Philip Gooden - Sleep of Death

‘Yes, I have it again,’ I said, suddenly remembering that it was not Francis’s decease that we were here to discuss, but the demise of old Sir William in his spring garden. ‘That shirt that you are holding, it was once, not long ago, smeared against a dead man’s face, to wipe something away. . by the sleeve. .’

Old Nick examined each sleeve in turn. Once again he put the garment to his nostrils and snuffed. I was relieved when he took it away from his face without falling into the trance state.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There is something amiss here too.’

Yesss. . amisss.

I waited.

‘But, oh so faint, like the scent of apple blossom,’ said Old Nick. He again sniffed at a cuff of the shirt. ‘And this from a different time, another occasion.’

‘Can you tell what is on the sleeve? Does any of it remain?’

‘Not here, not now, I cannot say. There are mixtures, preparations, methods. I may be able to. . why does this signify?’

‘Two men have died,’ I said. ‘One was the poor possessor of that shirt, as you know. He told me hours before he died that it had been stolen from him.’

‘And the other?’

I found myself curiously reluctant to say. ‘Someone I never met. But I think that his death may be tied with whatever substance remains on the sleeve.’

‘So I should use my science to discover this?’ said Old Nick.

‘Or magic. I care not. But I will pay.’

‘You shall pay, Master Revill. But that is not the point. I am not interested in your money.’

‘Then you are unusual in your profession,’ I said, in a feeble attempt to draw level to him.

The apothecary ignored me. Instead he said to Nell: ‘The same arrangement with you, mistress Nell?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Her deference to him and, more, her provoking ‘arrangement’ with this man angered me. Now, jealousy is foolish in a man that loves a common harlot, one who must open her quiver to any man that has coin. And when was jealousy ever argued away?

‘Good,’ said apothecary Nick. ‘Come to me in two days and you will have an answer. Not you, my Nell, but you, Master Revill, shall visit me.’

I held my tongue until we were outside in Paul’s again. Even as I spoke I knew that I should feign unconcern. What did it matter to me whether my Nell had an ‘arrangement’ with the Lord Chamberlain, the Lord High Admiral or Old Nick himself (the real Old Nick, that is)?

‘What arrangement, my Nell?’

‘I’m everybody’s Nell today, Nick. Your Nell, his Nell. .’

‘No evasions, Nell.’

‘Evasions? You must speak in plainer English if you want me to understand.’

‘The arrangement, Nell. The “arrangement” which your friend in there mentioned. What do you do for him?’

‘Look over there,’ she said suddenly. ‘See that fine piece of coney-catching.’

A few yards off, stood a young man — obviously fresh up from the country by his dress and his general air of wonderment at our capital city — gazing about him. He was being greeted by a friendly, open-faced fellow, greeted by name. Master Russet or Master Windfall, or some such. The name, needless to say, would be wrong. Then our open-faced friend would make a stab at getting the country-dweller’s county. Worcester, Gloucester? There too he was in error. Then he would essay a couple of the rustic’s fellow-countrymen. ‘Why, sir, do you not have Sir Tarton Barton as your neighbour?’ or ‘Doesn’t Farmer Harmer live yonder over Pillycock hill, three mile from your place?’ These names mean nothing to our fresh bumpkin, which is hardly surprising as the open-faced fellow has probably made them up on the spot. In exchange for these questions the rustic gives the following information: his name, his county and the names of a handful of his neighbours. He would have volunteered more, probably down to the name of his mother’s aunt’s cat, had not the friendly fellow apologised, thanked him and departed into the crush of people in Paul’s.

Nell and I knew that in about five minutes our innocent rustic, or coney, or rabbit, would be greeted by another affable man. This second friend would, of course, know the name of the stranger, together with his county — why he would even be familiar with the gentleman’s neighbours! ‘Goodman Windfall, have you forgotten me? I am such a man’s kinsman, your neighbour not far off.’ My, the bumpkin would think to himself — reflecting on how he had been warned before he started off for Lon’n town that the citizens were cold and aloof, how they cared nothing for their country cousins, how they were even prepared to trick simple countryfolk — my, this is a regular turnabout. Here am I in this great city, the world’s heart. And here I have been hailed twice in the space of five minutes by men who think they know me!

The sequel to this? The bumpkin’s new-found friend proposes stepping into some nearby tavern, and drinking a toast to their shared county and joint neighbours. Inside the alehouse, a game of cards happens to be in progress. After a jar or two, bumpkin and friend are invited to join in. Bumpkin’s pleasure at so speedily finding companions in Lon’n town is increased by the delightful way in which he seems to be winning more at the hands of cards than he is losing. But he is careful. He knows that luck has a habit of turning. Just as he is on the point of drinking up and leaving and finding somewhere secure to deposit his modest winnings, his friend, by now his fast and eternal friend, says ‘A fresh pint and then away. One more pint and another hand of cards. . a last hand for friendship’s sake. .’

The coney will return to his country burrow a sadder man, possibly a wiser one and certainly a poorer.

As Nell and I turned away from the scene we saw and heard another man come up to our country visitor, sure enough addressing him by name — ‘Goodman Martin!’ — and identifying him by county.

However often you have witnessed this operation in Paul’s, or in other parts of the town such as Holborn or Fleet Street, you do not tire of the smoothness, the ingenuity of it. Perhaps it is because Nell and I were originally from the country ourselves that we always took pleasure in seeing our country cousins duped and fooled, although there was a small measure of shame in it, too. All the same, we reflect that we would not be caught out like this because we are worldly-wise. And, I also reflected as we continued through the throng, is not jealousy a somewhat, well, rustic notion? It is hardly worldly to be jealous, especially over a whore. So I assured myself, and I tried to shake myself free from care over Nell’s secrets.

‘What were you saying, Nick?’

‘When?’

‘Before we saw how many friends Goodman Martin has in this fair city of ours.’

‘I was talking about evasions but it doesn’t matter. I do not wish to know about your “arrangement” with an apothecary. And don’t ask me what “evasions” mean, either.’

I returned to the hidden garden in the Eliot house after this excursion to Old Nick’s in Paul’s. Why to the garden, I don’t know. Perhaps, like old Sir William, I saw it as a place of refuge from the taint of the world. I was alone in the house and grounds, for once without Jacob dogging attendance on me. The afternoon performance at the Globe playhouse, a thing set in Milan, full of Machiavellian dukes and cardinals and their mistresses, had gone well. But what remained with me on this fine autumn evening wasn’t the recollected pleasure of how deftly I’d turned my villainous lines as Signor Tortuoso (the murderous creature of the Cardinal-Machiavel), or the compliment that Master Mink had paid me afterwards (‘To the life, Nick, to the life’), but the more recent scene in the desiccated apothecary’s shop. However wary of him I was, I knew he had not been play-acting when he snuffed up the secrets contained in Francis’s shirt. There was much that was wrong here, and I felt resentment, momentary but deep, of young William Eliot for pitching me into a situation where I was expected to uncover dangerous truths.