The Pale Companion

by Philip Gooden

  I was trying to fathom Cuthbert’s remarks about “freedom” and wondering whether I’d really offended him by the query about his brother when I was suddenly assailed by Laurence Savage. For once, my co-player lived up to his name. An angry redness suffused his broad, equable face. The livelihood of the Chamberlain’s was threatened on two fronts, he said furiously. Over there was a bunch of vagabonds living in a barn and presenting crude Bible tales which brought the refined art of playing into disrepute. And on the other hand – and a much worse hand it was too – here was the disgrace of a jumped-up sprig of the nobility’s using his father’s money to procure himself a place in a professional troupe of players, so that he might strut, mince and mumble his way to the sycophants’ applause. And what made it worse, a great deal worse, was that members of the same troupe – supposed professionals – bowed and scraped in front of the said sprig, and told him that he could do no wrong but was a very fine actor indeed, yes sir, no sir.

  I tried to interject that, in reality, Cuthbert Ascre – “if that’s who you’re referring to,” I said disingenuously – was a capable player who deserved his place in our Dream on merit, that he didn’t present any threat to us Chamberlain’s, that as far as I knew no money had changed hands, &c. But Laurence only grew angrier at me. So it’s Cuthbert now, is it Nicholas, Cuthbert Ascre, well, I noticed you on the grass grinning like an ape and exchanging compliments. What would you have me do with him? I said. Turn my back and never speak to him again? Yes, said Laurence, that’s what you should do, Nicholas. We may have no choice about whether he’s in our play or not, considering his father used his stinking money to secure him a stinking place, but we do have a choice about whether to talk to him or not, about whether to kiss his arse or not. Have no truck with fellows of that sort, I say.

  Only afterwards did I understand that Laurence Savage was not attacking Cuthbert Ascre, or at least not primarily. He was furious to see me, and no doubt Thomas Pope and others, consorting with and complimenting the son of a man whom, for some reason, he loathed: Lord Elcombe.

  Adam Fielding remained at Instede during these wedding preparations while he continued his investigation into the death of Robin the wood-man. Kate remained too, and I was always on the alert to catch a glimpse of her or to exchange a few words. Each time I sighted her, my heart beat faster and my palms turned slippery. If she was similarly affected by my presence she didn’t show it. She maintained the same light, slightly mocking look and manner; she was always quick in converse; she did not ask to hear more poems by Richard Milford or anyone else. Yet, despite this apparent distance, I found myself thinking of her – or rather, her image wandered unannounced into my mind – at odd moments during the day and as I lay wakefully on my crib in the players’ dormitory at the top of the house. Though, if I’m to be honest, it wasn’t at odd moments that she occurred to me, but frequently. I caught myself mooning and moping about. I sighed often and, if I noticed myself doing it, sighed more emphatically. It seemed to me that my appetite grew less hearty and that I slept little during those short summer nights. These are some of the indisputable signs of the lover, ones which I was pleased enough to cultivate. Yet my thoughts were pure enough, and my mind shied away from imagining the two of us engaged in anything more reprehensible than chaste kissing. Well, relatively chaste.

  Of my friend Nell back in London I did not think much at this time – except to consider that she was still there.

  My most reckless imagining in respect of Kate was to picture the two of us together, Nicholas Revill and Kate Fielding, united and living happily ever after. Hymen must have been hovering in the Instede air (even if the white-faced Harry didn’t look eager to pluck down his share of that god’s train). So quick do love and unreason rush ahead together that I went so far as to approach Kate’s father in the way of marriage – albeit in my mind only. How would a Justice of the Peace look upon having a poor player as a son-in-law? Not very favourably. It would be different, of course, if I was further advanced in the craft which I practised, higher up that steep hill which I’d mentioned to Cuthbert Ascre. If I was a Globe shareholder, say. But I was not long out of my ’prentice period. No, I would have to do something very pleasing – or very clever – to influence Adam Fielding. To make him consider me as a suitable match for his daughter.

  As you’ll have observed, this calculation left entirely out of account Kate’s feelings for me. Perhaps this was because I feared that she didn’t really have any, or nothing that extended beyond courtesy and womanly concern. Maybe I thought of winning over her father because that seemed a less difficult task than winning her over.

  With this in mind, when Adam Fielding asked if I’d be present at a formal conversation with Lord and Lady Elcombe, I was pleased enough to agree but baffled as to why he needed me.

  “Because, Nicholas, I’d value your eyes and ears in this matter.”

  This was gratifying, naturally, but I worried about what cover he would offer for my presence.

  “None is necessary,” said Fielding. “As a Justice, I may press you into service if I wish. Anyway, it was you who first saw that there was something untoward in the manner of Robin’s death. You have won the right to share in my discoveries, if there are any.”

  “But Robin was – somebody of little account,” I said, somehow surprised that this matter should be taken as high as the Elcombes.

  “And so his death may go unexamined?”

  “Of course it shouldn’t, but . . . sir . . . Adam . . . is this timely?”

  “No, and nor is death,” said Fielding, “if we wish to get profound now.”

  “The house is all in a stir with this wedding. I hardly think that Lord and Lady Elcombe will be happy to answer your questions at this time.”

  “Again, my title and position carry some weight. And I am long familiar with this couple. They will not grudge half an hour, believe me.”

  So it proved. We were summoned to attend on Lord and Lady Elcombe in their lodgings, a large assemblage of rooms on the second floor commanding fine views over their property. I was still not accustomed to the size of these Instede apartments, into the smallest of which you might have fitted my bedchamber in Dead Man’s Place several times over. Nor had I recovered from my surprise at the sheer quantity of light which flooded through the great windows. Coming from a city where, at least in less prosperous quarters, sunlight seemed to be doled out in miserly parcels and to fight its way through the smoky air before penetrating one’s squinty windows, I was dazzled by the splendour and openness of the Instede interiors.

  Before we had our interview with the Elcombes, Fielding instructed me that I should say nothing unless asked but should watch and listen carefully. My youth and my training as a player would come in handy, he claimed, since I would doubtless be able to recollect what was said more accurately than someone of his advanced years. I was to write down what had passed as soon as possible after the encounter was done. I did as instructed (still hoping to win the Justice’s favour) and what follows is my record of this dialogue.

  We were ushered in by one of the manservants. The Elcombes sat stiffly side by side, as if they were to be painted. The long face of the master of Instede was unrelieved by any softening mark. For all her drawn beauty, his wife shared his stony features. After we were bidden to sit, the questions began.

  Adam Fielding: Thank you for agreeing to see us.

  [A slight inclination of the head from Elcombe, a small smile from Lady Elcombe]

  Adam Fielding: Master Revill is here in my service.

  Lord Elcombe: Master Revill and I have already met. He was generous enough to instruct me in the true meaning of Master Shakespeare’s Dream.

  [Master Revill blushes furiously and wishes he could hide himself under the rich carpet which covers the floor.]

  Adam Fielding: May I remind you, my Lord, that you requested my presence at Instede in order to enquire into the death of he that was called Robin.

  Elcombe: W
hat have you discovered, sir? Enough to put to rest the whispers and rumours that run about the place? Hm?

  Fielding: With your permission, I will come to that in due course. First, I would like to establish one or two things about the dead man.

  Elcombe: I will answer if I can.

  Fielding: Who was Robin?

  Lady Elcombe: A man without a master. A man without a place to house his head.

  Fielding: I mean, my Lady, where did he come from? He was not born in your woods, surely? Master Revill says he was a man who had once been something . . . different.

  Lady Elcombe: Then perhaps Master Revill should be answering your questions, since he knows so much.

  [She looks at me with a cold look and I wish to burrow further under the carpet. But Lord Elcombe puts out a placatory hand in his wife’s direction.]

  Elcombe: I can satisfy your curiosity to an extent, sir.

  Fielding: No mere curiosity, my Lord. I speak with the weight of the law on my shoulders. A man has died and I am charged with discovering why.

  Elcombe: So be it. Robin was the son of a woman who was born on the estate in my father’s time. She was not strong in the head. She hardly knew herself. She was tolerated here out of charity.

  Fielding: What happened to her?

  Elcombe: She moved away from here. She is in another country.

  Nick Revill [under his breath]: And besides the wench is dead

  Elcombe [who evidently has sharp ears]: The young player knows his Christopher Marlowe. Master Revill is probably right. She is doubtless dead. She left this place many years ago.

  Fielding: While Robin remained behind, to fend for himself in the woods?

  Elcombe: No. She vanished from here when he was not full grown. So did he. Merry must have taken the brat with her.

  Adam Fielding: Merry?

  Elcombe: So she was called – on account of her ever-laughing countenance.

  Fielding: She was a cheerful soul.

  Elcombe: A simple one. I said that she was weak in the head. She gaped for any reason, or none at all.

  Fielding: And Robin? Her offspring. He must have come back to Instede at some point.

  Elcombe: When he returned nobody knows, but it was as a grown man. I did not discover that he was here until he had been dwelling in the woods for some time . . . perhaps a matter of years.

  Fielding: But someone in your household must have known?

  Lady Elcombe: Of course. Do you think that we are aware of everything that goes on in the holes and corners of this estate?

  Fielding: Why did he return?

  Elcombe [with a kind of sneering smile]: Perhaps he thought that he was coming home. I do not know, sir, and he who could have told you has now gone out to make his home in the dark.

  Fielding: Who was Robin’s father?

  [Lord Elcombe looks abashed at the question. My Lady merely looks – daggers.]

  Elcombe: When I said that Merry gaped I was referring to her mouth, permanently open in mirthless mirth. But it could as well have been said about her other parts. Why, man, any fellow on the estate might have covered her, or any passing vagrant for that matter.

  [Nicholas watches Lady Elcombe carefully to see how she responds to her husband’s coarseness but she is too busy staring at Fielding’s reaction.]

  Fielding: I see.

  Elcombe: I am not sure that you do, sir. The plain fact is that I know next to nothing about this individual. I merely required you to come to Instede and quieten the more foolish gossip about his death. No more than that.

  Fielding: The requirements of the law may not be consonant with your wishes, my Lord. Have you ever picked at a fraying thread on a sleeve . . .?

  [The noble Lord and Lady regard Fielding and each other with bafflement and then irritation.]

  Elcombe: To the quick of the matter. What have you discovered that makes you so riddling? Hm?

  Fielding:Nothing.

  Lady Elcombe: Nothing?

  Fielding: Because there is nothing to discover. My opinion is that Robin the wood-man was as you have described his mother, that is, somewhat addle-pated. I believe that a period of many years living in the woods curdled whatever few wits he was born with, and that one fine morning he slipped a cord about his neck and so slid into the next world. Be assured that I shall do my best to spread this version of events among the more impressionable members of your household, my Lord.

  Revill: But –

  Fielding: Yes, Master Revill?

  Revill: No matter.

  Elcombe: So there was nothing out of the way in this person’s death?

  Fielding: That is my opinion.

  Lady Elcombe: Could you not have told us this direct, sir? Did we have to be troubled with your questions?

  Fielding: I wished only to clear my mind, and now I see that I have cleared yours as well. However, I must apologize for having taken up your time, especially at this delicate and propitious moment for your family.

  Lady Elcombe [with the merest touch of graciousness]: Now that you are no longer our inquisitor, perhaps you and your beautiful daughter, Justice Fielding, can revert to being our guests.

  Elcombe: And Master Revill can go back to his playing, hm.

  Fielding [standing and half-bowing]: My Lord and Lady.

  [Nicholas Revill also stands and does a small bow before following the Justice of the Peace from the chamber. He says nothing. He can think of nothing to say.]

  As soon as we were outside the door and out of earshot of the hovering manservant, I turned to Adam Fielding.

  “Sir, Adam, did you mean all that?”

  “All what?”

  “How can you say that there was nothing out of the way about Robin’s death? After I showed that he could not have tied a knot in the halter. Or climbed the elm most likely. And after we found that case of papers.”

  “Steady, Nicholas, steady. You are growing heated.”

  “But you left several things unexamined.”

  In my urgency I forgot the normal courtesies due to this grey-bearded man.

  “No, it is you who are leaving things unexamined,” said Fielding. “Tell me what happened with Robin.”

  “Well, I don’t know – ”

  “Ah, you don’t know. Why not, exactly?”

  “I wasn’t there when he died.”

  “You weren’t there when he died,” Fielding repeated with irritating deliberation. “Just so. Tell me what you think happened, then.”

  By this time we’d emerged into the open. We continued to walk, in the direction of the lake. The day was like all the days of that June, warm, fresh, untarnished.

  “I . . . well . . . all right. I believe there was foul play in this matter, I believe that Robin was helped to slide into the next world, as you expressed it in there.”

  “You understand Latin, Nicholas? But of course you do, you’re the parson’s son from Somerset. So I ask you in that tongue: cui bono?”

  I could not understand the question – not its meaning, which was simple – but the purpose of it. Also, I couldn’t understand Master Fielding’s rather distant, even mocking manner. Had I spoken so much out of turn during our interview with the Elcombes?

  In case he should think my Latin was feeble, I quickly said, “You ask me ‘for whose good is it?’, ‘to whose advantage?’”

  “When we’re looking at an apparent crime, we must ask not merely how it was done, what instruments were used, who might have carried it out and so on, but one question above all the rest: whose good does this serve? Who might benefit from it?”

  “And since nobody benefited from Robin’s death, there was no motive for anybody to do away with him.”

  “You’ve said it for me.”

  “But . . .”

  “You must admit, Nicholas, your own reasoning has a certain force.”

  “Have you considered another possibility, sir?”

  “I have considered many. Go on, though.”

  “That he w
as . . . murdered . . . to silence him, to shut his mouth for good.”

  “What was he going to say that was so dangerous? From your own account, when he did talk he didn’t make much sense. And if you’re hinting that he was in possession of some mortal secret, which I think you are, was there anyone to listen to him and, if there was, then why did he remain so long alive and untouched in the woods? Why put an end to him now at what is, to say the least, an inconvenient moment?”

  “What about the evidence of the halter and the knot? Or the papers in the box?”

  “Which were smudged and unreadable.”

  “There was one word left on them – mercy.”

  Fielding laughed, to my discomfort. “Oh, mercy. Well, you can’t build a house out of a single brick. The papers were spoiled and will never be restored and therefore must be left out of the question. As for the rope, you said yourself that you weren’t there when he died. How can you know precisely what he was capable of doing? Men may achieve extraordinary feats if driven to them by despair – or any other great passion.”

  “Well . . .”

  “I think we really must leave this now, Master Revill. Kate and I can revert to being ordinary guests at this wedding while you – ”

  “Can go back to playing, I know,” I said, unable to keep a touch of asperity out of my reply. We had arrived at the margin of the lake and the stone seat where I had so pleasantly dawdled away the time with Kate a couple of days before. “Only one more thing, your worship. At the beginning, when I first came to tell you of my suspicions and concerns in this business you seemed to share them. And when you came with me to examine the place in the wood where Robin’s life was ended you acted as if you too believed there was something unexplained in the matter.”

  “Oh, there is always something unexplained if you look hard enough. As for what I was doing in the woods and before . . . it is called keeping an open mind.”