The Twelfth Night Murder (12 page)

*   *   *

H
AVING
finished breakfast, Suzanne and Ramsay bundled up in cloaks, gloves, and muff to venture out to the docks along the river in search of the one-handed sailor mentioned by Big Willie. Rehearsal was in progress on the stage and in pockets of open space here and there about the theatre. Suzanne noticed Little Wally running lines with Matthew and Louis on the ground in the pit, and decided to have a chat with him about Liza. She asked Ramsay to wait for her by the entrance doors, and approached the cluster of actors.

“Wally, might I have a word with you for a moment?”

He turned to address her, in full femme though he wore his men’s street clothing. “Why yes, mistress. Whatever your heart desires.” He strode as gracefully as a queen to follow her to the other side of the pit, out of earshot of the other two men, seeming to float above the gravel and leaving nary a footprint. Suzanne couldn’t help but look at his feet to make sure they were touching the ground. They were, of course, but one couldn’t know it by watching him move. He stood, poised like a dancer, and waited for her to speak.

“Wal, I hope you know I value you as a member of this troupe. I believe you’ve brought a great deal of talent and skill to our production of
Twelfth Night
.”

His gaze dulled and a line appeared between his eyebrows, which was his way of frowning. “I detect the approach of a ‘however.’”

“Nonsense. I offer my praise in all sincerity. I have nothing ulterior to say. Wally, it is because of my high regard for your abilities I come to you for help.”

He eyed her with palpable skepticism. She pressed on and hoped he would believe her.

“My dear, I understand there is a conflict between you and Liza concerning the relative merits of your talents.”

“She’s a sow.”

“Be that as it may, I find myself in a bit of a bad spot concerning that conflict.” Liza was perfectly capable of being sow-like when angered, and so Suzanne didn’t care to argue the merits of Wally’s accusation. She continued, “I need help from you with her.”

“What sort of help could I possibly give? I’ve no control over her attitude toward me.”

“I mean, I think her attitude is hurting her portrayal.”

Wally suddenly dropped his overtly feminine stance and set his hands on his hips to lean toward her in a conspiratorial attitude. His voice became a harsh, masculine whisper. “I’ve been saying that all along! She thinks of herself as the end-all because she’s got a cunny and I don’t, and she doesn’t realize that it takes more than bits of flesh to portray a character!”

Suzanne nodded as she saw she might be getting somewhere with him. “So you see what I mean.”

“Absolutely! I keep trying to tell her that, but she will never listen. All she can do is go on about how she’s a ‘real’ woman.” A note of grief entered his voice, and it struck Suzanne he might wish he were a woman. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to give up the freedoms he owned as a man, but she laid it down as one of the many mysteries of life.

In any case, she hurried to present her suggestion and hoped it would be accepted and carried out. “Wal, I wish you would do something for me.”

“Whatever my mistress would have of me.”

“I would like you to help Liza become a better actress.”

He shook his head and stepped back. “Oh, I don’t think I could.”

“She’s talented enough. All she needs is some guidance.”

“She won’t listen to my guidance. She thinks she knows all and doesn’t need any help from anyone.”

“I think she’d listen to you if you approached her properly.”

“Like, how? I’ve never had anything from her but ugliness.”

“Ignore the rude remarks and defensive posture. Start with admiration. Let her know you think she’s already good at the work.”

“But she’s not.”

“Pretend. You’re an actor. Act. Let her think you admire her work, then slip in some bits that you think would improve that work. After all, this craft is an ongoing process. Nobody ever comes to where he can’t learn something new. You’ll agree with me that the objective of every truly great actor is to make each performance better than the last.”

Wally nodded, agreeing, though Suzanne had no idea whether he’d ever thought it before. It was something she’d always felt true, but she was a very different sort of performer from Wally. Nevertheless, he seemed to at least understand what she was saying.

She continued, “So approach her in that spirit. As if you were inviting her into a secret club of actors who are highly skilled and extraordinarily talented. That she might have the greatness of Kynaston or yourself, and that what she desires can be learned.”

He thought that over for a moment, then nodded again. “I see what you mean. Trick her into becoming skilled.”

“It would certainly be a benefit to the troupe if everyone in it were equally skilled.”

“We would be, had the French not meddled in things the way they have, letting women onstage and all.”

“Well, I’m afraid we can’t put that genie back in the bottle, and we’ve got to live with how things are. In any case, can I count on you to help me in this? For the troupe?”

“Of course, my mistress.” He resumed his feminine stance and curtsied without benefit of skirt.

“Thank you, good woman.” Suzanne nodded and smiled, then bade him good day and went to collect Ramsay once again where he awaited her by the doors.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE’S
decision to keep looking was vindicated that very morning. She and Ramsay had just stepped onto Maid Lane when there arrived a carriage unfamiliar to anyone at the Globe. A plain, black carriage came to a stop directly in front of them. The horses were fine animals and matched in every detail, though none of the tack bore any ornamentation. Even a funeral carriage would have had black crepe at the windows and headdresses for the horses, but this had none of that. Suzanne sensed its occupant would be equally fine and equally plain. Suzanne waited as the coachman descended to open the door and help his passenger down the steps. A glance back at the theatre entrance told Suzanne that Matthew, Louis, and Wally had come to see. They stood in the open doorway, staring.

The passenger was the Duchess of Cawthorne. She bore an unhappy frown as she looked about at the unfamiliar and bustling street. It seemed too much for her long-sheltered sensibilities. When she spotted Suzanne, her brow smoothed some to see a familiar face.

“Mistress Thornton,” she said, sounding somewhat relieved. “I’m so glad to find you here.” As if she had been in terror of having to make her way into the theatre and seek her out by herself. “Come.” She gestured them toward her carriage, and had a glance at the crowd by the theatre doors. “I wish to speak to you in confidence.” Another glance at the onlookers, and she appeared to fear an attack from ruffians. The actors gawked, with little understanding they were frightening her.

Suzanne might have had a dry comment about this being a day for speaking in confidence, but she refrained from saying it. Instead she said, “By all means, your grace.”

The coachman held the door and helped the women into the carriage. Ramsay followed. Suzanne, Ramsay, and the duchess settled into the seats, and the coachman was ordered to drive.

“Where to, your grace?” the coachman spoke through a vent near the ceiling.

“Just . . . anywhere. Not too far. Find a circle and simply make a loop if you can.” Had they been in Westminster, she might have ordered him to drive through St. James’s Park, but in Southwark there was no equivalent circuit. The driver would simply have to wander aimlessly as best he could in unfamiliar territory.

“Yes, your grace.” The carriage lurched into motion in the cobbled street.

The duchess addressed Suzanne, though she kept glancing at Ramsay as if she felt odd to ignore him. “I’ve come to make a plea for your help.” This last she directed at Ramsay, and it appeared he was the one she thought could help her.

Suzanne leaned in and raised her voice a little to direct the woman’s attention away from him, for he had no authority in any matter involving Suzanne. “What may I do for your grace? I am at your service.”

The duchess finally settled her attention on Suzanne and said, “I wish you to continue your investigation of my son’s murder.” For a moment her eyes clouded and teared, but she brought herself under control and continued, “I want his killer to be found and brought to justice.”

“You’re aware that the duke has requested there be no investigation?”

She nodded. “Yes. I overheard the discussion my husband had with the constable this morning. Jacob has a bit of a temper, I’m afraid. He’s a terribly devout man, but his one great fault is that he can’t help raising his voice when he’s angry. So I heard every word he said, though I heard nothing said by the constable. After he left, I had a talk with my husband, and I confess it was not a terribly graceful one. When I requested he rescind his hasty order, he began shouting again. It was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears. But over the years I’ve become accustomed to his histrionics and I was able to keep from breaking down. However, I failed to convince him of my terrible need to have justice done for my baby.” The duchess welled up, and her nose began to turn red. A gumminess entered her voice as she continued, “He was adamant the investigation come to an end. He said it would only cause gossip, and that it would hurt him in Parliament. He said there would be things said that would hurt me.” She looked straight into Suzanne’s eyes. “Are you a mother?” Suzanne nodded. “Then you know there is nothing that will ever hurt me more than my son’s death.”

“For me it would be unthinkable.”

The duchess sighed and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “In a sense, it’s made me free. I’m no longer afraid of Jacob. No matter how he treats me ever again, he cannot do worse to me than has the man who murdered my boy.”

Suzanne felt that a man who couldn’t assert authority without shouting and violence was a weak leader to be disregarded in any case, but kept that thought to herself. She said, “The constable came to me this morning and ordered me to desist.”

“I would have you continue, even against my husband’s wishes.”

“You would publicly defy your husband?”

“Certainly not. I wish you to defy him.” A slight smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, and Suzanne took the comment as a slight humor. “Seriously, Mistress Thornton, you realize I cannot appear to be a disobedient wife, and have no authority to ask you to disregard the duke. However, I hope you might find your way clear to somehow discover who murdered my baby.”

“I should stumble across him while walking down the street?” Suzanne also smiled as she indulged in some humor of her own.

The duchess responded with a slight chuckle. “I’m certain we would all adore it to be that easy. I would that you might continue with discreet enquiries. As much as you can, without too much ado.”

Suzanne could see the duchess knew little about how investigations were carried out, and was naïve about the devastating power of gossip. But she leaned forward and said in a low voice, just loud enough for the carriage occupants to hear but mindful of the coachman sitting above, “Your grace, I assure you I’ve already decided to continue with the investigation.”

The duchess sat straight, drew a deep breath, and nodded as she once again had to struggle against tears. “Thank you. God bless you.”

Suzanne took this excellent opportunity to glean as much information as she could from the victim’s mother. She needed to know the story of Lord Paul’s trip to Kent, and how he might have ended up back in London. “Do tell me, your grace, what was your son like?” She hoped to learn something about the boy’s penchant for dressing like a girl.

Now a wan smile crossed the duchess’s face. “Oh, he was the sweetest little boy! Never raised his voice, even as boys are wont to do. Always a kind word or gentle touch. I love both my sons equally, but I daresay, if I had a favorite it would have been Paul.”

Suzanne remembered the gentle girl-like creature in the Goat and Boar that night, and knew what she meant.

The duchess hugged herself and gazed out the window at the huddled houses of Southwark passing by. It took several moments for her to find words for her thoughts, then she said, “Since yesterday I’ve had horrible visions of how his last moments must have been. He must have been so frightened.” Tears fell again, and she repeated, “
So frightened.
I should never have let Jacob send him to my cousins. I should never have let my baby out of my sight.”

Suzanne asked, “How long ago was it you sent him to Kent?”

“’Twas three months ago. We thought some time with my cousins there would be beneficial to him.”

“In what way?”

Now the duchess pressed her lips together and was silent, thinking hard. Suzanne spoke to help her decide what to say.

“Your grace, every bit of information you give me could be helpful in tracking down the killer. I never know what tidbit might lead me down the right path. Why was your son sent to Kent?”

More tears came. Finally the duchess said, “It was Jacob. My husband wanted him away from London.”

“Why?” Though Suzanne could guess, she needed to hear what the duchess would say.

“Jacob never liked Paul terribly well. As a small child Paul was never lively like other boys. He didn’t care for the rough-and-tumble games they enjoyed. Jacob thought him weak. As Paul grew older, he seemed even less like a boy. He had mannerisms that were so like those of a girl, he infuriated Jacob. My husband tried to break him of those habits, but it seemed the harder he tried to make him stop behaving like a girl, the more Paul avoided the world of manly things. The duke said horrible things to our son. Called him names, and there were great shouting matches between them. Jacob accused him of doing things with men and beasts he was too young to even know about yet. And as Paul grew in size and understanding, he became angry with his father. And afraid, which only angered Jacob more. Finally the two of them could no longer stand to be in the same room. We’d always sent him to Kent in the summer, but this year when he returned he simply could not be civil to Jacob. He would have been thirteen next month, and so Jacob began talking about sending him away to university. Oxford. Instead I convinced him to send Paul back to Kent, and there my cousins could continue his education.”