The Counterfeit Crank Page 6

  ‘Then it’s a pity we do not have one worthy of the title.’

  Gill was outraged. ‘That’s unforgivable!’

  ‘And quite unjust,’ said Nicholas, bringing the exchange to an end before the insults really began to flow. ‘Everyone knows that in Barnaby we have the finest clown in London. Since we also have the greatest actor, the company will always outshine its rivals. Together – and only together – you help to make us what we are.’

  ‘Only if I am given the opportunity to shine in a comedy,’ said Gill.

  Firethorn flicked a hand. ‘Comedy, tragedy or history,’ he said, airily. ‘Give me any of them you wish and I’ll turn it to gold with my Midas touch.’

  ‘Midas touch! Your touch is like a leper’s handshake.’

  ‘You are the one whose performances are always diseased, Barnaby.’

  ‘Need we bicker so?’ asked Nicholas, looking from one to the other. ‘We’ll not solve our problem by calling each other names. Edmund must be allowed to rest. If we want a new play, we must look elsewhere.’

  ‘Only Edmund can show me at my best,’ said Gill, haughtily. ‘Is there not someone else we can employ to finish the piece while the author languishes in bed? Lucius Kindell, perhaps?’

  Firethorn shook his head. ‘He’d not be equal to the task.’

  ‘He and Edmund have worked together before.’

  ‘Lucius has his strengths,’ argued Nicholas, ‘and he will grow as a dramatist, but he’s no counterfeit Edmund Hoode. Ask him to finish the play and you’d see a glaring join between what each of them wrote. It could not be concealed. And there is the question of Edmund’s pride. He might not wish another hand to meddle with his play.’

  ‘Yet we must offer some novelty for our audience,’ said Firethorn. ‘Look how well they respond to Caesar’s Fall. It allows us to display our skills in new ways. And there is nothing to match the challenge of performing a work for the first time. It keeps us on our toes.’

  ‘As a dancer,’ boasted Gill, ‘I am always on my toes.’

  ‘Your fault, dear Barnaby, is that you keep treading on everyone else’s.’

  ‘There is one hope,’ said Nicholas, rubbing his chin. ‘Michael Grammaticus may be able to furnish us with what we need. He told me that he was working on something else, though I’ve no idea how far he has advanced, or if the piece would be suitable.’

  Gill was dismissive. ‘It would be another tragedy. You only have to look at the fellow to know that he has no humour in his soul. Michael is too saturnine. He inhabits the murky underworld of drama, creating tragic heroes with besetting faults that lead to their destruction.’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Firethorn, ‘but his tale of Ancient Rome had spectators queuing halfway down Gracechurch Street this afternoon. Speak to him, Nick. I’d be interested to read anything that comes from his fertile brain.’ He pulled a face. ‘I just wish that I could bring myself to like Michael a little more.’

  ‘He has many good qualities,’ said Nicholas, ‘and is generous to a fault. Did you know that he’s been paying Doctor Zander’s bills?’

  Firethorn was taken aback. ‘Why should he do that?’

  ‘Because he worships Edmund and draws his inspiration from him. He also feels guilty that it was during the rehearsal of Caesar’s Fall that Edmund suffered his own collapse. It seems that Michael insisted on paying for any treatment needed.’

  ‘That could be costly if the illness drags on.’

  ‘It makes no difference to Michael,’ said Nicholas. ‘He told Edmund that nothing was more important to him than finding a cure for this mysterious ailment.’

  ‘I begin to admire this Michael Grammaticus, after all,’ said Firethorn.

  Gill was more critical. ‘He’s too arid a companion for me.’

  ‘He’ll be relieved to hear that, Barnaby. He’s shown no interest in women but, by the same token, he’d not wish to become one of your pretty boys either. I think the fellow’s taken a vow of chastity.’

  ‘What’s this about chastity?’ asked the landlord, cheerfully, coming to stand beside their table. ‘If you seek it here, my friends, you are in the wrong place. Chastity’s the one thing that’s not on our bill of fare. Some have lost it here,’ he added with a chortle, ‘but none, I dare swear, have ever managed to find it.’

  Firethorn laughed. ‘I cannot even remember what chastity is, Adam.’

  ‘You were born a rampant satyr,’ taunted Gill.

  ‘It’s the secret of a happy life.’

  ‘Happiness comes from having an occupation that you love,’ said Adam Crowmere, complacently. ‘The stage is your kingdom, Lawrence, and I hold court here. As you see,’ he went on, using an arm to take in the whole room, ‘my happiness consists in spreading happiness. Listen to that laughter and merriment.’

  ‘We had precious little of that under our last landlord. What news of him?’

  ‘A letter came from Dunstable today. Alexander complains that his brother’s hanging on to life by his fingernails, but will not have the grace to go. It may be weeks before he’s ready for his coffin.’

  ‘If only they would bury that rogue, Marwood, alongside him.’

  ‘He’ll not know the Queen’s Head when he returns,’ said Crowmere. ‘We’ve more trade and livelier company in here. Oh, and that reminds me, Nick,’ he added, turning to the book holder. ‘You spoke of two friends in need of work. If they care to come here tomorrow, I’ve places for them now.’

  ‘You may need to fill them with someone else,’ said Nicholas, accepting the truth of the situation. ‘I fancy that Hywel and Dorothea changed their minds about coming here. They must have found employment elsewhere.’

  London was not the ready source of money that they had imagined. Until they arrived in the capital, Hywel Rees and Dorothea Tate had not realised how many beggars were already there. They were competing with a whole army of vagrants, wounded soldiers, disabled children, vagabonds, tricksters and rogues, many of whom had staked out their territory and who were prepared to defend it with brutal force. The newcomers had been repeatedly beaten, cursed, chased, harried and, in one street, had even suffered the indignity of having the contents of a chamber pot emptied over them from an upper window. It left them in low spirits.

  ‘We should have gone to that inn they told us of,’ argued Dorothea.

  ‘No,’ said Hywel.

  ‘Any work is better than this.’

  ‘Who would employ us, Dorothea? We have neither passport nor licence. We are strangers in the city, with no fixed abode. What innkeeper would look at us?’

  ‘The one at the Queen’s Head might do so. Those friends offered to speak up for us and I judge them to be as good as their word. That Welshmen liked you, I could see. What was his name?’

  ‘Owen Elias.’

  ‘Let’s seek him out and ask for his help.’

  ‘We’ll manage on our own,’ he said, stubbornly. ‘We are still learning the trade.’

  She was sorrowful. ‘Must we spend the rest of our lives like this?’

  ‘We have each other, Dorothea. I’d endure anything to be with you.’

  ‘And I with you,’ she said, brightening. ‘I never knew such love until we met.’

  Hywel took her in his arms and hugged her. After giving her a kiss, he released her so that he could get himself ready. They were standing in a quiet lane where nobody bothered them except an occasional scavenging dog. Before they began the day’s begging, Hywel required her assistance. When he tucked one leg up behind his buttocks, Dorothea used a piece of rope to tie it into position, pulling his tattered clothing over the leg so that it was concealed. Hywel reached for the crutch that he had fashioned out of a piece of driftwood rescued from the Thames. Dorothea, meanwhile, tied a bloodstained bandage around her head then tucked one arm inside her dress so that it looked as if she had also lost the limb. They were a sorry sight. Composing their features into expressions of great suffering, they went off to take up their position.<
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  The Raven was a small tavern in Eastcheap and it had proved a wise choice on their previous visit. Customers going into the place hardly noticed the two beggars who lurked outside because such people were all too familiar on the streets of London. When they had been drinking, however, some customers became more benevolent, and, as they tumbled out of the tavern in a joyful mood, spared a few coins for the sad-faced girl with one arm and the young man forced to hop through life on a single leg.

  While Dorothea collected the money, Hywel always raised his cap in gratitude. If anyone hesitated to give them alms, she told them that her brother had lost his leg while fighting abroad for his country. An appeal to patriotic spirit seemed to loosen the strings on a purse. In the first hour, they had garnered almost a shilling and felt that their luck had changed at last. Hywel was more watchful now. After violent encounters with other beggars, he made sure that he kept an eye out for any rivals who might resent their presence outside the Raven. Fortunately, none appeared.

  ‘Dorothea,’ he said at length. ‘I need to rest.’

  ‘Is the leg hurting you?’

  ‘It does not like being strapped up like this.’

  ‘Let me help you,’ she offered.

  With the crutch under one arm, he put a hand on her shoulder and limped back to their refuge. As soon as they left the main thoroughfare, Dorothea undid the rope so that he could lower the leg that had been tied out of sight. Cramp had set in and he was wincing with pain. He rubbed his leg with both hands.

  ‘I hate to see you suffer so,’ she said.

  ‘It was in a good cause, Dorothea. How much did we get?’

  ‘I’ll need two hands to count it.’

  While she struggled to pull out the arm that was hidden beneath her dress, two figures came around the corner with purposeful strides. Hywel saw the constables first and he yelled a warning but, when he tried to run, his weakened leg would not hold him and he fell to the ground. Dorothea bent to help him up but a pair of firm hands pulled her away. The other constable seized Hywel and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Ah!’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You’ve grown another leg since you left the Raven, have you? And the little lady now has a second arm. Out of kindness, God has seen fit to restore your missing limbs. It means that there’s more of you to arrest.’

  Chapter Four

  The first sign of trouble came the following morning. When the rehearsal was over in the yard of the Queen’s Head, and the company was beginning to disperse, Hugh Wegges seized the opportunity for a minute alone with the book holder. Nicholas Bracewell had just finished giving some instructions to George Dart about the position of the stage properties in the opening scene of the play. When he saw his friend approaching, he assumed that it was to discuss some aspect of the costumes. Hugh Wegges was the tireman, the person responsible for making, altering, repairing and looking after the large stock of costumes used by Westfield’s Men.

  ‘A word in your ear, Nick,’ said Wegges.

  ‘I think I know what it will be, Hugh.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘You wish me to speak sharply to Barnaby Gill,’ said Nicholas. ‘He has torn three different costumes during this morning’s rehearsal and needs to take more care when he cavorts around the stage.’

  ‘I told him that myself. If he tears anything else, then he can repair it. No,’ said Wegges, glancing round to make sure that they were not overheard. ‘I wanted to talk about something else.’

  ‘Speak on.’

  ‘In brief, Nick, I’m sorely pressed for money.’

  Nicholas smiled. ‘That’s a common complaint.’

  ‘My need is greater than most,’ insisted Wegges, ‘or I’d not trouble you. To get to the heart of the matter, I must ask for my wages before they are due.’

  ‘But you’ve only a few days to wait before you are paid, Hugh.’

  ‘One day more would be too long.’

  ‘Is the situation so dire?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  Nicholas was surprised. Wegges had a wife and four children to support and, as a consequence, worked hard and spent little on himself. A dyer by trade, he used his skills to good effect as the tireman, giving dull, old, faded cloth new colour and life. He also used needle and thread expertly and took great pride in the high standard of his work. To help the family’s finances, his wife took in washing and, Nicholas knew, she sometimes helped to repair and clean the troupe’s costumes without charge. Wegges was a short, solid, ginger-haired man in his late thirties with a tendency to grumble, but he was dedicated to Westfield’s Men and bereft when they went on tour and left him in London.

  What puzzled Nicholas was that the tireman was the second person in two days who had asked for his wages in advance. Like Nathan Curtis before him, Wegges was in a predicament of some sort. It was too much of a coincidence.

  ‘May I know the reason for this favour?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘I’d prefer that you did not.’

  ‘That only makes me more curious, Hugh. Yours is not the only request of this kind. Someone else petitioned me for his wages and, like you, he has never done so before. It makes me think there may be a connection between the two of you.’

  ‘That may be so, Nick. All I know is that I need the money.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To put food on the table for my wife and children.’

  ‘That’s an honourable enough reason, but I still wish to know what lies behind it.’

  Wegges shifted his feet. ‘I did something unwise. It will not happen again.’

  ‘You lost money? Is that what you are telling me?’

  ‘Yes, Nick.’

  ‘When others in the company do that, it always means they have been roistering in a bawdy house or had their purses taken by a subtle hand. I do not believe that Hugh Wegges would be guilty of either folly.’

  ‘No,’ affirmed Wegges. ‘I love my wife too much to need the one and guard my purse too carefully to fall victim to the other. My folly was of another kind.’

  ‘Tell me what it is and it will go no further than here.’

  ‘It already has, Nick. Others were there when it happened.’

  ‘Members of the company?’

  ‘Owen Elias, for one. And Frank Quilter. They witnessed my misfortune.’

  ‘Misfortune?’

  ‘That’s what it was, alas. The first time I went there, I won handsomely and that encouraged me to go back, only to lose all that I had gained and more besides.’

  Nicholas understood. ‘So you have been gambling. Dice or cards?’

  ‘Cards. I had such a run of luck.’

  ‘It always ends, Hugh. Where did the game take place?’

  ‘Why, here at the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘But our landlord hates gambling. He says that it attracts the wrong custom. In any case, he does not have a licence to turn this inn into a gaming house. Nor would he ever seek one from the Groom-Porter’s office.’

  ‘It may have been so with our old landlord,’ said Wegges, ‘but our new one is more tolerant. He’s rented a room to one Philomen Lavery, who sits behind a table and plays cards all night. I am not the only one to lose to him.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, thinking of Nathan Curtis, ‘and my worry is that you’ll not be the last. How many more will come in search of their wages ahead of time? I’ll not hand out money so that it can be thrown away at the card table again.’

  ‘I swear that I’ll not go near the fellow again, Nick.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  Wegges put a hand to his chest. ‘I give you my word of honour.’

  ‘Then I’ll hold you to it. Think of your family.’

  ‘I did,’ said Wegges. ‘I sought to improve their lot by winning some money.’

  ‘We are all prey to such temptation, Hugh, but it must be resisted. Did it not occur to you that, if this Philomen Lavery plays cards every night, he might be a more skilful practitioner than you? Such men make
their living by deceiving gulls.’

  Wegges was dejected. ‘I own that I’m one of them. The more I lost, the more I played on in the hope of regaining those losses. It was a madness that drove me on. I’ve no excuse and you’ve every right to turn me away.’ He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘But I do need that money or I shall have to borrow elsewhere.’

  ‘There’s no call for that,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you were led astray at the card table, do not add to your woes by seeking out a moneylender. They charge such high rates of interest that you’ll require an eternity to pay them off. You shall have your wages.’

  ‘A thousand thanks!’ Wegges embraced him. ‘My pain is eased. I knew that I could count on you, Nick.’

  ‘Try to remember that your wife and family count on you.’

  ‘That thought is ever in my mind.’

  ‘As for this card player, I’ll mention him to Adam Crowmere. If there’s cozenage taking place under his roof, our new landlord will not be pleased. He’ll want this Philomen Lavery to ply his trade elsewhere.’

  ‘Oh, I think not.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It was Adam Crowmere who first enticed me into the game.’

  Edmund Hoode did not know whether to be pleased or alarmed when his landlady showed in his latest visitor. Margery Firethorn seemed to fill the room, less with her physical presence than with her voice and personality. As soon as she saw the playwright, sitting up in bed with a glazed look in his eye, she swooped on him to embrace him warmly and to place a kiss on each of his pallid cheeks. Fond as he was of her, and grateful when anyone came to enquire after his health, Hoode was also rather frightened. Against her gushing affection, he was quite defenceless. He also feared her abrasive honesty.

  ‘You are no Edmund Hoode,’ she accused, standing back to appraise him. ‘You are mere shadow of the man I know and love. Why do you dare to counterfeit him?’

  ‘It is me, Margery,’ he said, faintly. ‘I do assure you of that.’

  She looked closer. ‘Heavens! I do believe it is my Edmund.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You have shrunk to this?’