The Opening Night Murder (17 page)

Horatio stood in the pit at the edge of the stage, surrounded by ends of sawn beams, boards, and bent nails, and waited for the girl to respond, but she was chatting with one of the workers and not paying attention. Finally he called out, “You! Child!”

The worker hurried off, lest he be chastised for slacking from his job. The girl came to attention, her hands behind her back, a picture of innocence that spoke volumes of guilt.

Horatio once again gestured for her to ascend to the stage. She picked up her skirts, hurried up the steps, and picked her way across the rickety boards to a relatively sturdy spot, then turned to face Horatio with a wide grin and her skirts still in her fists, exposing her ankles for all to see. The boys in the pit saw all they could as they ducked their heads to peer up her skirts at her bare calves. She appeared oblivious, though Suzanne knew she probably was not. “I’m Liza, yer honor.” Her accent was crude and northern, and barely understandable even to Suzanne.

He said, far more serious than she, “Very well, then, Liza. Have you read the play?”

“Ah cannae read, yer woorship.”

“My name is Horatio, girl. Address me by that, if you please.”

Some of her smile faded, but she carried on gamely. “Aye, then. Soorry ta ’ffend ye.” The girl’s tone was impertinent, which made Suzanne sigh. This one already wasn’t going to be accepted, she could tell.

But Horatio continued, slipping into his annoyed taste-of-sarcasm quasi-Puritan speech, complete with rolling R’s, “Well. If thee cannot
rrread
, then how will thee learn thy lines?”

“Ah ’spect I’ll have ta ask ye to read ’em ta me.”

He emitted a bark of a laugh. “Not bloody likely, I’d say. Doest thou have someone else who might read them to thee?”

“Oh aye, I’ve a client who would be ever so pleased to help.”

“A client?”

“Aye. He’s right regular, comes every fortnight sure as anything. He’ll do nearly whatever I ask. He can read me the lines, and I’ll remember ’em, sure enough.”

Suzanne groaned to herself. Horatio gazed blandly at the girl for a long moment. The girl sensed that things weren’t going well, so she held her skirts tighter and higher, and said, “Read me some o’ what ye got. A long passage. Ye’ll see I can remember.”

Horatio hesitated, but the girl urged him on with a nod. So he recited to her a random passage from memory. “From
Henry V
, we have a speech by the Bishop of Canterbury speaking to King Henry, which readeth thusly:
Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers, that owe yourselves, your lives and services to this imperial throne. There is no bar to make against your highness’s claim to France but this, which they produce from Pharamond. ‘In terrain Salicam mulieres ne succedant:’ ‘No woman shall succeed in Salique land:’ Which Salique land the French unjustly glose to be the realm of France, and Pharamond the founder of this law and female bar.
Now say that back to me, girl.”

She dropped her skirts and crossed her arms. “That innae long. Ah c’n say that back standin’ on me heed.”

“Then by all means, do so. I am
rrrapt
with anticipation.”

The girl threw back her head and obliged. Every word and syllable, even the Latin, exactly as Horatio had pronounced it.

When she finished, there was dead silence in the theatre, for even the workmen listening were stunned. All sawing and hammering had stopped. Even Suzanne was wide-eyed with
wonder at the feat, but at the same time wondered whether the girl understood any of the words she’d spoken.

Horatio opened his mouth to speak, but the girl said in a rush, “What I cannae ken, ye see, is hae come, since this bishop feller must be a-talkin’ to King Henry about France and all, I mean, he’s a-tellin’ Henry why the French willnae give him his inheeritance, how come he says all these things auld Henry must a’ready ken, being king and all, and being the one as didnae get his inheritance in the first place he must ken why. So, what I mean is, who ever goes around a-tellin’ folks things they a’ready ken?”

Horatio recovered from his shock and replied, “Well, girl, you see, Canterbury knows that Henry already knows these things. He’s saying them because he’s trying to talk Henry into invading France. So he’s not informing, he’s
reminding
. Also, he’s pointing out that the French king and his cohorts are liars and hypocrites, and have unjustly stolen land that should belong to England.”

“Ah.”

“Besides, if he didn’t say these things, the audience would be in the dark about the history, and history is what the play is about.”

Again the girl said, “Ah.”

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Liza, as I said earlier.”

“Yes, you did. You know the play.”

She shook her head. “As I said, yer grace, ah cannae read. Nae a word, if it please ye.” She dropped a quick, bouncy curtsey for good measure.

“You have remarkable comprehension of the scene from just one speech.”

She nodded. “Ah’m good wi’ folks, yer honor, sir. I ken things that often leave others a-scratching their heeds.”

Horatio absorbed that for a moment, then said, “If you would go have a seat over there in the gallery, I’ll talk to you again soon.”

The girl grinned, lifted her skirts again, and obliged, happily flouncing off the stage in a flurry of skirts and barely contained bosom.

Horatio, the boys in the pit, all the workmen, and Suzanne watched her plop down on a pile of lumber, and for a long moment there was silence. Then Horatio turned his attention to the waiting hopefuls standing in the pit, selected one for the next audition, and the workers went back to their hammering and sawing.

D
aniel stayed away from the theatre during this time, and that annoyed Suzanne. It had stood to reason he should come to the theatre, and part of her had assumed it would be often. That he didn’t was a surprise and disappointment.

Then it annoyed her that she was annoyed, because she hadn’t thought she’d wanted to see him. Yet another part of her knew it was foolish to think he would loiter about the theatre for the sake of financial interest. Surely that hadn’t been her reason for going to him for money. She told herself this more than once, all the while glancing out over the stage, past the pit, and to the large entrance doors in hopes of seeing Daniel’s carriage in the street. Surely her only reason for involving him was that he was the only man she knew with real money he might be willing to give her. Naturally he had been the one to ask. Wanting to see him had nothing to do with any of it. Did it?

Particularly after the way he’d treated her that night last summer.

But when all was said and done, it still annoyed her that he didn’t come. All those years he’d been away with Charles, she’d never thought of his wife as a rival for his attention, because he had been in France, not with Anne. His wife never entered into the picture, and Suzanne could imagine him pining for his mistress. After all, who could ever long for a wife selected by one’s parents? Suzanne thought it impossible to love a spouse one had not chosen, and so assumed that if Daniel’s heart yearned it must yearn for herself. Surely it must.

But now that he was living with Anne in the new house he’d had built in Pall Mall, Suzanne began to wonder why she heard from him so rarely, and then only when there was business regarding the theatre and only by messenger. She was the liaison between him and Piers, and so passed messages back and forth. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Daniel was reluctant to deal directly with Piers, and so she took care of some business details that might have been handled by her son. It suited her, for she was not shy about telling people what to do and what she wanted to happen, but soon she wished Daniel would address her about something other than business. Eventually she wondered why he didn’t, and then found herself annoyed.

One day in spring, when the weather had warmed nicely, on a whim she hired Samuel and Thomas to carry her across the river and around toward Whitehall. She had no thought of what she would do once she got there, but like so many things in her life it was an impulse she couldn’t resist. She went to the palace just for a look, as if to see whether any of it had changed since her last visit, or whether there was anyone
about she might want to espy. Such as Anne. It annoyed her that Anne might be there, where she herself was not welcome, and in a moment of honesty she admitted to herself she was going there to spy on Daniel.

The trip was not a short one, and it was past noon when she was set down in the street across from the palace entrance. Traffic through the gate was lively today. Carriages made their hoof-clopping way in and out, while pedestrians wended between them, some occasionally hurrying or sidling to avoid being run over. The guards kept a sharp lookout, but Suzanne knew they couldn’t eye everyone who came through, especially the passengers in vehicles. As Suzanne had come to realize during her last visit, the king depended on guards closer in than the gate, and his personal bodyguard, to protect his person. The closer one came to the king, the more likely one was to have a pike thrust into one’s face.

As she watched, the entire guard came alert as one and busied themselves clearing the entrance. Suddenly nobody was allowed in or out of the gate, and those approaching it found themselves barred by pikes held parallel to the ground, like a human fence. Suzanne came alert herself, sat up in the sedan chair, and peered at the palace gate to see who was coming out. For several minutes nothing happened. Everyone near the gate leaned in as far as they were allowed and stared into the palace. There was nothing for Suzanne to see, though it was apparent something was expected by those near the gate.

Finally some people began to emerge at a stroll. Those standing near the entrance gawked.

At the front was the king, tall, leggy, and aglitter with silk and jewels. He was too far off for Suzanne to see details, but every so often the sun would glint from a bit of his costume. A small entourage accompanied him, nearly as rich and fashionable,
shining in the sun and bouncing with feathers. Two women and several men walked within speaking distance of him. A small cluster of men came behind at a slight distance, not entirely on their own, but neither were they part of the king’s immediate circle. Each company was more or less surrounded by a sprinkling of guards armed with swords and pikes, and near the king walked two wielding arquebuses. The guns, held at ready, glinted in the sun as if they were part of the king’s jewelry.

Charles and his courtiers headed for St. James’s Park, directly across from the palace. The park had recently been opened to the public, and everyone knew the king enjoyed a stroll through it now and then. Today Suzanne could see that when the king went on an outing, nearly half the palace tagged along. So did some of the gawkers at the gate follow at a distance. Charles seemed to be enjoying himself, chatting with the woman at his elbow, a wide smile visible even from where Suzanne sat.

Then she caught sight of Daniel, strolling amid some friends in the cluster that followed the king. He laughed at something and touched a hand to his hat as a breeze came up and made the wide brim flap and feathers wave.

To Thomas and Samuel, Suzanne said in a hurry, “Here, have your pay now, you’re dismissed.” She slipped from the sedan chair and handed Thomas enough coins to cover the one-way trip. “If you find another fare before I return, I’ll make my way home some other way.” Perhaps she might talk Daniel into taking her home in his carriage.

The men didn’t appear happy she was leaving them, but Thomas bowed to her without comment. Samuel acknowledged her with a nod. They would probably still be there if she returned, for folks in this part of the city wanting to cross
to Southwark were few, and those who did had carriages. The men would stay long to have her fare for that trip.

They slipped from her mind as she drew her cloak around her and hurried to reach Daniel before he entered the park. He was absorbed in a joke being told by one of his companions, and didn’t see her approach.

“Gracious good afternoon, my lord,” said Suzanne.

All three men turned to see who was addressing them. A guard with a pike stepped in to bar her, but Daniel held out a hand for the man to stand down, that she was with him. His friends relaxed when they saw she was a stranger, a commoner, and nothing to concern either of them. Daniel gave her a small, conditional smile. “Good afternoon, Mistress Thornton. How are you today?”

His formal tone was like a pinprick to her heart, but she reminded herself that they were not in Southwark today. Regardless of who she was to him in private, or had been in the past, out in the sunshine and fresh breezes she was nothing more than a reformed whore and the mother of a business associate. Notwithstanding the new freedoms offered by the king, in its own way the moral climate of the restored monarchy was as hypocritical as that under Oliver Cromwell.

She replied, “I’m quite well, thank you, my lord. I wonder if I might walk with you a distance today. It’s such a fine afternoon, one can hardly resist a stroll in the park.” She turned her face to the sky, and it was very nice to feel the warmth of the sun on it.