Sleep of Death

by Philip Gooden

  Or perhaps the plot was all Sir Thomas’s, and Lady Alice merely accepted the result without enquiring into it too closely, as women are always inclined to take what fortune drops into their laps.

  On the other hand, young William Eliot has informed me that both his mother and his uncle were, in their own ways, genuinely distressed by the death of a husband-brother. What I’d witnessed of them from the tree didn’t suggest that their grief had lasted long. Just so do Gertrude and Claudius appear to be genuinely distressed. They are good players at grief. So too is Hamlet, good at grief. Who is to say what is real and what is play? I go round in circles. Each argument meets a counter-argument. In this real-life drama it is William Eliot who is playing the part of Hamlet, the son of a mother recently married to an uncle, and of a father dead in strange circumstances. What reason might William have for wishing his father dead? A voice whispers to me, and I am almost afraid to commit this thought to paper: haven’t all sons, in some hidden part of themselves, a wish to see their fathers dead?

  Who is guilty then? All? None?

  A final question for myself: Why compare everything to a play? Why should I hold every incident up and see whether it matches something in Master Shakespeare’s imagination?

  Response: Because it seems to me that the play is the answer – the play’s the thing. This starts with Hamlet and it will end with Hamlet.

  As it happens, the next afternoon we did Hamlet again. It was a sure crowd-puller and -pleaser, so the Burbage brothers had put another performance on the schedule in two days’ time. The tragedy of the Prince of Denmark was to be leavened by the little satire of Boscombe’s A City Pleasure, performed on the middle afternoon. After the Sunday break, we were to revert to our diet of crazed Milanese dukes and cardinals, and murderous painters and rustics in the county of Somerset. Such is the player’s round. So dizzying is it that one scarcely knows on any one day whether one’s first line should be ‘Buon giorno’, or ‘Good den, zur’, or ‘Greetings, my fair dame’. And while these plays, together with WS’s Hamlet, were going forward, we were preparing for the next batch which included Love’s Sacrifice (the minimal part of Maximus) and Julius Caesar (the disposable part of the poet Cinna).

  But that afternoon it was, as I say, Hamlet.

  After I had delivered my lines as the English ambassador, after Fortinbras of Norway (which, being not a very big part, was taken by Samuel Gilbourne, who had been with the Chamberlain’s only as many weeks as I had days) had spoken nobly over the remains of the Prince, and after we had all done our little jig and the audience gone home happy, I retired to the tiring-room, surrendered my costume and, exchanging a few words with my co-players, exited into Brend’s Rents.

  I was not surprised to see William Eliot outside. We fell easily into step together and, skirting the Bear Garden, made to enter the Goat & Monkey, the tavern where we’d first encountered each other.

  ‘Sir, sir!’

  ‘Not now, Nat.’

  The dirty man was lounging at the inn-door, hoping to be invited to do his animal-noises in exchange for pennies which he’d promptly convert – oh alchemy! – into ale’s muddy gold.

  ‘I will do you a bear fight, death and all, sir.’

  ‘No, Nat.’

  ‘Four dogs dead and the bear mortally wounded – all for one penny.’

  ‘Piss off now.’

  ‘Can you do a unicorn?’ said clever William.

  ‘No sir, for though it is not widely known, the unicorn is mute,’ said clever Nat.

  ‘There’s a penny for your pains,’ said William, and Nat scuttled ahead of us into the Goat & Monkey to spend the coin quickly. While William and I were talking, he would glance at us from his corner from time to time, raising his tankard to his new patron.

  ‘I thought you would most probably be at the playhouse,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. It is like an itch, that play. I must keep scratching at it.’

  ‘We do it again the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘You have nothing to report?’

  ‘From your mother’s house? No, apart from the initials up the tree which I told you of. And the strangeness of Francis’s death.’

  ‘Which we have also talked of.’

  Although it had been William who first inveigled me into the Eliot mansion with the promise or threat of something ‘out of place’, he now seemed inclined to dismiss my findings as insignificant. Initials up a pear tree? Nothing; children, and lovers like Master WS’s characters, carved their names into trees, not murderers. The death by drowning of the servant who had discovered his father’s body? People died in the river every day by the bucketful. Not quite true, but he had a point. I had not yet told him about my visit to the apothecary’s for fear that he would laugh at my credulity. Nor had I told him about the two occasions when I had seen his mother in a less than respectable light, once in my room and once in the garden. What was I to tell him? That his mother and uncle had been bed-mates before his father went down underground? That in every argument with myself I went round in circles?

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘that we are so little advanced in this matter.’

  ‘My fault, Nick. I should never have asked you to do this. I thought that a fresh pair of eyes, ones not half-blinded by family affection or dislike, might see something which I had overlooked. No matter. I have enjoyed having a player for a lodger.’

  ‘Your parents too?’ I said, remembering the exchange between Lady Alice and Sir Thomas.

  ‘There is much coming and going in our house. They are civil to their guests, as befits a knight and his lady. And my mother has a real taste for the playhouse. She always did. My father, he—’

  ‘ – despised players,’ I cut in.

  ‘I don’t know that it was as strong as that. But he was suspicious, certainly. He felt that no man should pretend to be what he was not, even in play.’

  ‘My father also.’

  ‘So we have that in common.’

  I saw William’s gaze slide to one side of my face, even as I felt outspread fingers slipping under the hair at my nape.

  ‘Nicholas,’ a soft voice whispered in my ear. I knew the warmth and sweetness of her breath. ‘Shift up.’

  Nell pushed onto the bench between William and me.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here, in your favourite hole,’ she said.

  Finished with business for the day, she must have been. That is to say, by now she had earned enough to pay the Madam, with a little left over to provide for daily necessaries. The life of the whore is even more precarious and provisional than that of the jobbing player. As ever, I wondered who – and how many – she had been with that day. And as ever, I tried to strangle the thought at birth, just as I stifled the notion that she was looking for new trade in the Goat & Monkey. Nevertheless, I was glad to see her.

  William smiled at my mistress. He did not ask who, or rather what, she was. He would know that no lady should walk alone into a Southwark tavern. And her dress of flame-coloured taffeta most likely told him a story too.

  ‘Who’s this, Nick?’

  ‘William Eliot, a gentleman who dwells across the river.’

  ‘Eliot. Is that . . .?’

  ‘One of the most distinguished families in the city, yes,’ I said quickly, considering that William would not have been overjoyed to know that the secret matters of his family were the property of a trull.

  ‘A drink, mistress?’ said William, all courteous and courtly.

  ‘Nell,’ said Nell, simpering slightly. I wished now that she had been sat not between us but on my side only, since she wriggled and snuggled herself in his direction. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Call me Will. Sack or sherry, Nell?’

  ‘Plain ale, sir – Will.’

  My heart sank, not only at this display of familiarity but because my Nell could not drink without becoming light at the heels. She drank, not ladylike in little sips, but in great gulps. In that state she was liable to offer for nothin
g what she customarily exchanged for cash. I knew this because it had been how our acquaintanceship started. I poked her with my elbow but she ignored me. William called out to the potboy and gave his orders. Did he know what she was? Probably. Did he care? Probably not.

  ‘You are not from our city, are you, Nell? I can hear it in your voice.’

  ‘From our country, Will.’

  ‘Have you shut up shop for the day? Are your customers all gone?’ I said, in a none-too-subtle effort to inform William that he was dealing with a common whore and in case he had not been alerted to this fact by her dress or manner.

  ‘You keep a shop, Nell?’

  She was all eyes for him, and he for her, and I was away on the edge of their vision and out of their minds. She was throwing back the tankard of ale and, in between gulps, no doubt casting up her eyes at him from under their lids.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, Will.’

  ‘And what do you trade in?’

  ‘Dainties . . . and sweetmeats . . . and suchlike.’

  ‘I expect you are well patronised.’

  ‘I always have room for another customer.’

  ‘No, you are never full, are you Nell?’ I said. ‘No matter how many crowd your parlour.’

  ‘Even so, I dare say that your stock goes fast,’ said William, ignoring my interjection.

  ‘So fast that it must soon be exhausted,’ I tried again.

  ‘It is always fresh, every day it is fresh,’ said Nell, also ignoring me and draining her pot to the last drop.

  ‘Another?’ said William Eliot. ‘And Nick, you as well?’

  ‘Thank you, I have not finished,’ I said, with what I hope was a bad grace. It seemed my fate to be accompanied by quick drinkers. I remembered the other evening in the Ram with Master Robert Mink and his love-lorn lyrics.

  ‘And whereabouts is your shop situated, mistress Nell? Where does a country girl set out her stall? I ask in case I should wish to inspect your wares.’

  ‘You should ask directions at the place which was my Lord Hunsdon’s mansion.’ (This was, by the by, a piece of coy indirection on the part of Nell, for the house she referred to was the place now known as Holland’s Leaguer.) ‘They will be able to tell you where I am to be found.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said William. ‘I have seen other vendors in that street, but none, I think, that may match you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  By this time, Nell had almost finished her second pot, and I felt myself growing sick at heart.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said William. He went out into the yard, no doubt for a piss.

  Nell turned to me. I was staring into the bottom of my tankard to avoid meeting her gaze.

  ‘Come, come, Nick,’ she said softly, laying her hand upon my knee. ‘It is all business.’

  ‘No pleasure, all trade,’ I said angrily.

  ‘Which would you prefer it to be? My trade is their pleasure. But it is my business, as yours is to tread the boards. We are all beholden to men from over the river.’

  ‘My trade is rather more respectable than yours, I think.’

  ‘You have not said so before.’

  ‘I have often thought it,’

  ‘I shall make it up to you,’ she said. ‘I shall restore you to good humour. Who can restore you as I can?’ she said softly but urgently, with ale-freighted breath, as she saw William Eliot returning.

  I said nothing, but was a little mollified at her whispered words. It was true, who could restore me as she could? And considering all this afterwards, I had to concede that my Nell had some right on her side and that I had little excuse to interfere in her business. It was more that I did not care for it to be conducted under my nose. Nor could I be angry with William. He was only acting as I would have acted. There is also, I have observed, a little core of sweetness at the heart of jealousy. For, I think too, that I was for the first time fearful of losing her, I who had always taken the girl’s heart for granted whatever she might do with her body.

  William joined us again but did not resume his position on the bench. He announced his intention to cross the river to return to his mother’s house and suggested that we share a ferry. I was relieved, for it meant that he did not intend a rendezvous with Nell at that moment, even were she willing. It meant too that, had I chosen, I could have returned with her to the place that she had described as Lord Hunsdon’s mansion. There she could make it up to me. By her little movements against my flank, that was what she seemed to have in mind. Meantime, William stood somewhat impatiently over us waiting for my answer.

  ‘Thank you, William,’ I said. ‘I am tired after a day’s play and I have parts to scan. I will go with you.’

  I could sense my Nell’s disappointment, and was glad, and then wondered if I shouldn’t after all have accompanied her so that she might do her worst with me.

  I have just now talked with the doorkeeper of the Eliot house, and I must this instant write down what he said. It is the only way to order my mind and to set things in their proper sequence. This fellow’s name is Tom Bullock and he fits it, being thick across the forehead, the shoulders, the chest, etc. Unlike in my interview with the unfortunate Francis I do not have to straighten out and tidy up his words. What Bullock had to say he said, and no more besides. And, when I had heard him, I almost wished the questions had remained unasked. I was seeking to discover whether anybody unknown or unexpected had visited the house on the afternoon of Sir William’s death. The doorkeeper has a small cubby-hole by the main entrance and anybody wishing to enter the house – or leave it, for that matter – must pass him. Perhaps Bullock sees himself as a man of a somewhat philosophical turn of mind and thinks that the greatest wisdom shows itself best in the fewest words.

  Nick Revill: You remember the day of Sir William’s death?

  Tom Bullock: Of course.

  NR: You were on duty here?

  TB: Where else would I be?

  NR: When were you aware that something had happened?

  TB: Something?

  NR: I will be more precise. When did you first become aware that the master of the house was dead?

  TB: Let me ask you a question, Master Revill.

  NR: I am at your service, Master Bullock.

  TB: Why are you asking me these questions?

  NR: You have probably heard that I am a player.

  TB: I have heard.

  NR: From your tone I can see you have no very high opinion of our profession.

  TB: Everyone must have a living.

  NR: I am with the Lord Chamberlain’s Company. We play at the Globe on the other side of the river. Indeed, I was privileged to meet the master and mistress of this house at one of our performances.

  TB: It was there also that you met Adrian the steward, I am told.

  NR: Yes.

  TB: And discovered him for a thief.

  NR [thinking that I had glimpsed the reason for the doorkeeper’s hostility]: It is true that I had a hand in that business. I did not dismiss him, that was your master. I merely helped to expose him.

  TB: I am no friend to Adrian. He got what he deserved. He is a dishonest and high-handed man.

  NR: Well, we are in agreement.

  TB: If you think so. But you have left my question by the wayside.

  NR: Your question?

  TB: Why do you wish to know about the old master’s death?

  NR [forced to pluck some explanation out of the air]: I have it in mind to compose a tragedy, a deep respectful tragedy of the domestic sort, like . . . like Arden of Faversham.

  TB: Is he an author?

  NR: It is the name of a play, a famous play, about – about a death in a household.

  TB: I do not attend the playhouse.

  NR: I thought not. But I am interested in the tragic events which happened in this house because—

  TB: – because you wish to put them on stage?

  NR [seeing that I am venturing into deeper and deeper water]: No, no. I am intere
sted because – because ‘Humani nihil alienum’.

  TB: I don’t understand your words, Master Revill. Plain English is good enough for me. Nevertheless, if you must ask some questions for private reasons of your own, do it and be done with it.

  NR: Thank you. When did you first become aware that Sir William had died?

  TB: I heard the cries and wailing from the other side of the house after they had brought his body in from the garden. One of the servants, Janet I think, went running around the house in tears and, all those that did not know, she told willy-nilly.

  NR: In the afternoon of that day you were at your post here?

  TB: I have already said so.

  NR: Were there any visitors that afternoon?

  TB: Most likely.

  NR: Can you call any of them to mind?

  TB: One was of your kind.

  NR: My kind?

  TB: A player.

  NR: A player?

  TB: Or a – whatd’youcallit? – author, I forget which.

  NR: How do you know?

  TB: He told me. Just as you told me a minute ago that you were with such-and-such a company at such-and-such a playhouse, he told me that he was an author or a player. Perhaps there is something about the gentlemen in your profession, you cannot hold your tongues but must be telling all the world your business.