The Opening Night Murder (4 page)

He stopped packing, turned, and gazed at her, a grief in his eyes she thought rather theatrical. Having been on the stage when she was younger, she knew something of a performance when she saw it, and now was unsure of what to think. He said, “My life is forfeit. For all intents and purposes, it’s over. Fate has betrayed me, and I must face persecution for my faith. I go with heavy heart, but with the knowledge that I am right with God.” The tremor in his voice seemed overdone, but she knew he truly was choked up over his fate. He glanced around the room, spotted a small figurine of a spotted dog he’d given to her several years before, and pocketed it.

Suzanne blinked, wondering what God had to do with whether or not the king would be fussy about William’s business with Cromwell. To the best of her knowledge, Charles’s main argument against the Protectorate was that the usurper caused the death of his father. She realized William must want his martyrdom, and might have suggested he stay and let
Charles have his head to that end, except that William’s death wouldn’t save her stipend. William wouldn’t be worth much to her without his head. “Please don’t go, William. You have a duty to me.”

“I have a duty to God, to survive and to spread His word wherever I go.” She wondered how well he expected to fare in Catholic France. With that, he picked up the bag and went to the outer door. She followed, saying nothing. There he turned, and with another dramatic gaze, chin high, he said, “Farewell, my dear Suzanne. I’ll see you in heaven.” Then he departed.

Suzanne stood, rooted, staring at the door he’d closed behind him. Sheila came to stand beside her and likewise gaze at the door. Then she said softly, “When he gets to heaven, I wonder how he’ll explain to St. Peter his having kept a mistress these past six years.”

Suzanne might have laughed, but she was too heartsick for mirth. William had never been lavish with money, for he had little of it compared to others of his rank, which was, of course, the merchant class. She knew she was his only mistress, and he kept her and Piers barely comfortable. Now there would be nothing from him. At thirty-five, she was too old to ever find another man to support her.

“Supper is on the table, mistress. Shall I remove the second setting?”

Suzanne nodded, though she barely heard. Her mind tumbled, in search of some way out of her predicament. While Piers was old enough for employment, he had barely finished his apprenticeship and had not yet found a position, and even then it would be years before he might support her in adequate fashion. She had some money tucked away in a false drawer bottom in the armoire, but that wouldn’t last long. And thank
God William hadn’t found that while packing. Not only would he have taken it with him, he would have made an ugly, vile scene as he did so.

That evening Suzanne ate her supper in a deep funk of worry.

S
uzanne was not one to dither, ever. Her mind was ever at work, and though it shifted from subject to subject often, her thoughts went a-progress through whatever knotty problem presented itself and usually came out the far end with an answer. The moment her eyes popped open the next morning, her mind began an inventory of her resources and a review of her options. Without any awareness of her surroundings, she sat up in bed and stared into the middle distance as her mind sifted through and sorted the facts of her situation.

She’d always known this day would come, but had only hoped it would not have been this soon, for there was only so much she could set aside from the scant money provided by William. She had some cash on deposit with a goldsmith, but knew it wasn’t nearly enough to live on indefinitely, even if she included the coins she’d stashed about the house over the past few years. As much a skinflint as William was, it had been difficult to squirrel away a shilling here and a penny there, but
there were coins “lost” at the bottoms of drawers, and small enameled boxes scattered throughout the rooms that held money dropped from pockets or left out where it might be “misplaced” as Sheila tidied up. One such box, a gift from a former client, was half full of guineas and held a number of shillings as well. Suzanne had never added them up but guessed they should come to a substantial amount. Not enough to see her through her old age, though, unless she lived like a pauper, and she’d had quite enough of that in the past.

As she rose from the bed and slipped into her silk dressing gown, the scent of meat left over from last night, being reheated on the stove by Sheila in the kitchen, drifted to the bedchamber. There was an occasional clank and clink of pan and pottery as the maid worked, which brought a thrill of alarm as Sheila entered her calculations. How would she continue to pay a maid? She’d become accustomed to having one, and didn’t care to live without her. There had been a time when she’d had no kitchen, and breakfast meant bundling up to venture forth and buy a pot of something cheap and adulterated from a street vendor or stall; now she could hardly bear the thought of facing a cold kitchen alone of a morning.

Numbers tumbled in her head as she worked out how long her money would last. A year or two, perhaps, if she lived frugally, without Sheila. There wasn’t much room to cut back from the way she’d lived on William’s contribution. His Puritan sensibilities made for a good stability she’d appreciated for the food in her belly and the clothes on her back, but he was not much for luxury. There was little to give up that wouldn’t return her to the bad years when her only refuge was a bawd house on Bank Side.

Now, at the age of thirty-five, her youth was fully spent and any enthusiasm for that game quite wrung from her. The
beauty she’d enjoyed as a girl had waned so that these days she was generally described with the euphemism of “handsome.” Her flesh was firm and her figure trim “for her age.” Not only would finding another patron be impossible, even base whoring was no longer an option for her; she would have to find another source of income if she was to live past thirty-six.

She tied the sash of her gown and slipped her feet into a pair of slippers that were ordinary linen but boasted some skilled, intricate embroidery, then she ventured from the bedchamber.

At the dining table she was delighted to find Piers had arrived from Newcastle and was already at breakfast. He looked up from his plate and smiled, rising to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, but she then threw her arms around his neck for a long hug. Her boy was finally back from the north, and she could be happy.

Then they both sat again as Sheila set Suzanne’s plate of meat before her. “How delightful to see you so soon, Piers.” The window was wide open to a bright spring day, and a breeze on which wafted the odors of manure, sewage, cooking food, and a hint of the Thames just to the north. Voices of street criers below drifted in.

Before seating herself, Suzanne leaned over to blow out the single candle that burned at the middle of the table. The day brought plenty of light through the window, and they didn’t need to waste the tallow. Waste was a sin, one of the few things William preached that she thought valid.

“I hurried home,” said Piers with a huge grin. “Farthingworth had no more use for me, and so I’m now free to secure gainful employment as I will.” He sounded cheerful over the prospect, though his voice held a hint of the knowledge she would not be pleased with the news.

Suzanne tensed. “He had no offer for you?” She’d hoped Piers’s apprenticeship would have segued directly into a permanent position, and in fact Farthingworth had alluded to the possibility when the training had been arranged seven years before. It would have meant living in Newcastle, but she would have been pleased to make the sacrifice of leaving London in exchange for a secure life in the care of her son.

“No, I’m afraid.” Piers picked at the meat on his plate.

“No references?”

Here Piers perked a bit, he sat up straighter, and the roses of embarrassment on his cheeks faded some. “I’ve the name of a merchant here in London I’m to contact. And I’d rather be in London in any case, truth be told.” He returned his attention to his breakfast, but kept an eye on her reaction.

Susanne’s attention sharpened, apprehensive, wondering whether Piers had declined an offer from Farthingworth in order to return home. She opened her mouth to chastise him for it, but thought better of berating her only son over something that couldn’t be undone. Instead she said, “Only one merchant?”

Piers nodded. “He’s Farthingworth’s largest London client. He provides coal for all the great houses. Probably the crown as well, once the king is settled in.”

“You’ll go to him today, I expect. Before the king’s return throws everything in London into confusion. Better to have any position at all than to seek one during the coming upheaval.”

“Do you really think it will be all that bad?”

It’s already bad, and will worsen.
Suzanne replied, “It can’t help but be troublesome. Even with Parliament telling the king what to do, there will still be changes made in trade relationships.” She remembered how things had shifted during the civil war, so that nothing could be depended on until it was clear Cromwell was in charge and would stay there. “Those whose families
stayed loyal to the crown will now have advantage over those too close to Cromwell. If this fellow can’t take you on, you must seek an employer with few political ties or, even better, one with ties to the king.”

Piers made a wry face, and a dry edge came into his voice. “Yes, that should be as easy as pie.” He took a bite of mutton, chewed a couple of times, then moved the meat to his cheek and said around it, “And if I lose my new position during this upheaval?”

“Then you return to the search immediately and take whatever you can get.”

“I hear a note of desperation, Mother.” He set his knife on his plate and sat back in his chair. “Is there anything wrong?”

Suzanne bit her lip and also sat back to look at her son. Eighteen years old and as handsome as his father. Naïve about the world, but far too sharp where his mother was concerned. She’d never been able to hide anything from Piers, and only wished Daniel had been as attentive. She said, “William has left us.”

That brought a snort, and Piers returned to his meal. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“Maybe so, except he’s taken his money with him. We’re on our own again.”

Piers paused eating to gaze at his plate, then shrugged and resumed chewing. “We’ll manage.”

“You mean we won’t starve. Yes, that will be a change from some days past. But I would rather do better than that in my old age.”

“I’ll take care of you, Mother.” He glanced over at her. The look on his face broke her heart, he was so earnest and so brave. To her he was a little boy trying to be a man, but his ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes betrayed him for one too
young to make good that promise. And worse, for the thousandth time since his birth, he reminded her of his father.

“I know you will. And with any luck I’ll find another income that will help buy more than just mutton and bread.”

Piers nodded and returned to his meal once more. Suzanne addressed hers and thought hard about what to do.

A knock came on the door, and both of them listened closely as Sheila answered it. But there were no words to hear beyond Sheila’s thanks for a delivery and the messenger’s muttered thanks for the farthing tip from the dish of small change kept on the stand beside the door. Suzanne looked toward the dining room door, and Sheila came with a folded message in hand.

“Not creditors already, I hope,” said Piers.

“There are no creditors, thank God, other than the landlord. William never believed in having things that weren’t paid for. Usury is a sin, you know.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be
, he would say, as if Shakespeare wrote the Bible.”

“You mean he didn’t?”

That made Suzanne smile, and Piers’s boyish dimples showed in a grin. She’d so missed him these past years of his apprenticeship. It had been far too long between visits.

She took the message, dismissed Sheila, and her fingers began to tremble, for she recognized the hand on the front. Her name, exactly as Daniel used to write it when she was but a girl younger than Piers. She hadn’t seen him or his handwriting in nearly a decade, but she remembered it well.

She broke the seal at the back. Slowly she unfolded the stiff, heavy paper. There was but one sentence on the page. “I must see you today at the stairs.”

She folded the paper quickly, hoping Piers wouldn’t see it,
but he didn’t need to read it and instead saw the look on her face.

“Why so pale, Mother? What’s wrong?”

She thought for a long moment, considering a lie, but hated to tell it to Piers. Instead she said, “Piers, your father has returned.”

Piers only grunted and picked up a piece of fat to gnaw. “I assumed that. He left with Charles; it stands to reason he would return with him if he were still alive. I can’t say as I’m particularly pleased he is.”

Suzanne hadn’t considered the possibility of Daniel’s return until she’d seen him in the procession yesterday. “He wishes to see me today.”

“Not me?”