say more if he wished.’
He looked steadily at me. Sir Thomas nodded.
‘No doubt. You have heard what Adrian has told us, Master . . . forgive me, you said your name was . . .?’
‘Nicholas Revill.’
‘Master Revill. Is this how it appeared to you?’
‘I saw what I saw. These two men exited from your box in some confusion. One stumbled into me, the other recovered that necklace from him. I think.’
Jacob now turned towards me. His large brown eyes were blank; he expected no favours from me or from anybody. His helpless air would have moved a savage to pity. And it may be, too, that a dumb man will remind a player of the treasury of his tongue, and cause him to thank God for giving him all his faculties complete. Adrian’s razor nose quivered. He continued to hold up the necklace as damning evidence of the other servant’s guilt. Rings glittered on his fingers.
‘Well, Jacob,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘I fear I have no alternative but to to have you escorted to the Clink.’
The Clink is one of half a dozen or so prisons in Southwark. Our lawlesslessness is well provided for.
‘No,’ I said.
There was a pause while everyone swallowed the enormity of my contradicting Sir Thomas.
‘No?’ he said.
‘I mean,’ I added hastily, ‘that Jacob did not steal this lady’s necklace.’
Like Caesar, I had crossed the Rubicon. No stepping back. I was about to be exposed as a fool, and a malicious fool at that.
‘Explain, if you would,’ said Sir Thomas.
‘Master Adrian, give me your hand if you please.’
I spoke with all the assurance of the budding alderman that I played in
A City Pleasure.
Thinking of which, I glanced down towards the stage. Well, this too was a kind of act. Hurry.
The steward with the black cloak glanced at Sir Thomas, who shrugged, but in such a way as to indicate that Adrian should comply. Adrian held out his left hand, raising his eyes heavenward. He was a good player, perhaps a more subtle villain than I had at first assumed, but I was the better player, and, knowing this, I felt a sudden gust of certainty sweep through me. I gestured at the other hand, the one grasping the necklace. Even now unwilling to lay down the string of pearls, he transferred it to his left. I took his free palm between mine. It was a narrow, dry hand, and that must signify something . . . everything that we have signifies, everything is pregnant with indication. And now I was about to draw conclusions from this hand or, rather, from its accessories.
He wore several rings. From under one of them I slid something out. I walked over to where the woman sat by the rail of the box, no longer even pretending to watch the play.
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ I said. I pulled taut what I held in my hand. It was a thread of hair. I placed it near her ladyship’s golden, unbonneted head, trying to angle the single thread so that it caught the light. The hair was a match, or close enough for my purposes. The four men – Sir Thomas, the younger William, bear-like Jacob, and the sharp-nosed Adrian – held me with their eyes as attentively as if I were an alchemist who had just effected that magical transformation of base material into gold.
‘This was under the ring on his middle finger,’ I said. ‘As you can see, it is from my lady’s head.’
I left the connection for them to make.
‘This is absurd, a piece of playing,’ said Adrian. ‘What is he saying? He is saying nothing.’
He still held the necklace, but I think that he would have been willing enough to get rid of it now.
William spoke. ‘This gentleman from the players is saying, I believe, that you removed the necklace, and as you did so a hair from my mother’s head was caught between the ring and your finger.’
William’s words clarified slightly the relationship between the occupants of the box. Even so, the lady hardly looked old enough to have a son in his twenties. From my vantage point, a little to one side and above where she sat, I
He looked steadily at me. Sir Thomas nodded.
‘No doubt. You have heard what Adrian has told us, Master . . . forgive me, you said your name was . . .?’
‘Nicholas Revill.’
‘Master Revill. Is this how it appeared to you?’
‘I saw what I saw. These two men exited from your box in some confusion. One stumbled into me, the other recovered that necklace from him. I think.’
Jacob now turned towards me. His large brown eyes were blank; he expected no favours from me or from anybody. His helpless air would have moved a savage to pity. And it may be, too, that a dumb man will remind a player of the treasury of his tongue, and cause him to thank God for giving him all his faculties complete. Adrian’s razor nose quivered. He continued to hold up the necklace as damning evidence of the other servant’s guilt. Rings glittered on his fingers.
‘Well, Jacob,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘I fear I have no alternative but to to have you escorted to the Clink.’
The Clink is one of half a dozen or so prisons in Southwark. Our lawlesslessness is well provided for.
‘No,’ I said.
There was a pause while everyone swallowed the enormity of my contradicting Sir Thomas.
‘No?’ he said.
‘I mean,’ I added hastily, ‘that Jacob did not steal this lady’s necklace.’
Like Caesar, I had crossed the Rubicon. No stepping back. I was about to be exposed as a fool, and a malicious fool at that.
‘Explain, if you would,’ said Sir Thomas.
‘Master Adrian, give me your hand if you please.’
I spoke with all the assurance of the budding alderman that I played in
A City Pleasure.
Thinking of which, I glanced down towards the stage. Well, this too was a kind of act. Hurry.
The steward with the black cloak glanced at Sir Thomas, who shrugged, but in such a way as to indicate that Adrian should comply. Adrian held out his left hand, raising his eyes heavenward. He was a good player, perhaps a more subtle villain than I had at first assumed, but I was the better player, and, knowing this, I felt a sudden gust of certainty sweep through me. I gestured at the other hand, the one grasping the necklace. Even now unwilling to lay down the string of pearls, he transferred it to his left. I took his free palm between mine. It was a narrow, dry hand, and that must signify something . . . everything that we have signifies, everything is pregnant with indication. And now I was about to draw conclusions from this hand or, rather, from its accessories.
He wore several rings. From under one of them I slid something out. I walked over to where the woman sat by the rail of the box, no longer even pretending to watch the play.
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ I said. I pulled taut what I held in my hand. It was a thread of hair. I placed it near her ladyship’s golden, unbonneted head, trying to angle the single thread so that it caught the light. The hair was a match, or close enough for my purposes. The four men – Sir Thomas, the younger William, bear-like Jacob, and the sharp-nosed Adrian – held me with their eyes as attentively as if I were an alchemist who had just effected that magical transformation of base material into gold.
‘This was under the ring on his middle finger,’ I said. ‘As you can see, it is from my lady’s head.’
I left the connection for them to make.
‘This is absurd, a piece of playing,’ said Adrian. ‘What is he saying? He is saying nothing.’
He still held the necklace, but I think that he would have been willing enough to get rid of it now.
William spoke. ‘This gentleman from the players is saying, I believe, that you removed the necklace, and as you did so a hair from my mother’s head was caught between the ring and your finger.’
William’s words clarified slightly the relationship between the occupants of the box. Even so, the lady hardly looked old enough to have a son in his twenties. From my vantage point, a little to one side and above where she sat, I
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