The Twelfth Night Murder (10 page)

Suzanne excused herself to Daniel and said to the maid, “Sheila, do serve Daniel some dinner, while I calm the actors.” She rose to leave. “I’ll return shortly.”

“Aye, mistress.”

Upstairs in the first dressing room, she found Liza and Wally shouting at each other. Several other actors sat around listening, and Horatio had just preceded Suzanne into the room.

“What in bloody hell is going on here?” Horatio’s booming voice bounced from the close, wooden walls and hushed everyone in the room. When he had everyone’s instantaneous attention and they all gaped at him in silence, he continued, “I said, what is going on? What has you two at each other’s throats?”

Liza and Wally glared at each other. She was in her costume for
Twelfth Night
, though that night’s performance wouldn’t go on for another two hours. Wally hadn’t yet donned his own costume and face paint, and so appeared slightly alien to Suzanne, who always pictured him in full female regalia. Today he had on no paint, and his light brown hair was free of wig and oddly masculine at shoulder length. His square jaw made him even somewhat attractive as a man. However his attire appeared, though, his stance was his customary hipshot, pseudo-feminine pose. Chin up, hands out and palm-down as if resting on a farthingale, he gazed down his nose at Liza as if he were a duchess and she a cinder girl.

Liza, for her part, fumed at him with as much disgust as was at her disposal, which was considerable with her fiery temper learned on the streets of London’s old city. Suzanne could almost see the steam rising from the top of the girl’s head. She pointed to Wally and shouted, “He—”

“Lower your voice, if you please!”
shouted Horatio even more loudly.

Liza fell silent for a moment, frowned at Horatio, then proceeded in a much more appropriate voice. “He says he’s a better woman than me!”

“I only said I am the better choice to play a woman onstage.” He lowered his chin and gave her a withering stare. “And I am.”

“I’m a real woman.”

“I’m a real actor.”

She hauled off with her hand to slap him, and Horatio grabbed it in one fist to hold her back. She staggered, thwarted.

“Stop!” he ordered. His enormous hand held her in a solid grip.

She struggled with him, but he was too big and too strong for her. He held her hand in his without much effort at all, until she gave up and stopped trying to get away. Then he let go of the hand. She held it to her chest and rubbed the sore knuckles.

Horatio said to Wally, “Why do you antagonize her? You know she’s a temper.”

“She’s an arrogant witch. She thinks all that is necessary to play a character is to be one. She’s no thought for how she presents herself onstage.”

Suzanne commented, “I think she’s rather good.” Wally frowned at her, and she added, “Though I think you are also an excellent actor, Wal. But you should give Liza her due.”

“She’s a no-talent whore.”

Liza responded with, “I’ve got talent.” She was a whore, and had no qualms about it. Her great dream was to be one of the dozens of actresses known to have bedded the king. So far she went ignored by Charles, but she was young yet and held out hope.

Wally said, “She thinks being a woman is better than knowing how to play one.”

“It is.”

“How can you even believe that? You, who clop across the stage like a horse, and bray like a mule!”

“You, who prance across the stage like a wood nymph and whose voice is shrill and false as a tin whistle!”

“I’m believable as a woman!”

“Only because the audience has never seen a real one on the stage!” Voices were rising again.

Horatio cleared his throat in a threat to shout them down again. They fell silent and looked to him as if he could settle the argument. So he did. “Neither of you is a better choice than the other.”

Both Liza and Wally opened their mouths to protest in unison, but Horatio cut them off. “Depending on the role and on the play, but mostly on how that play is interpreted by the master of the troupe, which in our case is myself.” That made them both clamp their mouths shut and frown, waiting to hear what he meant by that. And he obliged. “Not every production of a given play has the same tone or style. Just as each individual performance is unique among others in a run, each cast brings its own flavor and character to the script. A creative master of the troupe will consider how all the actors work together, and how their own characters will fulfill the characters they play. There was a time when all women in a play were given to be played by small men or young boys. I’ve played many a witch and nurse myself in my day, and I vow I was as good an actor as a woman as I was as a man.” He nodded to Wally, who shifted his stance and glared at Liza as if he’d been vindicated. “However, the new idea of having real women play the women characters is an interesting style choice I applaud. ’Tis a fresh perspective on an ancient art. I would go so far as to say we are lucky to live in these times when such a monumental change is here for us to explore.” The last he said with a broad stage flourish of his hand.

Wally interrupted in a voice dripping with contempt, “’Tis French foolishness, and the king only wishes to plunder the ranks of new actresses for his bed. That’s what exploring is going on.”

“And good for him!” Liza shot back. “He gives some mighty excellent gifts to them as gets picked!”

“But fucking the king doesn’t make you a good actress.”

“It would make me a rich whore.”

“Which you are yet neither, and are unlikely to ever be.”

She raised her hand again to slap him, and Horatio prevented her once more by grabbing her hand as Wally took a step backward to avoid being smacked hard. Liza struggled again, trying to wrench herself free so she could chase Wally down and hit him.

“
Both of you!
Stop this now, or I’ll recast both your roles and neither of you will be playing a woman on my stage ever again.” Liza stopped struggling, and Wally crossed his arms. Horatio continued, “If I hear one more word from either of you on this, I will carry out that threat and you’ll both end up looking to the king and his brother for work.”

Wally said under his breath, “I at least have worked with both royal companies.”

Liza muttered, “Prick!”

He responded, “Cunny!”

Horatio let go of Liza’s hand. “There, that’s better. Go quietly and don’t let the audience ever know what you’re really thinking. Step out onstage and act like lovers. Show me which of you is the better actress.” He waved his hands at them. “Go, now. Shoo.”

Both Liza and Wally left the room, and the rest of the company watched them go.

Suzanne said to Horatio, “Tonight’s performance is going to be strange, at the very least.”

“Not to worry. If either of them ruins the show over this, I’ll carry out my threat. Neither of the royal companies would put up with that, and so I will not, either. There are too many men eager to play women who have been put on the street because of the king’s preference for women onstage, and more to come, I’m certain. We won’t be crippled by these two.”

Suzanne went downstairs to prepare herself to leave for Bank Side, where she would begin her search for that haystack needle.

W
hen she left through the rear door, she once more found Ramsay at his post, waiting for her.

“Diarmid, it must make for a terribly boring day to stand there against the wall, waiting for me to emerge. I say, you really ought to come inside if you want to see me.”

“And let you slip away without me?”

“For that, I could have gone through the front entrance had I wanted to avoid you.”

“Will you?”

“No. So really there’s no point in you wasting your day waiting. Come inside and amuse yourself watching the rehearsals until I emerge.” She glanced around the empty alley for who might be listening, then said in a lowered, confidential voice, “You might even find yourself tapped to play Olivia or Viola, should Liza or Wally annoy Horatio much further.”

Ramsay laughed out loud at the thought. “Aye, Horatio would adore me as a great, loud, strapping Olivia!”

“Well, it is a comedy after all.”

He chuckled some more as he fell into step beside Suzanne heading down the alley toward Maid Lane. “And where are we off to this evening?”

“Bank Side.”

“And who to question?”

“Anyone who appears likely.”

“Then I expect ’tis an excellent thing I am here, for you know the Bank Side is filled to overflowing with murderers and charlatans.” He was joking, but Suzanne knew there was always a grain of truth in all humor. Twisting falsehood was pointless and never funny. She took his arm and they walked toward the river.

The sun was just throwing sunset colors when they arrived at the Goat and Boar. Still a little early for the regular crowd, who generally descended on the public house once the Globe performance was finished. But there were a few patrons sitting around the large table, and Young Dent was supervising the roasting joint on the fire. It hadn’t been there long, and still was quite pink on the outside. Supper wouldn’t be available for another hour or two. Dent turned the spit and fixed it in place before moving on to other duties.

Suzanne watched Dent move through the room at his tasks. A hunch came over her. Though he’d insisted he’d not remembered a boy in his tavern these several nights ago, she wondered whether she’d only miscommunicated her questions to him. She’d asked after a boy, but Dent may have thought he’d seen a girl.

“Dent!” Suzanne called to him as she removed her coat and muff. “Bring us your best wine and two clean glasses if you please. And one for yourself, as well. Come sit with us for the moment; I wish to have a chat.”

Dent, unaccustomed to being asked to sit with his customers, appeared less than comfortable with the suggestion, but after a moment’s hesitation nodded nonetheless and went to do her bidding as she sat herself at a small table near the hearth. Ramsay removed his own coat and took a seat next to her.

Dent brought the bottle and three glasses, and took the empty chair next to Suzanne. Dent was in his twenties, having taken over the Goat and Boar when his father had died a couple of years before. He was thin and tall, and when working never stopped moving. But at rest he was as calm as anyone, and set his hands in his lap. Ramsay poured wine into the glasses, and they drank. Dent looked expectantly at Suzanne.

“Dent, I wonder how your memory is of four nights ago.”

“I’ve an excellent memory of most things, should I take notice. And I notice much. However, I prefer not to blather things about. It would make for a reluctant drinking crowd, should word get out that I gossip too much. I could find myself lonely, and I like hearing the gossip of other people, you understand.”

“Yes, quite. But there’s something you might help me with.”

“You, personally?” He glanced at Ramsay, who furrowed his brow and gave his head a slight shake as if to indicate his presence meant nothing; that he was only there to keep Suzanne company. So Dent returned his attention to Suzanne. “Right. I’d be glad to tell you anything I know.”

She replied, “Very good. You remember four nights ago, when there was such an unusually large crowd here?”

“That same night as when you was asking after that boy yesterday?”

“Yes. That night.”

“Indeed, I do. It was quite a crowd, it was. I wouldn’t care to tell you how much silver I took in, lest word get out and someone think to rob me.” His grin was wide. It must have been a large windfall indeed.

“Do you remember a young girl? There was a young girl in here that night, wearing a very nice blue dress decorated lavishly with lace.”

“There was a lot of tarts in here that night. Seems they can smell a crowd with money, and they come to help me sell the ale and relieve the wealthier patrons of their burdensome purses. I daresay I may have had the short end of that particular stick, having only food and drink to offer for sale.” He snickered, a rather odd, snorting laugh. Always one to mind his own business, he rarely laughed in the presence of his patrons, and Suzanne was struck by the odd sound. She found it amusing in itself, and never mind his tired joke.

“Do you remember the girl in the blue dress?”

“I do. She was a lively one, that girl. Like a lady, she was, but as forward as the most brazen whore you’d care to meet.”

“Did you see her with anyone that night?”

“I seen her with nearly everyone that night. She bounced from one man to the next, and disappeared several times, then to return and attach herself to someone else. She must have made quite a lot of money.”

“Where did she go whenever she disappeared?”

Dent frowned, thinking, and looked over at the door. “Don’t know as I could say for certain. Most of the girls take their patrons upstairs, and for that I get a portion of their fee, depending on how long they spend. But that girl in the blue dress never did.” He raised a finger as he remembered something. “Now, some of the girls, particularly the uglier ones who don’t command much of a fee, they’ll take their men outside, to the dark corner of the alley up that way.” He gestured in the direction of the dead end the nameless alley outside made against the blank wall of a warehouse that stood in the next street over.

“It was terribly cold that night.”

Dent shrugged. “Any man so sensitive to cold will pay to go upstairs or do without. Them as don’t feel the cold so much, and with little cash, will take what they can get. It’s generally quick in any case. Nobody lingers about. The girls lean up against that wall so’s they don’t dirty their dresses too much. ’Tis cheap for the patron and quick for the whore, so she can go a great many times in an evening and she doesn’t spend so much effort negotiating her fee and securing a room. Some of ’em gets on their knees for it, so’s they can spit and not have to clean up after. A cup of ale to wash it all down, and they’re ready for another go. And I get to sell ’em the ale. All in all a tidy arrangement, from where I stand.”

Suzanne knew all that. She’d done it herself many times in the ever more distant past, and in this very tavern. But, knowing that the “girl” in question had been a boy, she now saw the practice in a new light. Lord Paul could get away with pretending to be a female prostitute by using his mouth. Very handy, and as engaging as he was, as Dent had said, he probably made a great deal of money at it.

“Do you remember any of the men she was with?”

“You mean, other than Throckmorton?”

A grin curled one side of her mouth. “Yes, other than he.”

Dent thought for a moment, but Suzanne could tell by his face there wasn’t much hope of a name. He shrugged. “I can’t say as I can remember any faces. There was so many in here that night I’d be hard put to even remember you were here if you weren’t asking me about it just now.”

“It’s quite all right. I can’t expect you to remember everything. Any recollection of faces at all? Not necessarily ones that girl was with. Anyone who was here late in the evening after I left, who might have seen her leave with someone.”

“Oh, certainly. There was Big Willie and his friend, Warren. They both stayed late, as always, playing for tips. They get little money, usually, and like to drink theirs, so they had no truck with the whores. But they threw back their share of ale during the night, and Willie played until the place was empty, even after Warren packed it in. He’ll remember who all was here.”

Hope grew for Suzanne. Willie was a good friend, bright, and observant. For a shilling he would be able to tell her the names of everyone present during the entire evening. “Very good, Dent. Thank you for your help; Willie is just the sort of person I was hoping could tell me something.”

Dent nodded and stood as Ramsay paid for their wine, and he and Suzanne gathered themselves for the trek to Willie’s rooms near the bear arena.

It was a bit of a walk, and in the winter darkness was quite cold. But the streets were not empty, and the torches that lit the entrances to various eating, drinking, and whoring establishments guided their steps along the cobbles. The heat from them took the sharpest edges from the cold night air in the narrow streets as they passed.

Willie lived in a single room in a tenement very near the arena where people were entertained by bears fighting dogs set on them. Tonight could be heard a great deal of shouting from it, and beneath that was the snarl and roar of animals fighting each other to the death. Beneath that was the similar roar of men egging on the fight. Suzanne didn’t think very highly of the sport. The bear always died, and sometimes a dog or two, which—even aside from the cruelty—she thought was awfully predictable and not particularly interesting. The wagering was too complicated to be her idea of fun, and so there was nothing about bear baiting worth her while. She and Ramsay hurried past the arena doors, looking for the small entrance to Willie’s room.

It was a basement door, down several steps from the street. Suzanne had been here before, and more often than not an unusually deep puddle lurked beneath that bottom step, deceptively deep and a danger to good shoes even for one wearing pattens. Ramsay held her hand to keep her from slipping as she stepped down, tested the bottom, and found no puddle. More important, she found no puddle frozen into a sheet of slippery ice. So she finished her descent and knocked on the door.

There was no answer, so she knocked again. Still no answer. The room had a window up at the street level, so Ramsay helped her back up the steps to look. No candle was visible inside the room, and it was far too early for him to be asleep. Willie wasn’t home.

Suzanne muttered an unladylike curse, and said to Ramsay, “He’s out, I’m afraid.”

“Have we any idea where?” Ramsay stared across at the cluster of men loitering outside the arena entrance. None of them was Willie.

Suzanne thought a moment. “He’s not at the Goat and Boar, so he must be playing his fiddle somewhere. Horse Shoe Alley. He likes the corner of Horse Shoe Alley and Bank Side.” It was back the way they’d come, and past the Goat and Boar. She took a good, long look up and down the street here, and neither saw nor heard a little man playing a fiddle. Big Willie always gathered a crowd when he played, and the only such crowd in this street was more interested in bears and dogs than in music. Suzanne and Ramsay pulled their cloaks tighter around them and set off once more.

Snow began to fall, in tiny flakes that flitted about inside circles of torchlight like moths around a flame. Suzanne and Ramsay walked more quickly, and their breath came in puffs of vapor. The cold made inroads into her clothing, and in spite of her heavy cloak and muff a chill came on her. The cold air wafted into her skirts as she walked. She stuffed her hands deep into her muff and pressed it into her belly, but she only became colder. Before long she began to shiver. Even walking didn’t warm her enough against it.

Ramsay saw it, and opened his coat to draw her into it. At first she hesitated, but realized it was only going to become colder if she refused the invitation. She was cold natured, and so was susceptible to it, while most men were hot natured. Ramsay, as large and vibrant as he was, had heat to spare and a coat large enough for them both. It would be no hardship for him to lend her some warmth. So she stepped close to him, inside the coat, and let him warm her with his body.

On the corner of Bank Side and Horse Shoe Alley they found Big Willie and his fiddle, standing in a circle of light around a large brazier. Suzanne was thankful for finding him and for the warmth of the fire. She greeted him as she thrust her hands toward the burning wood and pitch. “Willie! I’m so glad we’ve found you!” She rubbed her gloved hands together and blew into her cupped palms, then put them next to the fire again.

“Good to see you, as well, Suze. I was just about to give ’er up for the night. This weather is playing the devil with my fiddle. Can’t keep it tuned for my life, says I.”

“I quite agree. It’s not a night for anyone to be about.” She rubbed her palms together and flexed her fingers. Too bad Willie hadn’t packed it in earlier; it would have saved her a bit of walking and quite a lot of shivering. She sighed as the warmth of the fire unclenched all her muscles.

“So, what did you want me for, if you don’t mind my asking?” Willie took the opportunity for a break, set his fiddle into its case and shut it, then stuffed his hands into his armpits beneath his coat. The gloves he wore for playing had no fingertips, so his fingers must have been quite cold.