An Ensuing Evil and Others (11 page)

Then his eyes dilated and for the first time he realized that he was going to die. The moment of truth came for Master Fulke in one horrible mute second before he fell back and was dead. Master Topcliff hurried in, having shaken off the terrified innkeepers wife.

“Did he say aught?” he asked breathlessly.

Drew shook his head.

“He was rambling. His last words were something about the play being the thing… what thing?”

Master Topcliff smiled grimly.

“I fear it was only a line from Master Shakespeare’s tragedy of the Prince of Denmark. I recognize it well, for it is a play of murder and intrigue that held much meaning for me. ‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll capture the conscience of the king.’ No use to us. This is my fault. I was too confident. I let this murderer out of my grasp.”

“How did he get in? I can swear that he did not pass me at the back door.”

“Nor from the front,” vowed Master Topcliff.

He peered round. The window was still open, the curtain flapping. There was a small balcony outside, built out above the waters of the Thames. The river, smelly and dirty, was lapping just below. The window and balcony were on the side of the building, for it was built sideways onto the river, and was blind to the scrutiny of anyone watching the front and back.

They stared out onto the darkened waters. The assailant must have come by rowing boat and pulled up against the wall of the inn, under the balcony. It was high water, and easy to pull oneself up toward this balcony and then climb through Fulke’s window.

“Our man will be long gone by now. Now, truly, all we can do is return to our lodgings and secure a good nights repose. Tomorrow morning, I think we will have another word with Master Will Painter. Logic shows him as our likely suspect.”

Hardy Drew sighed with exasperation as he stared down at the actors body. “Faith, he rambled on so much. Had he known he was dying, I doubt whether he would have quoted so much from his part in this play.”

He suddenly spied a sheaf of papers on the bed. Bending, he picked them up and perused them.

“All’s Well That End’s Well,”
he quoted the title. “A bad ending for some.”

He was about to replace it on the bed when he spotted a line on the pages to which the play script had fallen open. “Methought you saw a serpent,” he whispered. He turned to the old constable. “Are you sure those words ‘the plays the thing’ comes from this other tragedy you mentioned? Are they not used in this new play?”

“I have seen the tragedy of the Prince of Denmark, but I have not seen this new comedy, nor has anyone else, remember? They were just rehearsing it for its first performance.”

“True enough,” Drew replied thoughtfully. After a moment or so, with a frown gathered on his forehead, he tucked the play script under his arm and followed the old constable down the stairs, where Master Topcliff gave instructions about the body. There was nothing further to do but to return to their lodgings.

It was morning when Master Topcliff, sitting over his breakfast,observed a pale and blearyeyed young Hardy Drew coming into the room.

“You have not slept well,” he observed dryly. “Does death affect you so?”

“Not death. I have been up all night reading Master Shakespeare’s new play.”

Master Topcliff chuckled. “I hope that you have found good education there?”

Drew sat down and reached for a mug of ale, taking a mouthful. He gave an almost urchinlike grin. “That I did. I found the answer to many mysteries there.”

Master Topcliff gave him a hard look. “Indeed?”

“Indeed. I learnt the identity of our murderer. As poor Raif Fulke was trying to tell me—the play’s the thing, the thing which reveals the secret. He was quoting from the play so that I might find the identity of his assailant there. But you are right—that line does not occur in this play, but the other lines he quoted do.”

An hour later they stood on the stage of the Globe with the players gathered in somber attitude about them. Burbage had recovered his shock of the previous day and was now more annoyed at the loss of revenue to his theater by the delays. “How now, Master Constable, what now? Two of our good actors are done to death and you have named no culprit.”

Master Topcliff smiled and gestured to his deputy. “My deputy will name the assailant.”

Drew stepped forward. “Your comedy says it all,” Drew began with a smile, holding up the play script. “Herein, the Count of Rousillon rejects a woman. She is passionate to have him. She pursues him, first disguised as a man.”

There was a muttering.

“The story of the play is no secret,” pointed out Burbage.

“None at all. However, we have Bertrando, who actually plays Rousillon, in the same situation. He is a man of several affairs, our Bertrando. Worse, he has rejected a most passionate woman, like Helena in the story. Bertrando is married and likes to keep his marriage a secret, is that not so, Mistress Eldred?”

Hester Eldred conceded it among the expressions of surprise from the company.

“So one of his lovers,” continued Hardy Drew, “that passionate woman, likes him not for his philandering life. Having been rejected, like Helena in the play, she pursues him. However, unlike the play, she does not seek merely to win him back, but her intention is to punish him. She stabs him and ends his life.”

“Are you telling us that a woman killed Bertrando?” gasped Burbage. “But Fulke saw a man enter the dressing room.”

“Fulke described a man of short stature. He was positive it was a man. Unfortunately, we”—he glanced at his superior—”decided to allow Fulke to act as bait by pretending he knew more than he did. Thus lured out, the assailant murdered Fulke before we had time to protect him. Luckily Fulke was not dead. He survived long enough to identify his assailant….”

He turned to Hester Eldred. She read her fate in his eyes, leaped up with a curse, and ran from the stage.

Master Topcliff raised a hand in signal, and a burly member of the guard appeared at the door and seized her.

A babble broke out from the company.

Burbage raised his voice, crying for quiet.

Nelly Porter moved forward. “I thought you were going to accuse me. I was Bertrando s lover, and thanks to him, my child died. I had more reason to hate and kill him than she did.”

Hardy Drew smiled softly. “I did give you a passing thought,” he admitted.

“Then why—?”

“Did I discount you? When we arrived, Hester was on stage in a dress. Now her part, as I read the play, calls for her, as Helena, to appear in men’s clothes. Yet she clearly told us that she had arrived at the theater with her lover, left him to change while she went to change herself. Presumably from her own clothes she would change into that of her part as a man. But Will Painter said that he saw her arrive with Bertrand, in men’s clothes ready for her scene. She told me that she had left Bertrando and went to change into the clothes for her scene. When we came to the theater, she was in a dress and had been so from the time of the rehearsal. She had, therefore, killed her husband while in the male clothing, changed into a dress, and joined you all on stage.”

“But her motive? If she was passionately in love with Bertrando, why would she kill him?”

“The motive is as old as the Earth. Love to hatred turned. For Bertrando was just as much a ladies’ man during his marriage as ever he had been. Hester as his wife could not abide his philandering. Few women could. She did not want to share him with others. I could feel sympathy for her had she killed in hot blood. But she planned the scene and brought her victim to the theater to stage it. She also killed Fulke when she thought that he had recognized her—”

“Who knows,” intervened Master Topcliff, “maybe he had recognized her. Didn’t Will Painter say they had lived together before she took up with Bertrando? Painter implied that Fulke still loved her. Even when dying, perhaps for love, he could not name her outright but, for conscience’ sake, gave you the coded clue instead?”

“One thing this deed has also killed,” interrupted Master Burbage. “We shall no more experiment with women as players. They bring too many dangers with them.”

Master Hardy Drew turned and smiled wanly at Master Topcliff. “By your leave, good Master, I’ll get me to my bed. It has been a tiring exercise in drama.” He paused, smiled, and added with mocking tone. “The king’s a beggar now, the play is done.”

THE GAME’S AFOOT!

The game s afoot!

—
Henry V
, Act III, Scene i

W
hen the shrill voice of a boy, accompanied by an incessant thudding against his door, awoke Master Hardy Drew that morning, the Constable of the Bankside Watch was not in the best of moods.

He had retired to his room, which he rented above the Pilgrim s Wink Tavern, in Pepper Street, in the early hours that morning. Most of the night he had been engaged in dispersing the rioters outside the Cathedral of Southwark. It had been a well-organized protest at the publication of the Great Bible, which had been authorized by King James. The Great Bible had been the production of fifty scholars from the leading universities, resulting in a work that the King had ordained to be the standard Bible used throughout his realms.

While it had been obvious to Master Drew that the Catholics would seize the opportunity to express their outrage at its publication, he had not expected the riots organized by the Puritan Party.

Not only were there rumors and reports of popish plots and conspiracies this year, but the activities from the extreme Protestant sects were far more violent. King James’s moderate Episcopalian governance angered the Puritans also. Only last month the Scottish Presbyterian reformer, Andrew Melville, had been released from the Tower of London in an attempt to appease the growing anger. The King had admitted that his attempt to break the power of the Presbyterian General Assembly in Scotland had not met with success. Rather than placate the Presbyterians, Melville’s release had increased the riots, and he had fled into exile in France where, rumor had it, he was plotting his revenge. James had fared little better with imposing his will on the English Puritans.

The kingdoms of England and Scotland echoed and reechoed with treasonable conspiracies. Indeed, a few months previously, another attempt to install James’s cousin Arabella Stuart on the throne had resulted in the unfortunate lady being confined to the Tower. Times were dangerous; Master Hardy Drew had been reflecting on this while quelling the outburst of anger of Puritan divines. Even his position of constable was fraught with political danger. There were many who might falsely inform on him for his religious affiliations or, indeed, for his lack of them, in order to secure the position of constable for themselves together with the small patronage that went with it.

The knocking increased in volume, and Master Drew rolled out of his bed with a groan. “Ods bodikms!” he swore. “Must you torture a poor soul so? Enter and have a good reason for this clamor!”

The door opened a fraction, and a dirty young face peered round.

Master Drew glared menacingly at the child. “You had better have a good reason for disturbing my sleep, little britches,” he growled.

“God save you, good master,” cried the young boy, not entering the room. “I’ve been sent to tell you that a gen’lemen be lying near done to death.”

Master Drew blinked and shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. “A gentleman is—? Who sent you, child?” he groaned.

“The master what owns the inn in Clink Street. The Red Boar, Master… Master Pen… Pen… some foreign name. I can’t remember.”

“And precisely what did this Master Pen ask you to tell me?” Master Drew inquired patiently.

“To come quick, as the gen’lemen be stabbed and near death.”

Master Drew sighed and waved the child away. “Tell him that I’ll be there shortly,” he said.

Had the news been other than that of a gentleman stabbed in an inn, he would have immediately returned to his interrupted slumber. London was full of people being stabbed in taverns, alleys, or along its grubby waterfront. They were usually members of the lower orders of society, whom few people of quality would miss, much less shed a tear over. But a gentleman… now that was a matter serious enough to bring a Constable of the Watch from his warm bed.

Master Drew splashed his face with cold water from a china basin and hurriedly drew on his clothes. Below, in the tavern, he spent a half-pence on a pot of beer to cut the slack from his dry throat and, outside, chose an apple from a passing seller to munch for the balance of his breakfast.

Clink Street was not far away, a small road down by the banks of the Thames, along the very Bankside that was Master Drews main area of responsibility. He knew of the Red Boar Inn but had little occasion to frequent it. Perhaps
inn
was too grand a title, for it was hardly more than a waterfront tavern full of the usual riffraff of the Thames waterfront.

There was a small crowd loitering outside when he reached there. A small boy was holding forth to the group, waving his arms and pointing up to a window. Doubtless, this was the same urchin who had brought the message to him. The boy pointed to the constable as he approached and cried, “This is ‘im naw!” The small crowd moved back respectfully as Master Drew halted before the dark door of the inn and pushed it open.

Although the morning was bright outside, inside candles were alight, but even so, the taproom was still gloomy, filled with a mixture of candle and pipe smoke, mingling with odors of stale alcohol and body sweat.

A thin, middle-aged man came hurrying forward, wiping his hands on a leather apron. He had raven-black hair but his features were pale, which caused his shaven cheeks to have a bluish hue to them.

“We do be closed, good sir,” he began, but Master Drew stopped him with a cutting motion of his hand.

“I am Constable of the Bankside Watch. Are you the host of this tavern?”

The man nodded rapidly. “That I do be, master.”

“And your name?”

“Pentecost Penhallow.”