type — from Alsace (wherever that is). Then Jonathan Case said, ‘Now, Mr Revill, if you wouldn’t mind unfastening your doublet… so that I may examine you.’
I had forgotten the injury to my side, but the discomfort returned the moment it was mentioned. I put down my glass and unbuttoned my doublet. The doctor felt my ribs beneath my shirt and nodded when I drew a sharp breath or winced.
‘No great damage done, although you may have cracked a rib,’ he said. ‘You will have to avoid exertion. No sudden movements. No leaping about or fighting duels, even mock ones.’
‘Duels and leaping about are part and parcel of a player’s lot,’ said Jack. ‘You’ll have to play old men for a week or two, Nick.’
Case moved to open the bag, which had been resting by his feet all this time. There was some sort of complicated clasp to it, and he turned his back on us, as if to keep its precise operation a secret. When he turned to face us again, he was holding an object swathed in satin. He carefully unfolded it to reveal a lump of darkish rock about the size of his hand. He passed it to me. ‘Hold it. It should bring a benefit.’
Not understanding, I nevertheless grasped the rock, which was so smooth and deliberately shaped that I assumed it had been carved and polished by hand. It was difficult to say exactly what the shape represented, however. Looked at one way, it was a bird with curved wings. Looked at in another, it might be a simple boat with a keel and a stubby mast. Or it was no such thing but a mere piece of rock, although curiously weighty. By the light of the candles in the cabin, I could make out a series of small grooves on one side. Accidental scratches or deliberate markings?
I observed Dr Case watching me intently. How was I meant to respond? What ‘benefit’ was the rock supposed to confer? But all at once I did experience a sort of access of energy even as the pain in my side dulled.
‘What is it? Is it stone?’
‘It has several properties,’ said Case, putting out his hand for the rock. ‘Look at this.’
He directed us towards the far end of the cabin by the pair of doors. A box with a glazed cover was set into the floor. Inside was an arrangement of metal hoops supporting a disc seemingly inscribed with the image of a sunburst surmounted by a pointer. An oil lamp was hanging overhead.
‘That’s a gimbal,’ said Jack, indicating the arrangement of metal rings.
‘Very good, my friend. However rough the seas and however violent the pitching of the boat that… item in the centre… will stay level.’
I had the idea that quick-witted Jack knew what we were looking at. As for me, I was confused and, in my mind’s eye, could see the rough seas and the pitching boat.
‘Watch,’ said Dr Case.
He brought the black stone near to the glass cover of the box and moved it from side to side. At once, the pointer became agitated and swung about as if it was dancing in response to the stone. Dr Case looked at Jack for an explanation.
‘The stone you are holding is acting as a magnet to the compass.’
So this object was a compass. I knew the word, of course, but had never seen the thing. But then I’ve never been to sea.
‘This is no stone but a piece of iron,’ said our physician.
‘Where is it from?’ said Jack.
‘Not from this earth,’ said the physician, pausing after this remark in a style that would have done him credit onstage. ‘It fell from the heavens to a land of ice and who knows how many centuries ago. This is a sky- stone.’
As with the compass, I had heard of such things but never seen one, let alone held it in my hands. Fallen from the sky, eh? This idea was even stranger than the fact that the stone came from ‘a land of ice’, something which sounded as remote as the moon. I looked at the stone again and seemed to feel a strange vitality flowing from the thing. I passed it to Jack. Then, to show the refinement of my feelings, I said, ‘Is it valuable?’
‘Yes,’ said Case, without enlarging on the subject.
I wondered whether his trip to St-Malo was connected to the stone. As if to reinforce his remark about its being a valuable item, he took the stone back from Jack and made a show of storing it inside a cabinet. This turned out to be another curious item. Not the cabinet itself, which was an ordinary if handsome piece of furniture made of cedar. No, it was the lock securing the cabinet which Case decided to demonstrate to us, his appreciative audience. He’d been about to open it, then paused.
‘Look at this, gentlemen,’ said Case.
We crouched down to join him as he played the light from a candle across the brass plate of a lock, which was about the size of an extended hand. There was the figure of a woman on it in relief, with frisky legs visible beneath a skirt and an arm extended as if she were about to dance. Her head was surmounted by a large hat rather like cousin Thomasina’s. I glanced around to see where that lady was now, but we three men were alone in the cabin. She must have left while we were examining the compass.
Case pressed down on the figure’s hat, which tilted back at a jaunty angle and which presumably operated a catch mechanism, for he was then able to swing open the door. Wrapping the sky-stone in the satin cloth once again, he deposited it with exaggerated care in the cabinet, closed the door and refastened the catch by nudging the woman’s hat back to a level position. This didn’t seem so very secure, since anyone familiar with the hat trick would have been able to unfasten the cabinet. But there was more to come.
Case flicked with a forefinger at one of the miniature legs, and it kicked up to reveal a keyhole whose widest point was in a position which combined suggestiveness with practicality. Jack and I looked at each other in amusement. The physician produced a key from the folds of his gown and gave it a couple of twists in the keyhole. I heard the soft click as a bolt slid home inside the device.
Case stood up with a satisfied look once he’d restored the female figure’s leg to its former position and back to respectability as well. ‘Made by Johannes Wilken of Dordrecht — in the Low Countries, you know. It has an additional feature which guarantees security. Look again.’
I noticed that the lock-plate held more puzzles. The woman’s arm was extended not so much in preparation for the dance but so as to point at a clock-like dial, above which some words had been inscribed, although the light was not good enough for me to make them out. Jack took his turn to look.
‘I have heard of this, I think,’ he said.
‘It is a detector lock, my friends,’ said Case quickly, unwilling to find himself trumped. ‘Every time the key is turned to lock up the cabinet, the dial moves around a notch so that the lady’s hand indicates a higher number. Note that it presently stands at thirty-nine. So if, when I next open the door, I find my lady fingering the number forty I will know that some villain has been playing fast and loose with my key. And the inscription now, you must want to know what that says…’
He peered at the cabinet lock as if to familiarize himself with the words again and then recited: ‘None but my master shall open me,
Respect my virtue if you be not he.’
Having delivered himself of all this news and the rhyme, Jonathan Case urged us to make ourselves comfortable on one of the benches at the table while he refilled our glasses.
The good doctor proceeded to talk to Jack and me about our work. He was full of praise for our abilities as players. He complimented us on our nimbleness, the injury to my side nothwithstanding. He said that we must have remarkable memories to hold our parts in our heads for one day, only to have to discard them on the next in preparation for a fresh drama. He remarked that the common belief about players — that we were little better than uneducated vagabonds — was obviously untrue, for here (looking at Jack) was a fellow who knew about gimbals and spoke French. I gazed in surprise at Jack and then remembered that he’d said something about the French legate being un favori du roi, a favourite of King James. For his part, Jack mumbled some words about having had an aunt who came from Paris. For some reason this struck us as enormously funny — an aunt from Paris! — and we hooted with laughter.
By this time, as you’ll probably have gathered, we were fairly pissed. Jonathan Case kept filling our glasses with the Osney and we kept on downing it. All thoughts of next day’s rehearsals were forgotten. After all, it was only a short walk back across the river, and the gatehouses at each end of the bridge closed later than the city ones so as to accommodate the pleasure-seeking folk who frequented Southwark in the evening. We had time for another
