Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘Nick!’ he said. ‘I wondered where you had gone after the play.’

‘I promised to call on Edmund,’ explained Nicholas.

‘How is he?’

‘Much the same, alas. I saw no change on him, Leonard.’

‘Be sure to give him my best wishes when you see him next. Edmund Hoode has always been kind to me. I look upon him as a friend.’

Leonard was a shambling man with slow speech and limited intelligence but Nicholas was very fond of him. They had met by chance in the Counter, one of the city’s most notorious jails, where the book holder had been wrongly imprisoned for a short time. Fortunate to be absolved of his own crime, Leonard was unable to resume his former occupation as a brewer’s drayman. It was Nicholas who found him work at the Queen’s Head and the latter was eternally grateful to him, even though he was at the mercy of Alexander Marwood’s strictures.

‘Do you miss your old landlord, Leonard?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Yes, Nick. As a dray horse misses the whip.’

‘You have a kinder master now, I think.’

‘It’s a joy to work for such a man,’ said Leonard, folding his arms. ‘He treats us with respect and knows how to get the best out of us. Everyone will tell you the same. Adam Crowmere is a saint. I’ve not met a better landlord, and I met dozens when I was working for the brewery. He’s even talked of putting up our wages.’

‘He recognises your true worth.’

‘It’s wonderful, Nick. We’ll make the most of it while we can, for it will all change when he leaves. Summer will be over then,’ he sighed, ‘and the cold winter will return in the shape of our landlord and his wife.’

‘They left the Queen’s Head in excellent hands.’

Leonard nodded sadly. ‘There’ll be tears when he goes back to Rochester.’

Nicholas was glad to have his own impression confirmed. Adam Crowmere had not merely made the inn more congenial to those who visited it. He put new spirit into those employed there so that even someone like Leonard, who did menial chores, felt the benefit of his arrival. The Queen’s Head was a different place under Crowmere.

‘It grieves me that Edmund is not here to witness the transformation,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was struck down at the very moment when your landlord took his leave.’

‘We are all praying that our master is away for a very long time.’

‘Westfield’s Men will join you in those prayers.’

He waved farewell to Leonard and headed for the taproom. The place was full and the atmosphere boisterous, but Nicholas was surprised to see that a number of people were missing. There was no sign of Owen Elias or Frank Quilter, and some of the hired men who invariably congregated there of an evening had somehow vanished as well, Nathan Curtis among them. Given the improvements under the new landlord, it seemed strange that so many of Westfield’s Men had chosen to leave. Nicholas crossed to a table where Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were sitting.

‘Well, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘How is he?’

‘As weary as before,’ replied Nicholas, taking the empty chair. ‘Edmund has no fever, no pain and no evident sickness. Yet he is so listless that he needs help to walk across the room. Doctor Zander is perplexed beyond measure.’

‘So are we,’ said Gill, gloomily. ‘A new comedy was promised to us.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ruffling his beard. ‘That’s our other concern. Edmund was contracted to deliver it within ten days.’

‘Then you must release him from the contract,’ advised Nicholas. ‘There is no way that he’ll be able to fulfil its terms. Edmund is not even able to read a play, let alone write one. You’ll have to wait.’

Gill was tetchy. ‘I cannot bear to wait,’ he said, ‘nor can my host of admirers. They have not seen me in a new comedy for months. Instead of creating fresh wonders to dazzle them, I am forced to rescue dark tragedies like Caesar’s Fall from the boredom into which they would otherwise sink.’

‘There’s nothing boring about my Julius Caesar,’ boomed Firethorn, striking his barrel chest with a palm. ‘Distraction only sets in when the soothsayer is onstage.’

‘Yes, Lawrence. I distract the audience from the misery, carnage and tedium that you inflict upon them. Tragedy needs the saving grace of a clown.’

‘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.’