The Counterfeit Crank by Edward Marston

troubles at home, Nathan?’ he asked.
    ‘I will have, if you spurn my request.’
    ‘Why should I do that?’
    ‘Master Firethorn would never lend a penny in advance. When others tried to borrow from him in the past, they were sent away with a curse or two. And I know that it’s your strict rule to pay wages at the end of the week.’
    ‘Except in particular circumstances.’
    Curtis was rueful. ‘These are very particular.’
    ‘May I know what they are?’ The carpenter hung his head. ‘If it’s a personal matter, I’ll not pry. And I’ll tell you this, Nathan. If most people came to me with the same plea, I’d turn them down at once because I know that they’d drink the money away that same night. You, however, can be trusted.’
    ‘Thank you, Nick. How much will you let me have?’
    ‘Three shillings. Will that suffice?’
    ‘I was hoping for more,’ said Curtis.
    ‘Then you’ll have the full amount. Does that relieve your mind?’
    ‘Mightily.’
    ‘It’s heartening to know that I’ve done one good deed this day,’ said Nicholas, happily. ‘I’ll pay you when we reach Gracechurch Street, then you can settle your debts.’
    ‘God bless you, Nick! I knew that I could count on you for help.’
    ‘Do not make a habit of this,’ warned the other.
    ‘I’d never do that,’ vowed Curtis. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson, I promise you.’
     
    Propped up in bed at his lodging, Edmund Hoode spent most of the day vainly trying to remember favourite speeches from his plays. It was a pointless exercise. His mind was so befuddled that he could not even recall the names of the plays themselves. His landlady, a considerate woman with a real affection for her lodger, brought him food and drink, yet when her buxom daughter bathed his face tenderly with cold water, Hoode could not feel even the faintest stirrings of lust. That mortified him. His mind and body seemed to have surrendered the power to react. Sleep was his only escape.
    It was late afternoon when the doctor eventually called. Emmanuel Zander was a short, round, fussy man in his forties with a black beard that reached to his chest and eyebrows so thick that he had to look at the world throughcurling strands of hair. When he opened his satchel, he revealed a collection of surgical instruments that made Hoode gurgle with fright but the doctor only extracted a tiny bottle of medicine. He spoke with a guttural accent.
    ‘I’ve brought something new,’ he said, putting the bottle on the table.
    ‘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