The Twelfth Night Murder (21 page)

“Warren will help us.” He must. He was all they had left.

*   *   *

T
HEY
found Warren at the Goat and Boar. He sat at a table with Big Willie, the two of them filling the time before they would be required to play for that afternoon’s performance. The fire in the hearth nearby burned merrily, warming them well before they would spend three or four hours in the stage left gallery where there would be no hearth or brazier. Suzanne and Ramsay sat with them. Suzanne went immediately to the point with Warren. “I need your help.”

“Sure, Suze. What d’you need?” He took a long draught, and smiled at her. Warren was an agreeable sort, for the most part.

“You saw something in here the night that boy was killed.”

“Oh, I caught an eyeful, I did. That boy was a handful. I told you that.”

“I think you saw the murderer, and I know who it is.”

Warren’s face went slack with surprise. “Do tell!” He and Willie sat up straight and gawked at her.

“I think that man you saw leave with Lord Paul was the killer, and I need you to identify him for me. If you can tell me this man we suspect is the same man you saw that night, then we’ll have our killer.”

“God blind me! And who is he?”

Suzanne knew it would be foolhardy to tell him who the killer was, lest he back out on the spot, so she said, “I think it would be best to let you see him first, rather than tell you who he is, so it won’t prejudice your identification. I wouldn’t want you to think he was the man you saw only because I told you he was.”

Warren nodded. “Right.” He probably didn’t understand what she’d just told him, but so long as he didn’t persist in asking who the killer was, she let him pretend he knew why she wouldn’t tell him.

“So, you’ll come with me now, and have a look at him?”

He glanced over at Willie, and told her, “I can’t just now. You know I can’t. Willie and me, we’ve got to play this afternoon.”

Willie gestured with his nearly empty cup and said, “Nah, Warren, we can get by without you for today. Go on and help her.”

“But I need the money. I can’t get paid if I don’t play.”

“I’ll pay you,” said Suzanne. “You won’t miss your pay today for coming with me.”

Warren looked from Suzanne to Willie, then said to Suzanne, “Very well, then. Let’s go have a look at this killer of yours.” He sounded morbidly eager to gawk at a murderer as he rose from the table and reached for his coat hanging on the back of his chair.

As he donned it and Suzanne and Ramsay rose from the table, Ramsay whispered into Suzanne’s ear, “You haven’t told him he’ll need to testify against a duke in open court.”

“First things first,” she whispered in return. “He’ll know when he needs to.”

“When you need him to.”

“Same thing.”

*   *   *

T
HE
carriage they’d hired that morning yet lurked on Bank Side for a fare, and so Suzanne flagged it down once more to take them to Westminster. But she ordered the driver to stop and let them out on King Street, nearly half a mile from the duke’s house. Ramsay stayed with the carriage, and Suzanne and Warren took a stroll down Orchard Street in an attempt to glimpse the duke without having to knock on his door.

They walked as if a married couple on their way somewhere, with a purpose and destination beyond the duke’s house. The cold weather had cleared the streets of pedestrians, and that made them more conspicuous than Suzanne liked in their approach. Every house in the street seemed quiet, crouched on the land and huddled among hedgerows and old trees. Gardens were bare of leaves, and brown lawns sported patches of ice. Suzanne’s shoes slipped and slid on the icy road, and she raised the collar of her cloak against the cold air. Warren was so cold his teeth chattered and he stuffed his hands with fingerless gloves beneath his arms. As they walked past the duke’s house on the opposite side of the street, they saw no stirring at the windows. Once past it, they paused to consider what to do next.

“Who is this fellow you want me to see?” Warren stared at the magnificent house across the street, and his voice betrayed apprehension.

“You’ll see.” There was some truth to what she’d said about not wanting Warren to be prejudiced in his identification. It wouldn’t do for her to tell him who he was to identify. Now, gazing across the street, she could see activity near the coach house at the back. She took Warren’s arm and moved toward a tall hedgerow that ran between the duke’s house and the one next to it. They slipped between the bushes, barely hidden by leafless branches. From that vantage they could see a driver readying the carriage, fussing with the tack here and there. Then he climbed up and urged the team of two horses forward to the front of the house. There it halted and the driver waited.

Warren whispered, “That ain’t him.” He pointed with his chin to the driver. “He ain’t even close to the feller I saw at the Goat.”

“I know.” Suzanne didn’t take her eyes from the carriage.

He peered at her, more curious than ever. They continued to wait.

Within a minute or two the front door opened, and out stepped the duchess, followed by the duke. Warren had a sudden intake of breath. Not quite a gasp, for it was cold and he was shivering, and besides, he wasn’t given to emotional demonstration. But it was enough to tell Suzanne she’d been right about the man Warren had seen that night the week before.

The duke glanced in their direction. Suzanne and Warren stood still as rocks and hoped the dense branches of the hedgerow would hide them enough. Then the duke went on his way and climbed into the carriage. The driver slapped reins against the horses’ backs and moved off down the driveway to the street.

“That’s him, then? That’s the man you saw that night?”

“Who is he?”

“He’s the boy’s father.”

Warren looked at her, as if searching her face for humor. When he found none, he whispered, “Good God.” They watched the carriage roll away.

“He’s the Duke of Cawthorne.”

“Well, I can see he’s someone of importance.”

“You’ll tell the crown you saw him that night, then?”

Warren nodded. “That sort shouldn’t be allowed to live.”

N
ow Suzanne had to determine how to go about accusing the duke. Plainly Constable Pepper would be no help in this. She needed to talk to Daniel. He would have to make the accusation to the magistrate for her, in order for it to be taken seriously. She was so determined to bring Cawthorne to justice, she assumed it would be a matter of course that Daniel would do exactly as she asked. Surely he would want a murdering peer to be brought to justice. But once again she found she was wrong about Daniel.

“I wish I could accommodate you, Suzanne, really, I do.” They were seated by the fire in the front room of his quarters at Whitehall. The room was tucked into the ground floor of one of the older Tudor-era buildings, and wasn’t particularly cozy, so they sat very close to the flame for warmth. Suzanne’s feet were quite cold, but she resisted the urge to remove her shoes and rub some circulation into them.

Daniel’s demeanor was somewhat grumpy today. She’d ignored his wish that she refrain from visiting him at the palace, lest his wife get wind of it, and had easily slipped past the guard at the front entrance on King Street. These days she was presentable enough to be let inside the palace without much fuss. The palace guards didn’t know her face, but they knew her type and let her through the front without question. It would be far more difficult to approach the king himself, and she’d never tried it. That would bring her up against a vigilant personal guard who would never let her through. Approaching Daniel, however, was little more than a matter of locating his quarters in the maze of old buildings and knocking at the door.

Now she dug her fingernails into the arms of her chair and struggled to keep her voice even. “You can accommodate me, I’m sure of it. And you must. It would be a travesty for Cawthorne to be free any longer than it would take for a warrant to be written out for his arrest.”

“Your proof is terribly slender.”

“Warren saw him at the Goat and Boar that night. The duke was the last man seen with Lord Paul. Furthermore, he was incognito, wearing a disguise. Plainly he was up to no good.”

“You think he went there with the intention of killing his son? And you think it on the basis of his odd costume?”

Hearing it put that way made the theory sound as unlikely as Daniel’s tone suggested. She told herself not to let him undermine her confidence. She must keep faith in herself.

“I believe he went there to find him, and plainly he didn’t wish to be recognized by others in the tavern. Whether his original intention was murder or not might be debatable. The fact remains, however, that the boy was murdered and Cawthorne was the last to be seen with him. Even more to the point, he lied to us the day we first went to speak to him. He told me he thought his son was in Kent, when he knew very well the boy had never arrived there. We also know that he had been told his son was in Southwark.”

“Very well, let’s say he did do this thing to Lord Paul. There are those who would maintain that the killing was justified. Cawthorne would be seen as a man defending the reputation of himself and his entire family. Had rumors started that Paul was a sodomite, it would have ruined not only Cawthorne, but his heir as well. Paul’s brother.”

“Murder is murder. Lord Paul was a child, and deserved protection from his father, not death.”

Daniel drew himself up in anger. “Lord Paul was wearing a dress, for the love of God!” As his voice rose Suzanne could see the embarrassment of that night redden his cheeks. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs away from her, and he glowered at her as if she’d suggested he put his arm around Lord Paul again.

“Murder is murder!”
She was aghast she had to argue this at all.

“I think you should let it lie. There’s nothing to be gained by making an accusation, never mind that the duke could destroy you. I am surprised you’re even bringing it up to me.”

“Of course I’m pursuing this. I can hardly stand by and do nothing. The boy’s mother came to me and begged me to find her son’s killer. She’s heartbroken, and wants justice. I want it for her.”

“But consider, Suzanne, how much more heartbroken would she be, were she to learn her husband was the guilty one? How much pain would you cause her then?”

Suzanne wanted very much to reply to that, but only made a guttural noise in the back of her throat then shut her mouth tight. He had a point, and it was a valid one even to her. The duchess’s wish for justice could no longer hold if her husband were revealed as the criminal. She couldn’t possibly benefit from the duke being hanged. Or even imprisoned. The entire family would be destroyed. In fact, the duchess would not be served even by knowing the truth herself. For a moment she half believed justice might be better served if the entire matter were set aside. Let God sort it out, for it was too knotty a problem for mortals to decide.

But, no. When she thought again, she still couldn’t ignore that a murder had been done and she knew who had done it. “I can’t, Daniel. I simply can’t sit by and allow him to get away with it.”

“Consider that even if you could convince the magistrate to charge him, he might yet be acquitted. And then where would you be?”

“Newgate, more than likely.”

“Exactly. He would have you arrested for something fictional inside of a day.” His voice lowered and softened, and he went so far as to rest a hand on her knee. “Let it drop, Suzanne. Don’t pursue this, or it will be your downfall.”

She gave a wry smile. “If it were, it would be no more of a downfall than I’ve already had.”

“But think of those you would bring down with you.”

“You?”

“I was thinking of Piers. I know you care about him, far more than you ever did care for me.”

Suzanne opened her mouth to reply, but two things wanting to be said stuck in her throat so neither would come as words. First, that it was her feelings as a mother that made her so horrified by the death of a child. The other was that she cared as much for Daniel as she did Piers. She always had, and even now she couldn’t imagine not being entirely wrapped up in him just as she was in Piers. In the end it was the overwhelming strength of both those feelings, so much a part of her soul, that kept her from saying anything at all. Instead she looked around for her cloak, then rose as she said, “If you won’t help, I must go now.”

Daniel seemed disappointed she wouldn’t reply to his comment about himself. Plainly he’d put it out as bait, and that made her glad she hadn’t swallowed it and declared her love for him like the foolish girl she’d once been. He was married, and her feelings for him then and now were irrelevant to everything save his own pride. It had always been so. She owed him a debt of gratitude for setting her up in business with the Globe, but not at the expense of her own pride. Not anymore. He rose, to see her to the door though it was only a few feet away. “I really do wish I could accommodate you.”

“I might believe you, were you to promise me something. One small thing to show me your sincerity. If I find anything more to help my case, will you reconsider?”

Daniel thought about that for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I suppose I can. If you can present evidence for a solid case that proves without doubt he is guilty, then I’ll consider pressing the Southwark magistrate for an arrest.”

“Well, that’s something, then.”

“But remember two things: that your evidence must be irrefutable and that it must not be obtained by harassing or annoying his grace in any way.”

Suzanne realized how difficult that would be, but also knew that anything less would raise questions about any evidence obtained and leave them all vulnerable to retaliation by the duke. So she nodded, then bade him good-bye.

In the courtyard outside Daniel’s quarters she stood a moment in the icy weather, huddled in her cloak and muff, organizing her thoughts. What to do next? She was at a loss.

A page ran up to her and, bouncing on his toes before her, said, “Mistress Thornton? Suzanne Thornton?” He was a very young boy, and his breathless energy made her feel very old indeed.

“Yes?” She peered at him, wondering how the boy knew her name and trying to remember whether she’d seen him before. He wore black livery, which announced him as a servant of one of the many Puritans in Parliament. Personally, she knew no pages belonging to Puritans.

He said, still dancing in the cold though he was bundled into a heavy wool coat, “I’m instructed to escort you to the office of his grace the Duke of Cawthorne. Immediately, if you please, missus.”

“I’m ordered to go?”

“The duke wishes it.” The boy was certain that was enough to make it an order and she would obey. And he was right. To disregard the request would bring repercussions, for herself and the page as well. It wasn’t his fault she feared and loathed the duke, so she had no choice but to go.

“Very well. Lead on.”

The duke’s quarters were in an area of the palace newer than the building where Daniel stayed while at court, and were more spacious. But they weren’t more richly decorated, for Puritan Cawthorne could not display his wealth in that way, even had he wanted to. As a peer he needed to show he had wealth, and therefore power, but as a Puritan he was required to show it more subtly than the more libertine members of Parliament. So his clothing and furnishings were of plain design and subtle color, but were nevertheless of the highest quality materials and workmanship.

The front room where Suzanne awaited his grace, deserted by the page who had hurried to another room, was modestly furnished with a table and some chairs that were highly polished and marvelously burled wood. Though the fire was well fed and threw a great deal of warmth and light, the hearth was unembellished and made of flawless marble. There were no paintings nor tapestries on the walls, and no curtains at the windows. Only plain, brown shutters controlled the light and heat in the room. However, beneath her feet was a carpet of brown wool thick enough to make her totter on her heels. At the moment the shutters were closed, for the day was quite cold and a heavy overcast made it nearly dark as night outside. The carpet quite defeated the cold stone floor.

This time the wait for the duke to see her was short. He entered the room wearing a smile, and a plain black suit of clothes relieved only by a simple silver collar draped over his shoulders, and white shirtsleeves that gathered at the wrist. No rings on his fingers, and no other adornment. But every stitch was of silk and fine linen, and so perfectly tailored as to seem he’d been born in them.

Knowing what she now did about him, the cold, flinty light in his eyes now struck her as devilish. Evil in the most profound way. On first meeting him she’d wondered whether he owned a soul, and now she was certain he did not. Though overtly religious—and he literally wore his religion on his sleeve—she knew in her heart he’d never known God in any meaningful way. It curdled her blood to stand in this room with him, breathing the same air. It made her feel poisoned.

She thought back to her first meeting with him, and wondered why she hadn’t known on sight that he’d killed his son. There was nothing subtle about him; the way he addressed the world was as black and white as his wardrobe. How had she not seen immediately that he was a killer?

“Mistress Thornton.”

“Your grace.” She curtsied for the sake of form, and begrudged it.

He sat in a nearby chair, and gestured to one on the other side of the small table nearest the hearth. “Do have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” A welcoming smile curled the corners of his mouth, but it never reached those eyes. He narrowed them at her, as if trying to see inside of her. As she sat she found herself avoiding his gaze, lest the abyss look back were she to stare too long. She perched on the edge of the chair, unable to make herself comfortable.

“Mistress Thornton, I think you and I may have wandered into a misunderstanding.”

“Have we?” She tried to keep the sarcastic edge from her voice, difficult though it was. Ramsay, she now realized, had been right about the inadvisability of unnecessarily antagonizing the duke. Even talking to him at this point was probably a bad idea. She would want to excuse herself from this chat at the earliest opportunity.

“When you brought us the news of my son’s death, I’m afraid the duchess and I both reacted badly.”

“Perfectly understandable. I know how I would feel, were I to have heard the same news about my son.” She blinked as that horrifying image tried to rise, and fought it down. Her greatest fear on this earth was that she might outlive Piers.

Then she realized why she hadn’t seen the truth in this man when he’d lied to her about not knowing his son was not in Kent. She’d never asked herself the right question. The idea that a man could murder his own son was so unthinkable to her, and the lies he told were so many and so obvious, she’d never thought he could be successful in hiding something so very heinous. Now she looked at him—the fire of evil in his eyes—and thought herself stupid for not seeing his crime written on his face.

He was saying, “The next day I ordered Constable Pepper to remove you from his investigation. I told him I didn’t wish to have you stirring up an enormous fuss over something so upsetting to the duchess. I’m afraid I was inconsiderate in ignoring the compensation you would lose—have lost—by being dropped from the constable’s employ.”