An Ensuing Evil and Others (9 page)

A middle-aged man stood at the door, awaiting them. His face bore a distracted, anxious gaze, and he was wringing his hands in a helpless, almost theatrical gesture. Hardy Drew tried to hide a smile, for the action was so preposterous that the humor caught him. It was as if the man were playing at the expression of agitated despair.

“Give you good day, sir,” Master Topcliff greeted breezily.

“Lackaday, sir,” replied the other. “For I do fear that any good in the day has long vanished. My name is Burbage, and I am the director of this company of players.”

“I hear from your boy that a foreign nobleman lies dead in your theater. This is serious.”

Burbage’s eyes widened in surprise. “A foreign nobleman?” He sounded bewildered.

“Indeed, sir, what name was it? The Count of Rousillon. Have I been informed incorrectly?”

A grimace crossed Master Burbage’s woebegone face. “He was no foreign nobleman, sir.”

“How now?” demanded Master Topcliff in annoyance. “Is the constable to be made the butt of some mischievous prank? Is there no murder then?”

“Oh, yes. Murder, there is, good Constable. But the body is that of our finest player, Bertrando Emillio. He plays the role of the Count of Rousillon in our current production.”

Master Topcliff snorted with indignation.

“An actor?” Master Topcliff made it sound as though it was beneath his dignity to be called out to the murder of an actor. He gave a sniff. “Well, since we are here, let us view the body.”

Burbage led them to the back of the stage, where several people stood or sat in groups quietly talking amongst themselves. One woman was sitting sobbing, comforted by another. Their whispers ceased as they saw the constable and his deputy. From their appearance, so Drew thought, they were all members of the company of actors. He glanced across their expressions, for they ranged from curiosity to distress to bewilderment, while others seemed to have a tinge of anxiety on their faces.

Burbage led them to what was apparently a small dressing room, in a darkened corridor behind the stage, which was full of hanging clothes and baskets and all manner of clutter. On one basket was a pile of neat clothes, well folded, with leather belt and purse on top.

In the middle of this room lay the body of a young man, who in life and been of saturnine appearance. He was stretched on his back, one arm flung out above his head. The eyes were open, and the face was masked in a curious expression as if of surprise. He wore nothing more than a long linen shirt that probably had once been white. Now it was stained crimson with his blood. It needed no physician to tell them that the young man had died from several stab wounds to his chest and stomach. Indeed, by the body, a long bone-handled knife, of the sort used for carving meat, lay discarded and bloody.

Master Topcliff glanced down dispassionately. Death was no stranger to the environs of London, either north or south of the river. In particular, violent death was a constant companion among the lanes and streets around the river.

“His name is Bertrando Emillio, you say? That sounds foreign to me. Was he Italian?”

Master Burbage shook his head. “He was as English as you or I, sir. No, Bertrando Emillio was but the name he used for our company of players.”

Master Topcliffe was clearly irritated. “God’s wounds! I like not confusion. First I am told that he is the Count of Rousillon. Then I am told he is an actor, one Bertrando Emillio. Who now do you claim him to be?”

“Faith, sir, he is Herbert Eldred of Cheapside,” replied Burbage unhappily. “But while he treads the boards, he is known to the public by his stage name—Bertrando Emillio. It is a common practice among us players to assume such names.”

Master Topcliff grunted unappeased by the explanation. “Who found him thus?” he asked curtly.

As he was asking the question, Master Drew had fallen to his knees to inspect the body more closely. There were five stab wounds to the chest and stomach. They had been inflicted as if in a frenzy, for he saw the ripping of the flesh caused by the hurried tearing of the knife, and he realized that any one of the wounds could have been mortal. He was about to rise when he saw some paper protruding under the body. Master Drew rolled the body forward toward its side to extract the papers. In doing so, he noticed that there was a single stab wound in Bertrando s back, between the shoulder blades. He picked up the papers, let the body roll into its former position on its back, and stood up.

“Who found him thus?” Master Topcliff repeated.

“I did,” confessed Master Burbage. “We were rehearsing for our new play, in which he plays the Count de Rousillon. It was to be our first performance this very Saturday afternoon, and this was to be our last rehearsal in the costumes we shall wear. Truly, the stars were in bad aspect when Master Shakespeare chose this day to put forward his new work.”

“You are presenting a new play by Master Shakespeare?” queried Hardy Drew, speaking for the first time. He had ascertained that the papers under the body were a script of sorts, and presumably the part was meant for Bertrando.

“Indeed, a most joyous comedy called
All’s Well That Ends Well,”
affirmed Burbage, albeit a mite unhappily.

“Let us hope that it pleases the loyal subjects of the Queen s Majesty better than your previous production,” muttered Master Drew.

Master Topcliff shot his deputy a glance of annoyance before turning back to Burbage. “This is a comedy that has turned to tragedy for your player, Master Director. All has not ended well here.”

Burbage groaned theatrically. “You do not have to tell me, sir. We must cancel our performance.” His eyes widened suddenly in realization. “Z’life! Master Shakespeare is already on his way from Stratford to attend. How can I tell him the play is canceled?”

“Isn’t it the custom to have an understudy for the part?” asked Hardy Drew.

“Usually,” agreed Burbage, “but in this case, Bertrando was so jealous of his role that he refused to allow his understudy to attend rehearsals for him to perfect the part. Now the understudy has no time to learn his part before our first performance is due.”

“What is known about this killing?” interrupted Master Topcliff, bored with the problems of the play-master.

Burbage frowned. “I do not follow.”

“Is it known who did this deed or who might have done it?”

“Why, no. I came on the body a half an hour since. Most of us were on stage reading our parts. When Bertrando did not come to join us, I came here in search of him and found him as you see.”

“So you suspect no one?”

“No one would wish to harm Bertrando, for he is one of…
was
one of our most popular players with our audiences.”

Hardy Drew raised an eyebrow. “Surely that would not endear him to his fellow actors? What of this understudy that he has excluded from rehearsals? Where is he?”

Burbage looked shocked. “You suspect one of our players of such a deed?” he asked incredulously.

“Whom should we suspect, then?” demanded Master Topcliff.

“Why, some cutthroat from the street who must have entered the playhouse in pursuit of a theft. Bertrando surprised the man and was stabbed for his pains. It seems very clear to me, sir.”

Hardy Drew smiled thinly. “But not to Master Topcliff nor myself,” he replied quietly.

Master Topcliff looked at his young deputy in surprise and then swiftly gathered his wits. “My deputy is correct,” he added, addressing Burbage.

“Why so, sir?”

Master Topcliff gave a shrug. “You tell him, Master Drew.”

“Easy enough. Your Bertrando, master-player, did not enter this room to surprise a thief. Bertrando was already in this room.Someone then entered while he was presumably dressing to join you on stage. The purpose of that person was to kill him.”

Burbage looked at him incredulously. “Do you have the second sight? By what sorcery would you know this?”

“No sorcery at all, sir, but by using my common sense and the evidence of my eyes.”

Master Topcliff was regarding his deputy anxiously. He did not like the word
sorcery
being leveled at his office. Such a charge could lead to unpleasant consequences. “Explain yourself further to the good Master Burbage,” he suggested uneasily.

“I will and gladly. There was a single stab mark in Bertrando s back. I would say that the culprit entered the dressing room while Bertrando was donning his clothes with his back to the door. He had only his shirt on. The murderer raised the knife and stabbed Bertrando between the shoulder blades. It was a serious wound, but Bertrando was able to turn—with shock and surprise he recognized his assailant. The assailant in a surge of emotion, raised the knife and struck not once, not twice, but in a frenzy of blows, born out of that emotion, delivering five more stabs to Bertrando s chest, each a mortal wound. That is an indication of the rage that the murderer felt towards him. Bertrando sank to the floor. Either he was already dead or dying within seconds.”

Master Topcliff looked on approvingly. “So you think this was done by someone who knew Bertrando or whatever his name is?”

“Sir, I am sure of it. No cutthroat would commit a murder in such a fashion. Nor is there sign of any theft.”

“How can you be so sure?” demanded Burbage.

Master Drew turned to the neat pile of clothes on top of the basket. “I presume that these are Bertrando s clothes of which he divested himself, stacking them neatly there as he changed for the stage?”

Burbage glanced at the pile as if seeing the clothes for the first time. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I recognize his jacket. He was a vain man and given to gaudy colors in jacket and hose.”

Master Drew pointed. “Then I suppose that the leather belt and purse is Bertrando’s also?”

Burbages eyes widened. “That they are,” he agreed, seeing where the logic was leading.

Master Drew leaned forward, picked up the purse, and emptied the contents into his hand. There fell into his palm a collection of coins. “Would a thief, one who had been prepared to murder so violently to secure his theft, retreat leaving this rich prize behind? No, sir, I think we must seek other reasons as to this slaughter.”

Burbage bowed his head. His nose wrinkled at the smell of blood, and he sought permission to cover the body with a sheet.

“Now,” Drew said, turning to Burbage, “you say that most of you were on stage when you noticed that Bertrando was missing from your company?”

“That is so.”

“Can you recall anyone who was not on stage?”

Burbage thought carefully. “There were only a few that were latecomers, for I needed everyone on stage to rehearse the final scene; that is the scene set in the Count of Rousillon s palace, where the King and all the lords, attendants, and main characters gather.”

Master Hardy Drew hid his impatience. “Who was not with you then?”

“Why, Parolles, Helena, Violenta… oh and young Will Painter.”

“You will explain who these people are.”

“Well, they are all characters in our play. Well, all except Will Painter. He was the understudy for Bertrando, who was excluded from the task. The only thing I could give him to do was to be a voiceless attendant upon our King.”

Master Drew scratched his chin. “And he was one with a motive, for, with Bertrando dead, he could step into this main role and win his reputation among the luminaries of your theater. Fetch this Will Painter to us.”

Will Painter was scarcely as old as Hardy Drew. A fresh-faced youth, well dressed and with manners and mode of speech that displayed an education that many theatrical players did not possess.

“Will Painter? That is a familiar name to me.” Master Drew greeted, having once more sought the permission of his superior to conduct the inquiry.

“It is my father’s name also, and he was admired as a writer of plays,” replied the youth, nonchalant in manner.

“Ah, indeed. And one who provided well for his family. It is strange that his son would seek such lowly footings in the theater.”

“Not so.” The youth flushed. “To rise to be a master-player, one must know and experience all manner of theatrical work.”

“Yet, methinks that you would have preferred to play the role of the Count de Rousillon in this new comedy?”

“Who would not cast an envious eye at the leading role?”

“Just so. Did you cast such an envious gaze in Bertrando s direction?”

The youth flushed in annoyance. “I do not deny it.”

“And were you irritated beyond endurance by the fact that Bertrando was so jealous of his part that he refused that you understudy him in rehearsal?”

“Irritated by his popinjay manners, yes. Irritated, yes, but not beyond endurance. One must bear the ills with the joys of our profession. I admit that I liked him not. But dislike was not enough to slit his throat.”

“Slit his throat? Why do you use that expression?”

Will Painter frowned. “I do not understand.”

“What makes you think that his throat was slit?”

“Why, Master Burbage waxing lyrical about a cutthroat having entered the theater in search of plunder and killing Bertrando. What other method would such an assassin use?”

Master Drew uncovered Bertrando s body.

Will Painter saw the stab wounds and turned his face away in disgust. “I liked him not, but ‘tis oppressive to see a man so reduced as this.”

“And you cannot hazard a guess to the identity of anyone who would wish him so reduced?”

The young actor shrugged. “In truth, if I were to name one, I would name many.”

“How so? Master Burbage says he was well disposed to the entire company?”

The youth was cynical. “Well disposed, but more to the feminine gender of our company than aught else.”

“Women?” asked Master Topcliff, aghast. “Do you mean that you have women as players?”

“Aye. Master Burbage experiments in using women to play the female roles, as is common in Europe. Bertrando cast his net like a fisherman and trawled in as he could. However, he lives…
lived
with Hester at the Mermaid Tavern in Mermaid Court.”

“Hester? And who is she?”

“The maid that plays Helena in our comedy. I saw Bertrando and Hester arrive at the theater together. She was already dressed for her part, and so Bertrando went towards the dressing room, presumably to change. I saw Bertrando no more.”