by Peter Tonkin
'No,' said both Hemminge and Condell in a kind of chorus. 'He never turned, Tom.'
'They're in the right of it, Tom,' added Sly. 'I was watching my timing and my thrust but I swear I'd have noticed any man turning in that crowd behind Master Hemminge there.'
'The boy's right,' called the gruff voice of the Gatherer across the pit. 'I was up here on the upper three-penny gallery and I saw well enough. None of your roaring boys turned. And at the end of the swordplay they sheathed and sat like lambs, no harm done. There were upwards of twelve hundred souls in the house this afternoon and not an eye saw aught amiss for all they told me on their way out at the end. Not an eye dry, Master Will; but not an eye saw one jot or tittle amiss, on my life.'
The fact that the Gatherer was talking to Will abruptly awoke Tom to the fact that his friend had been standing frozen for a considerable time. 'Will, are you strong enough to stay there for a while longer?'
'For a while, Tom. Why? What have you in mind?'
But Tom was paying the motionless playwright scant attention. 'Ugo. Get me one of the leaded blades and stain it with soot from a taper. Bring it to me where the black-clad gallant stood. Then bring another for yourself. Leaded or not - it is your choice; we will try a pass or two in enactment of this strange bout.'
While Ugo ran to do his bidding, Tom positioned himself where the black-clad swordsman had stood. Much to poor Sly's disquiet as it chanced - for Tom's own clothing was a workmanlike shadow of the gallant's courtly fashion. As he waited for his associate to return with the swords, Tom jostled his way into perfect position.
'Ha,' gasped Hemminge. 'Your elbows strike the very bruises, Tom. You are a very image of the man.'
'I hope not,' said Will dryly. 'Another such as Tom would be one blade too many.'
Something in the ironic quip made Tom frown even as his lip curled in acknowledgement of a palpable hit. Then Ugo was there.
'Here.' He tossed the tallow-marked blade to Tom and fell into the first position as taught him by Maestro Capo Ferro. The blades clashed as Tom fended off his friend easily, the greater part of his mind occupied with feeling what exactly lay behind him; not before him. His back and elbows were surprisingly sensitive. It was easy, he soon discovered, to sense where the solid trunks of Hemminge and Condell stood and to plumb the vacancy between them. A glance over his shoulder revealed the white cloud of Will's billowing lawn shirt. Then it was the act of only a moment to perform the secret variant on the deadly Punta Reverso that Capo Ferro had taught him. The foil's handle twisted in his hand almost as though it had life of its own. The soot-stained blade slammed up into his right arm-pit, its point sticking out behind his back. Safe in the knowledge that it was well and safely leaded, he pulled his right hand sharply in towards his own breast and was rewarded by a sharp cry from behind. He stepped forward, swinging the sword out to defend himself once more. But Ugo's blade was at his heart.
Now it was Tom's turn to freeze. 'Too slow, Tom,' said Ugo, heavily.
'Aye, and a mite wild to boot. I am hurt, sir, but not killed.' Will's voice echoed Ugo's, but the dry irony was gone. The playwright seemed genuinely shaken. Even though the black line from the sooty blade ran along his ribs almost exactly over the welt he had received earlier on that deadly day, he nevertheless saw as clearly as the rest of them that Tom had unmasked the dark heart of the murder.
But Tom was not satisfied. The blade had gone awry. Unless the duellist opposed to the murderer were a confederate willing to hold the killing stroke as Ugo had done, then that moment of defencelessness would have spelt death for the murderer in any case. He stood, racking his brains for the one vital element he had overlooked – the one thing that would turn this rough botch into a mirror simulacrum of the lethal act.
As he stood - and the rest stood, still frozen at his command - the rain started again. A stealthy pattering like the footfalls of a prowling cat hunting rats among the rushes. The association of sounds made Tom think of the tiring house with its blood-dripping occupant and the way the pattering of blood had made the most recent downpour seem to come into the room from the rose garden when he had first discovered the cause of Morton's death. And, in a flash, even as the others, groaning, turned to find shelter from the gathering storm, Tom thought of the window, the rose garden and the black-clad gallant standing at the corner of Dead Man's Alley looking back. The gallant standing with a rapier hanging across the solid breadth of his right thigh.
'Hold,' bellowed Tom, freezing them all once again. Freezing them all as though they had been struck with the same icy touch as Tom's own heart had been. For only two sorts of swordsmen wore their foils like that - left-handers and ambidexters.
Tom was actually shaking as he swapped the leaded rapier to his own left hand and slid his long Ferrara blade out into the right. Ugo stood before him, white to the lips - the only man there to see as clearly as Tom the horrible danger of what he was proposing. At Tom's curt nod, the Hollander fell to again. Both he and Tom knew that Ugo could have had a companion at his side almost as well-tutored as he was, and Tom would have held them both in play. But what Tom was doing now he had never essayed outside the main salon of Maestro Capo Ferro's school in Siena, for an ability such as this was dangerously close to witchcraft and was even more likely than his uncanny ability with logic and deduction to get him hanged as a witch.
'Hey,' called Tom, thrusting forward with his right hand as he reversed the point in his left. The motion was so swift that not even the increasingly intrigued actors realised what was going on. Tom straightened, keeping Ugo easily in play. Behind him, Will cried out with shock and surprise, lurching forward into Dick Burbage's arms. The pair of them lurched against Sly and Condell and - but for the slap - the re-enactment was terrifyingly perfect. And, when they looked, in the muggy dryness of the tiring house a few minutes later, the black mark on Will's shirt was on the very point that the blade had run through Julius Morton's linen with so much more deadly effect.
Inevitably, it was Will who pressed him hardest to reveal exactly what he had done to reproduce the method of the murder so perfectly. But Tom remained reticent. Of all the men there, only Ugo, he believed - and hoped – understood exactly what he had done. The ability to fight with both hands at once - using two rapiers instead of one, or rapier and dagger - was one of Capo Ferro's most closely guarded secrets. Up until now, Tom had remained quietly confident that he was the only man in England who could perform the mystery at such an elevated level. Now, as the conversation around him began to gather, taking a course which it was all too easy to predict, Tom was increasingly, uneasily, aware that they were going to ask him to go out in search of this man. To find him, to find out what he was doing and to find out why he had done it to Julius Morton.
The murderous stranger was, perhaps, the one man in England who could kill Tom in fair combat - and he was, therefore, the man Tom should be most eager to avoid. And yet, as the afternoon wore on and the thunder gathered over the thatched roof of the Rose, bringing with it the sort of weather best suited to the kind of deliberations going on within, he felt a boundless excitement gathering in his breast.
'We want no authorities brought in on this,' emphasised Master Henslowe again. 'For two years and more we have been at starvation's door and now that the Plague has relented, I'll be damned before I let Fortune play us foul. Or any more foul, given the evil turn the whore gave us in the death of Lord Strange. City, Court and Bishop's Bailiff, all would close us down. And you all heard Master Doorkeeper – it was a big house and not a dry eye. As long as the play runs, our fortunes are on the mend and it will run for ten days more at the least - two houses a day after this, before we approach My Lord Chamberlain to seek preferment to the Queen.'
'We will need to approach my Lord Strange's executors in any case,' said Ned Alleyn. 'We work under his protection still, in theory. If we also work outside the law, those looking after his affairs will need to be alerted, if not warned.'
'A dangerous m
ove, surely?' suggested Master Hemminge, the steady churchwarden. 'Like as not, they'll warn Sir William Danby himself and close us anyway. It is the lawful thing to do.'
'Perhaps,' said Henslowe a little shortly, unused to the frank discussion the Burbages allowed in their company - preferring to limit discussion to that between himself and his son-in-law and leading man Ned Alleyn.
'On the other hand,' added Will, 'a coded warning in the right ear might allow continued protection of our poor enterprise here should anything go wrong in the near future.'
'And a good deal could go wrong,' continued Tom. When he paused to order his thoughts, even Master Henslowe sat silently, not a little awed by what the Master of Logic had achieved in the case so far. 'For a start, we have Julius Morton. We have him but we cannot keep him long. What shall we do with him? Dump him in the Fleet River and let him wash away with the rest of the sewerage? Smuggle him over the river and leave him near his lodgings, another corpse in the nearest dark alley?'
'There are dark alleys enough up in Holborn, I suppose, well without London Wall, but we cannot risk it. He cannot go anywhere he might be found,' said Henslowe at once. 'All the world knows he played with us today. If he is found dead tonight then the Bishop's Bailiff will be at our door tomorrow. Though in God's truth he lived convenient enough to the Fleet River, nearer there than Southampton House.'
'That's your neck of the woods, Will,' said Dick Burbage. 'My Lord of Southampton's your patron. Perhaps he was funding Morton too.'
'I never saw him at Southampton House nor down in the country,' said Will dismissively. 'Half the bright young men in London live along High Holborn, for it's close to the Inns of Court for preferment and the mercury baths for the pox.'
'Danby, or Rackmaster Topcliffe, or the Bishop's Bailiff,' said Ned Alleyn, bringing them back to the matter in hand. 'Depending on whose jurisdiction the guts are washed up in.'
'Then we must put him where he will never be found - or hide him until our investigation is complete,' said Tom.
'And our run is finished and our future's secure,' added Burbage and Henslowe together.
'Where is the nearest graveyard?' asked Will.
'Behind St Mary Overie Church hard by the bridge,' answered Henslowe who knew the South Bank well - particularly as he owned so much of it.
'There are new-made graves there, I'll be bound,' said Will. 'We could add to their number tonight.'
'There's a risk,' warned Hemminge, the churchwarden. 'If you played such a trick at my church at St Mary Aldermanbury, the sexton would be on your heels fast enough. And the authorities would be called in by the week's end.'
'Then,' said Tom grimly, 'we'd best stow him where the recording's not so nice. Where's the nearest plague pit?'
Again it was Henslowe who answered most readily - too readily, for he did not immediately see where the question was leading. 'There's a new pit out beyond the Paris Garden, round towards Lambeth Palace,' he said. 'It's but poorly closed off. I fear the authorities are expecting to reopen it soon enough.'
'Is it well guarded?' wondered Tom.
'A couple of boys and a dog o' Sundays.'
Henslowe shrugged dismissively. 'Who'd be mad enough to break in there?'
'Who indeed?' asked Tom, glancing across at Will and Ugo.
Chapter Nine - Bull Pit and Plague Pit
The company broke up just before ten. Those careful of their pennies wanted to be free to cross the Bridge before the City Gates closed; those like Hemminge and Condell more careful of their souls and reputations, wanted to be free of the Bank side before all Hell was let loose. But in truth there was little to keep them. All the plans they could make were laid and wanted nothing but action. From tomorrow they would be putting on a second performance between five and seven - giving patrons an unrivalled opportunity to spend the early afternoon at Master Henslowe's baiting pits, the early evening in his playhouse and the night in his taverns and brothels close by.
As full darkness came and Bow Bells echoed distantly, chiming their nightly ten o'clock peal, Tom, Ugo and Will followed Henslowe himself out into Rose Alley. Between them, Tom and Ugo pulled the small cart favoured by the Wardrobe Master, piled with old rags of long-faded finery. Its ancient wheels creaked and its axle shuddered as they pulled it out into the street which was little more than a path worn in the grass and a little bridge over a stream. As though its venerable frame found the weight of these piled scraps of tawdry far heavier than usual, it continued to com plain. A link boy waited to guide the busy entrepreneur to whichever of his adventures he wished to visit next. 'Bull Pit,' he ordered gruffly. The four of them slopped through the muddy pathways with the puddle of golden light appearing to brighten and dim in opposition to the light around them, which varied in turn, according to the vagaries of the moon behind the last of the fleeing storm clouds. The axle of the ancient cart squeaked and howled as the notion took it. Maid Lane wound between the half-open fields behind the Bankside tenements and the great places of entertainment. To the south of the Lane lay the Winchester Park, running up to Winchester Palace itself, London domicile of the Bishop who owned most of the land between here and Lambeth and whose Law ran south of the Thames. Almost before the last echo of Bow Bells died, their ears were assaulted by the howling of the dogs Henslowe kept kennelled in the gardens behind both the Bear Pit and the Bull Pit. Right into Bear Gardens they turned then left through a little cut to the Bull Pit itself.
The Gatherer guarded the door still, though the last bull of the day had long since gone screaming down to death. He let the four of them into the great woodenwalled space, not so very different in design from the Rose. But whereas the walls of the theatre were decorated with gilding and paint, here they were spattered with blood and offal. There the air reeked of ground lings and - occasionally - Master Henslowe's beloved gunpowder effects. Here it stank of odour and death. And not a little lust.
Round the walled 'O' of the pit itself, with its central pole and scratched, splintered walls they scurried, pulling the Wardrobe Master's protesting cart into what would have been the tiring room if this had been a theatre. This room was, literally, a shambles. Four bulls hung from a great gantry, ready to be wherried across the river first thing in the morning to be butchered and sold at the City Shambles hard behind St Paul's where Cheapside met Paternoster Row. The bulls' faces were largely gone, their throats, chests, legs, bellies and privities ripped to pieces. And, beside them, stood a cart more than twice the size of that between Tom and Ugo. This cart was strong, new, well maintained, its axle well-greased and solid. It needed to be strong, for it was piled high with dead dogs. From every crack and fissure along its high-boarded sides ran rivulets of thick, dark blood to gather on the axle and grease the wheels before it gathered thickly on the ground.
Henslowe gestured and the Gatherer left them alone. Tom heaved the Wardrobe Master's finery aside to reveal Julius Morton, blue and stiffening by now, his face a bloodless, waxen mask with wide eyes and an all but lipless gape. Henslowe himself caught the corpse's heels as Tom took the shoulders and together they swung him on to the dog cart. Then, careful to avoid the gathering blood, Tom hurled over a length of rope and several solid iron carpenter's instruments to lie on the dead man's chest. Will and Ugo put their clothing at greater risk by pulling dead dogs from beneath him to pile up atop him, until the corpse - and the pile of tools it carried - was completely hidden. 'You know what to do,' said Master Henslowe. 'Then, Master Shakespeare, I would most warmly commend you to your bed. You'll be doubling as Mercutio tomorrow and twice a day after that until we can train up another man. Here ...' He reached into the bag the Gatherer had left and pulled out a handful of pennies. 'Take a wherry from Stangate Stairs or Horseferry hard by the palace.'
'Stangate Stairs to Fresh Wharf,' said Will as they pushed the heavy but silent cart out into the moonstruck night. 'Please God it is slack water or we'll never shoot the Bridge.' 'It's still a fair walk from up to your lodgings at St Helen's,' a
dded Tom. 'You'd best walk light and careful, Will. Either that or bed down at the Boar's Head. Henslowe gave you enough for a bawd, let alone a boat.'
Will fell silent at that and Tom smiled. The Boar's Head Tavern was part of Henslowe's empire. The women who worked there were a cut above the rest, except for the girls at the Elephant, which Tom himself preferred. Will had a good deal to think about. As had they all.
Speed and logic dictated that they should be wheeling their doubly grim burden along Bankside and into Upper Ground - thence along the South Bank to Lambeth Palace, whither they were ultimately bound. Although the Scavenger had an agreement with Henslowe - a mutually rewarding one - for the disposal of dead dogs and occasional offal, every now and then a larger assignment of canine meat would be sent directly to Lambeth Palace to be fed to the Archbishop of Canterbury's pack of hounds. Should anyone demand an explanation tonight, this was the one they were prepared to give.
But of course their real objective was the old plague pit which lay in the !Zing's Field, hard by the Scavenger's own Laystall or rubbish pile. The moonlight led them along Maid Lane to Gravel Lane and there they turned south, running down below the bawdy brightness of the Paris Garden towards Sunmer Street. No sooner had they turned south than Tom began to suspect they were being followed.
Will seemed to have no such worries, however. If he had done so he would have stayed quiet, straining like Tom to catch any suspect rustle, whisper or footfall in the moon shadows at their heels. Instead, he fell into a low, muttered conversation about what the meeting of the Rose's company had agreed before they broke up into the gathering night. As soon as Morton was hidden well away - hidden it was now agreed in some place whence he might be retrieved should circumstances so dictate -Tom was to take up his next and most personal responsibility. He was to search out the deadly ambidextrous swordsman. Not too hard a task, in all truth; for the man was like to be unique and he would inevitably flash through Tom's orbit, or that of his acquaintance, like a meteor through the night. But discovering the murderer's identity would get them little further unless they could put him in the hands of the law and get the truth of the matter racked out of him. But they would have to be careful how they did this, of course. 'We're as like to end up on Rack master Topcliffe's bed as the murderer is,' puffed Will, throwing his weight against the increasingly unwieldy cart. 'So we must present a complete picture to the Crowner's Quest. Like Robert Poley did at poor Kit Marlowe's death last year.'