The Opening Night Murder (26 page)

“Plays are how we communicate our culture, constable. I do a service to England with my troupe. Stories are how we teach each other who we are, and who our ancestors were before us. Have you read Genesis, constable?”

He let out an offended harrumph. “Of course I have.”

“Have you really read it, and not just browsed bits of it during church?”

Pepper declined to reply and merely looked at her as if disgusted with the entire thread of thought.

She continued, “If you read the whole of the book of Genesis, you’ll notice that it’s a string of stories that tell where the Jewish culture originated.”

“Where we all originated.”

Suzanne nodded once and allowed as that was true. “And so each story tells us who we are and where we came from.” She gestured toward the stage. “Our plays are not the word of God, but they nevertheless tell us things about ourselves that help us to understand our place in the world. They serve our culture and bind the society together.” Pepper’s mouth pressed into a white line of disagreement, and she said somewhat tartly, “Also, constable, our plays keep the riffraff off the streets of an afternoon and give them something to do with themselves other than stealing from or injuring each other.”

“Well, apparently you’ve failed to keep the riffraff from murdering William Wainwright.”

“Knowing William, I’d say there must be a great many people who would have loved to see him quieted for good.”

“Such as whom?”

Suzanne suddenly wanted to kick herself for saying that, for she could think of no names.

“Such as yourself, I suppose?” said Pepper.

“His wife, I expect.” She knew little about his wife, but had no allegiance to her and was quite willing to send Pepper off to question her. “By all accounts, she was not particularly enchanted with him.”

“Neither were you, by all accounts.”

Suzanne burned to know who had been talking to him. “Not I, constable. As I said, I would wish no man dead, let alone actually make him so.” Then she had a sudden thought and blurted it. “You might look to the mummers who left so precipitously the night of the murder.”

Strangely, the look that came to Pepper’s face was almost one of disappointment. Certainly of irritation. “Ah. The mummers.”

“We had the troupe of them here for short commedia dell’arte bits and tumbling. They left so quickly, and without taking their money for the night, I thought it terribly suspicious.”

“And do you know where one might locate them?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. They packed up and left the night of the murder. Quite suddenly, and I can’t imagine why.”

“You didn’t tell me of this.”

“I did.”

Pepper’s eyes narrowed, and he looked as if he might want to argue the point, but then he only sidestepped the issue. “Surely you understand the implications.”

“Indeed, I think it relevant, but had doubts you thought so, too.”

Pepper went silent for a moment, clearly annoyed with her and unhappy to have these things pointed out to him. He said, “And you have no way of learning where this troupe went?”

“No. I don’t. They may be long gone from London by now.”

Pepper’s lips pressed together in irritation, and he eyed Suzanne for a moment, as if struggling to decide something. Then he said, “If you hear anything of them, do let me know.”

“I certainly will, constable. You can count on me.” This was a fine example of the difference between a story and a lie, for she was certain Pepper didn’t know she had no intention of ever telling him anything of the sort. If he wanted to arrest Arturo and his mummer troupe, he’d have to find them himself, without her help. If she ever had any knowledge of their whereabouts, she would speak to Arturo first, then determine whether Constable Pepper should know where to find him.

He nodded, confident he would be obeyed. “Then I’ll bid you good day, and return you to your lawful occasions.”

“Thank you, constable. Good day.” She watched him exit the ’tiring house to the stage, then went to the door to see him continue on his way out of the theatre, threading his way between the actors in rehearsal. Her heart raced still, and she dreaded ever seeing him again. She resisted the urge to have the main entrance doors closed against him, for she knew it would do no good.

T
HE
theatre that night was packed, as it had been every night since the murder. Every seat sold before the show began, and the groundlings elbowed each other for space in the pit. By the time the actors took the stage for
Henry V
, the overspill from the house galleries filled the standing room in the stage galleries. The fortunate ones who bought their tickets late were treated to the opportunity to stand in the spot from whence the victim had fallen, and peer over the rail at the death stain below. Hardly anyone saw or heard the play for the chatter of speculation about how the murder had been done
and who had done it. By the end of the performance when the audience had gone and only the resident actors remained, removing paint from their faces and cooking supper on the green room hearth, Horatio had risen to a fine temper at the audience behavior. He paced the floor, shouting and gesticulating.

“We’ve lost our audience! We’re no longer a theatre, we’re a curiosity! They were only interested in seeing the bloodied stage! None of them came for the play; it was only the murder that had their attention. This is a disgrace, I tell you!” He paced back and forth and his booming voice reverberated from the green walls of the ’tiring room.

Suzanne’s voice was as calm as she could make it, though she was nearly as annoyed as he and would have liked to have joined him in his tantrum. But she knew from past experience that someone had to stay calm when he was like this or the fabric of the troupe would continue to tear and become a rag. “Here, Horatio. It matters not why they came; what matters is they paid their admission and had a good time. Perhaps we should charge a premium for seats in the stage galleries, where the view of the bloodstain is excellent. Would that satisfy your pride?”

Horatio stopped his pacing and brought himself up to his full, considerable height. “We should charge a premium regardless, for we are the finest actors in London! And the quality of theatre in London has surpassed all of Europe for a hundred years!” One finger rose toward heaven to punctuate his speech. “’Tis a given that we should have the house full every night, for aught but interest in the play and eagerness to witness greatness!” He fairly shouted the word “greatness,” then continued in intense sotto voce as he leaned close to Suzanne’s face, finger still in the air,
“Attendance as curiosity is not success!”

“Horatio, please calm down. You’re upsetting the players.”

He looked around at the frightened faces in the room. Louis sat perched on the edge of a table laden with pots of paint, brushes, and powders, his arms crossed over his chest. Christian stood in a corner, looking sideways at Horatio like a dog about to be beaten. Others by the hearth chewed slowly on sausages and bread. Horatio seemed to deflate, all the air sighing from him as he realized he was once again alarming people.

“Very well.” His tone was now reasonable. “We shall rejoice in our lucre and not care why we are popular.”

The room relaxed at once, and everyone began to breathe again, except Suzanne. She didn’t care much what the audience thought of William’s murder, nor was she all that concerned about Horatio’s temper, but she did still wonder what was going through the mind of Constable Pepper.

Horatio said brightly, in a tone of false cheer, “And even better, we can be glad we’re no longer paying the mummers.”

Louis muttered, “But we have to fill in their bits, don’t we? I rather wish they’d stayed, myself. They pleased the audience.” They also had a daughter who was fourteen and beautiful, and everyone knew Louis had set his eye on her. Since the mummers left, Louis had been keen to find them again.

Big Willie, parked in a corner and cleaning his fiddle, said, “They had to leave, or Pepper’d be all over them in a heartbeat, he would. One of them had a to-do with Master William not long ago.”

Suzanne frowned to learn this and came to sit beside him. She leaned her elbows on her knees to listen closely. “What did you say, Willie?”

The fiddler shrugged and shook his head as he rubbed the sound board of his instrument with an oiled cloth. “Weren’t
nothing, Suze. One night a few weeks ago, one of them mummers—Arturo it was, I believe—had a fight with Wainwright. Came to fisticuffs, it did.”

“A fight? An exchange of blows?”

Willie nodded.

“Did you see the fight?”

Willie shook his head. “Nah, we all just heard about it after. Arturo was a-telling it about at the Goat and Boar. Said Wainwright came after him for something or other. Said he wanted his knife back, or somewhat. Seems he was a mite forceful about it, shouting and poking and such. Arturo told him to shove off, or he’d show him his own dagger. Wainwright insisted he’d have his knife back and then he’d cut the throats of everyone who’d disrespected him. That was when Arturo presented his weapon and told Wainwright to leave off or he’d be the one to die.”

“So Arturo threatened William’s life?”

“He did. But it was defense. Arturo didn’t look for it none. And as far as I know he never meant to do it. ’Twas only a threat.”

“And where did this take place?”

Willie pointed with his chin in the general direction of the stage and said, “Out in the pit, when most everyone had left, he said.”

“There were no witnesses?”

“None as Arturo mentioned. But he took his mummers and left after the murder, seeing as how he’d told the story around so much and Pepper was bound to hear of it.” On his fiddle he found something invisible that he removed with a hard, moist puff of breath and a scrub with his oiled cloth.

“So, William backed down and left without a fight?”

“Well, he was a madman, but not so far gone as he’d fight
a man with a knife on him, I expect.” He held his fiddle up to the candle to assess its shine, and seemed satisfied. Then he began to tune the strings, plinking with his fingers, then stroking with his bow.

That someone in the mummers’ troupe had fought with William just before his death, then they’d all departed so quickly, looked bad for Arturo and might not be good in actuality. Particularly if Constable Pepper caught wind of it and decided to arrest him. Suzanne liked Arturo and couldn’t imagine him doing cold-blooded murder, but even she had to wonder whether he had killed William that night.

“What do you think, Horatio, that Arturo and his group left so precipitously that night?”

Louis said, “I think he done it.”

“Arturo?”

Louis nodded. “That Arturo is a mean, sly bastard. He’ll stab you in the back as soon as look at you, and never with the slightest conscience. He’s got no conscience. Them foreigners is all like that.”

“He’s not a foreigner. To the best of my knowledge, he was born right here in London. At least, he speaks like a Londoner.”

“His people are from Italy. Or Greece. Italy, I think. They’re all oily foreigners, and can’t be trusted.”

“Except for their young girls.”

“Well, of course except for the girls. Girls ain’t all ready to knife you like that. You can trust a girl. But the men, they all stick together and anyone who isn’t one of them can’t trust ’em as far as you could throw this here theatre.”

Suzanne made a humming sound as a fit of melancholy came over her. “Yes, they’re loyal to their families. I think there’s something to be said about the ideal of familial ties.
Never having had family ties of any kind, I am rather awed by it. I envy them.”

Horatio opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t in the presence of the others. Suzanne knew he thought of himself as her family, and she appreciated the sentiment, but she wished for a real blood tie and knew she would never in her life find it with anyone other than Piers.

But she shook off the sad thought and said, “All that aside, Louis, I asked Horatio whether he thinks it’s significant that the mummers departed without a ‘Fare thee well’ the very night of the murder. Horatio? What do you think?”

Horatio grunted noncommittally and shrugged. “I couldn’t say, for a certainty, except that they surely were afraid of something. Whether their fear related to the murder or not is a mystery. Perhaps they fled for the sake of escaping punishment for another crime. Even a minor one. They are thieves, after all. After we took them on, I had to take Arturo aside to inform him that he was not to send members of his troupe through the audience to relieve them of their valuables. For that, he would need to attach himself to the royal companies and victimize the gentry.”

“And what was his response to that?”

“He said that robbing the grubby sort who are likely to attend our theatre would net his men little more than buttons and lint, and that we shouldn’t worry about gaining a reputation for harboring cutpurses. In fact, he suggested he put his group out to identify known thieves in the galleries so they might be ejected.”

Louis laughed. “’Sblood! Were we to eject every thief who came into this theatre, we’d have no audience at all!”

Everyone chuckled at that. Suzanne said, “But still, though Arturo is an honorable thief in his own clannish way, perhaps
there’s reason to believe one or several of the mummers could have involvement in William’s murder.”

Horatio said, “I wouldn’t completely discount the possibility.”

Louis nodded and said, “You never can tell with them. ’Tis the simplest misdirection to let folks believe in an honor system that may or may not exist. The most skilled liars will tell you they’re liars and let you think that they only lie to
other
people.”

Thoughtfully, Suzanne said, “I think I would like to know where they went. And why. Louis, you know people in all the right places to hear where Arturo might have gone.”

“If they’re still anywhere near London, I can find them.” He seemed eager to bolt out the door to that very end at that very moment.

“Good. Do that, won’t you?”

“I’ll have Arturo back here in a trice, mistress.” Louis gave a large, flourished bow.