An Honourable Murderer (27 page)

I wasn't really that sorry, but at least I tried to keep my pleasure at being given a larger part within bounds. Even if Laurence returned fit and well for the actual performance, I would be allowed to keep the role of Roderigo provided I made a decent go of it during rehearsal. I collected my lines from Geoffrey Allison, the book-keeper. The scroll was a comforting size. Allison told me to take care of it. He tells everyone to look after their parts, even the seniors. Losing the scroll containing your lines is a hanging offence with him, just as damaging your costume is with Bartholomew Ridd. I retreated to a quiet corner of the playhouse and started to study my lines.

Formerly I'd been of the opinion that nobody mattered very much in
Othello
except the Moor himself, his wife Desdemona and his scheming soldier-companion Iago. It's funny, though, how being given a slightly larger character than you expect causes you to revise your notions of that character. Roderigo
is
an interesting figure after all, I discovered, more interesting than the somewhat bone-headed Cassio. I much preferred being Roderigo to, Cassio. There was a greater scope in the part. Roderigo is Iago's dupe, his tool. He believes himself to be in love with Desdemona, and this is the first lever that Iago uses to topple him and everybody else from their perches. I would even get to wear a disguise since Iago instructs Roderigo to put on a beard when, in his lovelorn fashion, he follows Desdemona and Othello to Cyprus. Eventually Roderigo will die on that island, stabbed in the dark by his ‘friend' Iago. There was a bit of meat to this role and I settled down to a more careful study of the scroll with the relish of a dog who's just been thrown an especially tasty bone by his master.

However, as I scanned the lines, other thoughts intruded. I kept hearing echoes of the recent events at Somerset House and elsewhere. When Iago repeatedly instructs Roderigo to ‘put money in his purse', I couldn't help hearing those very same words used by John Ratchett when he'd persuaded me – in effect, tricked and bribed me – into writing reports for the ‘Council'. Surely Ratchett must have seen the spring performance of our play and, whether he was aware of it or not, was putting himself in the shoes of the machiavellian villain. And when Roderigo talks of rushing off to drown himself in the canals of Venice, I remembered the death of Giles Cass in the Thames. (The coroner had sat on the case and pronounced Cass's death an accident, so that was that.) Above all, I saw in the character of Roderigo and the way he'd been duped by Iago a slightly uncomfortable reflection of the way I'd been drawn by Ratchett into the whole affair surrounding the
Masque of Peace
and the Blakes.

I'd been made a fool of, no doubt. But there was a nagging feeling in me that we'd all been made fools of in a larger sense, just as Iago makes fools of everyone from the senators of Venice to the garrison on Cyprus. Maybe this was the effect, or the fault, of Shakespeare's
Othello
. Of reading his lines and then seeing the skeleton of the play once again clothed in flesh and blood during our practice. The tragedy of the Moor is controlled by a master-manipulator, a shadowy figure who stands behind or above all the mayhem and murder which he delights in producing. And all the time he is the bluffest, plainest, most downright person you could imagine, is Iago!

Behind the real-life tragedy of the death of Sir Philip Blake, and the less lamented departure of Giles Cass, and the almost unknown demise of John Ratchett (but still known to me and to at least one other), I wondered whether there was a similar machiavellian figure in the shadows, an Iago, manipulating events for his – or her – benefit. It must have been the heated atmosphere of this play, seething with plot and counter-plot, which provoked these suspicions in me once more. At the end of
Othello
, the truth comes out, although it's too late for everyone by that stage. I did not know whether the truth concerning the death of Blake, the man who'd played Truth, would ever emerge.

Since I was uncertain what could – or should – be done, I settled for doing nothing. But no sooner had I decided this than a couple of conversations started to put matters in a different light.

The first conversation was with Abel Glaze. During a pause in the practice he congratulated me on securing the part of Roderigo.

“From Ignorance to a dupe isn't such a big step,” I said, referring to my role in Ben's
Masque of Peace
.

“Oh, come on, Nick, you know you have to be smart to play stupid. Speaking for myself, I'd rather play the zany than the hero.”

They say that inside every clown there's a serious man, a tragedian, struggling to get out but I'm not sure that this was the case with Abel.

“Can I ask you to play the judge now, Nick?” he said.

“Play the judge?”

“It's not the right word. But I'm in a bit of a difficulty. You see this?”

Glancing round as if to ensure that no one was watching, Abel produced a metal flask from his pocket. He shook it. There was liquid inside. The flask, made of finely chased silver, looked vaguely familiar.

“This belonged to Sir Philip Blake.”

I recognized it now. I'd seen Blake take a swig from it on the day of the fatal practice at Somerset House, before he climbed up the ladder to the gallery. Dutch courage, I'd thought at the time.

“Where did you get it, Abel?”

“I picked it up from the stage floor after he fell. Remember?”

All I remembered was Abel heading towards the body. And before that, the crack of Sir Philip's head striking the ground like a nut being split open. And after that, the blood pooling out from beneath his cloak.

“I wasn't looking too closely.”

“I don't know what came over me exactly,” said Abel, “but I saw this lying on the stage and while everyone else was attending to the body, I pocketed it.”

“Finders keepers,” I said.

“I don't want to keep it now. But who should I give it back to? I wouldn't want anyone to think I'd stolen a dead man's flask.”

It struck me that this was precisely what Abel had done, so maybe my reply to him was a bit curt.

“Don't return it then.”

“Well . . .”

He almost writhed in discomfort. There must be something else troubling him. Abel had made his living through dubious means on the road for many years before he joined the King's Men. If he hadn't exactly stolen cash or goods, he had certainly parted the foolish (and the not so foolish) from their money with profitable regularity. Some of the magpie habits of the road had obviously stuck with him and he'd snatched up a dead man's property almost without thought. Finders keepers. Considering all of this, why was he getting into a tizz over a mere flask, even if it was made of silver?

Once more Abel glanced around. If he was worried about being watched, he needn't have been. Dick Burbage, who was playing the Moor, was deep in conversation with Henry Condell who was playing Iago. Shakespeare was standing slightly to one side, as if he was mediating between them. Other members of the company were taking their ease, glad of a pause in the practice. Some were lying down in shady spots. It was muggy during these dog days towards the end of August. Reassured that he was not observed, Abel unscrewed the cap and held the flask out to me.

“Smell.”

I smelled something fumy and fiery.

“It's aqua vitae, isn't it? I expect Sir Philip needed a drop or two to, ah, fortify himself with during the rehearsal. It wasn't altogether comfortable in that flying chair, you know.”

“No, there's something else there, something bitter. An underscent. Smell it again.”

I raised the flask to my nose for a second time and sniffed. Abel might have been right, but I couldn't really detect anything. Well, maybe just a fugitive wisp of another smell in among the fiery fumes. I returned the flask to Abel.

“What are you getting at?”

“Did you see Sir Philip just before he fell? I mean, immediately before.”

I nodded.

“What did he look like?” said my friend.

“What did he look like? What would you look like if you were about to fall more than twenty feet to the ground? He looked terrified. White in the face. His mouth was gaping open.”

“But no sound came out. He wasn't shouting, he wasn't cursing, or exclaiming, or screaming?”

“I – I don't know. There was music being played in the background. It might have covered up any sounds he made.”

“It had stopped by then, the music.”

“If you say so. Yes, you're probaby right, the music stopped. When people saw that he was in trouble, everything halted. So Blake didn't curse or scream. What of it?”

Abel gulped. He looked even more uncomfortable than when he'd confessed to taking the flask.

“I'm new to this kind of speculation, Nick.”

“What kind of speculation?”

“Your kind of speculation.”

I said nothing. I wasn't sure where this conversation was going but I had an inkling, and was half eager, half wary.

“What if the contents of this flask had been adulterated?”

“You mean drugged?”

“Drugged.”

Abel looked at me, as if glad that this possibility was out in the open. I saw no reason to conceal my own suspicions about Blake now.

“So you think there was something strange about Sir Philip's death too,” I said.

My friend grabbed at my arm. His face lit up.

“Who else thinks so? Do you think so?”

“I did, for a time,” I said cautiously. “And Jonathan Snell, the younger one, he had suspicions that the cables supporting the flying chair had been tampered with.”

“There you are then!”

“No, wait. Snell retracted his story later after his father had had a word with him. There was absolutely no proof of anything.”

No proof but plenty of suspicion and unease. I had not yet said anything to Abel of my doubts concerning the deaths of John Ratchett (whom he had never met as far as I was aware) or Giles Cass. I wondered whether now was the moment to come clean with him.

“Have you tried it?” I said instead, indicating the flask which he was still clutching.

“Do you think I'm a complete fool, Nick? What if it contains poison?”

“That doesn't make sense though. If anyone was going to poison Sir Philip then they wouldn't need to arrange for an accident to happen to him in the flying chair. Poison is much quieter, less dramatic.”

Abel was unwilling to let go of his theory and now said, “Perhaps whoever drugged this flask did not intend to poison him outright but only to subdue him. This could have contained a sleeping draught so it would be easier to put him in the chair and send him on his way. Don't you see?”

“Maybe.”

Had it happened like that? I visualized a couple of figures in the gloom of the gallery hoisting Sir Philip, drugged and pliant, into the throne of Truth and then shoving him into space, with the ropes half severed. In that case the Snells (one of them at least) would have to be involved or, if not them, then Ned Armitage or Tom Turner.

“You're convinced of this, Abel?”

“I was able to see Sir Philip's expression just before he fell, Nick. White-faced and terrified, as you said. But also strangely . . . I don't know . . . it was like watching someone having a nightmare which you can't wake them from. Beyond help. That would be explained by a drugged flask.”

This seemed a lot to have observed in the instant before the man fell to his death but then Abel was sharp-eyed and shrewd. His theory that Blake had been drugged was plausible. It may be unfair, but drugs and poisons make you think of women. Specifically, they make you think of wives. I recalled that Lady Jane Blake was the daughter of an apothecary. But that wasn't too significant. Women require little instruction in knowing what herbs to dry and combine to make potions and poisons, all they need is mother wit.

“What do you think? You've solved mysteries before, Nick.”

“I've been wrong more often than I've been right.”

“An injustice has been done here,” he said.

“I think so too,” I said, surprising myself with the words.

“What are we going to do about it?”

“
We
are going to think on it.”

“Oh,” said Abel. “Are you so busy with your widow and her daughter that you can't attend to a crime? I think you must be busy with your landlady's daughter for I see a little colour rising in your face.”

“It is hot here,” I said.

We were standing at the edge of the shade cast by the canopy over the Globe stage. Above us was the freshly painted zodiac and the sun and moon. The real sun had crept round during our talk and was beating down hard. Some words about the widow seemed called for. But all I could come up with was, “Mrs Buckle is well, thank you.”

“
Mrs
Buckle . . . how proper, Nicholas. But I'm glad she's well. And her daughter now?”

“I never see her. And for your information, Abel Glaze, I shall shortly have to move out of the Thames Street lodging because
their
landlord seems intent on pricing them out of house and home.”

At that moment, and fortunately, Dick Burbage clapped his hands for the rehearsal to continue. Abel said quickly, “There is still space in my lodgings in Kentish Street.”

“Thank you, Abel.”

I was touched by my friend's concern. All the little irritations between us faded away. As the rehearsal went forward, and during the periods when I wasn't required, I considered what Abel had said about Blake being drugged by the contents of the flask. Maybe he was right. And naturally, caught in the middle of this plot-ridden play by William Shakespeare, my suspicions started to swing back towards Lady Jane Blake and Jonathan Snell the elder.

Towards the end of the practice I went round to the front of the stage to the groundlings' area, to occupy a small part of which our customers pay a penny each to stand for the duration of the play. I wanted to see Dick Burbage's final tragic turn as Othello, after the Moor has confronted Desdemona over her supposed infidelity and then smothered her on the marital bed. I was already dead, in the person of Roderigo. I'd been killed treacherously in the course of laying an ambush for Cassio. The ambush itself was treacherous, of course, but my death was doubly treacherous, the result of being stabbed by Iago under the cover of night and confusion. (Iago, that shadowy figure in the background, pulling strings, arranging outcomes.)