The Wondrous Apothecary

By Mary E. Martin

Follow the paths of two artists, Alexander Wainwright and Rinaldo, in a passionate, suspenseful tale of art, life, love, and liberation. For such different men in their art and personalities, the fundamental question is whether they can ever collaborate on a project.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645367987

Mary E. Martin

Read what you've been missing.Scroll down to see five novels downloadable onto any reading device.I've written "The Osgoode Trilogy" which was inspired by my many years of law practice in Toronto, Canada where I live.Set in the world of law, the protagonist/lawyer, Harry Jenkins, must deal with murder and fraud. If you're looking for suspense thrillers to get your teeth into, try one of these. They can be read in any order.Below, you'll see all three novels in The Osgoode Trilogy listedConduct in QuestionFinal ParadoxA Trial of One.After writing three legal suspense novels, I was ready for a change...a new world. And so, the Trilogy of Remembrance is literary fiction set in the world of art.The Drawing Lesson which asks "Is the universe random and chaotic or does it have a secret, mysterious order?"The question in the next one, The Fate of Pryde, is "How can the very best and very worst thrive in one man's breast?"The third and final novel in The Trilogy of Remembrance was published in 2014 which tells a tale of a love so profound it transcends life and death!If you want to keep up with my characters, subscribe to my blog where the characters of The Trilogy of Remembrance have taken over to tell their own stories in their own voices...their own words. http://maryemartintrilogies.com

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About The Author

After thirty years of law practice, Mary E. Martin embarked on her writing career. Inspired by her experiences in the law, she wrote the highly acclaimed Osgoode Trilogy about a lawyer named Harry Jenkins. Turning to her greatest passion, art, she then began The Trilogy of Remembrance, featuring a visionary landscape artist, Alexander Wainwright. The Wondrous Apothecary is a natural and exciting addition to that trilogy. She lives in Toronto with her husband. They have three children and three grandchildren.

About the Book

Follow the paths of two artists, Alexander Wainwright and Rinaldo, in a passionate, suspenseful tale of art, life, love, and liberation. For such different men in their art and personalities, the fundamental question is whether they can ever collaborate on a project.

Dedication

To my family, David, Stephen, Timothy, and Susan, and my three grandchildren, Harrison, Victoria, and Cole. And, of course, my muse.

Copyright © Mary E. Martin (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Martin, Mary E.

The Wondrous Apothecary

ISBN 9781643785028 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781643785035 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645367987 (ePub e-book)

Library of congress Control number: 2019907829

The main category of the book — Fiction / Literary

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Other Works by the Author

The Osgoode Trilogy

Conduct in Question

Final Paradox

A Trial of One

The Trilogy of Remembrance

The Drawing Lesson

The Fate of Pryde

Night Crossing.

Prologue

Security lights revealed starkly etched lines of frustration on the man’s face. Like a cat, he sprang up on the chain-link fence across the alleyway and heaved himself upward.

The sudden barking and snarling below made him freeze. Then fierce growling drove him further upward but not fast enough. Teeth sank into his trousers but not the flesh. Crying out, he struggled and kicked himself free. Shivering, he looked over his shoulder to see the glimmering eye of an immense bullmastiff. From his sack he pulled out a small package which he tossed to the ground.

Here! he hissed. Eat this. A gift from me—Rinaldo.

Panting hard, the dog grasped the package of raw meat between his teeth and retreated to a corner. Hunkering down, he tore at the parcel with his teeth. The man swung himself and his bag over the fence and then dropped down. Rising, he limped toward the back of the building. Now, he was free to enter the art gallery.

The first door was securely bolted. The cellar windows could be easily broken but that would set off the alarms. At the back, a screen door stood open. The knob of the inner door came loose in his hand, but then it swung open.

Although it was a small, private gallery in Chelsea, art worth huge sums of money lay within. Carefully, he ascended the back-cellar steps to the main floor. He would act quickly.

The gallery sold jewelry, artifacts, paintings, and drawings. At least twenty oil paintings adorned the walls—some still life and some landscape. The art was not his style but that did not matter. He smirked. He had not come as a critic. He would make his own statement.

In the center of the gallery, he unzipped his bag. From it, he withdrew two tins of spray paint—one black and one red. Before him was a blank white wall. He set about his work.

The light from a passing car illuminated his face and eyes, which contained an almost gleeful expression. Starting in the very center, he sprayed the first word in black—DESTROY. Anyone watching would be impressed with his deep concentration. Next in red, he wrote in large, looping letters—COLLABORATE. Again, in black—CREATE. Crouching down, he retrieved from his sack a tin of gold spray paint. With it he wrote HOMO SAPIENS + DEATH? When he had finished, he packed up his bag and wiped his hands with a rag. Whistling a tuneless whistle, he prepared to leave.

An immense explosion blasted from the cellar steps. In a tremendous roar, flames shot up and engulfed the gallery almost instantly. The blast shook the entire building and flattened the man onto the floor.

After a moment, he shook his head and attempted to rise. For the very first time, he saw on the far wall of the gallery a very familiar painting. Surely, it wasn’t that hateful, yet exquisite work of art—‘The Hay Wagon’?

A work filled with such dreary, commonplace objects was imbued with an enchanting, numinous light. The man was torn. Shall I let it burn? Or shall I save it? Sirens screamed down the road in Chelsea. Police cars growled to a stop at the front. Nowhere to hide! He jumped to his feet!

He leapt across the carpet now aflame. He lifted the painting from its stays and carried it as gently and protectively as if it were a child. Despite the searing pain on his shins, hands, and wrists, he thrust the painting above his head and ran to the outer back door.

Within moments, Rinaldo was outside with the painting which he dumped behind some bushes. He rushed down the back lane to the end where he dropped down behind some shrubbery. The flames had reached the roofline and sparks flew onto neighboring rooftops. The light danced across his face, revealing his passion for fire. A perfect place to observe.

Chapter 1

From a darkened corridor, Alexander Wainwright stepped into an antique elevator floating in space like a bejeweled time capsule. The doors clanged shut and the cage swayed slightly as it began its slow ascent. The artist removed his homburg hat and prepared himself to visit the display of his work. He, a landscape artist, stepped out onto the second floor of the National Gallery.

Gray light of a rainy London day seeped through windows flanking the broad hallway stretching before him. On the right, doorways led to five small galleries.

Alexander had begun the day with determination. Last night, he had written down a plan. He would get dressed, go out for breakfast, and visit the National Gallery to see his painting—‘The Deluge.’ And he would call Jamie.

When his work was shown, he usually came alone for a leisurely visit to take pleasure in the accomplishment. But today, he hurried to see it—almost as if it were an unpleasant task to accomplish. His painting, ‘The Hay Wagon,’ had also been displayed in the national gallery. In creating it, he had been filled with a sense of strength and expansiveness.

‘The Deluge’ was different. While painting it, Alex had been tortured by nightmares of water, drowning, and floods. He had crept to the drawing board at three in the morning, nearly bloodying his hands and the canvas with his worn-down chalks and stubby brushes. He shook his head to clear the recollection.

Further down the hallway, Alex stopped. Surprised, he cocked his head as if trying to catch some puzzling but indistinct sound. He smiled. It sounded like water babbling over rocks in a river but, in fact, it was the laughter of children from the next gallery. Outside the door standing ajar, he held his breath to listen.

A melodic voice, young but surprisingly strong, said, Miss Murray? I love the picture. It’s the light. It’s like seeing the whole world all at once with everything glowing.

Alexander entered and sat on a nearby bench. Clustered around his painting was a group of young school children about eight or nine years old.

A young woman, apparently the docent, stood before his painting, asking questions. Smiling her encouragement, she said, That’s a marvelous answer. Who else sees the light Jennie sees?

His painting depicted a sailing ship sinking fast with only a few survivors heaped on the beach. Everything was caught and torn in wrenching swirls of blues, yellows, whites, and greens, and burned with the light of the sun. Somewhere, in the furious curls of waves, another ship was tossed beyond the horizon. A white horse, a dog, and ill-clad human forms were strewn on the shore like abandoned creatures. Hunched and huddled, the people gathered about a fire with its flames flickering desperately for life.

Only now did he see it. In that violent scene, some other being inhabited the work. And that unknown being was alive within every wave, sunbeam, pebble, and cell in the human body.

The little girls, seated on the floor in the first row, waved their arms excitedly as they called out, I do! I do!

Alex smiled to see a row of boys at the back poking one another. Their teacher, Miss Pinter, a plain and stalwart sort, sat off to one side, eyeing them suspiciously.

Miss Pinter! cried one of the girls. He punched me! She turned and stuck her tongue out at a boy, who had not moved. Bruce did!

Bruce, lost in a fog, wakened. Alexander cleared his throat loudly and stared at the girl.

Miss Pinter marched over to Bruce. For her, Bruce was trouble. Bruce’s collar was not straight and his hair not combed. His fingernails were dirty and broken too. Last week, she had told him he looked like the wrath of God. Rarely did he say or do much of anything, but his sullen appearance made her wonder what he might be up to.

Bruce! She wagged her finger. What do you see in the artist’s painting?

Bruce wiped his nose on his sleeve and examined his fingers, resolutely trying to ignore her. I dunno.

Her voice was strident. Stand up at the front beside the docent and give us your answer.

Alex gritted his teeth. Why do they humiliate him so? Such clever cruelty!

The little girl, Jennie, pursed her lips. Her friends tried to suppress their giggles. Miss Pinter? Bruce wasn’t listening. He doesn’t know, but I think…

With Miss Pinter standing over him, Bruce finally struggled to his feet and limped to the front.

Alex could wait no longer. Excuse me, but why are you treating this young man so shabbily?

Only gurgles came from Miss Pinter’s mouth. She looked as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. At last she said, And who are you, sir?

Alex smiled politely. Alexander Wainwright, the painter of ‘The Deluge.’

Suddenly, Bruce’s hand shot up. He announced, He’s made the sun and the wind gang up together and fight the waves! Bruce took a few jabs in the air. And together they killed all the mean people. That’s why they’re lying dead on the beach. Bruce’s chin jutted out and his eyes shone. The warlords in the boats battled them to the death!

The docent asked, Bruce, why do you think the painter painted the picture?

Bruce stared at his shoes and then shrugged. It’s fun?

The little girls giggled.

Bruce glanced at Alexander and then said. He had to.

The girls broke in to gales of laughter. Bruce flushed.

Alex’s mouth dropped open in amazement. The boy had hit the nail on the head. So few see the demands and violence of creation! From his own body, he had given the sun and wind extraordinary energy to wreak havoc, and cause such devastation. He had not known how he did it. He had only known some force had compelled him to do so.

The girls’ laughter grew. Bruce’s face suddenly grew a deeper, nastier shade of crimson. Left standing beneath ‘The Deluge,’ the little boy suddenly burst into tears. The shame was far too great for him to bear and he ran from the gallery into the hallway.

When Alex found him, slumped on a bench, he held out his hand. You’re a very brave young man, Bruce. Perhaps you’ll be an artist yourself one day. He nodded toward the gallery. You’ll see what they never can!

At first, Bruce looked terrified. But then his shoulders began to relax as he basked in the warmth of Alex’s smile and then managed to croak. Are you really the painter?

Yes. I am.

How do you get to be a painter, mister?

You start looking carefully at the world and you pick up your brush and paint!

Alexander started down the hallway to the next galleries. Miss Pinter, the teacher, stood at the doorway ready to intervene. As Alex passed her, he simply smiled again and said, Bruce has an instinctive appreciation of art. You must encourage not discourage him. He could not comprehend the cruelty of small minds perched in such positions of authority.

He headed for the elevator. Several years ago, his painting, ‘The Hay Wagon,’ won the greatly revered Turner Prize. In it, an old man struggled to free a broken-down wagon and scrawny horse from a creek. Alex always asked of his work—where is the human truth in this painting? Laboring for days to express it, he finally realized his old man embodied the pointless resistance of those cast aside by progress. That was five years ago and now, ‘The Hay Wagon,’ was up for private sale for a munificent sum. What was next? What could move him to the next stage beyond ‘The Deluge’ and ‘The Hay Wagon’?

Unsure of his direction, Alexander stood on the top steps of the national gallery. Without any better idea than returning to his studio on the embankment, he walked down the steps and wandered across Trafalgar Square amongst the last of the lunchtime crowds. Flocks of pigeons dipped and dived about him, and heavy banks of clouds gathered overhead.

His mind returned to Bruce, the little boy, who had grasped at a glance the painful labor and passion needed to create those waves of fury and sun. Out of the mouths of babes! Only the child who stood apart, the one scorned by his classmates, would ever be able to see. Rinaldo, the conceptual artist, came to mind. Bruce might just be a budding Rinaldo—the interloper.

Stop, foolish man! Alexander turned to see a wizen-faced old woman. She grabbed his sleeve. In such tumultuous times, you must pay strictest attention to the written words that come your way. He could scarcely ignore a voice which somehow combined the screech of a crow with the rising of the lark’s sweet song.

What on earth do you mean? Smiling, he handed her some pocket change.

She nodded and, taking her leave, said, Sir, you must keep your eye peeled. A friend will come to your aid to dispel your grief.

Alex shrugged as he watched her skitter into the crowds across the Square and thought no more about it. Then a strange wind swept over him like a loving caress combined with a warning. Puzzled, he stopped and then strode on through the Square.

Suddenly, the wind grew stronger and the rain poured down, making the crowds scatter. Protecting himself with his case, he put his head down and began to march across the Square and down Whitehall toward his studio. By the time he reached the Churchill War Rooms and Museum, the rain had stopped and he slowed his pace.

The museum was an underground rabbit warren of bunkers to house the British government and its command center during the Second World War. Momentarily, he thought of Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister, who led the country through the Blitz when Germany commenced its intense bombing campaign in September, 1940. Every night, for eight or nine months, the bombs fell upon the city.

Alexander sank onto a nearby bench. At first, he did not notice the figure slumped on a bench across from him. Suddenly, it rose up and then sat down beside him. The man raised his head and, for the first time, Alex could see his intense blue eyes underneath his peeked cap.

Mister? Gotta match?

Alex found a paper of matches in his pocket.

Light it?

For the first time, Alex saw that the old man was missing one hand. He struck match and lit it for him.

The old man drew heavily on the cigarette and began, My name is Walter Crisp, sir. He nodded at the museum. I like to come down here now and then because this is where I saw the bombs for the very first time.

Really? Only then did Alex look more closely at the man. He must be at least eighty, he thought. That must have been terribly frightening. You were a soldier?

Walter Crisp began quietly. No. I was too young to join up. I wasn’t much more than a little fella in britches. But Johnny, my oldest brother, did. The old man looked skyward. He didn’t come back though…

Suddenly, Crisp threw his arms up to the sky and, with a magnificent grin, cried out, It was beautiful! It was splendid! The monstrous loveliness of the exploding bombs! Walter waggled his finger at Alex. Now, even though I was just a little sprout, I understood in my heart what awe was—that you are very tiny and don’t count for a thing here or—anywhere. But even so, you are a part of everything and are alive.

The old man sat in silence for a moment and then suddenly clutched at his ears. Bang, bang, bang came the bombs just like thousands of black birds dropping from the sky. His eyes grew into saucers as he bounced himself up and down on the bench. Pointing frantically about him, he laughed. The sound beat upon my ears like a thousand drums. He grinned at Alex, Never seen or heard anything like it. Imagine how splendid it was!

At that moment, Alexander wished he could capture the old man’s expression and passion. But sadly, he realized that Mr. Crisp’s mind had been greatly damaged from the explosions he had undoubtedly heard every day since 1940.

Grinning, Walter Crisp continued. The bombs exploded and made poofing sounds. Huge umbrellas of pink and yellow smoke like a ceiling above us. Such excitement it was!

Alex felt as if he had experienced a time slip back to 1940. The old man’s story was so vividly told, Alex felt as if he were seated beside the young Crisp witnessing exactly what he had seen.

The old man spoke in awe. And then the sky turned orange with fire and black with smoke. Silent for a moment, he concluded sadly, And you wonder in your soul how humans could do this at all. He laughed and slapped his knee. Such a wonderfully wicked lot we all were. We poor, stupid boys—hungry for any change—for any adventure!

He took another cigarette and Alex lit it. Has any generation been so stupid since? Reflectively, he puffed out clouds of smoke. Why can’t we figure out how not to go to war? Here we are seventy-five years later and we’re still no better than we were thousands of years ago. Maybe we blow things up just for fun and to see what’s underneath?

Alexander frowned. Underneath? What do you mean?

Walter Crisp stood up and doffed his cap. G’night sir.

Oddly, Crisp reminded him of the old man with the horse in his painting, ‘The Hay Wagon.’ He had labored to express his human truth in the stoop of his shoulder and back and the thinness of the horse’s coat. It was the oldest story told in the span of history of discarded souls abandoned at the side of the road. Such was the injury of war.

As Crisp walked back toward Trafalgar Square, Alex could hear him chuckling. The monstrous loveliness of exploding bombs! Then he began to hum an old wartime tune which Alex immediately knew. What were the words? We’ll meet again, don’t know where don’t know when…

After several moments, Alex stood up and continued his walk back to his studio on the Victoria Embankment. The tune continued playing in his head. But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day…

Suddenly, he was suffused with an unfamiliar energy like the strong and steady flow of water from an underground stream to refresh the creative spirit. Wondering what to do next, he could only think of the afternoon’s events and how they might fit together. Such questions posed an intriguing sense of possibilities.

Chapter 2

You must excuse me! I’ve not properly introduced myself. Who could be speaking to you from the upper realms of the written page? I’m sure you are curious, because I’ve just introduced you to that renowned artist, Alexander Wainwright and a burglar-conceptual artist named Rinaldo.

I’m James Helmsworth, London art dealer, who has had the privilege of representing Alexander Wainwright, Britain’s finest landscape artist, for more than twenty years. Among many other fine works, he is the creator of those marvelous paintings ‘The Hay Wagon’ and ‘The Deluge.’

I say privileged unreservedly. Of course, our professional and personal relationship has not been entirely free of challenges. Genius of any sort can carry a host of problems but his superbly creative mind needs a practical one to reconnoiter the shoals of the business world of art.

How to describe Alex’s paintings? Most of them depict land and seascapes. But here’s what’s so special. A numinous light emanates from each and every one of them. At one moment, the light is bold, brash, and energetic. At the next, it glows subtly and seductively. Those who see it believe that they have been granted a fleeting glimpse of the beyond delivered in one awe-charged moment. And whatever lies beyond has a life-force and vitality all its own. History will compare him to the great British painter J.M.W Turner, whose land and seascapes have become treasures of the national psyche. There is no doubt that both artists are masters and servants of light.

For many years, Alex has had an unusual relationship with another artist and part time burglar named Rinaldo. Rinaldo regards Alex as a friend and fellow artist but, I believe, Alex considers him more of a nemesis.

Rinaldo is a conceptual artist, who insists that art should be about ideas and not simply representations of things, especially not pretty things, which play upon our bourgeois conceits. His work is not confined to gallery walls. In fact, his art can be really anything from a construction or installation to a performance piece making some sort of point in a public space. Such displays have often wound him up in trouble. The law seems to have difficulty distinguishing between creating conceptual art and public nuisance.

But Rinaldo and Alex also differ profoundly in their world views. Alex’s world is magical with untold secrets to be revealed through rapt and thoughtful attention. Life for him is the greatest mystery of all and his life is a constant search for the meaning and purpose of existence. His numinous light expresses all the meaning he has found.

For Rinaldo, life is a meaningless, random dance of molecules. Any significance we might find is simply an illusion which satisfies only the simplest minded. He enjoys nothing more than sticking his thumb in the viewer’s eye with performances and installations made from bad jokes.

Perhaps, they are like true magnets, drawing and repulsing each other forcefully across an invisible and mysterious magnetic field in the night sky. This mystifying bond has deepened over the years, despite Rinaldo’s mistreatment of the man he claims as friend.

Recently, Rinaldo has been asking Alex to collaborate with him in an art project, which I doubt Alex is keen to do. With their differences, how would they even begin to create a shared vision? To build the necessary trust even to start would seem insurmountable.

I have not yet told you that Rinaldo is presently confined to a mental hospital to determine his fitness to stand trial for arson and theft. It is alleged that he set fire to an art gallery and stole ‘The Hay Wagon’ from the premises. Rinaldo claims that he was rescuing not stealing the painting, but his behavior in court was so bizarre the judge had no other choice. Fortunately, the painting was returned to me.

‘The Hay Wagon’ had become the focal point of my day. I had intended to visit Rinaldo at Amanas Hospital on the Isle of Wight at his urgent request today but, over breakfast, I received notice that an offer for ‘The Hay Wagon’ would be delivered this morning at ten o’clock. Alex’s business came first and any trip to Rinaldo would have to wait. Of course, I tried to reach Alex so that we could open the offer together. But despite the number of messages I left him, I had no luck.

Mr. Niles Buckingham, one of the most experienced art dealers in London, sat in my waiting room at ten minutes to ten. Every dealer has his or her own style. Some are brash and intimidating. Take it or leave it you lucky SOB. Some are too friendly and make you want to check your cabinet of engravings and etchings before he leaves. But Mr. Buckingham was so colorless, he looked as if he might fade into wallpaper. His manner was so quiet and unassuming, he sounded as if he might be lost in the ether.

With the tiniest of smiles, he handed me a manila envelope, gave a courtly bow, and said, All I require is your signature, sir, to indicate receipt of the offer. Please advise us of your response.

He immediately had my signature. He gave another bow and left. Before opening it, I took care to shut the door of my office. I put the phones on hold and set the envelope before me on my desk.

Should I offer up a special prayer? Perhaps by now I should have developed a ritual of some sort. In hopes of invoking the gods of the art world, would marching three times counter-clockwise around my desk make any difference? I played with my silver letter opener for a moment longer and then slit the corner. My hand shook, as I extracted the pages.

Oh my God! Five million British pounds sterling!

Yes! I shouted. Oh my God! I don’t believe it! We had hoped for something approaching three! I tried to reach Alex with no luck whatsoever. And so I spent my time wondering how many bottles of champagne I should purchase.

My elation was growing! Just to be sure, I read the offer at least three more times. Over the next few hours, I left three or four messages on his mobile. Finally, I did connect with him just as he was heading back to his studio from a visit to the National Gallery.

Alex! I received an offer for the Hay Wagon.

He was sounding pretty low. Oh? Is it a good one?

It’s much better than that! It’s fabulous!

Good…can you drop it around later on?

Of course. Five o’clock at your studio?

Fine. See you then. He hung up.

Amazing, I thought. He didn’t even ask how much it was.

But truth be told, I’ve been quite concerned about Alex who has been very despondent of late. No wonder! Almost a year ago, his wife, Daphne, died in a horrific accident on Tower Bridge. Alex rarely spoke of it but, for some unknown reason, she suddenly jumped from the car and was immediately struck by an oncoming cabbie. Her body was thrown up onto the windscreen. Unfortunately, time seems to be the only way to cope with extraordinary grief. It simply has to be gone through. Hopefully, the offer will at least help his frame of mind.

Although I had plenty to tell him about his friend, Rinaldo, today’s visit with Alex was for only one purpose—presentation of that fabulous offer!

Chapter 3

Neither Alex nor I had been present at the Old Bailey the day Rinaldo was remanded to Amanas Mental Hospital. However, about a week after that, I dropped into the clerk’s office at the court to get a copy of the transcript of the hearing.

Are you a bit of a history buff? I am. I can’t resist a little historical color. When I was at the court, I chatted with the senior clerk who had been on the job since the early 1970s. He had stories about the building’s history from the 1790s! Did you know that when the courthouse was first constructed in the late 1770s one side of the courtroom was open and exposed to the elements?

I laughed when he told me that! Rather foolish. I said. It might provide an easy escape route for the prisoner!

However, he told me, the design was an answer to a serious problem. Apparently then, the city was plagued with typhus and it was hoped that, with increased ventilation, the chances of catching the disease would be reduced. Good thinking!

Have you ever noticed that humankind goes through periods in which it simply brims with amazing new ideas, such as at the beginning of the twentieth century in physics? Discoveries in quantum physics led us to consider time travel or time slips and unknown dimensions. Perhaps there is a scientific basis for Alex’s perceptions of a magical world beneath!

But back to the court appearance. I scanned through the transcript of the hearing. Rinaldo seemed to spew gibberish and the judge’s patience was severely tested.

It was easy to visualize the events. Looking up at the judge, Rinaldo seemed very small, standing alone in the prisoner’s box with no apparent comprehension of the proceedings. His mouth gaped open. The few sounds he made were mostly unintelligible but might have sounded profound to a more sympathetic ear. Judge Joseph Frye, of the Old Bailey, bore down on him amid the phalanx of gowned and bewigged barristers at the bar.

The judge intoned, You are charged with arson and theft Rinaldo. I see you are without counsel. Do you wish to enter a plea?

Rinaldo nodded. Smiling, he cast about the courtroom as if to introduce himself to everyone present.

The judge was, of course, intent on ensuring the accused was cognizant of the nature of the charges and so he addressed him as if he were a simple man if not a simpleton.

Rinaldo? How do you plead to the charge of setting fire to the Aldwych Gallery in Chelsea on the twenty-fifth of October, 2016? Do you understand their meaning?

Rinaldo began in lilting tones. If it is your will, fine sir, then it must be so. He gave a bow and then drew himself up to address the court. Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool and a comedy for the rich and a tragedy for the poor.

Ripples of chatter with the occasional chuckle filled the courtroom. Frye sighed deeply. Is that Shakespeare? he asked his clerk.

He adjusted his white wig upward and rubbed