The Twelfth Night Murder (13 page)

“And he would be out of sight of London society.”

“Jacob was ashamed of him. And ’tis true there are few in gentle society who would have accepted him. It was a quandary. I wanted what was best for him, and didn’t wish him to be hated by our friends and equals. But also I never wished him to be away from me.”

“Do you know how he came to return to London?”

“No. All these months I thought he was safe in Kent. I missed him, of course, but I took solace in thinking he was safe and away from the temptation Jacob feared so.”

“What did the duke fear?”

“That Paul would fall in with sodomites. He was certain it would happen, and in fact often accused our son of it. He tried to beat it out of him, and only I understood that his nature was immutable. All Jacob accomplished was damage. Like removing the red from an apple; what you have left is a mutilated apple.”

Suzanne knew well the futility of beating children, for she’d taken a great deal of damage from her own father. She asked, “Who went with him? Did he have an escort, or was he alone?”

“We had our coachman take him.”

Suzanne glanced up at the small, grated window in the coach wall above the duchess’s head. “Him?”

The duchess addressed the window and raised her voice to be heard over the rumbling of the carriage. “James?”

“Aye, your grace,” came the attentive voice from above.

“Please be good enough to tell me which of you it was who delivered Lord Paul to Kent in October.”

“That were Thomas, your grace.”

“Not yourself?”

“No, your grace.”

The duchess murmured to herself, “Well, that’s unfortunate.” Then she said to Suzanne, “Thomas was let go a number of weeks ago.” She raised her voice to the driver again. “James, what was the problem we had with Thomas, do you remember?”

“I’m afraid I never knew, your grace. He was here one day and gone the next, so far as I ever knew. I had the impression he’d absconded, and am a mite surprised not to have heard there were anything missing from the household. Truth be told, your grace.”

Suzanne said, “Did he simply leave? Or was he let go? Did he say why he was going?”

The duchess frowned and said half to herself, “I’m certain he was let go, though it’s possible I’ve just assumed it.” Her look was somewhat sheepish. “I confess it’s terribly careless of me to not know what has happened in my own household. Thomas has been gone since just after the New Year, and I’ve assumed Jacob had things well under control regarding the staff. I suppose I should ask him what happened with Thomas.”

“I would like to have that information, should you be able to obtain it without mentioning my name.”

“Of course.”

“Have you heard from anyone in Kent since Lord Paul left your house?”

The duchess thought hard on that, and as she failed to remember any communication from them, a line appeared between her eyebrows. “No, I’m afraid we’ve had no letter from them.”

“Is that the usual?”

The duchess shook her head. “No. And I’m ashamed to have not realized it before. We should have expected some sort of communication from them, even a short note.”

Suzanne nodded. She’d also thought it quite strange that Lord Paul’s parents had not known he was in London. She asked, “When he went to Kent, did Thomas return in a timely manner?”

“He returned most speedily, I’d say. I’d have thought he would have been gone another day, but he never lingered. We thought him conscientious to have discharged his duty so efficiently.” She once again addressed the driver. “James, Thomas returned from Kent in such a timely manner . . . Did you ever hear whether there was a reason for it?”

The driver was slow in answering, then said, “He never said, your grace, I’m afraid.”

“I should have thought he might have lingered a day, to rest the horses and himself.”

Again the driver paused, then replied, “I’m afraid I’ve no thoughts on that, your grace.”

“I see. Thank you, James.”

“Aye, your grace.”

The duchess seemed satisfied with the driver’s answers, but Suzanne didn’t like his reluctance to speak. She wondered whether Paul had even left London on that trip.

S
uzanne would have liked to question the driver further, but had been warned against grilling the duke, and she assumed that extended to his servants. It wouldn’t do for the driver to mention such an interview to Cawthorne. The next thing, then, was to search down the one-handed sailor Willie had mentioned the night before. Rather than return Suzanne and Ramsay to the Globe, the duchess had her driver take them across the river to the wharves where stood the seafaring ships downstream and the lesser barges and transports upriver. First they searched the Three Cranes Wharf and Dowgate above the bridge, then below it the Billingsgate Dock. It teemed with commerce.

As Ramsay and Suzanne set foot on the wooden dock, she kept a sharp eye on her surroundings for the sake of safety. It was good to have a big, brawny escort by her side. The last time she’d been here she was attacked, and didn’t care to have that happen again. She saw very few women on the dock, all whores and beggars. The men were seafarers with few local ties and little incentive for civil behavior. There were no gentlewomen in sight, not even ones awaiting male relatives.

Suzanne began her search for men with a missing hand, as she had at the other docks upriver. She held out little hope, for as had been pointed out earlier by those she’d queried, the very nature of a sailor was to not stay long in one place. But it had been less than a week since the man in question was seen at the Goat and Boar, and she felt a slim hope he might still be in London.

The dock was a busy, bustling place. Built of solid, sturdy wood, so solid the footfalls of people walking on it sounded as on a cobbled street, the dock had room to accommodate a significant number of very large vessels, and an ample lane down the middle for ships to enter and leave. One such ship was leaving now, towed and steered by two rowboats, its sails furled entirely until it would reach navigable water. Suzanne couldn’t help hurrying for a better look at it, wishing she’d caught it earlier, lest her quarry be on it. She scanned the gunwale, though the one-handed sailor might have been anywhere else on that ship, and watched it as it moved like a fat duck, swaying slightly when it reached the current of the Thames, out of her reach so that she might never know whether she’d just missed the sailor who could have been a witness or a murderer.

She slowed and looked around. Ramsay had kept sight of her, and now followed her closely once more. “Ramsay,” she said in a slightly distracted voice as she scanned the crowds of men, “do ask someone whether they’ve seen a one-handed sailor.”

Ramsay was also looking, but staring in a particular direction. “No need, Suze. I see one now.”

She spun to see where he was looking, then turned in that direction. “Where?”

Ramsay pointed with his chin. “There. He’s carrying a large sack of corn. Or something. Caught it with one hand, and steadying it with the arm that has none. ’Tis his right hand that’s gone, as Willie told us.”

Suzanne saw the sailor with the sack perched on his left shoulder, and her heart leapt. Just as Willie had described him, he was average in height and weight, and had brown hair to his shoulders. He wore a coat that was new enough to mark him as either more successful or more sober than most sailors, and his breeches and tights bore no holes at all that she could see. The corn sack he carried appeared to be filled with other sorts of objects, probably his personal belongings. He was walking toward the river, his gaze glancing over each boat as if in search of a particular one. She hurried in his direction, and Ramsay came after.

She fell into step next to him, and greeted him with a warm smile. “A pleasant afternoon to you, good man.”

He kept walking, but looked over at her, then to front again. “Thank you, I’ve no need for company at the moment, and no cash to spend on it today, either.”

Though her first impulse was to make a ribald joke in response, she held it back and said instead, “You misunderstand me, young fellow.” The sailor wasn’t particularly young, but he was younger than she and so she thought to enhance her authority of age. “I’ve nothing to sell, but rather am buying.”

That caught his attention, and he stopped walking. He set his burden down on the boards and focused on her face. She remained smiling. He asked, “What is it yer buying, and for how much?”

“Information, if you have it.” She reached into the slit at the side of her skirt and into the pocket tied at her waist beneath it, to draw out a shilling.

“If I ain’t got it, I expect I can get it fer ye.” His gaze was glued to the coin she held.

“If you don’t have this information already, I don’t want it. I’m looking for a man who was in the Goat and Boar across the river in Southwark some five days ago. I wonder whether that could be you.”

He nodded. “Aye, it were. I were there some nights ago, though I couldn’t say fer certain which one. Sometimes I lose track of which day is which, I’m afraid. I hardly ever need to know when Sunday comes, and so they all just sort of jumble together like ’at.”

“And you left with a girl.”

“I did, fer true.” He nodded, and glanced down at the coin in her hand like a dog eyeing a bone.

“Which girl was it?”

“Oh, they all look alike to me.” He shrugged, a careless shoulder shake that rippled the length of his body. “There’s no remembering which girl I took out to the alley.”

“Try to remember, for ’tis aught but your memory that makes you important to me.”

“Blue dress. With lace. Pretty girl, she was. Talked a mite too much, though. Kept askin’ about how I lost my hand.” He held up his stump wrapped in a blue rag in case she hadn’t noticed it already.

“Did you stand her against the wall, or did she go to her knees?”

The sailor blinked, surprised. “A little personal, don’t ya think?”

Suzanne gave him a
don’t have me on
sort of smile and said, “She was a whore and you a paying customer. This is strictly business, and not so very personal at all in the end. Which was it?”

The sailor shrugged again. “On her knees.”

“You never felt up under the dress at all?”

“I tried to, but she were terrible shy about it.”

“That’s more than likely because she wasn’t a girl at all. That was a boy in that dress.”

The sailor gawped at her and forgot about the coin. For a moment he seemed speechless, then he laughed. “Naw. She weren’t.”

“She was.
He
was. His name was Paul Worthington.”

The sailor shook his head hard, and glanced around as if afraid of who might be listening in and think he was a sodomite. “No chance of that. I woulda known.” His face was turning a dark red, and his eyes took on a rather wild, angry expression. Clearly he was shocked to learn the truth about the whore he’d bought the other night. Dismayed, as well. He was not happy to learn he’d been with a boy.

Suzanne decided he could not be the murderer. This man’s surprise was obvious and real. He had not known before now the girl in the blue dress was a boy, and so could not have been the one who had stabbed and mutilated him. She handed over the shilling, and it disappeared into a pocket, though a puzzled look knotted his brow. “Thank you, good man. You’ve told me what I needed to know.”

“Which was what, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

“That you’re not a murderer.” She gave a slight curtsey by way of thanks, and ignored the man’s even more surprised expression. “Good day to you, and thank you again.” She took Ramsay’s arm and headed for the street.

“Aye, mistress, I’m at yer disposal. Anytime ye like,” came the sailor’s voice after them.

On the walk back across the bridge to Southwark, Ramsay said, “What did we accomplish, then?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. We know the sailor isn’t the murderer, and so we’ve ruled out exactly one man in all of London who bought whores that night. Now we need to look for the well-dressed, catlike fellow whose name escapes Willie.”

“There were plenty of other men in the Goat and Boar that night. Could have been any of them who guessed the whore in the blue dress was not a girl. Daniel, for that.”

“One step at a time, Diarmid. Let’s find the most likely candidates first. And I think we can rule out Daniel. Just a guess, but I don’t think he did it.”

“You’re certain?”

“Well, how about we give him the benefit of the doubt until we’ve reason to believe otherwise.”

“I dunno. He’s a pretty dodgy character, don’t you think? Perhaps we should keep an eye on him.”

Suzanne laughed and slapped his coat sleeve.

*   *   *

T
HAT
evening Suzanne waited in the backstage area as the cast of
Twelfth Night
came offstage. Spirits were high, for it had been a rousing performance and the happy ending of the comedy always left the cast as giddy with amusement as their audience. They chattered with each other and with guests who accompanied them to the green room, where there was sometimes food and drink to be found. It was customary for guests with money to sometimes treat actors with bottles and baskets, and often the entire backstage area turned into an enormous party after a performance. Less so for The New Globe Players than for either of the royal troupes, but even this group had some loyal middle-class followers who liked to bask in reflected glory, however dim it might be. Tonight several bottles of fine wine stood on the table against the far wall, and there was a board of French and English cheeses for nibbling. Lively conversation filled the room, and Suzanne came to try the wine.

It was rather pleasant. She enjoyed a rich, dark wine, and drank happily of this. As she sipped, a man she didn’t know well came to talk to her. His was a face she’d seen before but had never put a name to. He appeared a low-level crown functionary of some sort, in his late twenties or so. He owned an oval face with soft features, topped with an enormous, showy wig that must have cost him several pounds. He was the sort of backstage guest who wished to be part of the theatre but had neither the talent and discipline to be an actor nor the wherewithal to be a patron. A hanger-on of the worst sort, taking up space and contributing nothing. He sipped from a glass of the wine, smacked his lips loudly, and said to her, “This is excellent wine, mistress.”

“It is. I wonder who sent it.”

He looked around the room, then pointed in the direction of a conversation cluster. “That fellow, I believe. The one in the green.”

It was Horatio he referred to. Plainly this fellow was pretending more familiarity with the troupe than he possessed. Though Suzanne knew Horatio would never have spent his money on wine for the troupe, she only nodded and took another sip. She found it common in men younger than thirty or so that they pretended expertise beyond their true experience. She also found it tedious beyond measure.

This young man seemed at least sensitive enough to know he was getting nowhere with the wine discussion, so he changed his tack. “I hear through the grapevine that you spend your time investigating crimes.” The young man seemed to thrum with curiosity, as if he’d been waiting all afternoon for a chance to ask her about it and the assay into the wine had been merely pretext.

She peered at him, and with a smile gave a coy tilt of the head. “So you hear? Who told you that?”

“A little birdie. Actually, several little birdies.” He gestured at the room in general. “You’re not quite the talk of the town, but murmurings grow. It’s rumored you work on the sly at the behest of the local constabulary.”

“Rumored?”

“Indeed. Though I suppose you won’t be doing it secretly for long, if enough people talk about it.”

“People such as yourself.”

He only blinked at her, and didn’t reply.

“Who let you in on my little secret?” She hadn’t thought it so clandestine, but she was certainly surprised anyone would care to talk about it much. But then, some people had so little to do that any sort of gossip was exciting to them, no matter how unimportant.

“I was in my office several days ago, when some men came in to have their pay. They were talking amongst themselves about it. Said you were asking around about the murder of a boy wearing a dress.”

“Did they say the name of the boy?”

This fellow shook his head. “No, they didn’t seem to know it. Only your name. And the constable’s. They said it was the constable of Southwark who had brought you to view the body. Said you were quite the authority in the situation, asking questions and demanding answers as if you were Pepper himself.”

Well, that particular rumor certainly wasn’t going to sit well with the constable, should he hear she was attempting to usurp him. She supposed she should expect another visit from him before long if this kept up. She said to the guest, “One shouldn’t put too much store in gossip.”

“Do you mean you aren’t asking around about the murdered boy?”

“I mean Constable Pepper has no need of my help, and is perfectly capable of doing his own work.” That he never actually did it was beside the point. She assumed he might be capable, were he ever to bother himself.

The young man in the expensive wig snorted, as if that were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Suzanne ignored it, and cast about for another subject to discuss, to wrench the conversation away from Samuel Pepper and the death of Lord Paul. However, he dragged it back where she didn’t wish to go.