‘How long do you wish Master Wilson to remain in Norfolk?’
‘As long as possible,’ I said without thinking.
‘I can bring that about,’ said this withered man. ‘An accident when his horse shies on his return or an attack by some wild rogues on the highway. Or, if you prefer, a sudden illness that will despatch him to keep his mother company.’
I was tempted — for an instant. To reinforce his point the apothecary added in tones of drawling sweetness: ‘All of these things I can procure. Accidental death, bloody gashes, a mortal sickness.’
If you had asked me then for my dearest wish it would have been to remain with the Chamberlain’s Men at the Globe theatre, part of the finest company of players in London and, hence, in the world. As long as Jack Wilson was kept at a distance I was safe. But when he returned to take up his — my! — post I would again be reduced to a workless, wandering player, scrabbling for a foothold in another company. So I was tempted, tempted by the vision of Jack Wilson thrown from his horse or bloodied after a bandit attack, or stretched on a bier. But as these images flashed through my mind there came with them also shame and a thrusting-away of any such underhandedness.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I do not know Master Wilson but he is a fellow player, and I wish him no harm.’
‘Then you are unusual in your profession,’ said Old Nick.
I saw then how clever the apothecary had been. For the first few minutes in his shop I had been a disbeliever. But the instant he dangled before me the vision of my unseen rival, dead or disabled, I took him at his word. Even if only for a moment, I believed that Old Nick could do what he claimed, bring harm over a distance, hurt with magic. I felt also unclean, somehow reduced to his level. More than ever, I wished that I had not agreed to accompany Nell to his workshop.
‘Are you convinced, Master Revill?’
In the half-light on his crinkled face I could see nothing, not even a small smile. His words were drawn out, smoothly spread. . Maasster Reveell. I inclined my head a little, and the alligator swayed in the corner of my eye.
‘We need your help, sir,’ said Nell. I noticed her tone of respect, and that irritated me too.
‘This is no business of Nell’s,’ I said, ‘but mine only. Hearing from her that you are a man of science, I have brought you this for your — examination.’
As Peter had tentatively given me Francis’s shirt so I now passed it across to Old Nick, feeling rather foolish. It was, after all, only a shirt.
The apothecary reached across the green glass alembics and phials on the counter, and grasped the bundle of clothing. He turned it over in his hands, which were misshapen and yet nimble. He stroked the material. He seemed in the gloom to shudder slightly but this could have been my imagination or, more likely, the merest theatrics on his part. Old Nick raised the shirt, all that remained of Francis’s earthly estate, to his nose. He sniffed, then snorted gently.
‘I smell river.’
Well, that took no magic powers of divination. I stayed silent, half hoping that the quack would trip over his own cleverness.
‘I smell death.’
‘Because the man who wore this is dead.’ I was giving nothing away.
Suddenly the man behind the counter stiffened.
‘Francis,’ he hissed.
Nell gasped, and my scalp crawled.
‘Oh, Francis.’ Old Nick’s voice had changed from the drawling honey note. Now there was something robust and commanding in it.
‘Oh, Francis. Come back. I mean you no harm and never did.’
But there was a world of harm in that voice. Couldn’t Francis have heard that, even as I was hearing it now?
‘Oh, Francis. Come back.’
Yes, of course Francis had heard the harm in that voice. But he hadn’t moved, he hadn’t escaped. Why not?
‘Oh, Francis. Come back.’
Old Nick was pawing and sniffing at the shirt like a dog, pausing to turn his head up and utter these repeated phrases in a voice not his. I grew very afraid that Francis the servant might, by the force and command of these very words and urged by his habit of obedience, be brought back to life, might return to us all smeared with river slime, might at this very moment have entered into the dim apothecary’s behind our backs.
‘Stop!’ Nell cried out.
Old Nick looked at her. He shuddered again, then looked at the shirt which he still held. When he spoke it was in his normal, drawling tone.
‘It was night on the river. With me — and with him.’
‘Who?’ I said. ‘Francis?’
‘I have no names,’ said Old Nick. ‘One of them was frightened for his life.’
‘And the other?’
‘I told you that it was night. I could not see clearly.’
I remembered Peter’s words: ‘The river is treacherous enough — but not as dark as a man’s heart.’
‘Nevertheless,’ I said, struggling to recall the original reason why we had brought the dead man’s shirt to the apothecary, ‘nevertheless. .’
‘There is no nevertheless, Master Revill. You described me as a man of science, and what I accomplish I accomplish without magic. I have a power, but it will not be commanded. I cannot tell you anything else at this moment.’
‘Yes, I have it again,’ I said, suddenly remembering that it was not Francis’s decease that we were here to discuss, but the demise of old Sir William in his spring garden. ‘That shirt that you are holding, it was once, not long ago, smeared against a dead man’s face, to wipe something away. . by the sleeve. .’
Old Nick examined each sleeve in turn. Once again he put the garment to his nostrils and snuffed. I was relieved when he took it away from his face without falling into the trance state.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There is something amiss here too.’
Yesss. . amisss.
I waited.
‘But, oh so faint, like the scent of apple blossom,’ said Old Nick. He again sniffed at a cuff of the shirt. ‘And this from a different time, another occasion.’
‘Can you tell what is on the sleeve? Does any of it remain?’
‘Not here, not now, I cannot say. There are mixtures, preparations, methods. I may be able to. . why does this signify?’
‘Two men have died,’ I said. ‘One was the poor possessor of that shirt, as you know. He told me hours before he died that it had been stolen from him.’
‘And the other?’
I found myself curiously reluctant to say. ‘Someone I never met. But I think that his death may be tied with whatever substance remains on the sleeve.’
‘So I should use my science to discover this?’ said Old Nick.
‘Or magic. I care not. But I will pay.’
‘You shall pay, Master Revill. But that is not the point. I am not interested in your money.’
‘Then you are unusual in your profession,’ I said, in a feeble attempt to draw level to him.
The apothecary ignored me. Instead he said to Nelclass="underline" ‘The same arrangement with you, mistress Nell?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Her deference to him and, more, her provoking ‘arrangement’ with this man angered me. Now, jealousy is foolish in a man that loves a common harlot, one who must open her quiver to any man that has coin. And when was jealousy ever argued away?
‘Good,’ said apothecary Nick. ‘Come to me in two days and you will have an answer. Not you, my Nell, but you, Master Revill, shall visit me.’
I held my tongue until we were outside in Paul’s again. Even as I spoke I knew that I should feign unconcern. What did it matter to me whether my Nell had an ‘arrangement’ with the Lord Chamberlain, the Lord High Admiral or Old Nick himself (the real Old Nick, that is)?