Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘Does he not remember all the roles that Edmund has created for him?’

‘He sees them as no more than so many new suits, commissioned from his tailor. Barnaby is such a slave to outward show,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yet he’ll miss Edmund as much as any of us, if indeed we’ve seen the last of him.’

Anne was disturbed. ‘You make him sound as if he’s close to death.’

‘As a playwright, I fear, he may well be. This malady has crippled him in every way. If his mind is crumbling, then his art has truly expired.’

Chastened by the grim thought, they finished their breakfast in silence.

After a farewell kiss, Nicholas soon set out on the long walk to the Queen’s Head. There was much to occupy his mind but he did not let himself become distracted. Even in daylight, Bankside was a hazardous place, its narrow streets and twisting lanes haunted by pickpockets, drunkards, beggars, discharged soldiers and masterless men. Nicholas’s sturdy frame and brisk movement deterred most people from even considering an attack but he had been accosted by thieves on more than one occasion. All of them had been repelled. When he heard heavy footsteps behind him, therefore, he was instinctively on guard. Someone was making an effort to catch him up. Sensing trouble, Nicholas went around a corner and stopped, hand on his dagger in case an assailant came into view.

His caution was unnecessary. The person who followed him around the corner was, in fact, a friend and colleague. Nathan Curtis, the troupe’s carpenter, was striding along with his bag of tools slung from his shoulder. He grinned at Nicholas.

‘I thought I’d never catch you,’ he said, panting slightly. ‘You walk so fast.’

‘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.