The Twelfth Night Murder (9 page)

Then she noticed a small painting in the lower right corner of the wall of contemporary paintings that drew her eye. This one was very finely wrought, almost small enough to be a miniature, but not quite. It portrayed two subjects. A pair of boys, one a couple of years older than the other. Both with dark brown hair, and both with smiling eyes and ruddy cheeks that bespoke good health. The artist had quite caught the joy in them both, which shone from the picture like a light. Suzanne’s breath caught, for she recognized the younger boy as the poor child that had been found floating in the river. She had to turn away, lest tears rise and she be caught having to explain them to the duke.

The wait this time was even longer than at the door. Every so often she would look up at the duke’s portrait and wonder why these people always thought it so terribly important to put her in her place. This was so unnecessary. She knew well her place, had been taught it all her life, and hardly needed to be reminded. She thought of Little Wally, and just then she envied him his utter insouciance toward society and decorum. Ramsay, as well. Had he accompanied her into the house, he more than likely would now be encouraging her to go home, and suggesting the duke should engage in a physically impossible sex act. However, having seen the picture of the victim hanging on this wall, Suzanne had a keen interest in learning anything she could about the boy and his family.

Finally the door to the rest of the house opened, and the footman entered to announce the duke. His purpose was to give Suzanne a chance to stand and not expose the duke to the sight of her sitting in his presence, but she hadn’t sat while waiting and only turned toward the door with a mild expression, neither smiling nor frowning. The duke entered the room.

He was a large man, broad shouldered and burly enough to mitigate his mighty efforts at elegance. Like everything around him, his attire was plain, but of terribly expensive fabric and cut. His robe hung with a perfection that spoke of expert attention to his frame and the way he moved, but it was black and collarless. He wore no gold, silver, or jewels, not even any rings on his fingers, no signet that might show his rank. His slippers bore no decoration. Not even did his face have adornment of beard or moustaches. His hair was thick and virile, a dark brown, graying at the temples in the most genteel way. He was well scrubbed, smoothly groomed, and his hair had the perfection of a marble statue with nary a strand gone astray.

His eyes were equally stone-like. Flinty. Suzanne looked into them, and had to wonder whether this man had a soul. Surely there must be one in there somewhere, but she wasn’t seeing it. His visage shook her to her toes, and she had to force herself to continue looking at his face and not at the floor.

He said, “What is it you want? What of my son?” His voice was deep and gravelly, and she guessed he’d often used it for shouting down his opponents in Parliament.

It struck her that, for a father so concerned about the welfare of his son, he’d kept her waiting a remarkably long time.

She curtsied as deeply as was called for, and she replied, “I’ve come to ask you about him. I believe he is about the age of twelve or thirteen. Is that correct?”

“Paul is twelve. He’s not in London. He’s with his mother’s cousins in Kent, for nearly three months now.”

“Have you heard from him recently?” Certainly not within the past week.

“We had a message from him just yesterday.”

“May I ask when it was sent?”

“Three days before.”

Suzanne knew he was lying, and it put her on her guard to know exactly why he was avoiding the truth, and precisely what truth he was avoiding. He continued with a soothing smile on his face, which did not lend credibility to his story, coming from the man in that portrait behind him. It was almost as if the painting were the real expression of himself beneath the façade he presented to her in the flesh. “Said he’s well, and enjoying his studies. Being the younger son, he will do well to join the clergy. He’s a talent for it.”

Certainly that was another lie. The boy she’d seen in the Goat and Boar had little religious thought in his head, if any, and fit too naturally into the role he’d played with Daniel to be anything other than the sensual creature he’d professed. She turned to the portrait of the two boys, thinking, then turned back to the duke. “I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him, your grace.”

The duke now abandoned his smile, but otherwise his expression did not change.

She went on. “Your younger son, the one in that portrait there”—she gestured toward it—“has been killed.”

Now the hard line of his mouth matched the portrait. “How do you know this? Who are you?”

“As I explained to your man earlier, my name is Mistress Suzanne Thornton. I’ve been asked to help in the investigation of the murder of a young boy. He is the younger of the two in that picture.”

“You’re certain?” He glanced around at the painting of his sons, then back at her. “There’s no doubt?”

“I saw the body,” she said, without mentioning she’d also seen him alive the night before.

The duke seemed to stand straighter, but his expression remained stony. He said, “Tell me what happened.”

At that moment the inner door opened and a woman entered. She was a bit younger than Suzanne, and quite a bit younger than the duke. “Jacob,” she said to him, and Suzanne guessed this was the duchess. She appeared to want to say more, but hesitated when she saw their faces and sensed the tension in the room. She looked from one to the other, puzzled. Finally she said, “Jacob, what is the matter?” Worry deepened the lines in her face so she suddenly appeared older than she was.

“Leave the room,” Jacob ordered his wife as he would have done a servant.

“I think not.” She knew something very wrong was afoot, and stood her ground, though her hands clasped each other with white knuckles and pale fingernail beds. She looked from her husband to Suzanne, then back, waiting for one of them to tell her what was the matter.

“I said, go.” He didn’t raise his voice, though his anger at being contradicted could be heard in it.

“I shall stay, Jacob.” She turned to Suzanne and said with softened voice and utter politeness, “Please continue, mistress.”

Someone else might have waited to speak until the woman had obeyed her husband and left, but Suzanne thought the duchess deserved to hear this conversation. She deserved to know exactly what had been said rather than to hear what her husband would deign to tell her later. She said to the duchess with as much sensitivity as was at her command, “I’m afraid your younger son, Paul, has been found dead, your grace. His body was pulled from the Thames three days ago.”

Blood drained from the woman’s face. “Paul?” She tossed a glance to her husband, then returned her attention to Suzanne. “Paul? No. It can’t be. He’s in Kent. He cannot possibly be in London.” She turned again to her husband, as if asking him to confirm her words. He said nothing, so the duchess continued to Suzanne, “It cannot possibly be the same boy. You’re mistaken.” She nodded to affirm her own words, as if that was all it took to change the truth and all would be right again.

Suzanne chose her words carefully, and kept her voice as gentle as she could while insisting she was not mistaken. “I’m afraid it’s true, your grace. I wish with all my heart I could be wrong, but I see that portrait there is the very boy I saw pulled from the river.”

The duchess shook her head, and her mouth tried to form words, but none came. She looked to her husband again, her eyes pleading him to say it wasn’t so.

The duke said in a tone somewhat gentler than before. “Please leave the room.”

She shook her head again, then said to Suzanne, “Tell me what happened.”

Suzanne looked at the floor to organize her thoughts and decide how much detail to include in her story. As she cleared her throat to speak, she knew she would have to tell all to get the right answers to the real questions she had. She began with the discovery of the body.

“Three days ago, a washerwoman discovered a body floating in the river. Some boatmen plucked it from the water. It was found to be a young boy, approximately twelve or thirteen years old.” She paused for a moment to assess the reaction so far, and the duchess seemed to be taking this with as much calm as could be hoped for. So Suzanne continued, “The boy had been murdered.”

The duchess gasped. The duke was as still and hard as the marble statue he’d seemed before.

“Also, I must tell you, he was wearing a dress. He’d been disguised as a girl.”

This statement brought no reaction from either of them. Plainly neither was surprised by the revelation that their son liked to wear women’s clothing. This struck Suzanne as odd, though she reflected perhaps it shouldn’t. More than likely they knew their son better than anyone other than the servants, and were aware of his predilection for dresses. But she made mental note of it and continued, exploring and noting their expressions. “And I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, but the body was mutilated.”

“He was eaten by fish in the river?”

“No. His . . . an appendage had been cut off.” She felt it unnecessary to mention the piece had not been lost, or where it had been found.

The duchess laid a hand over her mouth, and her eyes welled up with tears. “Oh!” The duke was looking at the floor now, and his expression was unreadable. The duchess said, “How do you know it was our Paul?”

“It isn’t. It can’t be,” said the duke. “Paul is with your cousins.” He was still looking at the floor.

Suzanne said, “I’m sorry, but I saw the body myself shortly after it was taken from the river.”

“How did you know to come here? You never saw that picture until now. How did you recognize him and know he was our son?” Her tone accused trickery, but Suzanne understood the duchess was grasping at straws.

Rather than implicate Daniel, and to avoid admitting she’d acted on the advice of an astrologer, which might have sent these people into a Puritan tizzy about heresy and the abyss, Suzanne committed the sin of bearing false witness, saying, “A bystander recognized him. I cannot recall his name. But regardless of how I came here, there is no doubt the victim was the younger boy in that painting there.” She gestured to the small one with the two boys.

The duchess looked at it, saw her youngest son, and the realization finally came home. Her mouth opened as if to cry out, but no sound came. Only a struggle to express the unexpressible. Finally a strangled noise came, a hopeless cry that spoke of killing grief. She didn’t take her eyes from the painting, and sank to her knees on the floor.

Her husband bent to steady her and to keep her from going all the way down. He supported her as she drew a breath and emitted a heartbroken sob, finally closing her eyes so that tears ran down her face.

Suzanne hadn’t anticipated having to bring this news to the boy’s mother. She’d only imagined talking to his father, and now was sorry it had been necessary to tell the duchess. She knelt beside her and took her hand. Almost insensibly, the duchess gripped Suzanne’s hand in both of hers and held on as she sobbed. Suzanne said, “I’m sorry,” and repeated it over and over.

The duke said, “You’ve accomplished your mission, mistress. I think you had better leave now.” The anger in his voice was copper clad.

Suzanne gently retrieved her hand from the duchess’s grip, and stood. “Your grace, of course there will be an inquiry to find your son’s killer.”

“I said, leave. Immediately.” As if summoned, the manservant entered the room and stood ready to escort Suzanne from it.

“Yes, your grace.” Suzanne knew she would have to attempt questioning him later, and didn’t relish it, but she also knew she would get nothing further from either of the Worthingtons until they’d calmed down. “I’m sorry to have brought you this terrible news. May God give you strength.” Then she curtsied appropriately and allowed the manservant to see her out.

When she exited the house, Ramsay was lounging in the carriage chatting with the driver who sat above. He leapt to attention and hurried from it to help her up the steps and inside. “What did you learn?” The driver came to close the carriage door behind them, then prepared the horses to leave. Suzanne and Ramsay settled into their seats. She wished for a lap robe, for the carriage was terribly cold and the emotional scene she’d just left gave her that much more of a chill.

“I’m afraid I learned very little beyond the name of our victim. He was their youngest son, Paul. They’d thought him safe with cousins in Kent until just now. They hadn’t even known he was missing.”

“No message from the cousins?”

“Apparently not.”

“Not very conscientious of them, I’d say.”

“Indeed.” Suzanne thought that over for a moment. “Not very conscientious at all.” Surely they should have sent a message as soon as he’d left Kent, which would have been at least a day or two before she’d seen him in the Goat and Boar even if he’d arrived in London that very morning. A message so important, sent a week ago, would certainly have arrived before now. All in all, those cousins of the duchess didn’t seem adequate guardians of their ward. As the carriage started up and rolled down the wide street, she said, “There were a number of things that bothered me about the parents.”

“Such as?”

“I cannot say. Only . . . some bits simply don’t fit right, and I don’t know for a certainty what they are or how they don’t fit.”

“Intuition?”

“People tell less with their mouths than they do with their bodies as a whole. Sometimes we women understand things men can’t, because we pay attention to things other than the obvious.”

“Then you should know how the bits don’t fit.”

“I will. I must first think on what I’ve seen.”

W
hen Suzanne and Ramsay returned to the Globe, they found Daniel’s carriage standing at the front. The horses had been blanketed, so Suzanne knew he’d been waiting some time. He was sure to be in a testy mood. She bade Ramsay good day and thanked him for his company that morning, then readied herself to talk to Daniel about what she’d just learned.

He stood when she entered her sitting room. “There you are.” By his tone he was impatient that she’d kept him waiting so long, but he didn’t actually say so. He knew her well enough to understand that had he voiced his complaint, she would have merely pointed out that he’d not had an appointment with her and she could hardly be held responsible for his inability to find her at home. He could fuss and whine all he wanted. She would not feel the least guilt, nor would she ever arrange her day around the off chance of a visit from him. Certainly, in that way lay madness.

She agreed, more cheerfully than he, “Here I am.” She removed her gloves and handed them to Sheila, then her cloak, and the items disappeared into her bedchamber with the maid. Suzanne gestured that Daniel should sit, and she took a chair opposite the sofa where he sat. “I’ve been to see the Duke of Cawthorne.”

“And what did you find?” His tone was wary, as if expecting bad news.

“You were right. The victim is their youngest son, Paul.”

He grunted and shifted in his seat. This was indeed bad news. “I could be right about nothing, for I told you nothing. I never said he was their son; I only said their son was not in London.”

“You’re absolutely correct. It was Mistress La Tournelle who told me the boy was of the upper class.”

“I hope you’re not going about telling people I said the duke’s son was a sodomite. I never did.”

“Not to worry; I kept your name entirely out of it.”

“You should be warned Cawthorne is nobody to take lightly. He’s among the peers who are prone to treat the king as their lackey, as if we controlled the kingdom rather than he.”

“Well, Daniel, you must admit that Charles is dependent on money you in Parliament deign to give him. You are more powerful than you think.”

“Cawthorne is among a tight clique who are apart from the rest of us. Even I wouldn’t want to cross those who are so powerful they have no regard for Charles. Caught between the king and the Puritan Parliament, I often feel powerless. Neither fish nor fowl, I am often alone in my efforts at anything.”

“As I said, Daniel, so far as he and the world are concerned, the body was identified by a bystander whose name is quite forgotten. You needn’t worry.”

“Still, I wish you would keep entirely out of it yourself. It’s not seemly, I think.”

She sat up, pretending offense. “It seems to me that, with my background and experience, there should be very little I could do that might for me be termed ‘unseemly.’ It’s not as if I had great social standing to protect.”

“You have an association with me.”

“One you keep as hidden as possible.”

“Nevertheless, I wish you would have a care about how things appear. I can’t have you running around town—”

“You don’t
have
me at all.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, really, I don’t. Tell me what you mean.”

He paused a moment, to calm his rising anger, and to think through his reply. Then he said, “I own your theatre. It’s known we have a relationship.”

“What is known is that you have a business relationship with my son. What I do may reflect on him, but you have no responsibility regarding me. In fact, you’ve gone to great lengths to distance yourself from me in the eyes of society. There is little chance of me ever embarrassing you. I could strip naked and swing by my heels from a chandelier in the king’s privy chamber, and it would mean little to your reputation.”

“Well, no, that might actually enhance it.”

“In any case, you see my point.” Her lips pressed together at the memory of the day he’d told her to never visit him in his quarters at Whitehall, for fear his wife might learn he was Piers’s father. She was forced to accept his wish, but every day was sorely tempted to reveal their secret. Now her irritation over it harshened her tone.

“Nevertheless, I don’t think it’s advisable to continue with this investigation.”

“What do you think will be revealed?”

“What has already been revealed is bad enough.”

“That you are a chamberer and not so very particular about whom you invite to your bed?”

Daniel blanched. “He was extremely well disguised.”

“Not so very well I couldn’t tell he was a fraud from where I sat. You had an arm around him, if I recall.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Daniel opened his mouth to protest, but she overrode him. “And even were he a girl, taking him upstairs would have been low behavior any way one might look at it. Even as a girl—”

“He presented himself as a tart.”

“I am of the school of thought that deems patronizing whores of any age is an unseemly activity for a Christian gentleman, no matter how wealthy, powerful, or handsome.”

“Men patronizing whores supported you well enough.”

“Which you did not. And ‘well enough’ is a matter of opinion. Besides, that boy was only twelve years old.”

“As a girl he looked older.”

“That’s no excuse, and in any case even as a girl he never appeared more than fourteen or so. Still too young for anyone other than an arranged fiancé, but particularly so for a man about to turn forty.”

“If you thought so, then why didn’t you mention it?”

“I am mentioning it now. Though I shouldn’t have to. I am, after all, not your guardian. In theory you should be responsible for your own behavior, and adult enough to know when you’re acting the fool.”

That poked a sore spot, and his eyes went wide for a moment. Then they narrowed and his brow knotted in a frown. “A man should be able to do what he likes with his person and his money.”

“I would rather enjoy listening in when you explain that to your Presbyterian wife. And won’t her equally Presbyterian brother the duke—who has no love for you in any case—be enchanted with your thoughts about the freedoms of men relative to respect for his sister?”

He fell silent for a moment, then said, “Is that a threat?”

“Is what a threat?” She couldn’t imagine what he meant.

“If you dare speak to Anne of this—”

“Don’t be silly. I don’t care whether you bang a hundred whores.” Not to mention that she’d thought it over carefully months ago, and decided that Anne was a sweet woman and didn’t deserve to hear that bit of bad news. All in all, Daniel was an adequately attentive husband, their life together was as pleasant as could be expected for an arranged marriage, and telling Anne about his dalliances would only hurt her in ways that would do no good. “I have no claim over you, and don’t wish to exert one.” It was a lie, but she only knew it in moments when she was most candid with herself. “But that doesn’t mean I am sanguine about your need to have every woman who glances your way.” Were she ever honest with Daniel, she would admit she’d much prefer that he would choose her over the others. But after more than twenty years of sharing him with his wife, mistresses, and assorted nameless professionals, she knew there was no hope of ever being his only love. So she closed off her feelings and pretended they didn’t exist. The terrible thing of it was that she sensed he knew her heart in spite of her caution, and he often touched it or skewered it according to his whim.

There was a long silence as they both realized they’d quite gone off the subject and had nothing else to say in this particular argument. Then Daniel said, “Very well. I’ll take your word for it you will keep my name out of your investigation.”

“It should go without saying.”

He nodded, possibly because any further words might turn as ugly as the others. “So, then, what do you intend to do about this boy?”

She sighed, relieved he’d accepted she would continue with the investigation. “I must learn how young Paul Worthington progressed from his father’s mansion to the Goat and Boar. Via Kent, it would seem.”

“What will that tell you?”

“Well, he was wearing the dress when he was killed. Someone who knew him in that dress became angry enough to stab him to death.”

“Why angry? Perhaps it was a robbery. He was soliciting, and more than likely had a pocket full of cash beneath his skirt.”

She shook her head. “Though there was no pocket, as one might expect of someone selling his body, it could be that the men who fished him out of the water took it. Or else he had a handler who relieved him of his proceeds periodically throughout the night. But regardless of that, the killer must have been very angry, to have cut off the willie and stuffed it in the boy’s mouth. A robber at the very least wouldn’t have bothered. Lord Paul didn’t die for his night’s takings.”

“Then, what?”

She thought for a long moment, waiting for inspiration. She let her mind wander as it often did, skipping down various paths without guidance. Then she blinked and peered at Daniel. “What did you feel when you discovered you had your arm around a boy and not a girl?”

“I never had my arm around him.”

“Very well, no arm. Tell me what you felt when I told you he wasn’t a girl.”

Daniel shrugged. Plainly he was reluctant to revisit that moment. But she pressed.

“Tell me, what did you feel? Embarrassment, of course. What did you feel toward him?”

“Nothing.”

“Not nothing. And that’s not what I’m getting at. What emotion did you feel when you saw he was a boy who had fooled you into thinking he was a girl? A girl attractive enough to make your willie stiff.”

“It wasn’t stiff.”

“As you say. Tell me what you felt.”

“Very well, anger. I was angry with him.”

“Right. Of course you were angry, as any man would be who was not a sodomite. By attracting you to him, he put you in a very dangerous spot. Had I not warned you, and had you taken him upstairs to use him as a girl, and had there been anyone to see it whom you could not trust with your life, your very existence could have been at stake if an enemy in Parliament ever decided to make a case against you with the crown for sodomy.”

Daniel paled. Apparently he hadn’t thought of that possibility.

She continued, “At the very least your reputation would have been forever marred.”

He nodded. “I was extremely angry to learn I’d been betrayed.”

“Betrayed” might have been a stronger word than Suzanne would have used. “Fooled” would have suited better, in her opinion, but she kept that to herself for the moment. She said, “But, being who you were, you weren’t angry enough to hurt him for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being the sort of man who will bed any creature that breathes—”

“Not just any creature.”

“Very well, human creature.”

“Suzanne—”

“Being as flexible in your preferences as you are, Daniel, you had no desire to kill him and took the incident with enough humor to do no more than blush and chuckle.”

“That I did. I saw no need to make a huge fuss over the thing. I was happy to let it die down and be forgotten.”

“Right. But what about the sort of man who is not so flexible? What about a man who would be terribly offended to even be approached by a sodomite? The sort who might think it reflected badly on him, and who would be horrified to think anyone might think
he
was a sodomite himself. Would such a man be moved to kill?”

“Of course. And few would blame him.”

“I would.”

“You’re a tart yourself, and as you’ve said, you’ve no reputation to protect. A man whose entire life and livelihood depends on being seen as a man—a man in control and not subject to . . . unnatural practices—who would want to avoid a conviction and possibly execution for sodomy, would be justified in killing anyone who sullied his reputation.”

“A boy.”

“A boy who apparently was sophisticated in the ways of fornication, and who was quite old enough to have understood the danger in which he was putting his clients.”

Suzanne made a small humming noise of concession that was nonetheless noncommittal, then said, “I’m certain someone encouraged him to do what he did. Surely he never decided for himself to seduce men by presenting himself as a girl. Surely there must have been someone else guiding him in it.”

“Well, I suggest that might be a direction to take in your inquiry. Find the men who patronized young Worthington that night, and you’ll find your killer.”

Suzanne sighed. “London is large. It will be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

Daniel shrugged. “The boy was pretty, and most convincing. Your haystack might very well be stiff with needles. It will be a question of which is the one who saw him last.”

Some voices rose from the stage area outside the basement window in Suzanne’s kitchen. The window opened onto the below-stage area where a trapdoor at center stage gave egress for actors, who came and went from below-stage through another trapdoor, to the room above Suzanne’s quarters. That was the green room, where actors ready to perform awaited their time onstage. Situated as she was, most afternoons Suzanne could hear everything that went on in the theatre, and now there was a row started up onstage. She listened as it moved from the stage to the ’tiring house, then to one of the upstairs dressing rooms, and decided she needed to address the situation.