The Counterfeit Crank by Edward Marston Page A

Bracewell to step into the room. Tears welled up in Hoode’s eyes at the sight of his friend.
    ‘Nick, dear heart!’ he cried. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’
    ‘I’m glad that I came in time to meet Doctor Zander.’
    Nicholas introduced himself and shook hands with the doctor.
    ‘How does he fare?’
    ‘Not well, not well,’ said Zander, peering at Hoode with a frown. ‘If I knew the exact nature of his malady, I could treat it accordingly but I’ve not seen a case like this before. I’ve been through every book that I possess, but none describe a disease such as the one we have before us.’
    ‘How, then, can he be cured?’
    ‘By trial and error.’ He indicated the potion on the table. ‘He is to have two drops of that, three times a day. If nothing else, it will stop the spread of the infection.’
    ‘It’s already spread too far,’ wailed Hoode.
    ‘Be brave, be patient. We’ll find the remedy in due course.’
    ‘How much longer must I suffer, Doctor Zander?’
    The doctor clasped his hands across his stomach. ‘We’veconquered the pain,’ he said, defensively. ‘Do not forget that. And we’ve brought some colour back to your cheeks. That, too, is encouraging. Rest is still your best medicine, Master Hoode.’ He closed his satchel, collected the jar from the table and made to leave. ‘I’ll come again in two days.’ He gave Nicholas a glance. ‘Do not stay too long, sir. Company tires him.’
    Nicholas opened the door then closed it behind him. He crossed to sit beside the bed so that he could hold his friend’s hand. There was no strength in Hoode’s grip. The playwright managed a pale smile.
    ‘Thank you for coming, Nick,’ he said. ‘The very sight of you revives me.’
    ‘How do you feel, Edmund?’
    ‘As if I’m beyond feeling. It’s strange and worrying. I’m in another world.’
    ‘Come back to ours, for we miss you dreadfully.’
    ‘I’m no use to you like this, Nick. My mind is a ball of wool. No sooner do I try to think than it unravels.’ He looked balefully around the room. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of plays written in here for Westfield’s Men. I’ve penned hundreds of scenes and thousands of lines. Yet I struggle to recall a single speech. All those wondrous words have gone as if they were never there. I shake with terror. What’s happening to me, Nick?’ he implored, grabbing his friend with both hands. ‘Has my brain grown dull? Am I to end my days as a gibbering idiot in Bedlam?’
    ‘No, Edmund,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘Put away that thought.’
    ‘I fear that I may wake up one day and not know who I am.’
    ‘
We
know who you are, and we’ll not rest until you’re restored to us in rude health. The truth may be that
we
are to blame,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘The company asks you to carry too burdensome a load and you’ve cracked under the weight. As well as writing new plays for us, you keep old ones, by other hands, in a goodly state of repair. Yet you still manage to tread the boards as often as anyone else.’
    ‘The theatre is my home,’ said Hoode, simply. ‘At least, it was until now.’
    ‘It shall be so again.’
    ‘Tell me what you played this afternoon. Rekindle my spirit, Nick.’
    ‘I’ll try.’
    Nicholas told him about the second successful performance of
Caesar’s Fall
and made him laugh at some of the antics that took place behind the scenes. Hoode began to show some animation at last. He was even able to quote a few lines that he had learnt as Casca in the play. It brought a cry of joy to his lips. Nicholas crossed to the table to pick up the bottle left by Doctor Zander. Uncorking it, he sniffed the contents. A sweet odour invaded his nostrils. He corked the bottle and put it back.
    ‘The doctor will not treat you out of charity, Edmund,’ he said. ‘Let me know how much we owe him and I’ll gladly pay the amount. I’ll not have you worrying about such things as that.’
    ‘But I’ve no need to