Free The Counterfeit Crank by Edward Marston Page B

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 forthis 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?’
    ‘I can do little else,’ he wailed. ‘That’s what vexes me. I am as weak as a kitten.’
    ‘Kittens are playful. You have no spark of life in you.’
    ‘Doctor Zander is sure that I will recover in time.’
    ‘Lawrence tells me that the doctor does not even know what is wrong with you.’
    ‘He cannot put a name to the malady, it is true,’ admitted Hoode, ‘but he brought a colleague with him yesterday, a Doctor Rime, older and more learned. He has seen the disease before and commended a herbal remedy. I started on it this morning.’
    ‘It has made no visible difference,’ she observed.
    ‘I
feel
better, Margery, that’s the main thing. The fog has cleared slightly.’
    ‘Fog? What are you talking about? The sun is shining brightly today.’
    ‘Not inside my head,’ he explained. ‘My mind has been shrouded in mist for days. I could neither reason nor remember. I feared I would sink into idiocy.’
    ‘Perish the thought! Your imagination is your greatest asset.’
    ‘Until today, that imagination had deserted me, Margery.’
    ‘No wonder you were afraid,’ she said, perching on the edge of the bed and taking his hand between her palms. ‘You poor thing! It must have been an agony for you. What can I do to comfort you, Edmund? Shall I fetch food or water?’
    ‘Neither, neither. Your presence is a comfort in itself.’
    Hoode had finally come round to the view that she was, after all, welcome. Margery Firethorn was a formidable woman when roused and he had always taken great care not to provoke her scorn or anger. As a result, they had become firm friends. In one sense, her forthrightness was a blessing. She was a clear mirror in which he could view himself. Others, out of sympathy, pretended to notice signs of progress that were not really there. Through Margery’s keen eyes, he saw himself as he really was.
    For her part, compassion was now oozing out of Margery. She gazed down at him as if he were one of her own children, fighting a mysterious illness and needing a mother’s love and support. Hoode felt cared for and reassured.
    ‘Is your landlady looking after you?’ she asked.
    ‘Very well. She and her daughter have been angels of mercy.’
    ‘They’ll answer to me if they let you down,