Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘Will it cure me?’ asked Hoode.

‘It may or it may not. That remains to be seen, Master Hoode. What I do know is that it will not make your condition any worse.’ He bent over the patient to scrutinise his face. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

‘Much the same, Doctor Zander.’

‘Have you recovered your appetite?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What of your memory?’

‘Far too uncertain. That worries me most, doctor.’

‘It worries me as well,’ confessed Zander, clicking his tongue. ‘In all my years in medicine, I’ve not seen a condition like this. You’ve lost weight and remain in a state of fatigue. Have you suffered any pain?’

‘None at all,’ said Hoode. ‘There are times when I feel quite numb.’

Zander scratched his head. ‘Why should that be?’

He pulled back the sheets to examine Hoode in more detail, feeling his body and limbs for any sign of swelling before producing an instrument from his satchel to listen to the patient’s heart. When he had finished, he put the instrument away.

‘I’ll need another sample of your water.’

‘You’ll find it in a jar under that cloth,’ said Hoode, pointing to the table. ‘It was darker than ever this morning. Is that good or bad?’

‘It’s disappointing.’

They heard a knock on the front door below. The landlady opened it to admit someone and there was a brief conversation. Feet then ascended the stairs. There was a tap on Hoode’s door and it swung back for Nicholas Bracewell to step into the room. Tears welled up in Hoode’s eyes at the sight of his friend.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he cried. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

‘I’m glad that I came in time to meet Doctor Zander.’

Nicholas introduced himself and shook hands with the doctor.

‘How does he fare?’

‘Not well, not well,’ said Zander, peering at Hoode with a frown. ‘If I knew the exact nature of his malady, I could treat it accordingly but I’ve not seen a case like this before. I’ve been through every book that I possess, but none describe a disease such as the one we have before us.’

‘How, then, can he be cured?’

‘By trial and error.’ He indicated the potion on the table. ‘He is to have two drops of that, three times a day. If nothing else, it will stop the spread of the infection.’

‘It’s already spread too far,’ wailed Hoode.

‘Be brave, be patient. We’ll find the remedy in due course.’

‘How much longer must I suffer, Doctor Zander?’

The doctor clasped his hands across his stomach. ‘We’ve conquered the pain,’ he said, defensively. ‘Do not forget that. And we’ve brought some colour back to your cheeks. That, too, is encouraging. Rest is still your best medicine, Master Hoode.’ He closed his satchel, collected the jar from the table and made to leave. ‘I’ll come again in two days.’ He gave Nicholas a glance. ‘Do not stay too long, sir. Company tires him.’

Nicholas opened the door then closed it behind him. He crossed to sit beside the bed so that he could hold his friend’s hand. There was no strength in Hoode’s grip. The playwright managed a pale smile.

‘Thank you for coming, Nick,’ he said. ‘The very sight of you revives me.’

‘How do you feel, Edmund?’

‘As if I’m beyond feeling. It’s strange and worrying. I’m in another world.’

‘Come back to ours, for we miss you dreadfully.’

‘I’m no use to you like this, Nick. My mind is a ball of wool. No sooner do I try to think than it unravels.’ He looked balefully around the room. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of plays written in here for Westfield’s Men. I’ve penned hundreds of scenes and thousands of lines. Yet I struggle to recall a single speech. All those wondrous words have gone as if they were never there. I shake with terror. What’s happening to me, Nick?’ he implored, grabbing his friend with both hands. ‘Has my brain grown dull? Am I to end my days as a gibbering idiot in Bedlam?’

‘No, Edmund,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘Put away that thought.’

‘I fear that I may wake up one day and not know who I am.’

‘ We know who you are, and we’ll not rest until you’re restored to us in rude health. The truth may be that we are to blame,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘The company asks you to carry too burdensome a load and you’ve cracked under the weight. As well as writing new plays for us, you keep old ones, by other hands, in a goodly state of repair. Yet you still manage to tread the boards as often as anyone else.’

‘The theatre is my home,’ said Hoode, simply. ‘At least, it was until now.’

‘It shall be so again.’

‘Tell me what you played this afternoon. Rekindle my spirit, Nick.’

‘I’ll try.’

Nicholas told him about the second successful performance of Caesar’s Fall and made him laugh at some of the antics that took place behind the scenes. Hoode began to show some animation at last. He was even able to quote a few lines that he had learnt as Casca in the play. It brought a cry of joy to his lips. Nicholas crossed to the table to pick up the bottle left by Doctor Zander. Uncorking it, he sniffed the contents. A sweet odour invaded his nostrils. He corked the bottle and put it back.

‘The doctor will not treat you out of charity, Edmund,’ he said. ‘Let me know how much we owe him and I’ll gladly pay the amount. I’ll not have you worrying about such things as that.’

‘But I’ve no need to worry. Doctor Zander’s services are free.’

‘Free?’

‘They come at no cost to me,’ explained Hoode. ‘That was made clear at the start of my illness. The doctor told me that my bills would be paid by a friend of mine, who insists on bearing all the expenses.’

Nicholas was puzzled. ‘A friend of yours? Who can that be?’

‘The author of Caesar’s Fall — one Michael Grammaticus.’

The cottage in Cornhill had stood for over a hundred and fifty years, long enough for the beams to settle and to distort the original shape of the half-timbered structure. Light was partially restricted to the upper rooms because the thatched roof overhung the windows, and the problem was compounded by the property on the opposite side of the street. Built and owned by a wealthy merchant, it rose to four storeys and left the thatched cottage in permanent shadow. Michael Grammaticus had particular cause to complain. Since the room in which he lodged was at the front of the cottage, it enjoyed very little natural light. Even on a fine summer’s evening, therefore, he was obliged to work with the aid of a candle. It made him squint more than ever.

Grammaticus was slow and methodical. Dipping his quill in the ink, he wrote with great care and with frequent pauses for meditation. Every line of the Epilogue was subjected to scrutiny and revision. It would be the last memory of the play that an audience would carry away with them and he wished it to have a lasting impact. Since it was in the form of a sonnet, each word had to earn its keep and dovetail neatly with its fellows. Grammaticus was tired and his eyes were burning slightly but he pressed on. Buoyed up by the second performance of Caesar’s Fall that afternoon, he longed to hear the ringing cheers of acclaim once more. London had accepted him as a playwright of rare promise. His position now had to be confirmed.

Hunched over the table in the window, he cudgelled his brain for a telling rhyme.

As he turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head, the first person that Nicholas Bracewell saw was a giant of a man, who was wheeling an empty barrel along before standing it beside two others. Wiping his hands on his leather apron, he was about to go back into the building when he noticed the book holder. A broad grin ignited his face.