The Twelfth Night Murder (5 page)

The relief at that news surprised Suzanne. It seemed she was becoming too involved in this and taking it too personally. She shook herself out a bit and took another deep breath. “He wasn’t drowned.”

“Plainly. I don’t even need to look inside his chest to know that.”

She noted, “He had no linens beneath the dress.”

White shrugged. “Not terribly rare. A goodly number of corpses come to me half clad. Sometimes the drawers are stolen by the discoverer of the body, sometimes by the murderer, sometimes they were never there to begin with. Particularly women come without them, for when they’re murdered they’re nearly always violated first. Or later, and not necessarily by the killer.”

Suzanne blanched, but pressed on. “And you can tell the difference between violation before or after?” She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard often enough about men poking holes in pumpkins and melons; she knew a dead body was not safe around many a man who thought nobody would find out.

“Usually. Hard to say, but there’s a different sort of damage as happens when a body is still alive and can . . . well, bleed.”

Suzanne nodded. A hollowness in her belly and a lightness in her head made her wish for someplace to sit, but there was none. She continued in spite of it. “Can you tell whether this boy was violated in that way?”

Both White and Pepper stared blankly and blinked at her for a moment. Pepper said, “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“The boy was selling himself. He may very well have been raped by the man who killed him. Someone who simply didn’t wish to pay him for his services.”

“If he was selling himself as you say, then rape would be impossible. A tart cannot be raped, and that applies to a male harlot. Especially it should apply to a male selling himself as a girl.”

Suzanne couldn’t miss the unmistakable implication that wanting to be female was a disgusting thing. Rage warmed her cheeks, and she struggled to hold her temper. “Can we look regardless?”

“You wish to violate him again?”

“I wish to learn the truth. Whatever we find may turn out to be significant within the context of whatever else we may find. I must know everything knowable. If you please, turn him over and have a look.”

“I’ve been the coroner here in Southwark for a very long time—”

“Please look.”

White emitted a snort of impatience, then proceeded with the examination. It took little effort to turn the small corpse on its front, which raised the boy’s behind off the table in its slightly bent and stiff configuration. He pressed aside the buttocks to peer between them, which took some effort with the muscles so stiff. He grunted at what he saw.

“I see nothing. No suggestion of any recent activity here.”

“How recent do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know. This isn’t the sort of examination that is the usual for me. However, I see no residue, and no bleeding. I suppose he may have been used that way in the past, but I feel certain not last night.”

Suzanne knew it was entirely possible—perhaps even likely—the boy had only ever used his mouth to service clients, and that told her something about why he had not been open to Daniel about his true sex. “Thank you, Marcus. Now we know something about the killer we wouldn’t have known had you not looked.”

“What do we know now?”

“Why, that the killer was not necessarily a sodomite, of course.”

*   *   *

B
Y
the time Suzanne returned to the theatre, she’d missed all of the rehearsal of
Julius Caesar
. In the dressing room as she painted herself for her role as Olivia in
Twelfth Night
, the sense of pressure and lack of preparation to go onstage made her think hard about what she was attempting in helping Constable Pepper, and whether she could accomplish it. It annoyed her that he expected her to do his work for him, and the more she thought about it, the more annoyed she became. She was afraid that if he kept this up she wouldn’t be able to continue performing, in order to make Pepper happy and keep him from harassing the Players.

The performance that night confirmed her fear. All through it she found herself distracted, not concentrating on her lines and her character. Her very mouth didn’t seem to want to form even the simplest words, and she fumbled so many of her lines she could hear tension in Liza’s voice as the young girl struggled to cope. Liza herself had a perfect memory and never had to put forth any effort to remember lines, and thought everyone should be able to do it. She was unable to understand those who weren’t similarly talented. Every aspect of her character was printed indelibly on her mind, and her every performance was utterly smooth and flawless. But she had a temper, and as they all came offstage at the end of that night’s performance, it was plain Liza would have had many sharp things to say if Suzanne had not been, in effect, the owner of the troupe and her de facto employer. Liza quickly cleaned her face and left the building with her mouth a hard line. Suzanne watched her go, and fell into deep thought about what she must do.

That evening at the Goat and Boar the crowd was a bit less than it had been the night before. Tonight the only patrons were the one table surrounded by Globe actors, and so they had the entire public room to themselves. Even the tarts had taken the night off and none were in evidence. Suzanne ate a supper of mutton and Irish bread that was not nearly as good as what Sheila would have served at home, but the company here was far more mixed and lively than it could have been in her private apartments. Here in such a public place she enjoyed the presence of Daniel, Ramsay, and her son at once, something that rarely happened in the basement of the Globe, and when it did the room always became entirely too small for comfort.

Suzanne sat back while chewing on a chunk of meat and sipping on a clean glass of Young Dent’s most expensive French wine. It happened that today’s costliest wine was worth the price. She said, “I must tell Horatio tomorrow we’ll need to recast all my roles for at least three weeks. Particularly Olivia and Calpurnia. I’m going to be quite preoccupied with this favor I’m doing for Constable Pepper.”

“What favor?” asked Ramsay.

“I’ve been requested to solve the murder of that boy tart who was in here last night.”

Ramsay sat up, surprised. “That boy was murdered?”

Piers said, “What boy?”

Ramsay replied, “There was a wee lad in here last night, looking to sell himself. He thought the earl might have a taste for his wares and would trade some silver for them.”

Daniel’s expression was sour. “He looked enough like a
wee
girl I might very well have. I still have my doubts he was a boy.”

“He was. I saw his willie,” said Suzanne.

“You looked?”

“I could hardly miss it. It was severed and stuffed in his own mouth.”

A moment of dark, shocked silence fell over the table. Then Ramsay said, “He was exceeding-comely.”

Everyone nodded, but nobody spoke further on it.

Suzanne retreated to the issue she’d raised originally. “I won’t be able to solve this case for the constable and continue in the plays. Even were I able to spend the time, there is that my mind simply cannot compass both tasks at once.”

Daniel said, “Be kind to yourself. Perhaps it would be best to not take on too much.”

Ramsay said, “Och, you’re bright enough to do both. Don’t let anyone suggest you’re not capable.” He tossed a frown in Daniel’s direction, and was ignored.

Suzanne shrugged. “It’s not a question of intelligence. It’s that I find myself thinking of one when I should be thinking of the other.”

Daniel sipped his whisky, then said, “I can’t imagine why you feel obligated to that lazy lump of lard and need to solve his cases for him.” His look was still sour, and his voice took on an edge of true disgust at the constable.

Piers’s eyes narrowed and he supported the sentiment. “I agree. If you leave off one task, it should be the investigation. Let the honorable Constable Pepper do his own bloody work.”

“I daresay he’s not up to the task himself. If I don’t do it, nobody will. Or even can.”

“How is it your responsibility to solve the murder of a boy nobody even knows?” Daniel’s attitude toward the child who had deceived him seemed a little harsh, and that made Suzanne all the more eager to take on the investigation.

Ramsay remarked, “Surely somebody knew him.”

Suzanne said in response to Daniel, “’Tisn’t a responsibility. But Pepper has made it clear he would treat all the members of our troupe with utmost respect, should our paths cross for any reason in future.”

“He should do that in any case, given my own interest in the Globe, and the king’s interest in theatre in general.” Daniel had provided the cash needed to buy and restore the neglected building last year. “Pepper should treat you all as if I were standing at your backs.”

“Truly, Daniel, we shouldn’t overestimate the new status of our actors, even though the king enjoys the plays and the company of the most beautiful of the actresses. Most people don’t hold us in high regard. Besides, you know in any situation there are gray areas. There are so many ways to dissemble or deliberately misunderstand. He could do quite a lot of evil, had he a mind to, and by the time you had something to say about it the damage would be done. Better to do this thing and avoid trouble at the outset. Besides, I want to do it. I feel rather sorry for the poor boy; he was such a pretty child, and so full of life. Now all that’s gone, and a beautiful soul has been taken from the earth.”

“You don’t know anything about his soul.”

“He made me smile. Even for those few moments he stood by this table, he brightened the room.” She graced Daniel with such a sunny smile it warmed herself, and added, “So I believe we will recast my roles so I can focus my energies on finding his killer.”

*   *   *

A
LTHOUGH
more and more women were taking roles onstage these days, and some women had been doing so incognito for years, it was still technically illegal for women to act on the stage. The law yet insisted that women not be allowed to perform in public, and an experienced actress was hard to find, so Horatio hired a man to fill Suzanne’s shoes for the time being. Daniel insisted the king would soon decree women should be allowed onstage, but Charles hadn’t yet done so and Suzanne preferred to be circumspect about the two women in the troupe who pretended to be men playing women. It often struck Suzanne that in
Twelfth Night
Liza essentially was a woman pretending to be a man playing a woman pretending to be a man. It made her dizzy enough to laugh.

In any case, though actresses had a natural advantage in portraying women, truly skilled ones were rare for lack of experience. There weren’t enough women on the stage in London to fill all the female roles in all the playhouses, and so there were still men who played women. Besides, The New Globe Players needed someone who could step into some roles without rehearsal to speak of.

The one hired the next day to replace Suzanne was a veteran actor who never played men, and who had worked for The New Globe Players before, most notably as the nurse in
Romeo and Juliet
last fall. Even offstage, dressed as a man, he had an unmistakably effeminate air about him. Suzanne wouldn’t have called him actually “feminine,” for there was far too much about him that, had he been a woman, would have marked him as “too masculine.” His jaw was square and his lips not particularly generous, but the way he stood and moved, the lightness of his voice, his mannerisms and gestures were all an exaggerated parody of the feminine. A little too much of what was meant, and that worked for the stage but not terribly well for society.

His name was Walter, but he went by Little Wally and insisted everyone call him that, or simply “Wal.” Everyone in the troupe thought it great fun they now had Big Willie and Little Wally, and to further the irony, Little Wally was the larger. Not by much, but he was an inch or two taller than the tiny, wiry musician.

Watching Wally paint his face for his role as Olivia before the performance of
Twelfth Night
that very night, Suzanne saw he was prim and precise as a French princess, outlining his eyes and making the most of his lips with long practice and an eye for emphasizing his best features and minimizing his lesser ones. He mitigated the squareness of his jaw by using less of the white powder at the sides of his face and rubbing an ever so subtle dab of white paint at the tips of his nose and chin. The effect narrowed his face just slightly, and distracted the eye from the masculine corners of his face. A tiny bit of rouge above his eyes and some overpainting of his too-thin mouth also helped draw attention from the jaw.

He noticed her watching and gave her a demure smile, then returned to his task. She’d seen men like this before, of course, but they were rare and those who weren’t actors never flaunted it. Nobody wanted to be arrested for sodomy, and so most who were naturally effeminate did their best to hide their true natures, whether or not they were actually sods. Wally didn’t seem to care what the world thought of him, and so always presented himself as effeminately as he pleased. Suzanne had no idea whether Wally preferred women or men, and knew better than to ask even did she care.

T
he hiring of Wally left Suzanne free to set forth on her search of the truth about the unknown boy in the dress. First she went to talk to Young Dent at the Goat and Boar about the night they’d seen the boy there. Unfortunately the proprietor had no memory of any boy in a fine blue dress. He’d been so busy serving his clientele he couldn’t remember any of their faces. Neither did he remember ever seeing anyone fitting the description of the boy before that night. He was most apologetic, but simply couldn’t remember him.

Next Suzanne made a visit to the astrologer who had warned her away from the river the night of the murder.

The woman had a shop across the river, very near the Royal Exchange. The Exchange was one of Suzanne’s favorite places, filled with shops and places to eat and drink, and swarming with people who interested and amused her. The rooms maintained by Mistress La Tournelle were tucked in the corner of a building on the other side of Thread Needle Street, with an entrance below street level that was hard to find.

The structure was of stone, and to get to the shop one descended half a flight of stairs and followed a short corridor beneath an arch, then around a corner between this building and the next, which was more like a tunnel with the upper floors overhanging. There a door of heavy oak was set into the stone wall, and painted on it in crimson and black was a circle surrounded by astrological sigils. The signs were quite intricately drawn, with significant skill and great detail, somewhat resembling the Celtic knots of the north, but with the grace of a centuries-old illuminated manuscript. They seemed to dance around the circle, entrancing the eye and keeping her for the moment from knocking.

She returned to herself and knocked, and a distant voice from well within bade her enter. She lifted the iron door latch and went inside.

The shop was close and very warm, well lit by a swarm of candles set in assorted sticks and dishes, as well as a good-sized brazier that stood on a large, wooden table. Behind the table piled with glass jars, wooden boxes, and books stacked on one another with pages open or marked with pieces of ribbon or paper stood Mistress La Tournelle. The scarf on her head was no longer present, which left her hair a wild mane of wiry gray, but otherwise she was dressed in the same outfit she’d worn three days before. She greeted Suzanne with a sincere smile and set aside the book she had in her hands.

“Greetings, Mistress Thornton! So good to see you! Come!” She gestured to a chair near the end of the table where the brazier stood. “Come, sit. Let me bring you something to drink. Some wine? Chocolate, perhaps?”

Suzanne adored chocolate drink. It was an expensive habit, but one she didn’t care to break. She noted Mistress La Tournelle’s generosity in offering it. “Thank you, I’d like some.”

La Tournelle went to the next room for it, talking as she went. “I knew you would come to see me.”

Of course she did. She was an astrologer; it was her business to know these things.

The woman continued, “I hope you’ve avoided the river these past few days.”

“As a matter of fact, I did not.”

La Tournelle poked her face from the kitchen to read Suzanne’s expression, but learned nothing. “You didn’t? What happened, then?”

“Your prediction came true. There was a death, and my life has been changed.”

The old woman considered that a moment, then returned to the task of setting a pot of chocolate on the hearth to heat. Then she stepped into the doorway again and said, “You’re still alive.” She sounded surprised.

“I am, indeed. However, someone else is not. A boy was found dead, floating in the river not far from Bank Side, and I have been recruited to investigate the murder. As a result, I’ve been forced to leave my work as an actress for a time and am now working for the benefit of Constable Pepper of Southwark.”

La Tournelle appeared relieved. “Oh, good,” she breathed. “Nothing terrible has happened, then.”

“I’m certain the dead boy would disagree with that assessment.”

The old woman waved away the notion. “To you, I mean. Whenever I report something regarding someone who has not asked, I always have a dreadful feeling I may have caused whatever event follows that person. Some do accuse me of influencing their lives, and I would deny it, but even so I often have doubts in my heart.” She pressed her palms to her chest.

Suzanne leaned forward in her chair and said, “Well, mistress, I might point out that I would rather be playing my roles onstage than to be poking around London after a man who would stab a boy, cut off his willie, and stuff it in his mouth.”

“The boy didn’t drown?” La Tournelle seemed disappointed, and the horror of what Suzanne had just said seemed not to make a mark on her thoughts. She began to wonder whether the woman’s empathy were genuine, or manufactured.

“He was murdered, then thrown into the river. They found him at the bank just downstream of the bridge, caught among some flotsam. It was a terrible thing.”

“Oh yes. Terrible.” The old woman was suddenly reminded that her prediction had been about a soul who had once been living and now was not. She ducked back into the kitchen, and after some clinking of stoneware and clanking of pot, returned with a rough-hewn clay cup emitting steam from the top. “There you are,” she said, and shoved aside a stack of books to make room, then set the cup on the table where Suzanne could reach it.

Suzanne picked up the cup to sip from it, and the chocolate was delicious. “This is delightful, Mistress La Tournelle.”

“Oh, call me Esmeralda.”

“I come as a client.”

“Even so.”

“Very well, Esmeralda, and you shall call me Suzanne.” She raised her cup to the old woman and continued, “You do your own cooking?”

“I prefer it.” She settled into a chair nearby. “I’m rather good at it, and would be hard put to afford to hire someone more skilled than myself.”

“Well, I think you tell the truth, judging from this fine chocolate.” And also judging from these small, cramped quarters, which spoke to her financial state. She seemed to have a firm and proper idea of priorities regarding money.

Esmeralda nodded her thanks, then folded her hands in her lap and buckled down to business now that pleasantries had been accomplished. “So, Suzanne, what brings you to me as a client today?”

“You’ve intrigued me by the strange accuracy of your prediction the other day.”

“Not so strange, by my lights. And not so terribly accurate in my experience, I’m afraid. I would have sworn the death would have been yours.”

Suzanne was a bit nonplussed by the woman’s bluntness, but only blinked once and continued. “Nevertheless, it seems to me your story was more about the poor victim than myself.”

“We aren’t none of us alone on this earth.” She raised her hands and gazed upward, to indicate all the earth and the heavens as well. “All is entwined, everything connected to everything and everyone. That is why we can know of things that haven’t yet happened, for all was set in the beginning, when there was only the Word.” She returned her hands to her lap and graced Suzanne with a beatific smile that seemed utterly genuine. Esmeralda was the most peaceful soul Suzanne could remember ever meeting. She reflected that she might be as serene, had she been able to see the future and lived a life with no ugly surprises.

“I hope you’re right, and that in you I might have a thread to lead me to the boy’s killer.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and her eyebrows raised. “You think I know who the murderer is?”

Suzanne shook her head. “No, but you plainly have an insight into this event I do not. I think if we follow it, we might find ourselves heading the right direction.”

“We? I must advise you, Suzanne, I have no stake in others’ lives. I only see what I see and that is all.”

Again Suzanne was struck by lack of empathy, but it occurred to her that Esmeralda’s heart was hardened by too much exposure to others’ fortunes and misfortunes. She thought it must be terribly wearing to deliver news that could be good or bad, over which she had no control. Too much empathy would certainly make for a sad life. She said brightly, “Then let us learn what there is to learn and see where it takes me. What do you charge for your service?”

Esmeralda nodded, down to business again. “Very well. I’ll need half a crown for my fee, if you please.” She watched as Suzanne drew the silver coin from the pocket under her dress. The coin disappeared immediately into the old woman’s pocket, then she said, “Tell me your birthday, then. And time of birth, if you know it.”

“I do, but what importance is it?”

“Oh, my dear!” The old woman rocked back and waved a hand that Suzanne could be so silly. “The hour of your birth can mean the difference between Libra with Virgo rising and Libra with Aries rising! Rising sign is a third of your fate, along with sun and moon. It gives us the houses, and which planets are in them. It tells us so much more than your simple planets. It can make all the difference, and pinpoint terribly important influences. I would always hope for a time of birth, rather than be left with nothing but sun sign. So, tell me your birthday, and where you were born, if you would be so kind. Sometime in October, I think, yes? Early October. Possibly the first week, or even very late September.”

Suzanne couldn’t help but to blink. “Why, that’s quite correct. My birthday is the second of October.”

“Ah. Same as King Richard III.”

“Oh dear.”

“Indeed. So you see the importance of detail and accuracy in a chart. There are far more than a few hundred personalities and destinies. To leave out time of birth would be disastrous.”

“It was half past eight in the morning, thereabouts. Just after sunrise.” Suzanne hoped Richard had been born late in the evening.

Esmeralda nodded, as if she’d known it all along. “Of course. Scorpio rising; I can see it in your eyes. What year, then?”

“1625.”

At this the old woman seemed surprised again. “Truly? You’re that old? I would not have guessed.”

“Thank you,” said Suzanne, not entirely certain it was true, but hoping it was. She watched as Esmeralda rose from her chair and went to a stack of books nearby. She leafed through one for a bit, then when she found what she wanted, she reached for a scrap of paper then went looking for something else. After a busy search she found a quill and a bottle of ink. Then she cleared a bit of the table, drew her chair to the spot, and sat down to work.

On the paper she drew a circle, and sectioned it into twelve pie pieces. Quickly, looking to the book and back, she drew small figures in the circle’s pieces and made notations beneath it on the paper. She rose several times in search of other books, then sat to work on her paper. Suzanne sat, ignored, for many minutes, and sipped her chocolate patiently.

Finally Esmeralda rose from her work, took a deep breath, and said, “There we have it!”

“Me in a nutshell?”

“You and your past, present, and future.”

Suzanne felt a twinge of discomfort at that. Though she’d not been harmed by the earlier prediction, she had a mild feeling it might be not a very good idea to meddle with fate. Particularly since her situation had been improving so well this past year or so, and she had no desire to rock that particular boat. She said, “What does it tell you?”

Esmeralda drew her chair closer to where Suzanne sat, laid the paper on her knees, and began. “Well, you’ve Scorpio rising, and so you appear more dangerous than you actually are.”

“I’m not dangerous?” Suzanne didn’t know whether to be disappointed by that.

“Not so much as you appear.” She examined the paper some more, then said, “I see that you’re an intelligent woman. Most Libras are.”

“King Richard?”

“Intelligence doesn’t necessarily mean a good heart. You, I can see, have Venus in Taurus, and that is your ruling planet. ’Tis also the ruling planet of Taurus. You’re a lover of love, and yours is a stalwart heart. Virgo moon, so you don’t give love or friendship freely, but once given you never take it back. You can be depended upon.”

All that touched Suzanne in a carefully hidden spot. The men in her life had been enormous disappointments at the very least. She pressed her palms together between her knees, forced herself to breathe normally, then said, “Go on.”

Esmeralda wasn’t looking at her, and so didn’t see how this reading was affecting her. She continued, “You’ve had a struggle, probably in childhood. Close family members have given you difficulty in the past. I see . . . violence.”

Suzanne had to shut her eyes, and said nothing.

Esmeralda continued, “Yes, the opposite sex has always been a trial for you. You were—” She looked up, and stopped short. Then said, “I’m sorry. Shall I stop?”

Suzanne said, “Violence, yes.” Her father had beaten her often during her childhood, and she hadn’t seen him, nor anyone else of her family, since before Piers was born. But that wasn’t why she was here. She added, “What of now?”

“You attract other people who are dangerous. The same influences that brought you hurtful people in the past are at work in your life now.”

“I should expect to be beaten again?”