Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘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 ?’

‘For my sins.’

‘What sins?’ she snorted. ‘I’ve never met a less sinful man than you. I’ve always held that you are too good for this world. If virtue brought any reward, you would be the healthiest man in London.’

‘I feel as if I am the sickest.’

‘Looks do not lie. When we buried him last month, my uncle was in far better condition than you. It is almost as if you are wasting away before my eyes. Yet Lawrence told me you were improving.’

‘Slowly,’ said Hoode. ‘Very slowly.’

‘Too slow for my liking. Are you in any kind of pain?’

‘No, Margery.’

‘Can you pass water? Empty your bowels?’

‘From time to time.’

She felt his forehead. ‘There’s no fever,’ she pronounced. ‘That is good but your head is as cold as stone, Edmund, and you lack any colour. Are you able to sleep?’