So I immediately wrote to my father and told him that, unless he had some relevant documents in Venice, it seemed the money was lost forever, and that I might as well return home. The letters written, sealed and dispatched in the king’s post (I did not care if they were read by the government, so decided against the extra expense of sending them privately), I returned to Mr. Crosse’s shop to pass the time in conversation, and prepare a bag of medicines in case I should decide to accompany Lower, although I was already minded not to do so.

“I don’t want to go. But if you could have them ready for tomorrow morning, just in case…”

Crosse took my list and opened his ledger at the page listing my previous purchases. “I will look them out for you,” he said. “There is nothing particularly rare or valuable, so it is no great labor for me.”

He looked up at me curiously for an instant, as though he was about to say something, then thought better of it and consulted the ledger once again.

“Do not concern yourself about payment,” I said. “I’m sure Lower, or even Mr. Boyle, will vouch for my credit.” “Of course. Of course. There is no question of that.” “Something else concerns you? Pray tell me.” He thought some more, and busied himself arranging vials of liquid on the counter for a few seconds before making up his mind. “I was talking to Lower earlier,” he began. “About his experiments over Dr. Grove’s death.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, thinking that he wanted more gossip from those in a position to offer interesting tittle-tattle. “A fascinating man, that Mr. Stahl, if a little difficult.” “Are his conclusions sound, do you think?” “I can see no fault in his method,” I replied, “and his reputation speaks for itself. Why do you ask?” “Arsenic, then? That is what caused his death?” “I can see no reason to doubt it at all. Do you disagree?” “No. Not at all. But I was wondering, Mr. Cola…” Here he hesitated once more. “Come on, man, out with it,” I cried cheerfully. “Something is clouding your spirit. Tell me what it is.”

He was about to speak, then changed his mind and shook his head. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he replied. “Nothing of any consequence. I was simply wondering where the arsenic might have come from. I would hate to think it came from my shop.”

“I doubt we will ever know,” I replied. “Besides, it is the job of the magistrate to find out what he can, so I am told, and no one would blame you, in any case. I would not worry yourself about it.” He nodded. “You are right. Quite right.” Then the door swung open and Lower, accompanied, I was sad to see, by Locke, swept into the shop. Both were dressed up in their finest coats, and Lower was again daring to wear his wig. I bowed to both of them.

“I have not seen two finer gentlemen since I left Paris,” I said.

Lower grinned and bowed back, an awkward movement as he was still unsure enough to hold his wig in place with his hand as he did so.

“The play, Mr. Cola, the play!”

“What play?”

“The one I told you about. Or did I forget? The entertainment I promised. Are you ready? Are you not excited? The whole town will be there. Come along. It starts in an hour, and unless we hurry, we won’t get the best seats.”

His good humor and air of urgency swept all other matters from my mind instantly, and without so much as a further thought about Mr. Crosse and his air of vague concern, I bade him good afternoon, and accompanied my friend out into the street.

Going to a play in England, for any person of sensibility who has been exposed to the refinements of Italian and French theater, is something of a shock and more than anything else reminds one how very recently this race of islanders has emerged from barbarism.

It is not so much their behavior, although the vulgar in the audience were perpetually noisy, and, it must be said, some of the better-born were far from quiet. This was due to the wild enthusiasm that the troupe of players generated. It was only a few years since such events had been allowed once more, and the joy of having some novelty to witness had sent the entire town into a frenzy. The very students, it seemed, had been selling their books and blankets to buy tickets, which were outrageously expensive.

Nor was the production so dreadful, although it was fearfully rustic, reminiscent more of Carnival burlesque than the theater proper. Rather, it is the type of play which the English admire that reveals what a crude and violent people they really are. It was written by a man who had lived not far from Oxford, who, alas, had clearly neither traveled nor studied the best authors, for he had no technique, no sense of plot and certainly no decorum.

Thus, the unities which Aristotle rightly taught us ensure that a play remains coherent were jettisoned almost from the first scene. Far from taking place in one location, it began in a castle (I think), then moved to some moor, then to a battlefield or two, and ended up with the author seeing if he could place a scene in every town in the country. He compounded his error by jettisoning the unity of time—between one scene and another, a minute, an hour, a month or (as far as I could see) fifteen years could pass, without the audience being informed. Also missing was the unity of subject, as the main plot was forgotten for long periods and subsidiary tales taken up, rather as though the author had taken pages from half a dozen plays, tossed them into the air, then stitched them together in whatever order they fell to earth.

The language was worse; some I missed as the actors had no sense of declamation, but instead talked as though they were in a room of friends or in a tavern. Of course, the true actor’s way, standing still, facing the audience and seducing them with the power of beautiful rhetoric, was scarcely appropriate, as there was little beauty to deliver. Instead what they had on offer was language of breathtaking foulness. At one scene in particular, where the son of some nobleman pretends to be mad and frolics on an open heath in the rain, then meets the king who has also gone mad and has put flowers in his hair (believe me, I am not joking), I quite expected the ladies to be hustled out by protective husbands. Instead, they sat there with all signs of enjoyment, and the only thing which caused a frisson of shock was the presence of actresses on stage, which no one had seen before.

Finally there was the violence. God only knows how many were killed; in my opinion it quite explains why the English are notoriously so violent, for how could they be otherwise, when such disgusting events are presented as entertainment? For example, a nobleman has his eyes put out, on the stage, in full view of the audience, and in a fashion which leaves nothing to the imagination. What possible purpose could be served by this gross and unnecessary coarseness except to insult and shock?

In fact, the only real interest in the proceedings—which dragged on so long that the final scenes were played out in blessed darkness—was that it presented me with a panoramic view of local society, as virtually no one was able to resist the temptation to dabble their fingers in the muck that was on offer. Mr. Wood the gossip was there, as were Warden Woodward and the severe, cold Dr. Wallis. Thomas Ken was there, as were Crosse, Locke, Stahl and many others I had seen in Mother Jean’s.

And there were many more, not even mentioning the students, whom I had never seen but who were well known to my friend. During one of the frequent interruptions in the proceedings, for example, I saw a thin, haggard man try to talk to Dr. Wallis. That gentleman looked angry and embarrassed, then turned abruptly away.

“Oho,” said Lower, watching with interest. “How times do change.”

I begged an explanation.

“Hmm? Oh, I suppose you don’t know,” he said, his eyes still riveted on the scene being played out before him. “How could you? Tell me, what do you think of that little man? Do you think it is possible to read character from physiognomy?”