The Pale Companion Read online

  PHILIP GOODEN is the author of Sleep of Death and Death of Kings, the first two novels in the Nick Revill series. A contributor to various short story anthologies, he also works as an editor, most recently on a new edition of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World. He lives in Bath, where he is currently working on his fourth Nick Revill mystery.

  Praise for the Nick Revill series

  ‘The witty narrative, laced with puns and word play so popular in this period, makes this an enjoyable racy tale.’

  Susanna Yager, Sunday Telegraph

  ‘The book has much in common with the film Shakespeare in Love – full of colourful characters . . . [but with] an underlying darkness.’

  Crime Time

  Other titles by the same author

  Sleep of Death

  Death of Kings

  Alms for Oblivion

  The Pale Companion

  Philip Gooden

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Constable,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2002

  This edition published by C&R Crime,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2012

  Copyright © Philip Gooden, 2002

  The right of Philip Gooden to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-47210-430-4 (ebook)

  Turn melancholy forth to funerals;

  The pale companion is not for our pomp.

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I, i

  Waxing Crescent

  The murderer straddled the prone body. He watched his victim closely, alert for the slightest sign of life. There was a twitch from an outflung arm, a spasm in a sprawled leg. The man who was still standing raised his club in the air, ready to bring it down once more on his victim’s head. But there was no need. The other was safely dead, and all those little shifts and shivers were no more than the dregs of life departing from him. A dark thick red pooled from where his skull had been stove-in.

  The murderer, who had been wholly absorbed in his task up to this point, now began to take in his surroundings. Dusk was falling. Shadows were gathering in corners. He glanced uneasily to the right, then the left. There! What was that crouching in the underwood? Whose were those gleaming eyes? Did they belong to a beast of the field – or a human witness? He moved uncertainly in that direction before some sound spun him round to face danger from the opposite quarter. He lifted his club, then lowered it once more.

  He waited. Flicked a glance down towards the corpse. Started to realize the need for concealment. Awkwardly, still clutching the club tightly enough to throttle it, he bent down and nudged and tugged the body towards a nearby bush. No time to dispose of it properly. He would leave it to be buried in the maws of kites and crows, of bears and wolves. They would do his filthy work for him.

  The murderer left the body part-hidden under the foliage. He turned round and, stooping slightly, began to exit from the scene of his crime. He walked on tiptoe, as if frightened the ground was going to swallow him up. Suddenly he halted.

  Slowly . . . slowly . . . he directed his gaze upward as the realization struck home. Above was the arch of the sky, a deep darkening blue. The murderer had been looking in the wrong direction all this time. His yellow beard jutted out from his chin. If I have an enemy, his posture seemed to say, then that enemy is looking down on me from above. At this moment. While I have been thinking myself invisible, he has been watching me. My every move. Worse, he has read my every thought and inspected the chambers of my heart. He has seen my hollowness, my arrogance and anger. Everything was conveyed in the murderer’s huddled shoulders, in the limp helplessness of the club swinging between his knees. He seemed to be at once looking upward and downward, to be apprehensive and abject.

  Now fear and dread overcame him. He turned back to regard the evidence of his crime, improperly concealed. Tremors ran through the murderer’s frame. He made to fling the club away but the haft of it seemed to stick to his hands, to refuse to be released. Then he made to fling himself away. He turned in circles which grew wider and wilder by the instant. He spun round until he collapsed on the ground. Only then did the club fell from his nerveless fingers. He clutched his face with his hands.

  What have I done? God hide me from the knowledge of what I have done, from the knowledge of myself.

  Oh hide me from God.

  But it was no use. At that moment God entered from the right.

  At first the murderer, hands covering his face, could not see his Maker. Then, becoming aware he was not alone, he peeped between parted fingers.

  God spoke.

  He said: “Where is your brother?”

  The murderer scrambled to his feet, looked at God in amazement. What brother? his look seemed to say.

  But God, undeceived, repeated the question.

  “Where is your brother?”

  “I know not,” said the murderer. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

  “What have you done?” said God.

  And the murderer followed God’s eyes as he looked towards the bush where the body was barely concealed.

  “The voice of your brother Abel calls to me. The voice of your brother’s blood calls to me from the ground.”

  The murderer said nothing but tumbled to his knees. As God’s sentence fell from his lips, Cain’s head slumped forward until his forehead was resting on the ground with his body arched awkwardly above.

  “Now you are cursed by the very earth which has opened her mouth to receive the blood of your brother Abel. You are cursed among men, Cain, and the earth shall no longer sustain you. You will be a stranger to it.”

  Cain’s entire body now pressed down on the ground. Our first murderer seemed to be clasping his mother, the earth. But God was unyielding.

  “You will be a fugitive and a vagabond on this earth. No place shall be a home to you.”

  “All men will turn against me,” moaned the man on the ground. “All shall curse me, and one will slay me.”

  He raised his head to look imploringly at his Maker. His beard, bright yellow, the sign of Cain and Judas Iscariot, seemed to gather the last flecks of the disappearing light.

  “Not so,” said God. “You are doomed to wander out your days and no man may end them before I have determined. Whoever kills Cain, vengeance shall multiply seven times over on that man’s head.”

  And in the gathering dusk God moved forward to put on Cain the mark of sin whereby all men would know the first murderer for what he was and that his punishment was God’s alone, not to be usurped by humankind.

  God extended his thumb to brand Cain on his forehead.

  Then somebody laughed.

  It wasn’t a pleasant laugh but a wild, mocking cackle. It came from somewhere to my left and nearer the front. God stopped in his progress towards Cain and seemed put out. Darkness was closing in fast and
the crowd was a mass of blocky shapes and shadows. The stage in front of us was unilluminated. Obviously, the Paradise Brothers had expected to arrive at the end of their Cain and Abel drama before night closed her curtains round all of us. I doubt that they had so much as a single torch or brand between them. They were bare, unsophisticated fellows, these three players – but for all that, they had a kind of authority. The Paradise brother enacting Cain, for example, had presented a nice mixture of rage and bad conscience. God too had been well personated, although the player’s appearance helped. He had a great white beard and a stern brow. Now he gazed into the gloom that filled the market square as the laughter rang out once more, laughter that was raucous and disturbing.

  At first I’d thought the cackle was a sign of impatience with the drama unfolding on the makeshift scaffold which was erected in a corner of the square. Someone who’d grown tired of the familiar Bible tale of brother-bashing, and was eager for a jig or a spot of bawdy instead. Certainly, in London the audience wouldn’t have permitted so many minutes to pass without a dance or a dirty joke. But then that’s the city for you, and we were in the country.

  Now there was a disturbance in the crowd as someone pushed his way right to the edge of the scaffold and hoisted himself onto the platform before turning outwards to face the audience. God stood where he was, his right arm held out ready to give Cain his mark. The fratricide still knelt, his forehead tilted up to meet his brand of punishment.

  And, even as I waited to see what was going to happen next, I wondered at the inexperience – the greenness – of this little company of players. That they could be put off their action by the mere fact of someone getting up on their makeshift stage. That they did not roundly tell this individual where and how he might dispose of himself. We of the Chamberlain’s Company occasionally encounter persons – drunks and show-offs mostly – who believe that our Globe customers prefer to see them rather than the players. These people, who want to usurp our places on stage, are soon seen off by an outstretched arm, an outstuck foot or a ribald remark.

  But here in the market square these country players were transfixed. Like the crowd, they were waiting to see what the intruder would do next. Even the actor playing dead Abel had twisted round from his position at the edge of the platform to see what was happening. Jack Wilson, standing next to me, nudged me in the ribs in a this-is-going-to-be-good gesture. The individual who was now standing centre-stage staggered slightly and produced a bottle from the folds of his upper garments.

  I felt disappointed. A man playing drunk can be amusing enough on the boards but a real drunk is a different kettle of fish, the more tedious in proportion as he believes that what he has to say is of any importance.

  Sure enough.

  “Snoffair. Snorright. Snoffair.”

  He stopped, perhaps to allow us to ponder the wisdom of his words.

  Jack Wilson whispered in my ear, “He thinks it’s not fair, Nick.”

  “And not right, Jack.”

  Then, looking round at God, the newcomer proceeded. “Snoffair. You respek Abel ’n’ his burnt off’ rins yet Cain and his fruits you do not respek.”

  “He says God doesn’t respect –” whispered Jack.

  “Shut up,” I said. “I can understand drunk as well as you.”

  “His fruits you – do – not – respek – no,” said the man, menacing his Maker with the bottle in his fist. The white-bearded God retreated a step or two. His frown deepened. By now, Abel was upright once more, the side of his face streaked with the sheep’s-blood which gave colour to the first murder. The trio of players – God, Cain and Abel – looked affronted. Perhaps I’d been wrong in supposing them green. It was rather that they weren’t prepared for interruptions of any kind. They were obviously used to being watched and listened to in respectful silence.

  “Fruitsh!” declaimed the drunkard, getting into his slurring stride now and spitting over those lucky enough to be close to the stage. “Fruitsh he hearned honesht by sweat hizbrow and work hissand. Cain ish simple man, Cain ish farmer.”

  He waved his arm towards the individual who had the part of Cain, and for a moment I wondered whether he’d mistaken the player for the person.

  “Me – simple man – farmer – like Cain.”

  “That’s right, Tom,” yelled someone to my right. “We know you.”

  “Why does God not respek farmers? Why does he not respek Cain here?” enquired our plaintive drunk.

  “Cain was a killer,” hissed someone to my left.

  Various noises (assenting, dissenting) from the crowd.

  “Shall I tell how he does not respek us?”

  More cries and whispers.

  Now, this was a group of country folk in the market square. To an outsider, they might appear as so many hobs, clods and clowns. But they seemed to me to be urging on our friend Tom in the expectation of a good show. In this respect at least, they were very like our London audiences at the Globe.

  “Thish what he does. When we want rain – sends drought. And when we want shun . . . whassee send?”

  He paused as if expecting a reply. When none came, he said with satisfaction, spluttering over the front rows, “Rain – hail – tempesht.”

  By now, it was almost completely dark in the square. I’d been wrong to suppose the players didn’t possess a torch between them, for suddenly a couple of brands flared up at the edges of the stage. I don’t know who lit them and wondered that they wanted to illuminate the proceedings. The smoky brands cast a lurid, wavering glow over Cain and Abel and God who had grouped themselves uneasily about farmer Tom.

  “God does not deserve our praise –”

  At this there was a collective intake of breath from the crowd. Tom appeared to be on the edge of a blasphemous remark. I was slightly uneasy myself. Next to me, I sensed Jack tense where he stood.

  “Not our praise, I shay, but our –”

  He got no further because Cain clubbed farmer Tom from behind. This was the very weapon with which he had murdered his brother in play (though not in jest) and if it was not a full-fledged cudgel but a trumpery thing for the stage it was nonetheless weighty enough to fell the farmer. Tom dropped his bottle, pitched forward and almost toppled off the scaffold.

  In the darkness there was a stirring.

  “Leave him be!” shouted one and another said, “He speaks true.

  “You’ve done for Tom.”

  This was not the case, fortunately. Almost straightaway Tom pushed himself upright and gazed groggily round as if uncertain where he was or how he’d come there. Then, regrettably, God intervened. Feeling perhaps that he had been slighted by the farmer’s words, he came forward and pressed his thumb onto the hapless Tom’s forehead, to leave there the mark of fallen, sinful man. But Tom took exception to this treatment and swung out at God with his fist, and at once bedlam broke loose on the stage as the Paradise Brothers piled onto the protesting farmer. They were big men. Arms and legs flailed, there were thumps and groans and oaths.

  This was the moment the crowd had been waiting for. The moment when the pieties of drama were finally sent packing by the pleasures of riot. A bunch of onlookers clambered onto the swaying stage to assist in the confusion. Bodies tussled in the dark, illuminated by the flaring torches. The few simple props – a handful of branches representing the underwood where Abel’s body was hidden, the canvas rock behind which God had bided his time – were soon being employed as weapons in the fight. Some of those who hadn’t yet joined in were obviously considering doing so, while others were trying to hold them back, and smaller scuffles were breaking out around us.

  I tugged at Jack Wilson’s sleeve.

  “Time to leave,” I said.

  I’d seen enough trouble in the streets of London – with her apprentices steeped in liquor and her superannuated veterans with no skills but those of riot – to know that the best place to be in a brawl is elsewhere.

  “Let’s wait and see what happens,” said Jack.
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  “No, Jack,” I said.

  “It’s getting interesting.”

  “No, Jack,” I repeated before saying in a manner that, in retrospect, might have been a little lordly. “Nothing interesting can happen. These people are rustics and bumpkins. Just look at them. Witness their taste in plays. Witness the way they have responded to one.”

  “What was that, my friend?”

  The voice came from my right. A thick voice. A rustic, bumpkinish voice.

  “Nothing at all,” I said, shifting to the left and leaving Jack, if he was so inclined, to face the music. But the press of people and the darkness made it difficult to find my way out and I felt myself being grabbed by the collar.

  “Repeat your words, friend,” said the voice over my shoulder.

  “Let me go first.”

  “What, and have you run off into the dark. Repeat your words.”

  The grip on my collar tightened. I could feel the gentleman’s raw breath on the back of my neck. I was aware that the two of us were rapidly turning into a little knot of interest for those whose attention wasn’t fixed on the stage.

  “Which words?”

  “The ones about us country folk.”

  “If you already heard them why do you want me to repeat them?”

  “Because – I – say – so.”

  With each word, he jerked me violently backward and forward by the collar.

  “Very well,” I said, trying to be dignified about it. I was about to offer some crawling apology to him and his rustic ilk when a silly idea seized me. Though at first I’d wanted to get as far away from the stir in the square as possible, now I felt aggrieved that my words (admittedly slightly injudicious ones) had been snatched out of the air by some eavesdropping yokel. Why should I apologize to this oaf, even if he was breathing down my neck and twisting my collar? Why shouldn’t he have the benefit of my real opinion?

  “I said that my friend and I were surrounded by individuals of a certain stamp, to wit –”

  “I’ll to-wit you, my friend, if you don’t speak plain English.”