The Opening Night Murder (19 page)

She sat back in her seat and ordered Samuel and Thomas back to Southwark.

Not long after spotting William in the park, Suzanne had a visitor she had thought never to see again and certainly didn’t care to see. That day she’d dismissed Sheila for the evening and was readied for bed in her bronze-colored brocade robe. She’d finished her nightly regime and had brought out the pen and ink to work on her writings at the desk in an alcove of her bedchamber. Some bits of diary, some snatches of poem, and among it came some ideas for drama. When or whether any of it might be useful was yet to be seen, but a kernel of a dream was forming in the back of her mind. It pleased her to think she might one day show her scribblings to someone and that they might be well received. In any case, she enjoyed the stories she invented and it was pleasant entertainment of an evening when the troupers were out at pubs and the theatre was quiet and dark.

Tonight the workmen had gone at sunset, but a few of the performers had spent the early evening in rehearsal, using whatever spaces they could find that were serviceable. Any
clearing on a floor would do, for scenery was always evoked by the words and actions, created in the imagination of the audience by the actors’ voices and bodies. Any given scene took up little space, so it wasn’t necessary to occupy an entire stage just to rehearse. The small group was just then winding down, about to end their day. The rest had retired to their pallets while others went to their homes or wended through the few streets and closes to the Goat and Boar for some food, drink, and recreation.

It had been a long, frenetic day, but Suzanne was pleased with how well the work was coming. Piers seemed to thrive in his new occupation as master of the theatre, and it made her proud that the workers listened to him and followed his orders. Her quill paused, hovering over the page, as she thought how wonderful it was to watch him direct the work. So much like his father, and how unfortunate was it that Daniel didn’t seem to have any interest in him. Never mind that he didn’t care for her anymore, he should have some regard for his son.

“Suzanne.”

She jerked alert and turned, but saw no one. The hair at the back of her neck prickled, for she thought she’d heard William. It was William’s voice that had said her name, but that was impossible. How could he have gotten in here? And why hadn’t he gone to France as he’d said he would? She whispered, hoping she hadn’t really heard anything, “William?”

He stepped out from behind some gowns hung from the side of the armoire. Suzanne pressed a hand to her chest and gasped, for close up she could see his appearance was as shocking as his presence. In the past year he’d lost weight and looked quite ill, even like a scarecrow, with hollowed eye sockets, prominent cheekbones, and shoulders that seemed to poke
out from his shirt. His eyes were rimmed in red, and his skin was as pale as paper. A wig sat awkwardly on his head, askew and unkempt. Random bits of straw clung to it, as if he’d been sleeping in a barn and hadn’t even attempted to neaten himself. “Help me,” he said with trembling lips. Then she saw he held a dagger in his fist.

She only gaped at him. Help? Why hadn’t he fled England? She was almost impatient with him for his unreliability, which was so like him. Why wasn’t he with his wife in France? But she didn’t say these things out loud because anything she might have said would have been angry and pointless. Also, he looked like he might hurt her if she said the wrong thing.

“Suzanne…” He could see she wasn’t happy to see him, and now whined at her. She’d once rejected Stephen Farthingworth for being weak, and the irony of ending up with this wheedling infant was not lost on her.

“William, why are you here?” She turned on her stool and laid a hand on her dressing table, struggling for some grace when she would have liked to throw something hard and heavy at him.

“They pursue me,” he replied. His eyes darted this way and that, apparently searching the room for those who pursued him, whoever “they” might be.

“Who, William? What is the matter?”

He licked his lips, which were dry and cracked, nearly white for being so chapped. He wore only a shirt and breeches that were filthy, no leggings so that the hair on his unshaved legs appeared as dark patches on paleness, and his shoes had seen better days long before this one. They in addition to his wig appeared to have spent some nights in a barn, and Suzanne
caught a whiff of horse manure. He said in a whisper, “They want me in the Tower. They will have me if I’m not cautious.”

“Who do you mean? What on God’s earth has happened to you?”

“They wouldn’t allow me out of the country. I was prevented from going to France. They’ve taken my wife. She’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

His face screwed up as if to weep, but then he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “I know not. I only know that she is gone.”

“And who took her?”

“The king’s men.”

“How do you know this?”

“She’s in the Tower. They’ve put her in the Tower.”

“
How do you know?
Has someone told you she’s been arrested?” Suzanne couldn’t imagine William’s shy, mousy wife holding enough interest for the crown that she would be placed under arrest in the Tower of London. Newgate, perhaps, if she owed money or had murdered someone. But never the Tower. She just wasn’t important enough, and neither was William.

“They’ve got her, I know it. They want me, but they’ll torture her in my stead.” He clouded up to weep again, but overcame it. Again. He had always been awfully good at working up the tears.

“But why, William?”

“Because of my religion, of course! You must know it!” His fists clenched and he spoke through gritted teeth, in frustration that she wasn’t understanding what to him was patently obvious.

She stifled a sigh. “That’s absurd. Nobody wants to put
your wife in the Tower for your religion, least of all the crown. There are far too many Puritans in Parliament for that sort of nonsense, and if Charles were to persecute the religion, he would surely start with them. William, what have you been doing all these months? Why aren’t you in France?”

“France?” He shook his head. “My wife wouldn’t go. She denied the danger. She laughed when I said we needed to leave before the king began taking retribution for his exile. Poor naïve woman, she wouldn’t come with me. And now it’s too late! Oh alas, it’s too late! They’ve taken her, and it’s far too late!” Now he began to weep in earnest, hugging himself and retreating behind the hanging gowns once more. “Oh woe!”

She rose in an impulse to go to him, as once she might have when she’d owed him such comfort for their arrangement, but stopped herself. She was no longer his mistress. He’d abandoned her a year ago, leaving her to fend for herself in a new regime. She owed him nothing. But she took a soft tone with him, hoping he would calm down and go away. “William, you can’t be sure your wife is in the Tower. In fact, I’m certain she’s not.”

“She is! They’ve locked her away from me, so they might capture me when I enquire about her!”

“You haven’t asked anyone?”

“How can I? They would pounce upon me in an instant were I to show my face!”

“Whatever for? What have you done to incur his majesty’s wrath?” From what she knew of Charles’s character, it seemed terribly unlikely that William might do or say anything to annoy the king. Or even to attract his attention.

William’s agitation grew so that he gasped as he spoke. “You know what I’ve done! You were with me the entire time! You know how guilty I am!”

Suzanne was aware of how easily guilt came to people like William. Their relationship had been riddled with it, and perhaps even depended on it, given some of his odd preferences in the bedchamber. Even as a base prostitute she’d had few clients who’d enjoyed “correction” as much as he had. “Guilty of what, William? What is it you think you’ve done?” Suddenly she wanted to smack his face and shove him out the door. But getting him out of her quarters would only put him in another part of the theatre, leaving him to do what he would in the ’tiring house. She thought of screaming for help, but was afraid of what William might do if she screamed. So she talked to him calmly, as if he were a growling dog or a fractious horse. “Tell me, William. What do you think you did?”

In his frustration at her lack of comprehension, William clenched his fists before him. “I did business with Cromwell! You know it’s true!”

“Indeed. It’s true of most of London. Hardly a man walking about in the streets is innocent of that charge.”

“Then you understand!”

She felt as if she grasped nothing. “Understand what, William?”

“’Tis but a matter of time before they will herd us all together and hang us all!” He waved the dagger as if it were a brush, painting his words onto an invisible wall before him.

Suzanne sat on her stool again and gathered her composure. She eyed the dagger, though she was certain he didn’t intend to hurt her with it. “Nonsense, William. The king and all his men have far more important people to behead, and he would have to work his way through most of London before arriving at you. And I think he might even be done with all that by now. Or at the very least he’s dealt with all the serious offenders
and is just finishing the last of the minor ones. You’ve nothing to fear, I assure you.”

William brought himself up, insulted. “I do. I have much to fear. I was an important man in the Lord Protector’s government.”

Suzanne then finally grasped William’s need to be persecuted. He couldn’t bear to have been so unimportant to Cromwell that the king could let him live. “Ah, I see.” She then saw an avenue to bring him back from this insanity, or at least convince him to leave the theatre in peace, by playing into his delusion. She could give him an address and tell him there were people there who would be willing to smuggle him out of England. He would believe that, and see it as refuge.

But William said, “Ah, you see! It’s time you saw something, you ignorant slut!”

A sudden, perverse anger came over her. His inflated sense of self-importance and entitlement was what had caused him to abandon her. Something snapped in her at the thought of what he’d put her through because he could consider only himself in all things, and she just couldn’t feed his arrogance anymore. Or any man’s arrogance. No more could she simply smile and nod and hope things would work out for the best.

She took a deep breath and said in a low, angry tone, “But, William, you weren’t important at all. You were a small influence and hardly noticed by Cromwell, let alone King Charles. Don’t overestimate yourself. You were always good at that, thinking you are better than you actually are.”

William gaped at her, shocked that she could think such a thing, and saying it was unimaginable rudeness.

“Yes, William, you always were a small, unimportant man. You left me without a farthing of support, convinced that the king would want your head for your involvement with the
Protectorate. And now you just can’t face that you aren’t important enough to kill. Not worth the hangman’s fee, or even an old rope. I expect your wife has run off as well. Perhaps she’s gone to France without you. Or she’s gone to the country. Has she a relative to stay with? Have you enquired there? Or did you even think of that?”

His mouth opened and closed like a fish, his eyes agog.

“Nothing to say, William?”

“My…wife…”

“Go to France, William. Leave London, there’s nothing here for you. Get out of England. You’ll be safe, and you can find another woman to annoy. There are plenty of whores in Paris; you should be able to find one desperate enough for money to put up with you.” She stood and went to shove him. “Go. Now.” She shoved him again, then grabbed his dagger from him and threw it to the floor.

“You lay hands on me!” He made no attempt to recover his knife but took a step backward, startled.

“You’ve laid hands on me often enough, I suppose it’s my turn. Now go!” She shoved him again, toward the door. “Get out before I scream and my son comes running. You’ve far more to fear from him than you do from Charles, I promise.” Another shove, and William began to retreat toward the door.

“I came for help, and this is how you treat me.” His voice faltered, for this was a development he hadn’t anticipated.

“I’ve no help for you, William. Go to France if you’re afraid of the king. Show yourself here again, and I’ll make certain Charles knows exactly where to find you.”

“Harridan!”

“Madman!” She shoved him once again, and he finally broke for the door. Truly angry now, she followed him, shouting, “Get out! Get out, you little man!” He scrambled through
the rest of her rooms, knocking things over in his haste to get away from her. Sheila rose from her pallet by the hearth in the kitchen and gaped at him as he passed, her blankets held close about her. Suzanne’s voice rose to a shrill scream as she chased him from the rooms. “Out! Out! Out! Out of London! Get to France, where they know how to treat your kind!” Suzanne was a Protestant herself, but just then was enraged and hateful.

Voices came from elsewhere in the theatre as the performers who had retired to their pallets in the common room upstairs rose to see what the commotion was about. William fled from Suzanne, but outside the outer door of her apartment he encountered two performers who tried to grab him. Arturo, one of the mummers, grasped an arm, but was a small man and William shook him off. Arturo staggered backward a couple of steps as William tried to bolt up the stairs. The other, one of Horatio’s actors whose name was Louis, waved his arms as if herding a bull. Horatio approached from the stairs as he drew on a dressing robe and frowned like a thundercloud at the disturbance.

William turned to flee Louis, looking for an escape in the darkness, and was about to rush past Suzanne again when Horatio grabbed him by the back of the neck. When William attempted to twist free, Arturo and Louis lent a hand to control him, each grabbing an arm. William screamed like a girl, and his knees buckled so that the actors had to hold him up to keep him from collapsing to the floor. Horatio stood over him, his fingers dug into William’s spine, and shouted, his voice reverberating from the walls, “What nefarious business is at hand? Who is this man?”