hoode and the most direct way was to ride along Cheapside. But the conversation with Jonathan Jarrold suddenly came into his mind and sparked his curiosity. Since he had the horse at his disposal, he could go by a much longer route without too great a loss of time. Accordingly, he kicked the animal into a trot and headed in the direction of Cornhill, wondering if he might be able to single out the lodging to which Michael Grammaticus somehow never invited visitors.

  Cornhill was the highest hill in the city, the site of an ancient grain market that gave it its name, and a place where the pillory and stocks were rarely uninhabited. The early evening had not thinned out the bustle. As Nicholas trotted along the thoroughfare, he had to pick his way past carriages, carts, mounted riders and the hordes on foot. Moving his head to and fro, he scrutinised the properties on both sides of the road and was impressed by their size and state of upkeep. If the playwright lodged in Cornhill, then he had no need to be embarrassed about his address.

  Nicholas rode on until he reached a large house that soared above the buildings all around it with an almost aggressive ease. He decided that it must be the home of a rich merchant or a leading politician. Its owner would not have been popular with those who lived in the cottage immediately opposite because their light was obscured. Indeed, although it was still early evening, candles burnt in the windows of the cottage. As he glanced up at a window on the second floor, Nicholas realised that his journey had not been in vain. Quill pen in hand, a figure was crouched over a table. Though he could only see the man in a fleeting profile, Nicholas recognised him as Michael Grammaticus.

  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.’

  Chapter Eleven

  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, g
etting 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?’