The Twelfth Night Murder (19 page)

So when his son showed signs of becoming a sodomite, he had been forced to send the boy to the country and out of the way of the duke’s political life. Since Lord Paul was the younger son and his older brother would inherit the title, it was possible his true nature might then have remained secret from the peerage for the duration of his life. Unluckily for them all, the coachman had seen an opportunity to make money from the family’s misfortune. He abducted Paul at a moment when there was nobody to know he’d gone missing. Then, whatever had happened to him during that first week with Higgins, the boy had ended up in a dress, working as a whore servicing men who were not sodomites. The Goat and Boar was not known as a gathering place for that sort, and so she wondered what had brought Paul there. Had Higgins thought of expanding his territory? Would that have even been wise? She guessed not, since one of those clients had murdered the boy. Perhaps it was an experiment in commerce gone awry?

She considered who the murderer might have been, and how he would have discovered Lord Paul was not a girl. Many men at the Goat and Boar that night had been taken in by the ruse. She herself had been one of the few to see it, and it wasn’t until she’d mentioned it to Daniel that he’d known. It was reported by Big Willie that Young Dent had put his arm around Paul, but Dent had not ever shown any awareness that the girl in the blue dress had not been a girl. He hadn’t remembered the blue dress until he was asked about a girl.

Then she remembered Warren. According to Willie, Warren the flute player had also had his arm around Paul sometime during the evening. Now she wished she’d asked more detailed questions about what had happened there, and made a mental note to have a chat with Warren as soon as possible.

So now she saw her collection of facts contained a blank area between Willie’s and Higgins’s testimonies of Paul at the Goat and Boar, and the next morning when the body had been found floating in the river. She knew by the excessive stabbing and the severed appendage the murderer had been very angry. Out of control. It had taken an extremely powerful ire to do that to anyone, whether dead or alive, adult or child, boy or girl. The murder had not been casual, for money or for sport. The thing had certainly been done by someone offended, and the most likely reason for that offense was that Paul had sold himself as a girl. The severed willie told her that, like a big sign in dripping, red paint. In her gut Suzanne felt the dress alone would not have produced that sort of anger. It had to have been a customer—or potential customer—who had found out Paul’s secret too late. Someone who may have put a hand up that dress and found himself embarrassed.

Suddenly Warren began to take on the character of a suspect. Her heart clenched, for he and Willie were both friends of hers and it horrified her to think that he could have committed such a horrible deed.

She considered other people she should interview. She needed to know whether there was someone at the Goat and Boar that night who had been a customer to Lord Paul before, and she hoped to find one, lest her friends become the most likely possibility for the murderer.

A realization formed in her mind, and when it came clear it pushed aside everything else. Her assumption was that someone had murdered the boy for being embarrassed at being approached by a sodomite. That sort of man would take pride in what he’d done, to have ridden the world of such a creature. He would have considered it God’s work, and more than likely would not have thought the murder a crime. He would have been proud of his action and let his friends know what he’d done.

But so far nobody was claiming credit for the deed. Suzanne frowned as this tiny fact settled into the clump of information she was considering. Though the motive was assumed to be disgust for sodomites and moral outrage, there was no hint of rumor that anyone was bragging about it. It was a small thing, and might mean nothing at the end of the day, but it annoyed her.

The play was ending, and in her reverie she’d missed the final two acts in their entirety. She looked across at the stage gallery where the musicians sat, and saw Warren with his flute. Good. He was the very man she needed to talk to just then. She rose from her bench and made her way through the departing audience toward the ’tiring house.

She caught up to him in the green room, just before he would have left to spend the evening at the Goat and Boar. “Warren, may I have a chat with you for just a moment?”

Of course he nodded eagerly, for he depended on the money he had regularly from her, playing for performances. “At yer service, mistress.”

“This way, then.” He followed her through the ’tiring house and out to the first gallery, which was now empty of audience. She and Warren sat on the steps at stage right, in the open where they could talk without being overheard by anyone unseen. This wasn’t a conversation for those who might lurk around corners or listen through connecting windows and doors inside the theatre structure. She said, “Warren, you may be aware I’m investigating a murder.”

“Aye, mistress. It seems you’re always asking around about this, that, and the other.” Another man might have sounded critical of her behavior, but Warren spoke as if he thought it a very good thing that Suzanne was nosier than most.

“I’m told you were one of the last men to see the victim alive.”

A shadow fell over his fat, round face and he resembled a jack-o’-lantern, with wide eyes and a turned-down mouth. “Who told you that, if I may ask?”

“Our friend, Big Willie. He says you had an arm around the tart wearing a blue dress decorated with lace that night.”

“Which night?”

“Nearly a week ago. You and Willie were playing for tips at the Goat and Boar, yes? You’ll remember the public house was particularly crowded that night. One could hardly move.”

Warren nodded. “Right lively crowd it was, as well. Willie and me was cramped for space. I went home a good several pounds heavier than when I got there. Made me nervous to walk around with that much cash a-jingling in my purse.”

“You left before Willie did. For what reason?”

Warren shrugged. “No reason. I only felt like leaving. I’d made enough money for the evening, and wanted to go home.”

He had nobody to go home to, and so Suzanne doubted his story, especially in the light of what Willie had told her two nights ago. “I’m told you had occasion to have your arm around the victim before you left.”

“The boy in the blue dress.”

“You know he was a boy, then.”

“Everyone knows the body floating in the river was a boy in a blue dress. Everyone knows that’s the murder Pepper gave you to look into.”

Of course. All of Southwark knew by now. But she continued her questioning. “By his account, you were one of the last to see the boy alive.”

That alarmed him so he became quite agitated and his jowls quivered. “Oh no, there must have been plenty to have groped him after me. That boy went straight from me to someone else as soon as I learnt he weren’t no girl.”

“So you knew about that before he was killed.”

“Of course, I knew. I goosed him like I does all the tarts in that place, and when I found his pocket were filled with jewels, I rigged in my arm real quick-like and left him alone. Went back to playing my own flute, and never mind his.”

“What did you see after that?”

“Naught. I saw nothing at all. I swear it on my life.”

“Oh, come, Warren. I know you far better than that. In fact, there are few men who wouldn’t have watched him closely for the rest of the evening just for the amusement of seeing others make the same mistake you did. How many men did you see him with who did not feel under his dress? Particularly those who went outside with him?”

Warren blushed a deep red, giving him even more of a pumpkin look about him. “I swear, Suze.”

“Warren . . . I’m your friend. I need you to tell me.”

She let him think on that for a moment, then he sighed and said, “All right, then. There was a number of them. As a tart, that boy had a talent, he did.”

“And who was the last one you saw with that talented tart?”

“Dunno his name. Never seen him before.”

“What did he look like?”

Warren shrugged. “Dunno, maybe big. Big shoulders. He stood out a bit in that place, dressed all in old clothes but looking like they weren’t his. Rather like he’d stole ’em off a clothesline or such. Like they didn’t fit so well as they should.”

“What did he do that you saw? How did he act?”

“Well, when I saw him was when the little tart went up to him and offered himself. All batting his eyelashes and tapping certain spots with his fan then hiding behind it.”

“And what did the bigger man do?”

“Nothing that I saw. No reaction at all. Which I thought was a mite strange. Most of the men there liked being all made over by the pretty girl, but this here fellow, he was a block of stone, he was.”

Suzanne was excited by this development. “Did he seem angry? Did he look as if he were threatening the boy?”

Warren shook his head. “It was like he’d expected it. Like he knew all along the girl was a boy and needn’t have a feel of it.”

“And he didn’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t say that. They argued some. The tart put up a good face, still trying to seduce him. Then I suppose they came to terms, for then the big man took him by the arm and escorted him from the Goat and Boar.”

“They both left the public room?”

“Yes.”

“And did you see the boy after that?”

“No. I left myself, soon after.”

Suzanne gave him a stern, questioning look.

He held up his palms. “Honest. I left once the show was over. I could see when they left they wasn’t coming back.”

“How did you know that?”

Warren shrugged. “I dunno. I could just tell. This were a special customer, one who knew that tart. Besides, I was getting bored by it all. I stopped caring what sex he was, and watching everyone in the place get themselves serviced by a boy wasn’t so interesting anymore. ’Twere funny once or twice, but three times, four times, five times . . . it just was boring.”

“The man you saw; how did he move? Graceful? Clumsy?”

“The average, I’d say. He seemed muscular, and deft enough with his weight—graceful on his feet—but no more graceful than the average.”

That didn’t sound at all like Higgins, especially with the way this man was dressed. Higgins had been described as exceptionally graceful and fashionable. She guessed every stitch he owned would fit him perfectly. “And you’re certain you don’t know the name of the man who took the boy from the room?”

Warren shook his head. “Haven’t the foggiest idea.”

That was a severe disappointment. Suzanne slumped in momentary defeat.

“Is that all you wanted to know, Suze?”

She thought a moment, then nodded. There seemed nothing else he could give that would be useful. Then she remembered and laid a hand on his arm to keep him in his seat. “Warren, did you see Dent put his arm around the boy?”

Warren laughed. “Sure I did. I nearly busted out with screaming laughter, I did.”

“Did he seem to guess the truth?”

“No. Not Dent. After a moment he let go and then went on about his business.”

“I see. Then thank you, Warren. Do let me know if you hear anything about the boy or that customer of his.”

“Will do, Suze.” With that, Warren tucked his flute case under his arm and left the theatre.

Suzanne went to find Ramsay. She needed to talk to Higgins again.

I
t was still quite early in the evening when she and Ramsay arrived at the house in Haymarket. Suzanne repeated the special knock she’d heard on her first visit here, and the door was answered by the same fellow who had opened it the last time. But tonight he wore men’s clothing and his head was bare of wig. He hadn’t yet shaved, and so his face bore a dark shadow that covered enough of his throat to look like a creeping mold on a drain pipe. His eyes appeared somewhat the worse for wear from too much drinking, or whatever else he might have imbibed the night before. Or the weeks before. Red rimmed his lids, dark bags hung under them, and his skin was pale and waxy looking. When he saw both Suzanne and Ramsay at the door, his jaw dropped in surprise and dismay.

“What’re you doing here? And who’s he?” More than offended at the disrupted protocol, he appeared afraid of Ramsay. For his part, Ramsay said nothing and made no move, but remained still as stone, though watchful as a raptor.

Suzanne replied, “This is my good friend, Diarmid Ramsay, who is only an escort for a woman moving around town on her own. A personal guard, if you will.” In her experience, whenever she tended to business most people addressed whatever man might be nearby, so she felt it necessary to explain Ramsay’s function here. She hated being ignored, and today had neither time nor energy to tolerate it. “I’m here for another chat with Master Higgins.”

“He’s got nothing more to say to you about anything.”

“I think he’ll talk to me if he doesn’t wish to answer to the local magistrate. I’m certain I can talk my other good friend, the Earl of Throckmorton, who has no love at all for sodomites, into having a chat with his good friend . . . the king.” She was, perhaps, overstating Daniel’s influence, as well as Charles’s interest in the matter, but this man didn’t know that and probably never would. “I would encourage cooperation from Higgins in my investigation.”

The fellow fumed, apparently assembling something to say rude enough to make her go away, but he seemed to sense she would not be put off by mere words, and Ramsay would not react well to a verbal assault any better than to a physical one. So he stepped back and let the door swing open to admit them. “Enter,” he said. “Master Higgins is still upstairs.”

Suzanne and Ramsay stepped inside the house. The smells tonight were of stale wine and lingering smoke, dirty clothes, leftover food, and filthy bodies. There were fewer men in the room than the night before, and they were all asleep. Some on the floor, huddled in blankets and stinking clothing, some on sofas. One fellow had made a bed of the dining table, surrounded by plates of half-eaten food and glasses emptied of wine and spirits. Suzanne and Ramsay proceeded to the spiral stairwell and made their way up.

They found Higgins and his companion entwined on a large bed near a window that looked out over the street. Moonlight washed over them there. At the other end of the room the hearth flickered high with a newly laid fire, and several candelabras threw light. At their approach, Higgins raised his head sleepily and gave them a baleful gaze. The companion looked up, and grunted. Without speaking, he drew a bedsheet around himself, rose from the bed, and made his way out via the stairwell. Higgins watched him go, looking as if he wished he could follow, then rose and sat on the edge of the bed. Its deep, very expensive, down-filled mattress poufed around him. Suzanne found herself wondering how someone who plainly had a great deal of money would willingly live in filth like this. Had she made enough money for that sort of luxury during her days servicing men, she was certain she would have made a home far less dirty and smelly than this. Even Maddie’s brothel had not been this nasty.

He leaned his elbows on his knees and his head tilted as he gazed up at her. “What is it you want this time?” He sounded more impatient than angry, and Suzanne surmised she might get what she wanted if she gave the appearance his evening wouldn’t be terribly disrupted by it.

“I need more information about how Lord Paul Worthington came to be in the Goat and Boar the night he was killed.”

A great, impatient sigh escaped Higgins, and his head hung from his shoulders. “I’ve told you all I know.”

“I don’t think you have. I think you know where the coachman Thomas might be found.”

His back went up, hands on thighs, as offended as a slighted countess. His willie dangling over the edge of the bed between his legs detracted somewhat from such dignity, but he showed not the least embarrassment for it. “I do not. As I said last night, I have not the slightest idea where he’s gone since he left the duke’s employ.”

“Why do you lie to me? For what reason do you hide him from me?”

“I say again, I’m not hiding him.”

“He comes here regularly; I’m certain of it. Surely he’s a trusted member of your tight little circle of like-minded men. When he parted ways with the duke, surely he must have come to you for sanctuary. Or at least a hug. He couldn’t have wandered entirely into the ether; he had to find somewhere on this earth to go.”

“He is quite self-sufficient, I assure you. He’s a man who can stand on his own two feet, and he doesn’t need me to kiss him and make it all better. When the duke chased him off with his sword, Thomas ran the faster and escaped with his skin intact.”

“How do you know the duke threatened him with a sword?”

Higgins sighed. “I don’t. I just imagine he must have used one to chase Thomas away. Where Thomas went from there is anyone’s guess, and I wouldn’t hazard one myself. He isn’t the sort to cry on a shoulder or expect others to carry him. As I’ve said, I have no idea where he is at the moment.” Higgins gazed blandly at her, and looked her straight in the eye without wavering.

If Suzanne had harbored any doubt Higgins was lying, it was allayed at that moment. That straight-on, unwavering gaze was the favorite technique of every inveterate liar she had ever known. And there had been many. That look was invariably calculated to impress her with pure heart and righteous honesty, but she knew better. The longer and steadier the gaze, the more fear of discovery of the lie and the less honest the heart. More than ever before, Suzanne now knew for a dead certainty that Higgins not only knew where she could find Thomas, but he could give her an exact address from memory.

“Tell me where to find him.”

“I’m telling you—”

“You’re lying to me. Stop lying. If it will help you to trust me, let me explain that I don’t think he killed Lord Paul.”

“Of course he didn’t kill Paul. I trust even you to know that. But I do not trust you to not have him in the watch house on a charge of sodomy—”

“Or abduction.”

Higgins nodded vigorously and held out his hand in agreement. “Yes. Or abduction. You see my point, then. Thomas is a criminal, was justly fired from his post, and surely would rather not have a visit from anyone asking about a boy who was murdered.”

“You said you cared about Lord Paul. You told me you cared about him and you miss him.”

Higgins nodded, with a frown and a sideways glance as if he knew he was going to hear something he would rather not.

“But it seems to me you don’t have so very much regard for his memory. You claim Paul was happier here than with his family. If you loved him so well, then why aren’t you outraged that this has happened to him? Why are you not straining at the bit to find his killer? How come you aren’t telling me all you know that might lead me to him?”

“How would it help you to find Thomas? What could he possibly tell you that would help?”

“I won’t know that until I talk to him. I can’t know what bits are missing from the story. I can only ask questions of everyone until I find enough answers to make it whole. I need you to point me to the whereabouts of that man, who we know has spoken to Paul at length, and who convinced him to come here.”

“’Tisn’t as if it were a Herculean task, convincing him. He came willingly.”

Suzanne doubted it, but held her tongue for the moment. “Be that as it may, if Thomas has information, I should hear it. If he doesn’t, then he goes on his way and no harm done.”

“You would release a known sodomite and abductor without arresting him or reporting him to the authorities?”

“I came here without bringing the constable, didn’t I? I could have had constable, magistrate, and a bevy of armed guards here to arrest you at this very moment, did I hate you and wish to clear the city of sodomites. But I did not. And will not, for it’s not what I’m out for. I wish to find a killer, and anything less is simply not my concern.”

“You think I’m not a killer?” He leaned toward her, tilted his head, and stared hard with narrowed eye.

She responded in kind, and stepped toward him as if to stare him down. “Give me proof you are, and I’ll have you in chains in the blink of an eye. But until then I’ll settle for having the murderer of Lord Paul dangling from a gibbet. I’ve no time, nor energy, to spend on the likes of a former coachman who buggers men.”

“Thomas prefers to be buggered, truth be told.” He looked away and thought a moment. Suzanne let him. Finally he sighed, having come to a decision. “In any case, perhaps there’s some benefit to finding the killer. If Paul died because he was dressed as a girl, I would like to see one who hates us that much pay for his crime.”

“Excellent choice. Tell me where to find Thomas, and help me catch the killer.”

Higgins sighed again. “Very well.”

*   *   *

T
HOMAS
, it turned out, had recently taken rooms not far from the Haymarket, in a redbrick tenement. The building was not terribly old, and the quarters he occupied were on the first floor up from the ground floor. The building was plain but sturdy. There didn’t seem to be a draft in the stairwell, and the neighbors coming and going appeared at least somewhat polite and neighborly. Rather similar to the neighbors Suzanne had once had in Horse Shoe Alley during the interregnum, who were pleasant enough to her and rarely got into fights with each other. With Ramsay at her back, Suzanne knocked on the door.

Some grumbling came from within, she heard heavy boot steps, and the door opened a crack. “What yer want?”

“I’m looking for a coachman named Thomas. Would that be you?” She spoke in her best imitation of the upper classes, based on her quantity of conversation with Daniel since his return, as well as the many dozens of men in Parliament who had hired her services over the years. Her ploy was that she would hint to Thomas that she might like to hire him.

“Yes, mistress.” He drew open the door and stepped back. “What might I do for you?” He seemed puzzled, and rightly, that a gentlewoman would do this sort of errand herself.

But she ignored that puzzlement, and smiled broadly and graciously, ever so pleased to find him at home. “May we come in?” The better to not have the door slam in her face when she revealed her true interest in him. He looked beyond her to Ramsay, and she added, “Ramsay here is my escort. His only function is to protect me from bodily harm while walking through the streets. He speaks to no one, ever. Rarely, even, to me.” She crinkled her eyes to indicate she was a good-humored woman making a harmless jest. Thomas obliged her with a chuckle. Then he stepped back again and indicated they should enter his quarters.

He was an ordinary man, and Suzanne found herself eyeing him to see whether his sexual quirks were evident. She found nothing to indicate he was different from any other man, not a smudge of face paint nor a whiff of perfume. His dress was plain, but clean and well mended. He’d taken care with his grooming, and it was apparent he visited the baths occasionally. He wore no jacket at the moment, but that could be forgiven since he was at home and had not been expecting visitors. Even now he went to the next room and returned donning a plain, wool jacket. As he tugged his conservatively ruffled shirt sleeves through to be visible, he said, “How may I be of service to you . . . my lady?” He addressed her without any idea of who she was, and so hesitated.

“Mistress Suzanne Thornton, good man. I am here to ask some questions, at the request of those investigating the murder of Lord Paul Worthington.”

The coachman paled and glanced at the door to gauge his chances at escape, then returned his attention to her and raised his chin. “What about it? I had nothing to do with that.”

“I beg to differ.” She glanced over at Ramsay, who stood guard at the closed door. The coachman would be staying put.

The room, of course, was not terribly large, but it was a comfortable size. At the opposite end it boasted a single window with glazed panes and wooden shutters. One door to the right appeared to lead to a small kitchen-like area, and to the left seemed to be the inner sanctum where he slept. This room contained little more than an upholstered chair and a sofa near a modest hearth, a bookshelf containing nothing more than a half dozen or so small books, and a medium-sized trunk. She thought about settling on the sofa in order to entrench herself, but thought that with Ramsay at the door such a move might make Thomas more apprehensive than necessary. So she stood between Thomas and Ramsay, and spoke standing. “I know you worked for Jacob Worthington, and that you abducted his son, Lord Paul Worthington, about three months ago.”