The Twelfth Night Murder (11 page)

“Young Dent tells me you might be able to remember what faces were to be seen at the Goat and Boar four nights ago.”

“Right, everyone was there. Including yourself and Master Ramsay here.” His expression and tone asked why she didn’t remember herself who was there.

“I mean after we left, and you and Warren were playing for tips. Dent tells me you lingered quite late.”

Willie nodded. “You know I keep an eye on the crowd. Always looking out for a tipper, and knowing what tunes each one likes.” He tapped his forehead and winked. “I got a list in my head, goes back twenty years, it does.”

“You know everyone in Southwark.”

“I know everyone who visits here from across the river, as well.” He nodded toward the Thames behind him.

“Except the girl in the blue, lacey dress at the Goat and Boar four nights ago.”

“Including her. And she weren’t no girl, neither.”

“Quite right. What do you know about her?
Him.
”

“He was the one they found floating in the river, wasn’t he?”

“He was. I’m looking for his killer.”

“He showed up just the night before he was killed. Can’t tell you his name, though.”

“He was Paul Worthington. Son of Jacob Worthington, Duke of Cawthorne.”

Willie’s eyes went wide. “God blind me! You don’t say!”

“I don’t, actually.”

He nodded, and touched a finger to his brow. “I got ya, Suze. Nobody’ll hear it from me.”

She knew they would, but she hoped he would keep her name out of it, at least for a while. “In any case, what did you see that night? Regarding Lord Paul? Who was he with?”

Willie shook his head. “I seen him with a great many men that night, including our own Throckmorton. Nearly split a gut to keep from laughing out loud at that one, I did. Had his arm around the little tart, he did, and thinking he would have a bit of—”

“In any case, Willie, who else had his arm around that very young boy?”

Willie frowned as he concentrated. “Well, there was Warren. And Young Dent.” Suzanne’s eyebrows raised to learn this. She would have to ask Dent about that when next she saw him. For now, she let it pass as Willie continued, “There was one or two whose names escape me.”

“Describe them to me.”

“One was a sailor I’d never seen before.”

“Plenty of sailors to be found in Bank Side. Doesn’t exactly narrow it down for me.” The wharves were just across the river, and men from the ships docked there often ended up in Southwark for the bears and bulls, and of course the whores on Bank Side. The Goat and Boar was a natural place for them to collect for ale, whisky, and wine. “What did he look like?”

“Well, he were some’at average. Medium height, not too fat, not too thin. Plain-looking. Brown hair, I think, though he wore a cap down low so it was hard to tell.”

“Nothing to distinguish him from other sailors?”

“Well, he were missing a hand, that one.”

“Which hand?”

Willie had to think on that a moment, held up each hand in turn as if weighing them, then raised his right hand as he remembered. “His right. I’m sure of it.”

“Good. Go on.”

“Well, then there was one who appeared terribly fancy. All silk velvet and brocade, and a great, curly, long wig to make the king fall on his sword for envy. He carried a silver-topped cane, though he never appeared to need it for more than decoration. More trim than average, and he moved a bit like a cat. All smooth-like, and that.”

“Did Lord Paul take either of these men outside?”

“Both of them. Though with the sailor it was more like the boy had talked the patron into it, and the rich fellow appeared to demand the boy accompany him. They knew each other, I think, or at least they spoke to each other as if they did. And with the rich fellow the boy seemed less like a girl. Like he was dropping the pretense just a hair.”

That very much interested Suzanne. “What did they say?”

“Couldn’t make out the words. Only the tone, and I could see their faces.”

“How did they act? How did the boy act toward the older man?”

“As I said, they plainly knew each other. The boy was all smilin’ and that, though I must say he never stopped smilin’ no matter who he was talking to. But he seemed especially happy to see the fellow with the cane, and when he was directed outside he went willingly.”

“But it was different from the other men.”

“Right. Can’t put my finger on why. Not really.”

“Was that the last time you saw the boy?”

Willie shook his head. “No, he returned not long after, and resumed his quest for men with money.”

“Did you ever see him go upstairs?”

Willie shook his head again. “No, if he left the public room, it was to go out to the alley.”

“Did you happen to notice the last man he was with that night?”

“No, I can’t say as I did. There were some more, but I took no notice of who they were, nor could I tell you which one was the last one. The strange boy in the blue dress didn’t tip, so he wasn’t exactly the center of my attention. Just, sometime during the evening he stopped coming back inside.”

“Quite all right, Willie. You’ve given me something to work with here.” She looked to Ramsay. “Next we go across the river to the wharves and hope to find a sailor missing a hand.”

“In the morning,” said Ramsay.

“Right.” The thing to do now was to go home and get some sleep. Ramsay walked her safely to the Globe, all the way to the basement apartment. As they descended the steps, she wondered what villain he expected to encounter so deep in the structure. At the door, she turned to him, looked up at his face, and once again was impressed by his height. He was most likely over six feet tall. Taller than Daniel, certainly. Even taller than Horatio, who towered over most people she knew. And Ramsay was far more handsome, and had real hair of his own instead of a wig. Just then she couldn’t help smiling up at him, like a silly girl less than twenty just discovering a new love.

That thought sobered her, but though her smile dimmed his did not. He said, in a voice and accent that mocked the very suitor he claimed to be, “Well, I must say I had a lovely evening, and enjoyed your company very much.”

She couldn’t help a chuckle at that. “It was a charming stroll through the city. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

“I am at my lady’s disposal.”

“In the morning, then, and don’t be late. And do come inside when you arrive.”

His voice went soft. So terribly soft she would have cuddled up inside it, were that possible. “Verily, I would want naught else but to come inside.”

For a long, suspended moment, she thought he might lean down to kiss her. She would have sworn he leaned toward her. But then he came to his senses and stood straight again.

She said, “There’s no need to give yourself a chill loitering in the alley. Knock and have Sheila let you in.”

He cleared his throat. “Right.” Then she let herself into her rooms and closed the door behind her with the feeling of having escaped something dangerous.

T
he next morning a knock came at the entrance to Suzanne’s rooms in the Globe basement, and Sheila went to admit Ramsay, who presented himself for service.

Suzanne was in the midst of a breakfast of bacon and toasted Irish bread, sitting at the table at the inner end of her sitting room. She gestured to the single chair opposite. “Do sit and let Sheila bring you some food.”

Ramsay sat, but waved off Sheila with a shake of his head. “None for me, though I thank you. I’ve already had my fill of mutton pies from the street vendors this morning.”

Suzanne made a face. “I don’t know how you can tolerate those nasty pies. Naught but suet and gristle, in my experience.” For her they were also a reminder of the worst days, when she’d had no roof over her head and ate what she could buy, steal, or cajole from those vendors.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to have a good maid who is also a wonderful cook.” He threw Sheila his most charming grin, which she rewarded with a deep blush and a smile.

“Then you should eat here instead.”

“I would have breakfast every day here, and before rising, if you wished it.”

Suzanne smiled at her own folly for having invited the too-forward comment. She replied, “Do have a piece of toast. Surely you have room for that.”

Ramsay said, “Thank you, I do.” He grinned again at Sheila, who hurried off to fetch a plate of toast.

Another knock came, and Sheila returned to answer it. In came Horatio, his wig askew as ever, and he stood in the sitting room appearing agitated. “I hate to disturb thee so early, niece, but there is a matter of significant importance I wish to discuss, and of late I’ve been hard put to find you in.” This matter must be dire, for Horatio had slipped into the quasi-Elizabethan thee-thou that was his habit when upset. During the interregnum he’d adopted it for the sake of mocking the Puritans in power, who had outlawed theatre and forced him to take his art to the streets. He’d been arrested once for performing, and therefore had little love for Puritans and Presbyterians. His devout Catholicism made him impatient with Protestants in general, but he had a special dislike for those who attacked the love of his life, the theatre.

“I apologize, Horatio. I’ve been occupied with other things these past few days.” She gestured to the room to indicate the lack of others demanding her attention, and added, “You can see I’ve some time to myself at the moment, so tell me what I might do for you.”

He drew himself up to his full, considerable height, his arms straight at his sides in an attempt to still the uncontrolled gesticulating that was another sign he was upset. His fingers splayed and flexed, for he was never able to control them no matter how hard he tried. His deep, booming voice was barely under control, but Suzanne was certain he could be heard in the stairwell outside. “We need to talk about Liza and Wally.”

Suzanne sat back in her chair and laid her hands on her lap. “Haven’t they quit snapping at each other?”

He shook his head. “Every day it’s a struggle to keep them from blows. I’ve tried to make them understand the behavior is not acceptable, and they swear to me they will refrain in future, but then the very next performance is a nightmare of bad blood. ’Tis but a matter of time until they fall out onstage and become the laughingstock of London theatre.” His mouth pressed closed hard enough to make a white line around his lips, and his eyebrows bobbed as another factor came to mind. “And I will become a laughingstock. I can hardly bear such a thing, and will not. I must recast if they continue on this way.”

“I quite agree, Horatio. It’s untenable, and you shouldn’t be expected to suffer it.”

That calmed him somewhat, and his fingers stilled. He seemed to breathe more easily. “Yes. ’Tis untenable, I quite agree. I must recast, then, and in all haste. I thank thee for thy assistance.” He turned to leave, but Suzanne stopped him.

“No, Horatio.” He turned back, and she continued, “There’s no need for recasting, I think. Perhaps there’s some way to avoid that.”

“I don’t see how, my niece. They are like two dogs in a ring. They circle each other, then one attacks, then the other responds. ’Tis only a question of who attacks first. A couple of old spinsters fighting over a widower couldn’t be more hateful. I’ve complaints from the entire cast.”

“Then I must have a chat with them both.”

“I’ve attempted it, and have had no success.”

She thought a moment, considering the possibilities for action. She could threaten the two, but that had probably already been tried. It would seem the atmosphere of togetherness she’d worked hard to instill made them feel their positions with the company were inviolate. They might not believe Horatio when he said he would recast their roles. Or perhaps something else was at work here. Some sort of fear or other insecurity. She would have to think on it and decide on an action to take.

To Horatio she said, “Let me speak to them. Perhaps I can find a way to convince them it’s in their best interest to get along with each other.”

“I tell thee, ’tis impossible. They hate each other and will not reconcile.”

“Let me try. Give them to the end of the run, and see if they will change their behavior before we do anything rash. It won’t sit well with the rest of the company if we are too quick to exclude our players. This is the first such situation we’ve had, and everyone will be sensitive to how it’s handled.”

Horatio at first appeared to want to resist agreement, but finally nodded. “Very well. I bow to thy higher authority and good judgment. Speak to them, and if they persist in their disruptions I will exclude them from future productions.”

“Eminently fair, in my opinion.”

He nodded again, then bowed in almost the same motion. “Good day, my niece.” Then he made his exit without the aid of Sheila to show him the door directly behind him.

Ramsay said, in a low, slow tone, “Excitable fellow.”

“He controls it. He’s actually an excellent actor, and his vision for the Shakespeare is perfect for us. He puts his soul into this company, and I can understand why he’s upset when two of his actors appear to be making the play less than it could be.”

Yet another knock came, and Suzanne wondered who else might need her attention so early in the morning. The sun was barely up, and she knew few who were such early risers. At least, she’d thought she knew few. She and Ramsay paused in their conversation once more as Sheila went to answer the door.

In stepped Constable Pepper, who greeted her with a voice hoarse with the catarrh she’d seen developing on his last visit. He coughed, causing her to step back. He removed his hat and looked from Suzanne to Ramsay, then back to Suzanne as she stood to greet him. She gestured him to the upholstered chair nearby, and they both sat. He appeared dismayed. Plainly he’d hoped to find her alone with her maid. “I need to speak confidentially, Mistress Thornton.” He coughed again, this time covering his mouth with a fist.

Suzanne glanced at Ramsay, who gazed blandly at the constable. The Scot said nothing, waiting to see how this would go before making a comment. Suzanne said, “You may speak freely, Constable. I have complete trust in him.”

“I must insist.”

“So must I. Since you have come all this way so early in the morning, my educated guess is that the matter at hand is far more important to you than it could possibly be to me. Therefore, I invite you to either tell me your business or return to your office where your brandy awaits. I will proceed with my day as well.” Sheila brought a small plate of toast, set it before Ramsay, curtsied, then returned to the kitchen.

Pepper reddened some, shifted his considerable weight, then glanced at Ramsay once more before speaking. “It is about the Duke of Cawthorne.”

Suzanne sat up straight, and a charge of alarm fluttered in her gut. This couldn’t possibly be good, for Pepper to have heard from someone other than herself that she’d interviewed the duke. “What of him?”

“He summoned me this morning, before the sun was even up. Without the least consideration for a man who works hard every day, he had his driver put me in a carriage and haul me all the way to Westminster. I don’t mind telling you, it distressed me greatly.”

Suzanne flinched with suppressed laughter at the suggestion Pepper ever worked hard. Or worked at all. She replied, “It must have been an unbearable ordeal.”

“My heart nearly stopped, I tell you! And so when I arrived he dressed me down right proper for sending you after him to question him about his son. Of course I assured him I had done no such thing, and furthermore I told him I couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten the idea I had. He told me you’d said it when you’d come to grill him yesterday. Surely you did not, and he simply misunderstood you.” He frowned at her and waited for a reply. Plainly he expected it to be in the affirmative.

Since Suzanne hadn’t actually grilled the duke, and in fact had not named Pepper at all and therefore could not have even suggested he’d sent her to grill Cawthorne, she felt perfectly justified in saying, “I did not.” How Cawthorne had even learned of her association with Pepper puzzled her.

“As I told him. In any case, the duke insisted you had, and further pressed that you be admonished to cease all enquiry on the matter.”

“He did?”

Pepper nodded. Then he took a deep breath, leaned toward her, and said in a plaintive tone, “Now, I pray you, please tell me what on earth he means. What matter?”

Suzanne had to stifle a laugh as she realized Pepper had gone all the way to Westminster, spoken to Cawthorne, and returned to Southwark without the slightest understanding of the matter at hand. No wonder he was distressed and confused. She said, “He means the boy in the dress who was murdered.”

Pepper straightened, thought about that for a moment, then said, “I see. And what about him?”

“The boy in the dress has turned out to be Cawthorne’s youngest son, Lord Paul.”

The light of understanding went on, and Pepper repeated with less irony, “I see. Are you certain of it?”

“Absolutely and without reservation. There was a portrait of the victim on the wall of the duke’s house. I couldn’t be more sure the dead boy was his son.”

“And you questioned him in the matter?”

“I informed the boy’s parents he was dead, and further described the condition in which he was found.”

Pepper blanched. “Oh dear. Perhaps you shouldn’t have done that.”

“They needed to be told.” And she had needed to learn who the boy was and how he came to be wearing a dress, but telling Pepper that would only lead the conversation into the gray area of how she’d come to be in the duke’s house to begin with. Better to circle that subject entirely and depend on the constable’s laziness to not have it brought up.

“But it might have been advisable to spare their sensibilities regarding the condition of the body.”

“They would have learned it eventually. Better to hear it from me early on, so steps could be taken to limit public exposure, than to hear it by rumor after too many unsympathetic people had seen the body and gossiped about it.”

Pepper had to concede the point, and nodded. “Very well, then. In any case, I am here to inform you that you’re not to investigate this any further. Your involvement in the boy’s death is at an end. The crown and the magistrate are satisfied that we’ve learned all we need to know, and I am no longer pressed to find the killer.”

Suzanne, for her part, still felt pressed. “But that killer is still at large in the city.”

“Better to let him go than to make an enormous public brouhaha that will only embarrass the duke and break the heart of his wife, the boy’s mother.”

“You would have a murderer go free? What of justice?”

“God will sort him out, I vow.”

“And if he murders again before God gets around to punishing him?”

Pepper’s lips pressed together, and his voice took on an edge of frustration and impatience. “Alas, there is nothing I can do about that. Cawthorne has made it clear he doesn’t wish any further inquiry. The victim was his son, and so I intend to abide by his wishes.”

“You mean, he’s a duke and so you intend to abide by his wishes.”

“That as well.” Pepper was making no bones.

Suzanne was stymied for a response to that, and so fell silent. Ramsay wisely remained equally silent.

Pepper rose and restored his hat to his head. “So I see we are all in agreement and you well understand the situation. I bid you both a good day.” He turned to glance at the door but a few feet away, then said, “I’ll see myself out.” And with that he took his leave.

Suzanne frowned into the middle distance, thinking, while Ramsay chewed on his toast as he waited for her to say something. She weighed in her heart her possible responses to this turn of events. Could she let go of the investigation? Should she? Could she face the day each morning, knowing a murderer was loose in the city and that she might have the ability to apprehend him?

Finally Ramsay swallowed and said, “You’re going to keep looking for the killer, aren’t you?”

She focused on his face and nodded. She had no choice if she were to live with herself.