An Ensuing Evil and Others (7 page)

Richard Burbages reaction was immediate. “God damn my eyes, Master Constable, I have been searching for that miscreant since this morning. He failed to turn up at the rehearsal, and I have had to give his part to his friend. Where is the execrable young rogue?”

“Dead these past twelve hours, I fear.”

Richard Burbage was shocked. He clapped his hand to his head. But the main reason for his perturbation was soon apparent. “A player short! If ever the gods were frowning on me this day…”

“I would know more about this boy…,” insisted the constable. Richard Burbage had turned to wave to a man who had just entered the theater.

Master Drew recognized Richard Burbage’s brother, Cuthbert, immediately.

“A good day to you, Master Constable. What is your business here this fine Saturday?” Cuthbert Burbage greeted him as he came forward.

His brother raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Fine Saturday, indeed, brother! Tell him, Master Constable, while I am about my business. It lacks only an hour before the play begins.” He turned and scurried away.

Quickly, Master Drew told Cuthbert Burbage of what had passed.

“So, young Oliver is drowned, eh?”

“Oliver?”

“That was the lads name, Oliver Rowe. Did he fall drunk into the river to drown?”

Master Drew shook his head. “I said we hauled him from the river, not that he drowned. Young Oliver Rowe had his throat slit before he went into his watery grave. It was not for robbery either, for he still had money in his purse and”—he pulled out the ring from his pocket—”this ring on his finger.”

Cuthbert let out an angry hiss. “That, sir, is theater property. No more than a simple actor’s paste. A cheap imitation. I had wondered where it had gone. Damn Oliver—”

“He is damned already, Master Cuthbert,” interrupted Master Drew.

Cuthbert hung his head contritely. “Forgive me, I quite forgot. I was thinking of his making off with theater property.”

“Had this Oliver Rowe been long with you?”

“A year, no more.”

“A good actor?”

“Hardly that, sir. He lacked experience and dedication. Though, I grant, he made up for his lack with a rare enthusiasm.”

“Would anyone wish him ill?”

“You seek a reason for his murder?”

“I do.”

“Then I have none to give you. He had no enemies but many friends, particularly of the fairer sex.”

“And male friends?”

“Several within the company.”

“Was Master Hawkins a particular friend of his?”

“Hardly. Tom Hawkins is twice his age and an actor of experience, though with too many airs and graces of late. He is a competent performer, yet now he demands roles which are beyond his measure. We have told him several times to measure his cloth on his own body.”

“Where did this Oliver Rowe reside?”

“But a step or two from here, Master Constable. He had rooms at Mrs. Robat s house in the Skin Market.”

A youth came hurriedly up, flush-faced, his words tumbling over themselves.

Cuthbert Burbage held up a hand to silence him. “Now, young Toby, tell me slowly what ails you?”

“Master Burbage, I have just discovered that there is no gunpowder for the cannon that I am supposed to fire. What is to be done?”

Master Drew pulled a face. “If I may intervene, Master Burbage? Your brother has sent old Jasper across to the gunsmithy to purchase this same gunpowder.”

The youth gave Drew a suspicious glance and then left with equal hastiness. “I will ascertain if this be so,” he called across his shoulder.

Cuthbert Burbage sighed. “Ah, Master Constable, the play’s the thing! The player is dead—long live the play. Life goes on in the theater. Let us know what the result of your investigation is, good master. We poor players tend to band together in adversity. I know young Rowe was impecunious and a stranger to London, so it will be down to us thespians to ensure him a decent burial.”

“I will remember, Master Cuthbert,” the constable agreed before he exited the theater.

It took hardly any time to get to the Skin Market, with its busy and noisome trade in animal furs and skins. A stall holder pointed to Mrs. Robat’s house in a corner of the market square.

Mrs. Robat was a large, rotund woman with fair skin and dark hair. She opened the door and smiled at him.
“Shw mae. Mae hi’n braf, wir!”

Constable Drew glowered at her ingenuous features. “I speak not your Welsh tongue, woman, and you have surely been long enough in London to speak in good, honest English?”

The woman continued to smile blandly at him, not understanding.
“Yr wyf yn deal ychydig, ond ni allaf ei siarad
.”

A thin-faced man tugged the woman from the door and jerked his head in greeting to the constable. “I am sorry, sir, my wife, Megan, has no English.”

Master Drew showed him his seal of office. “I am the Constable of the Watch. I want to see the room of Master Oliver Rowe.”

Master Robat raised his furtive eyebrows in surprise. “Is anything amiss?”

“He is dead.”

The man spoke rapidly to his wife in Welsh. She turned pale. Then he motioned Master Drew into the house, adding to his wife:
“Arhoswch yma!”

The constable followed the man up the stairs for five flights to a small attic room.

“Was there an accident, sir?” prompted the man nervously.

“Master Rowe was murdered.”

“Diw! Diw!”

“I have no understanding of your Welshry,” muttered the constable.

“Ah, the loss is yours, sir. Didn’t Master Shakespeare give these words to Mortimer in his tale of
Henry the Fourth?…”
The man struck a ridiculous pose. “I will never be a truant, love, till I have learn’d thy language; for thy tongue makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d—”

Master Drew decided to put an end to the man’s theatrical eloquence. “I come not to discuss the merits of a scribbling word-seller nor his thoughts on your skimble-skamble tongue,” snapped the constable, turning to survey the room.

There were three beds in the room. Two of them untidy, and there were many clothes heaped upon the third. There were similarities to the mess he had observed in Hawkins’s room. A similar pile of untidy papers. He picked them up. Play scripts again. He began to go through the cupboards and found another sheaf of papers there. One of them, he observed, was a draft of a play—
Falsehood Liberated
. The name on the title page was
Teazle Rowe
.

“What was Master Rowe s first name?” he asked the Welshman. He had thought the Burbages had called Rowe by the first name of Oliver.

“Why, sir,” confirmed the man, “it was Oliver.”

“Did he have another name?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you read, man?”

The Welshman drew himself up. “I can read in both Welsh and English.”

“Then who is
Teazle
Rowe?”

“Oh, you mean Master Teazle, sir. He is the other young gentleman who shares this room with Master Rowe.”

Constable Drew groaned inwardly.

He had suddenly remembered what Page Williams, at the Blackfriars Theatre, had said. What was it? Rowe had complained that Bardolph Zenobia had stolen a play written by Rowe with the help of his friend.

“And where is this Master Teazle now?”

“He is out, sir. I don’t suppose he will return until late tonight.”

“You have no idea where I will find him?”

“Why, of course. He is doubtless at the theater, sir.”

“The theater? Which one, in the name of—!”

“The Globe, sir. He is one of Master Burbages company. Both Master Rowe and Master Teazle are King’s Men.”

Master Drew let out an exasperated sigh.

So both Rowe and his friend Teazle were members of the same company as Hawkins, alias Bardolph Zenobia?

Rowe had accused Hawkins of stealing a play that both he and Teazle had written and of selling it to the Blackfriars Theatre. A pattern was finally emerging.

“When did you last see Master Rowe?”

“Last night, sir,” the reply came back without hesitation.

“Last night? At what hour?”

“Indeed, after the bell had sounded the midnight hour. I was forced to come up here and tell the young gentlemen to be quiet, as they were disturbing the rest of our guests.”

“Disturbing them? In what way?”

“They were having a most terrible argument, sir. The young gentlemen were quite savage with each other.
Thief and traitor
were the more repeatable titles that passed between them.”

“And after you told them to be quiet?”

“They took themselves to quietness and all was well, thanks be to God. Sometimes Master Teazle has a rare temper, and I swear I would not like to go against him.”

“But, after this, you saw Master Rowe no more?”

The man’s eyes went wide. “I did not. And you do tell me that Master Rowe is dead? Are you saying that—?”

“I am saying nothing, Master Robat. But you shall hear from me again.”

The play had already started by the time the constable reached the Globe again.

He marched in past the sullen old doorman and examined the auditorium. The theater was not crowded. It being a bright summer Saturday afternoon, many Londoners were about other tasks than spending time in a playhouse. But there was a fair number of people filling several of the boxes and a small crowd clustering around the area directly in front of the stage. He noticed, in disapproval, the harlots plying their wares from box to box, mixing with fruit-sellers and other traders, from bakers’ boys and those selling all kinds of beverages.

Master Drew saw a worried-looking Cuthbert Burbage coming toward him.

“Where is Master Hawkins?” he demanded.

“Preparing for the second act,” replied the man in apprehension. “Master Constable, swear to me that you will not interrupt the play by arresting him, if he be in trouble?”

“I am no prophet, Master Burbage,” returned the constable, moving toward the area where the actors were preparing themselves to take their part upon the stage. He looked at them. What was the part that Hawkins was said to be playing—a cardinal? He picked out a man dressed in scarlet robes.

“Are you Master Hawkins?”

The actor raised a solemnly face and grimaced with contempt. “I am not, sir. I play Cardinal Wolsey. You will find Cardinal Campeius at the far end.”

This time there was no mistake. “Master Thomas Hawkins?”

The distinguished-looking cleric bowed his head. “I am yours to command, good sir.”

“And are you also Master Bardolph Zenobia?”

The actors face colored slightly. He shifted uneasily. “I admit to being the same man, sir.”

Master Drew introduced himself. “Did you know that Master Oliver Rowe has been discovered murdered?”

There was just a slight flicker in the eyes. “It is already whispered around the theater from your earlier visit, Master Constable.”

“When did you first learn of it?”

“Less than half an hour ago, when I came to the theater.”

“When did you last see Master Rowe?”

“Last evening.”

“Here, at this theater?”

“I was not in last nights performance. I went to stay with… with a lady in Eastcheap. I have only just returned from that assignation.”

“And, of course,” sneered the constable, “you would have no difficulty in supplying me the lady’s name?”

“None, good master. The lady and I mean to be married.”

“And she will be able to tell me that you were with her all night?”

“If that is what you require. But not just the lady but her father and mother, for she lives with them. They own the Boar’s Head in Eastcheap and are well respected.”

Master Drew swallowed hard. The alibi of a lady on her own was one thing, but the alibi of an entire respectable family could hardly be faulted.

“When last did you see Master Rowe?”

“It was after yesterday afternoon’s performance. Rowe asked me to go with him to a waterside tavern after the matinee performance. I had an appointment across the river before I went on to Eastcheap and could not long delay. But Rowe was insistent. We wound up by having an argument, and I left him.”

“What was the argument about?”

Hawkins’s color deepened. “A private matter.”

“A matter concerning Master Bardolph Zenobia’s literary endeavors?”

Hawkins shrugged. “I will tell you the truth. Rowe and a friend of his had written a pretty story. Rowe wanted help in finding a theater to stage it.”

“Why did he not take it to Burbage?”

“Sir, we are the King’s Men here. We have a program of plays of surpassing quality for the next several years from many renowned masters of their art, Master Shakespeare, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, and the like. Master Burbage would not look at anything by a nameless newcomer. Rowe knew I had contacts with other theaters and gave me the script to read. The basic tale was commendable, but so much work needed to be done to revise it into something presentable. I spent much time on it. In the end, the work was mine, not Rowe’s nor that of his friend.”

“I suppose by ‘his friend,’ you mean Teazle?”

“Yes, Teazle.”

“So you felt that the play was your own to do with as you liked?”

“It
was
mine. I wrote it. I will show you the original and my alterations. At first, I asked only to be made a full partner in the endeavor. When Rowe refused, saying the work was his and his friend s alone, I put the name of Zenobia on it and took it to Blackfriars. I told Rowe after I had sold it and offered to give him a guinea for the plot. I did not wish to be ungenerous. He refused. Rowe found out which theater I had sold it to and even went to the theater after I had left him last night, claiming that I had stolen the work.

“But from what was said yesterday afternoon, I had the impression that Rowe might have accepted the money if Teazle had not refused his share of the guinea. Rowe told me that Teazle thought him to be in some plot with me to cheat him and share more money after the play was produced. I told Rowe that it was up to him to make his peace with Teazle. I think a guinea was a fair sum to pay for the idea which I had to turn into literature.”