The Scottish Play Murder

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The Opening Night Murder

“Anne Rutherford brings the world of Restoration England to vivid life, from the teeming streets to the halls of the royal palace. Her heroine, Suzanne Thornton, has always done what she must to survive in a cruel world where women count for little, and now she must solve a murder to save the one person in the world she truly loves.”

—Victoria Thompson, national bestselling author of
Murder in Chelsea

“I read this book in one sitting, captivated by Rutherford’s vivid depiction of actors and aristocrats, political intrigue, and her strong, resourceful heroine. The world of Restoration London and its theaters leaps off the page in this impressive novel.”

—Carol K. Carr, national bestselling author of
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy

PRAISE FOR ANNE RUTHERFORD
WRITING AS JULIANNE LEE

A Question of Guilt

“An interesting historical fiction novel . . . An intriguing saga.”

—
Genre Book Review

“Lee’s excellently researched novel is written in a fluid, engaging style and is full of intrigue, cover-ups, and plots. Her investigation of this historical mystery provides a vivid theory of what might have happened between Mary Stuart and Henry Darnley and will keep readers turning the pages.”

—
Historical Novels Review

“Julianne Lee’s
A Question of Guilt
is a sprawling tale of treason, justice, and the secrets people keep. It is very much rooted in historical facts and . . . the writing style is flawless.”

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Romance Reader at Heart

Her Mother’s Daughter

“An epic tale of passion, intrigue, tragedy, betrayal, and treachery all combined into a story too powerful for history to contain. With creative weaving, Julianne Lee has combined true characters with possible dialogue and intent that ring true to the story and time period. For any fan of historical entertainment,
Her Mother’s Daughter
is a definite must-read book.”

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Night Owl Reviews

“For the many readers who like to focus on the Tudor era, this is a read that must be added to your library, both for its original storytelling and the unique approach the author utilizes to tell this compelling story of Mary Tudor.”

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Burton Book Review

“
Her Mother’s Daughter
seamlessly displays the often overlooked woman behind Queen ‘Bloody’ Mary. Julianne Lee handles a typically despised character so beautifully that the reader develops unexpected sympathy for a queen who clawed her way out of the depths of disrespect only to find more loneliness and desperation . . . Lee’s engaging novel submerges the reader into local and worldwide political intrigue to fully depict the world in which Mary lived . . . [A] wonderfully written book.”

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Romance Junkies

“Lee presents an unbiased portrait of Mary Tudor, and for readers eager to find out what happened following the death of Henry VIII, this novel is highly satisfying.”

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RT Book Reviews

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Anne Rutherford

THE OPENING NIGHT MURDER

THE SCOTTISH PLAY MURDER

The
Scottish Play Murder

ANNE RUTHERFORD

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA)

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

THE SCOTTISH PLAY MURDER

Copyright © 2013 by Julianne Lee.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA).

An application to register this book for cataloging has been submitted to the Library of Congress.

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / September 2013

Cover illustration by Griesbach/Martucci.

Cover design by Jason Gill.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For Bill White,
who thinks in music.

I
t was one of those glorious warm fall days, when the weather was fine and clear, with just a hint of the coming winter. The stench of London summer had passed. Thick with rotting rubbish that drifted into piles at the ends of alleyways and caught in the odd corners of ancient architecture, and things floating in the eddies of the Thames just a few streets over, the season had faded well enough to make breathing a pleasure again. Suzanne Thornton took advantage, drawing deep breath after breath, filling her lungs with air so fresh it went to her head, and for the first time in what seemed a very long while she was happy to be alive and happy to be a Londoner. She rather liked winter’s cold, and the crisp fall air pleased her to her toes.

Today she sat in the third-floor gallery of her theatre in Southwark and enjoyed the slight breeze at this height. She’d brought a folding chair so she could sit back and relax, wearing breeches, leggings, a linen shirt and quilted doublet, her legs comfortably crossed like a man. This was her casual attire, chosen for comfort and the fact that it allowed her to move unnoticed among the predominantly male theatre troupers. These days invisibility was a blessing. For her the summer of 1661 had been far too eventful for her taste, and it was a keen pleasure to have only the theatre business to concern her these days. The venture she’d begun just a few months before was flourishing, and her future appeared as bright as the shining yellow sun.

Below on the stage, a cluster of actors was rehearsing a scene from the most recent addition to the troupe’s repertoire. The New Globe Players, so named for the Elizabethan building they occupied in Southwark, were the only commons theatre with royal permission to perform Shakespeare’s plays, so long as they never deviated from the original texts. Simple enough, and far better than being limited to mummeries, tumbling, and commedia dell’arte, as was everyone else who was not one of the two troupes sponsored by the king and his brother.

Despite this fine weather, rehearsal was not going well at all; some of the actors seemed distracted, and Louis was having trouble with his lines. The role for him this time was Romeo, and he’d never played Romeo before. It didn’t seem to suit him, nor he it. Suzanne wasn’t certain she agreed with Horatio’s decision to let Louis play such a prominent character, but there seemed little alternative. Of the truly talented New Globe actors within arm’s reach of Romeo’s age, Matthew was just a little too long in the tooth and far too large and gruff, and Christian, at barely ten, not nearly old enough yet. So Suzanne had said nothing, and let the casting stand. Horatio, who had named himself for Hamlet’s friend, knew his Shakespeare. Surely he would know how to draw a suitable Romeo out of Louis.

But at that moment Horatio appeared ready to tear his wig from his bald head in frustration at his immature and inexperienced leading man. Everyone could sense it, and the tension added to Louis’s distraction. At some point earlier in the rehearsal, Louis had begun stammering his lines and didn’t know how to stop it. As if he’d forgotten what to say, and he was the only one who couldn’t hear his hesitation. Each time Horatio stopped him to tell him to smooth his delivery, Louis only gave him a puzzled look and returned to his stammer. Horatio stopped him again, and frustration grew. One of them was sure to go off like Scottish artillery very soon if this continued. Suzanne sat up in her chair and leaned over the rail to shout down to the stage.

“Horatio!”

The large man turned to peer up at her, his wig slightly askew. He had no hair at all beneath it for traction to keep it secured to his head, and it was ever crooked, dislodged by the motion of his wildly gesticulating arms as he advised his actors. Even when conversing normally, he couldn’t keep his arms still.

She told him, “Perhaps the group rehearsing in the green room could do with a bit of supervision. Why don’t you go see how they’re coming along?”

Horatio opened his mouth to reply, with a look that told her he wished she would tend to her own affairs, but thought better of saying so and clapped it shut. Then he opened it again and said mildly with a slight nod of a bow, “Your wish is my command, my niece.” He turned to the cluster on the stage, said something to Louis, and moved off at a lumber, upstage and toward the ’tiring house.

Suzanne was about to tell Louis to proceed with the rehearsal, when there came a rapping on the large entrance doors at the front of the theatre. The actors turned toward them, unsure what to do, for visitors at this time of day usually meant something was wrong, and several of them would head for the bolt-hole at the rear of the ’tiring house if they thought the knock were meant for them. Having but two entrances was good for keeping out nonpaying audience, though it made the theatre a trap for anyone inside pursued by the authorities or creditors.

In Suzanne’s experience, any visitor at any time who was not there to see a play invariably brought bad news. The time was not yet noon, and the audience wouldn’t be let in for that afternoon’s performance until half past two. Everyone in the city knew that all theatre performances began at three or thereabouts, and for anyone who didn’t know, there was an enormous bill posted on the wall outside saying so. Suzanne leaned over the rail, trying to see the doors below her, though she knew they were too far back under the gallery to be visible. The rapping came again, and so she withdrew into the gallery once more and hurried down the spiral stairs to the ground floor.

By the time she got there Louis and Matthew, who had the role of Mercutio, were already lifting the bolt to open the doors. Liza, this year’s Juliet, remained where she was, high in the stage right gallery which stood for the balcony in the play. To come down and see what was going on, she would have had to go down the winding back stairs to the ’tiring room and out to the stage, and might have missed something during that long trek. She chose to watch from the gallery railing as Louis hauled open the large, heavy door a crack and peeked out.

“What’s your business?” said Louis.

The voice from outside was unintelligible to Suzanne. She said, “Louis, let him in.”

He said to the voice, “Tell your business.”

“Louis, let him in. I can’t hear him out there.”

With a show of reluctance, Louis hauled the door wide enough to allow the visitor to enter. In stepped a man in a skirt. Not just a skirt, but a checkered one that barely covered his knees. The woolen fabric of it overflowed his belt so lavishly that he threw the excess over his shoulder like a cape or shawl. Suzanne had seen a kilt once before, but that had been a dull brown with black threads running through it. This luxurious garment was a stunning red with green, black, and yellow crisscrossing in large squares. The fabric was clean and appeared new, a rare thing in this neighborhood, and in her experience almost an oddity in a Scot. Beneath the kilt the visitor wore a clean white shirt that was equally stiff and fresh. His belt was dyed shiny black and bore a large, silver buckle wrought so finely as to bespeak a great deal of wealth. As did the sword that hung at his side from a black leather baldric. A utility dagger with a plain wooden handle was thrust into his belt without scabbard. For shoes he wore only soft leather without ornament or heel, and no leggings at all. It begged the question of what linens he might be wearing beneath the kilted wool, and though there had once been a time when Suzanne might have simply lifted the hem to find out, today she refrained for the sake of proving herself no longer a tart. At her age, that sort of behavior was less than amusing to most men and should be left to women far younger and more comely than herself.

And besides, this man’s face caught her attention and held it. He had the black Irish coloring she’d always found appealing, with jet black hair, pale skin, and warm, ruddy cheeks. His mouth was red, and appeared to have the sort of habitual smile that made some people seem happy all the time. In addition, this man was actually smiling. His charm was palpable, and Suzanne felt if she stood in his presence long enough she would soon be covered in it, like spring pollen.

He looked straight into her eyes and said, “I’ve come for an audition.”

Suzanne blinked, surprised. This man appeared far too wealthy to need employment as an actor. Theatre was something one did when desperate and only when without skills other than lying. Certainly that was how she herself had ended up here. In the general scheme of things, acting was thought by most people as one step down from military service, one step up from thievery, and just around the corner from murder for hire. The wealth and beauty she saw standing before her was almost never found onstage.

Their visitor continued, in a rich, rolling brogue, “My name is Diarmid Ramsay, and I’ve been told you’ve a need for someone to play the title role in
Macbeth
.”

This was news to Suzanne. That play was one the troupe had not yet addressed, and she’d not heard mention of it from Horatio. She turned to call him from the ’tiring house, and found he’d not left the stage. He was still there, staring at the brightly dressed Scot as if fascinated by the busy tartan wool. “Horatio!” she called. “Have you put out an audition notice regarding
Macbeth
?”

“I expect you mean the
Scottish
play.” An odd stress in his voice puzzled her, and he crossed himself as if she’d uttered a curse. When he kissed the wooden crucifix he wore around his neck, she knew she’d truly frightened him.

Oh, right. Nobody ever called that play by its proper name. Bad luck, or something. Horatio was a stickler for taking no chances with theatre superstition, going so far as to ban whistling in the ’tiring house, though he’d only just that year heard it was bad luck. “Very well, then, if you like. The Scottish play. Are we casting for it?”

“No, and we will not ever. ’Tis terrible luck and I won’t have it.”

Suzanne turned to Ramsay. “I’m sorry, kind sir, you seem to have been ill informed. We’re not casting
Mac
. . . that play.” She took a glance back at Horatio.

“Are you certain?” asked the would-be Macbeth.

Horatio called out from where he stood, “We are most certain. No Scottish play for us. Every troupe that has performed that play has failed and dispersed soon after. ’Tis bad luck.”

Suzanne frowned, thinking, and turned back toward Horatio. “Well, it seems to me the luck is not so much luck as simply timing. Everyone knows that a failing company performs popular plays to increase attendance. And you can’t deny it’s a popular play.”

“You’ll recall in the old days, the time Cromwell’s soldiers attacked us we’d just performed that play.”

“We were performing
Twelfth Night
when they came.”

“But the day before it had been the Scottish play.”

“And you think we were cursed by Shakespeare?”

“’Twas the witches. The witches cursed us.”

“You mean the
‘Double, double . . .’
”

“Stop!” Horatio pressed his palms to his ears and shut his eyes tightly. “Do not say it!” He crossed himself again, then quickly returned his right palm to his ear. He crouched, as if awaiting a blow.

Louis said mildly, “I’d like us to do
Macbeth
.” Horatio flinched, but Louis ignored him. “I’ve always enjoyed that play, all dark and mysterious-like. I prefer the spooky ones. Witches and ghosts and all that there suchlike.”

“A young man such as yourself would know no better than to flirt with the powers of darkness. So exciting for yourself, but not so merry for those of us who know the ways of the world and how badly they can go awry. ’Tis bad luck, I say. You can have your mystery, Louis, and keep it.”

Matthew said, “Not so mysterious, I think. Ambitious woman eggs on her husband to do murder, they both go mad with guilt, and everyone ends up dead.”

“Not everyone.”

“Everyone who deserves it, and then some. A crowd-pleaser, that one.”

Suzanne allowed as she did rather like
Macbeth
, and thought it would be a good addition to the repertoire. Indeed, one might think it a necessary addition, being a crowd-pleaser. “I think we should do it.”

Horatio shook his head, wide-eyed and speechless with terror, his palms still pressed to his ears.

“Seriously, Horatio. How can we not do such a popular play?”

“Easily enough. We simply don’t cast it, then carry on with our day. We’ve
Romeo and Juliet
to keep us occupied.”

“But we must. What would I tell Daniel, should he ask when we’ll perform it?” Daniel Stockton, Earl of Throckmorton, was the father of her grown son, and the theatre’s patron.

“I daresay I care not a fig what thou sayst to his grace, for I care not to bring that play into my theatre.”

Plainly Horatio was upset, for now he was talking in quasi-Puritan thee-thou, an affectation that had begun as amusement and eventually became unconscious habit. A devout Catholic, he was no more Puritan than the pope, and therefore did it poorly so that he seemed to speak in a messy mish-mosh of Elizabethan and present-day English. But the more he protested and the more archaic his language doing so became, the more Suzanne wanted The New Globe Players to put on a production of that play. She replied, “
Whose
theatre?”