The Twelfth Night Murder (14 page)

“A boy in a dress! I say,” he said. “Something should be done about the sodomites in London. I vow, it’s become so that one can’t feel under a skirt without running a risk of having a handful of willie for one’s trouble!” He chortled at his own jest as he took another sip of wine.

Suzanne had no reply to that, never having attempted to put her hand up someone else’s skirt, and not terribly pleased with men who did so uninvited. They seemed to think it a birthright of some sort.

The young man continued, “I can’t say as I’m particularly surprised someone decided to kill him. It must have been quite a shock for the patron to find his money gone for misrepresented goods. I certainly would not have been amused.”

Suzanne’s attitude went dry and took on an edge of disgust. “You spend a great deal of money on whores, then? By your tone I suppose you’ve been cheated many times. If so, then I would have to wonder whether you actually seek out tarts who are more boyish than the rest? Perhaps you are attracted to men and simply don’t realize it, or are unwilling to admit it even to yourself.” She sipped her wine and watched his face flush nearly the color of it.

His voice lowered to an ugly, disgusted growl. “I despise sodomites, and would not suffer them to live. The law says they should hang, and I quite agree with it. They are not men. They are an abomination.”

“And perhaps they might feel the same way about you.”

He gazed darkly at her for a long moment, then excused himself and went to speak to someone else. The sense of relief in Suzanne was palpable. The tight band constricting her breathing loosened, and she was able to sigh over such hatefulness.

About then the crowd was thinning as the actors and guests began leaving for their evening’s entertainments in the local taverns and the bull and bear arenas. The animal fighting carried on all night, and so those who worked in the theatre often liked to have their relaxation there. Suzanne finished her wine and considered whether she would go to the Goat and Boar or stay in with her Aristotle. Or else the writing of her own play, which had become less of a pastime and more of a possibility for her future. These days she occasionally fantasized she might become a playwright like Shakespeare or Marlowe, lauded for her witty dialogue and fascinating plots. Other times she realized her fantasy seemed most plausible when she’d had a bit of wine.

She set down her glass for Christian to collect later when he tidied the backstage area before bed, and turned to leave. Directly behind her, she was a bit startled to find Little Wally, who murmured her name barely loud enough to hear.

“Yes,” she replied. “How are you this evening? It was an exceptionally fine performance today, I must say.”

“Thank you, mistress.” He gave a quick curtsey, from habit, though he’d changed to street clothes appropriate to his gender. Then he continued, “May I have a word, Suze?”

“Always, Wal. I am at your disposal.”

He hesitated, appearing to search for words, which made her more curious about what he would say. “You understand, mistress, that I’ve come to respect your thoughts on some things. Since joining the Players, I’ve known you to be reasonable about certain particular subjects that concern me greatly. That is, I think I can trust you.”

She smiled, mildly since she would rather not appear to be laughing him off. “What concerns you this evening?” There was a dire note in his voice, a seriousness uncharacteristic of him. It made her attend closely, curious about what was on his mind.

“I have heard about your investigation.”

“Not a well-kept secret, I’m afraid. You should know I’ve been told by the constable to desist.”

His face fell in disappointment. “You’re no longer looking for the man who murdered the boy in the blue dress?”

“How did you know I was? Constable Pepper came here to recruit me, but I don’t recall announcing any details of our conversation.” So far as she had known until some minutes ago, only Daniel and Ramsay were privy to that particular information. Had Sheila, who overheard everything, been gossiping to the actors? That was quite unlike her, and Suzanne had known her for years. She made a mental note to find out why everyone seemed to know her business.

He shrugged. “Not to put my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I thought it was common knowledge. You know Southwark is nothing but one enormous grapevine. Everyone in the cast has been chattering on about it, since the thing happened. So, have you given up the chase? I was rather hoping . . .” As his voice trailed off he gave a slight, wondering shrug by way of finishing his sentence.

“Why do you ask? Have you something to tell me that might help?”

He hesitated before answering, then said in a bare whisper, “You know they hate us.” His lips had gone even more thin than usual, and the tightness of his voice was grim.

Suzanne lowered her voice as well. “By ‘us’ I think you mean sods, am I right?”

He nodded, then glanced around to see whether there was anyone nearby listening in. There were only a small cluster of actors and their guests in chairs on the other side of the room, and Christian cleaning up a spill on the floor near the door. They were all quite absorbed in their own talk and laughter, enjoying themselves and the evening, paying no attention to anything outside their warm circle of friendship. He leaned in to whisper, “We must be terribly careful.”

“I’ve never thought you to much care whether anyone considered you one of them. I thought you were a free spirit, not tied to any social convention that didn’t suit you.”

“’Tis one thing to give the appearance, and quite another to give proof of it that might be used to bring charges. I am an actor, so my true nature is never of great importance to anyone and the world thinks me harmless and amusing. I may behave as I please, for in the greater scheme of things nobody takes seriously anything I do or say. But I ever avoid serious talk, and especially I do not make open confession outside a certain circle of acquaintances. Many people think me a sod, but they would be hard put to give proof of it in court, and I believe everyone rather prefers it that way. Particularly, I do.”

“I see. And so what would you ask of me?”

“Do find this man who has murdered that boy. I implore you.”

“I would like very much to do that. But I find myself somewhat stymied. I must move more discreetly than I am accustomed, for the boy’s father has ordered me to stop. It’s been made clear to me there will be repercussions if I persist, and only the boy’s mother has asked me to continue. And yourself, of course.”

“What did you learn before the order came?”

“Only that the victim was selling himself at the Goat and Boar the night he died, and that he was probably murdered by one of his clients.”

Wally shook his head and his agitation grew. “It could have been anyone. Any man who could see the boy was not a girl might have killed him for it, and furthermore would have not thought it a crime. A great many men would not think it a crime, and in fact might boast about it. You can’t assume the killer was anyone who even knew him or met him before.”

“Then even more I am at a loss, if I have nobody to suspect or must suspect everyone.”

Wally sighed, and his expression of frustration agreed with her feelings on the subject. He rubbed finger and thumb at the corners of his mouth.

She continued, “What has me truly puzzled is how Lord Paul came to sell himself in a public house. He was supposed by his parents to be in the country with cousins. Who took him from his home in Westminster and brought him here?”

A light sparked in Wally’s eyes. “I know of a man who could help you to learn that sort of thing, but I would warn you to beware of him. He is a purveyor of women and children. He operates in the Haymarket, and I know he has been known to use boys. He himself is a pederast.”

Suzanne had never heard of a harlot’s attendant managing boys, which quite surprised her, for she’d thought she’d been entirely familiar with the seamy side of London. Of course she knew men often bought boys, as they ever bought anything that could be obtained, but the practice had always been so removed from her experience and so hidden from public sight that she simply had not thought about it much. All in all, she realized that since she wasn’t a man, she knew very little about how men went about buggering each other. She said, “Could you tell me the name of this man? Does he maintain a house?”

“He’s Mordecai Higgins, who can be found in the Westminster Haymarket, but his actual location varies often. Do not approach him in search of a boy, for he will melt into the city streets without leaving so much as a spot of oil. He’s known publicly for procuring girls, and only a man who has been given entrée by a fellow sodomite will ever find him by asking for a boy. You must present yourself as in search of an ordinary harlot’s attendant and nothing more.”

“Very well.”

“And never forget that he may well be the very man you seek for the murder. I assure you he would not hesitate to murder for the sake of his domination of others.”

“I understand.” She understood that most homicide was for the sake of domination. Then she asked, “Tell me, Wal. Since the king has returned and London is no longer in the grip of Cromwell’s Puritan sensibilities, how is it that sodomites are still so wary? Nobody seems to care anymore what people do in private, and a precious few care what happens in public. Why do you hide?”

A puzzled look came over Wally’s face. “Why would anything have changed for us? The king is not one of us, and in fact is so much a womanizer he must be especially horrified by us. He would have us all hang and not feel the slightest qualm about it. We are as hated by libertines as we are by Puritans, and must fear everyone.”

“I see.”

“Do tread lightly in the Haymarket, Suze. I rather enjoy working for you and would hate to hear of you floating in the river.”

“Thank you. I think I would rather dislike it myself.”

I
t was now well after sunset, and though she would have liked to stay in with her writing that evening, instead she dressed to make the trip to Westminster and the Haymarket. Tonight she wore the men’s clothing she preferred for days she spent at home, thinking the breeches and tights might give the effect of an ambivalence of gender that might help her fit in. Where she wore a dress in public to look respectable, here she needed to seem less respectable.

When she exited her quarters, she found herself confronted by Ramsay, who sat on a lower step of the stairwell outside her door, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of the small Scottish dagger he called a
sgian dubh
. She stopped in her tracks and gazed at him without speaking, wondering how she would get past him without having to bring him along.

“Good evening, Diarmid.”

“Where are you off to, this fine night?” He smiled in greeting, as if they’d just met on the street and he was asking out of idle curiosity. He returned the
sgian dubh
to its customary place beneath his shirt.

She thought of lying to him and telling him she was headed for the Goat and Boar, but knew he’d only ask to go with her then. It wouldn’t do for him to accompany her to the Haymarket, and she couldn’t simply slip away from him. “How did you know I was leaving?”

“Christian overheard you and Wally talking, and he ran to my rooms straightaway to tell me you planned to go to the Haymarket tonight.”

In that case, there was no lying to Ramsay in hopes of getting rid of him. She confessed, “Yes, that is where I am going. And I must go alone.”

“You cannot. I won’t allow it. ’Tis far too dangerous.”

“That can’t be helped. I must find and question a man called Mordecai Higgins.”

“Who is he?”

“A harlot’s attendant. I’m told he might be able to tell me something about how Lord Paul ended up in the Goat and Boar when he was supposed to be in Kent.”

Ramsay stood, and continued to block the stairs. He set one foot on the bottom step, hands on hips, and bent his head toward her to emphasize his words and his greater size. His tone was even more firm than before. “As I said, ’tis far too dangerous for you to go by yourself. I shall accompany you.”

“You’ll frighten him off; I’ll never find him with you by my side.”

“Then accept that you’ll never find him. I’d rather you failed to find the murderer than to offer yourself as a new victim.”

“Diarmid, I must go.”

“Then you must allow me to go with you. I willnae budge from this spot unless you agree to let me follow you to the Haymarket.”

She thought that over for a moment. There was no other exit from that part of the basement, unless she wanted to climb out the kitchen window to the sub-stage. Besides being less than graceful, it also would not get rid of him. He’d only meet her on the stage at the trapdoor and follow her from there. She said, “Very well, follow me, but not closely. Come behind me, and keep me in sight. Then if there is trouble you may come to my rescue.”

“I’d much rather be by your side.”

“Of course, you would. But I can hardly stroll into the Haymarket with you right behind me like an enormous guard dog, ready to do damage to anyone who threatens me.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Of course, you would. And you’d be a sorry friend if you didn’t. Not to mention worthless as a suitor. So I must insist. If you accompany me, you will keep enough distance between us that you will not frighten off my quarry.”

He considered that, head tilted slightly to one side, then said with a nod, “Very well.”

The Haymarket in Westminster in daytime was a bustling center of commerce filled with shops that sold food, fabric, leather, swords and knives, and many other finished goods. Not far from the newly fashionable Pall Mall, the streets and alleys of the market were a jumble of buildings, some in deep decay and others less so for being adequately maintained. In daytime the cries of vendors and shopkeepers’ wives filled the air and there was an energy of profit making that gave the place a sheen of respectability in spite of its aging buildings and pocked pavements.

At night, with the shops closed, the place turned into a collection of shadows crawling with the less fortunate. Windows and doors were shuttered and barred against thieves who made their lives at it as well as thieves who became so only when opportunity presented itself. Some pubs showed light, and men came and went from them, but for the most part the streets were dark. The coach carrying Suzanne and Ramsay trundled down Market Street, and Suzanne ordered the driver to slow. She gazed out the window at the darkness, finding only the occasional single torch at the entrance of a public house. Even those places had little traffic. But she guessed they were where she was most likely to find someone who knew where to find Master Higgins. She ordered the driver to stop, and hopped out before he could come down and open the door for her.

Ramsay rose from the seat, “Suze, allow me to accompany you.”

She turned to reply and stopped him from descending the steps. “We’ve discussed this already, and my mind has not changed. Stay here until I’ve gone inside. Really, I would prefer you to stay outside.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“I know. So if you please I must insist you wait a sufficient while before following.”

He sighed, and eased back into the shadows of the carriage.

She drew her cloak around her as if it were an armor that might protect her from the danger of this venture. For a moment she wondered why she was attempting something so foolish, but shook the thought away and approached the tavern. Fear would only make her vulnerable to those who could smell it.

Inside the public house she found only a few men sitting at tables and drinking, talking in low voices. Every one of them fell silent at her entrance, and stared at her. She was accustomed to attracting the attention of men in taverns, but this had a feel of hostility alien to her. These men didn’t want her here, and made it clear with nothing but a look. She guessed they were talking business they didn’t want overheard, and so she approached the bar where a man who appeared to be the proprietor awaited her with a stoneware jug at hand.

She gave him a cheery smile, as if strolling into a strange public house at nearly midnight were something she did every night of the week. “A cup of ale, if you please, good man.”

He took a wooden cup from a shelf behind him, and poured some ale into it. She placed some coins on the board before him, then took her ale to a chair near the hearth, where she opened her cloak to the air and reached out her free hand to warm it by the fire. The men in the room resumed their drinking, the three at the large table near the door with their heads drawn close and their voices a low murmur. Suzanne sipped her ale and let the alcohol warm her on the inside and loosen the knot in her gut.

Minutes later Ramsay appeared at the door and made a direct march to the bar without a glance at Suzanne or the other men in the room. He ordered some whisky, loudly and with commentary about the superiority of distilled spirits over simple ale and wine. The proprietor had no whisky, but offered brandy instead, which Ramsay accepted with robust good humor. He remained at the bar to drink, leaning against it and scanning the room as if looking for a likely conversation to bide the time. Suzanne wished he’d stayed in the carriage; she could feel the tension increase in the room since his arrival. This wasn’t going to work.

However, caution to the wind, she leaned over to speak to the fellow opposite her next to the fire. “You. Could I ask you something? I’m looking for someone as lives hereabouts.” The man gave her a sideways look, as if turning his face entirely toward her might be a danger to him. She continued, “His name is Mordecai Higgins.”

That was all it took. The man stood, set his cup on the mantel over the fire, and hurried to the door, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets as he went.

Suzanne watched him go and realized that though this seemed like a failure, she nevertheless must be on the right track. That man had recognized the name, and more than likely knew something about who Higgins was. It would have been far better had he been willing to share his information, but perhaps there was hope for help from those in the room who had not left. She now looked to them.

The three at the large table stared at her, apparently having forgotten Ramsay at the bar. One of them said to her, “You’re looking for Mordecai?”

Hope fluttered in her breast, and Suzanne’s outlook brightened considerably. She smiled. “I hear he’s a harlot’s attendant.”

“And what need have you of one of those?”

She cleared her throat as if about to broach a delicate subject, and lowered her voice. “Well, I got me a daughter for sale.” An odd light came into the man’s eyes, and she hurried to continue. “Hard times have fallen on us, you see. My husband died and left us nothing. I take in laundry, but it’s not near enough to keep body and soul together for myself and six children, all between the ages of four and nine, you see.”

The expression on the man’s face actually seemed to brighten when it became apparent the girl for sale was no older than nine. He disgusted her. It would have been a joy to see Ramsay beat him, and she hoped for it to happen later, but for now she needed information from this man. He said, “Have you any cash? It’ll cost you a pound to see him.”

She stifled an impatient sigh at his stupidity, and screwed her face into an expression of hopeless desperation. “Oh, if I had that much money I wouldn’t need to sell my dear, sweet daughter!”
Stupid, stupid man.
Had she the money—and a daughter—she certainly wouldn’t be offering either to a stranger. Not even for the sake of the information she really sought.

The speaker appeared ready to tell her he had nothing for her, but the one at his right elbow leaned over and murmured something to him. Whatever was said changed the speaker’s mind, and he said, “Very well. Come with me.”

Suzanne rose without a glance at Ramsay, but she could sense the tension in him grow as she followed the stranger out of the public room and onto the street. She didn’t dare look behind her to see if Ramsay was following, and only pulled her cloak around her as she walked.

The night cold crept in. The man took her through several streets, and soon they were no longer in the Haymarket area. After some turns, she thought they might not even be in Westminster anymore. They came to a street that seemed especially decayed. It rather looked like Whitefriars, but she knew they couldn’t possibly have walked that far. The houses here were old and close together, in a cluster and looking as if they depended on each other for support to remain erect. They appeared dark and asleep. Her guide descended some steps to a door, and knocked in a peculiar rhythm.

A few moments later came the sound of a bolt being removed, and the door was opened on large, well-oiled hinges that were surely better maintained than anything else about this house. Suzanne and her guide entered quickly, and the door was shut behind them as silently as it had opened.

Before them stood a man in a dress. There was no guessing regarding his sex, for it was not a skillful disguise. He had not the build to pass as a woman, no matter how feminine the attire. His shoulders were wide and muscular, and his beard, though shaved quite close, still showed a dark shadow. His wig was cheap, obviously a man’s wig awkwardly dressed to appear feminine. The result was a bizarre mess that stuck out in odd directions. When he spoke, he made no pretense at femininity and his voice was an undisguised baritone. “What do you want?”

Said Suzanne’s escort, “I’ve got a woman here says she’s got a girl to sell.”

“You brought her here?” Alarm tinged the voice of the man in the dress, and he gawked at Suzanne as if she were a poisonous snake.

The guide waved off the question with an insouciant hand. “She’s just a woman. Ain’t nothing to fear.”
Stupid, stupid man.
Suzanne remained silent and struggled not to show too much interest in her surroundings.

But it was difficult not to stare. This room was well lit with candelabras and sconces, which she noted had not been visible from the outside. A glance at the windows told her they had been painted over in black. Nobody outside this house would know of any activity inside, even to a single lit candle. But there was so much light here Suzanne could see into even the most remote corners. She saw a congested gathering of men and boys in various stages of womanly dress. Some wore nothing more effeminate than foppish men’s clothing, beauty patches, and painted faces, and so appeared no more like a woman than many at court these days. Others wore dresses and men’s wigs, or no wigs at all. A few were done up as fully and convincingly as had been Lord Paul nearly a week ago. One was dressed as a milkmaid, even to carrying around a bucket. Suzanne blanched when she saw sticky bits of fluid in it that were not quite milk, and the room stank of it. Another had on the costume of a nun, and Suzanne was certain she didn’t want to know what dramatic bit he was done up for. Some, she saw, were boys as young as ten or so. Everyone seemed lethargic, some lay about and were entirely unconscious, and a sickly sweet smoke drifted about the room and mixed with the odors of ale, wine, male seed, and other body humors.