It was this facility in the apothecary to see and hear others over a distance of time and space, others whom he had never seen or heard in the flesh, that made me fearful in the matter of Francis’s shirt. For I could not be sure what might be revealed as he smelled after the hapless servant. Nor was it sufficient to recover the shirt by stealth and leave Old Nick to his own devices. There was no telling what or who the old man might tell in turn.
I visited the shop in Paul’s churchyard. I had recruited our false steward Adrian to stand guard over the door in case Old Nick and I should be disturbed. Ever since that business with Francis I have found Adrian to be more and more serviceable. He has evidently decided that his character is better suited to a life of out-and-out villainy than one of petty gains and thievery in an important household. In fact, he has acquired his own little band of disreputable followers. He grows into those traces of the demonic which he is fond of affecting: the black clothes, the black looks. Without boasting, I may say he aspires to the condition of ruthlessness and looks up to me as a model of what might be achieved.
Once inside the dark interior I call out for Old Nick and he appears, pat, from the back quarters.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he says in that tone which tells me that I am not altogether welcome. His voice has a youthful sweetness and doesn’t match its withered old source. Perhaps it is no more his, really his, than the voices which he produces during his fits.
‘It is I,’ I say, ‘come to visit my old friend, Old Nick.’
‘What do you want this time? More of the mixture which will get your lady into bed? Or one that will get her out of it for good?’
‘I require something for an enemy,’ I say.
‘A love potion?’
‘A poison.’
‘Who for this time?’
‘The world.’
‘But you have already procured poison from me, have you not?’
In saying this he has signed and signed again the death warrant which I have brought with me, and yet does not seem to know it.
When I needed the mixture to pour down Sir William Eliot’s ear, in imitation of the way in which the villain Claudius pours poison into the sleeping head of old King Hamlet, I naturally turned to Old Nick. Old Nick the master-mixer for love and death, he who will provide lotions and solutions for all events. But the apothecary knew me only as a pursuer of ladies, and I did not wish to reveal myself to him as a purchaser of poison. You see, I have some scruples. So I rented a dumb man in Shoreditch and instructed him to take a paper having my requirements written on it to Old Nick. And told him, be sure to bring back the same paper to me with the mixture. You see, I am careful.
So I thought I was free and clear. There was nothing to connect me to the purchase of the poison, the piece of paper being long since returned and destroyed, and the dumb man of Shoreditch being unable to reveal who sent him to fetch and carry.
But, in this case of murder, I have discovered that you are never free and clear. Once it is done there are a thousand subtle cords that bind you to the act, and each time you snap one you discover that you are still tethered to the deed by the rest. And new cords and cables seem to grow faster than you can break the old ones.
I wondered how the old apothecary knew, whether it was his power of seeing-through-touch. Maybe he had needed only to handle the note brought by the Shoreditch man to be aware of who had really sent it. But, however he knew of the poison which I had caused to be bought, here was another cable connecting me to the death of Sir William, and of Francis, too. A living cable.
He waits for me to say something.
I am surprised that this clever old man cannot foresee his own future — or rather its absence.
‘You have a shirt of mine,’ I say.
‘A shirt?’ He pretends ignorance.
‘Brought to you by a young player and his mistress.’
‘The whore Nell. I know her. But as to that shirt, it is not yours. It is a dead man’s.’
‘He wished me to have it. He told me so before he died.’
‘The young player thought it was his. In fact, he brought it to me so that I could make a repair to the sleeve.’
‘But you are not a tailor.’
‘He wished to discover who or what had caused the damage to the shirt.’
‘All this to-do over a cheap item of clothing. It is not worth repairing. It should have been buried with the dead man.’
‘I would say it is worth a man’s life,’ says the apothecary.
‘It cost him his,’ I say.
‘And others’ besides? There was poison on the sleeve.’
‘Then it was your own,’ I say. ‘Your mixture.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘There is no craftsman in London who has the skill to produce such a potent poison. I thought so when the shirt was first brought to me and a trial or two proved it.’
‘What else did you discover?’
‘A frightened man in the dark called Francis. And another frightened one now.’
‘It is yourself you mean. You know why I have come.’
‘I can see what you are about to do.’
‘You are old and weak,’ I say.
‘But I am not fearful as you are,’ says the impudent apothecary.
‘Why don’t you struggle or protest?’ I say, curious and diverted for an instant, for he stands calm on the other side of the counter.
‘To struggle against fate is futile.’
‘So this is your fate?’ I ask.
‘And yours,’ he says, at which I grow angry.
‘I cannot see an end to this,’ I say, feeling the heat rising beneath my face. ‘I want that piece of clothing.’
‘It is here,’ says Old Nick, producing it from beneath his counter.
‘Thank you,’ I say, grabbing the shirt with one hand and Old Nick with the other. I pull him across the counter, scattering boxes and glass-ware. When I have him on his front over the counter, I carefully place the shirt to one side, telling myself that this time I must remember to take it away. Then I place both hands round the scrawny neck of Old Nick and squeeze and squeeze. He is a tough old bird and my grip is awkward. Although he doesn’t put up a great struggle it seems a long time before his thin legs stop flailing and his withered body stops bucking up and down on the counter-top.
Then I call Adrian from where he has been standing watch outside the apothecary’s door. The man must get used to murder if he is to keep company with me. He swallows the sight of the body with hardly a gulp and then helps me to lower the alligator from its swinging perch. The alligator is hard and shiny and weighs little because it is hollow. We quickly bind up the withered old man and hoist him aloft in the beast’s place. He must have been cut in the struggle by shattered glass because blood begins to drip onto the floor.
Adrian asks why we are doing this and I say it is my humour. I am reminded of Hamlet’s stowing the body of Polonius in the lobby so that he can joke about it.
I tell Adrian that the corpse is expecting a visit from a friend of his, meaning Adrian’s, and the thieving steward asks who and I say, ‘Master Nick Revill, the player’ and even in the half-darkness of the dead man’s shop I see the other’s mouth twist in anger.
‘Perhaps,’ I say, ‘you would wait here until he arrives.’
I leave Adrian after giving him further instructions. As I walk briskly across Paul’s I notice the innocent figure of Master Revill making his way in the opposite direction. I am careful not to be seen. Underneath my doublet is stuffed the shirt that belonged to Francis. I smile and smile like a man in love with this fallen world. I take pains to keep my hands clenched because there is blood on my palms.