An Honourable Murderer by Philip Gooden Page B

if I knew what you were talking about, Ben.”
    â€œWe’re talking about your weight, man. What do you think nine and a half is? Your age?”
    â€œIs this gentleman a hangman? Why does he need to guess how heavy I am?”
    â€œDo I look like a hangman?” said the man called Jonathan Snell. He sounded amused rather than indignant.
    â€œI can’t tell,” I said. “The only hangman I ever saw looked like a parson. His real trade was as a butcher, though.”
    â€œNever mind all that, Nicholas. Is he correct? Do you weigh nine and a half stone?”
    â€œI can’t tell that either, Ben. I expect so.”
    â€œMaster Snell claims to be able to tell a man’s weight just by glancing at him.”
    â€œThat must be a useful skill.”
    â€œIt is, sir, it is. See.”
    Snell held out the sheet of paper which, close to, showed as a mass of lines and circles.
    â€œOh, you are the engine-man,” I said.
    Snell beamed. He transferred the sheet of paper to his other hand and held out his right to shake. He had a long thumb which, disconcertingly, seemed to wrap itself round the back of my own hand.
    â€œJonathan is constructing the chair which will bring Sir Philip Blake down from the heavens like a
deus ex machina
. Sir Philip will be the god who comes down to earth to solve human problems. This is Master Snell’s plan of the device.”
    â€œI remember now, Sir Philip is playing the part of Truth in our masque,” I said.
    â€œTruth must come down in state, though,” said the little man. “It wouldn’t do if he plunged to earth, wouldn’t do at all. You must take account of the sitter’s weight in these calculations and I have already assessed Sir Philip’s at a glance.”
    â€œAs long as he has the time to deliver a least a couple of verses while he’s descending,” said Jonson. “It’ll be the best he can do. He’s no actor.”
    â€œI’ll be at the controls myself, Master Jonson,” said Snell. “I’ll lower him good and steady.”
    He mimed turning a wheel.
    Masques, even relatively straightforward ones like
Peace
, can’t be staged in a day and I realized, after hearing Jonson and Snell talk about their device, that this one had been in preparation for some time.
    â€œHow is the building going?” said the playwright, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Somerset House. I noticed that, consciously or not, he used his right, unbranded hand for the gesture.
    â€œIt’s going well. We’ll be ready inside two days. All ready.”
    â€œGood, good. Nothing too elaborate is necessary.”
    â€œNothing that’ll overshadow your valuable words, you mean, Master Ben,” said Snell.
    I glanced at Jonathan Snell with new respect. I didn’t know how long he’d been acquainted with Ben Jonson but he had got the measure of the man and his sensitivity, and showed that he wasn’t daunted by it. Jonson didn’t take offence at the slight irony in the words either (as he might have done with me, for example).
    â€œI must go and check on the waves,” said Snell. “One of the cranks has a tendency to stick. Goodbye, Masters Benjamin and Nicholas. What part are you playing by the way?”
    â€œI am Ignorance,” I said.
    Snell might have made a cheap crack at that point but he simply nodded a further farewell to Jonson and me and walked off towards the gatehouse. He crossed paths with Abel Glaze, Laurence Savage and Jack Wilson who were just entering the courtyard. After we had exchanged greetings, all five of us headed for the house, with Ben Jonson in the lead.
    This was a large establishment and, once inside, we were ushered through various chambers by various footmen, all in yellow livery. There was something fish-like about the way they glided from room to room with glassy expressions, being actively uninterested in us.