The Counterfeit Crank Read Online Free PDF Page A

There was blood on his face and he was foaming at the mouth. His female companion immediately went down on her knees and cradled him in her arms as she tried to stay his fit. The convulsions slowly died away but he lay unconscious in the dirt. Everyone crowded around to see what had happened to the unfortunate young man
    ‘It’s the falling sickness,’ sighed the girl, looking up in despair at the faces that encircled her. ‘My brother is too ill to work and too weak to fend for me. Spare a coin or two to help us, dear friends,’ she pleaded, holding out a hand. ‘If I had enough money, I could take him to a doctor.’
    The young man twitched uncontrollably a few times and more white foam came bubbling from his mouth. It was a sight that played on the sympathy of the passers-by. A decrepit old woman in faded attire was the first to reach into her purse.
    ‘Hold on, kind soul,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Do not part with money that you clearly need yourself. You are being tricked.’
    ‘That is not so,’ argued the girl, bursting into tears. ‘You all saw what happened to my brother. He is grievous sick.’
    ‘I think not.’
    Nicholas Bracewell came forward to bend over the fallen man and grab him by the collar. With a firm heave, he pulled him upright then smacked him hard in the middle of the back. The young man spat out a piece of soap. Nicholas retrieved it from the ground and held it up for all to see.
    ‘You have been gulled by a counterfeit crank,’ he declared. ‘This young man is as healthy as any of us here but he feigns the falling sickness to lure money from your purses. That is why he wears these rags and rolls in the mud. As for the blood,’ he went on, using a hand to wipe it from the man’s face, ‘it comes from no wound, as you see. This fellow keeps a bladder of animal’s blood to daub himself for effect.’
    ‘The rogue!’ cried the old woman. ‘Send for an officer.’
    ‘They should be whipped at the cart’s-arse!’ said a thickset man. ‘Both of them.’
    ‘Spare us,’ implored the girl. ‘We meant no harm. We are starving.’
    ‘Beat the pair of them!’ demanded the man, pushing forward.
    ‘There is no need for that,’ said Nicholas, standing in front of the couple to protect them. ‘Their cunning has been duly exposed and your purses spared. That is enough.Go your way, friends, and do not be fooled again by a counterfeit crank.’
    The crowd slowly dispersed in a flurry of mutters and imprecations. Danger was over. Nicholas and Owen Elias had been on their way back to the Queen’s Head when they chanced upon the two beggars. Taking care not to impede those who walked past, the book holder took a closer look at them. The man was in his early twenties, slim, dark and angular. Matted hair and a ragged beard covered what had once been handsome features. There was a scar on the side of his nose. His companion was younger, no more than sixteen or seventeen, with a trim figure and a pretty face that was masked by apprehension. Nicholas could detect no family likeness between the two of them.
    ‘You are no brother and sister,’ he remarked.
    ‘Yes, we are,’ lied the girl. ‘We came to London when our parents died.’
    ‘What are your names?’
    ‘Why should we tell you?’ retorted the young man, defensively.
    ‘Because you might find we have something in common,’ said Elias with a chuckle. ‘That’s a Welsh voice I hear, as clear and melodious as my own.
Noswaith da.
’
    The beggar was tentative. ‘
Noswaith
da.
’
    Elias turned to the girl. ‘I have two sisters back home in Wales and they both have my lilt. So should you, if you were raised across the border. Let’s have no more of this nonsense about being brother and sister.’ He smiled atthem. ‘I am Owen Elias and this is Nick Bracewell. We are not here to harry you.’
    ‘No,’ said Nicholas, adopting a softer tone. ‘But I could not bear to see that poor old woman giving you what might have been