The Scottish Play Murder (A Restoration Mystery)

by Rutherford, Anne

  Suzanne allowed as she did rather like Macbeth, and thought it would be a good addition to the repertoire. Indeed, one might think it a necessary addition, being a crowd-pleaser. “I think we should do it.”

  Horatio shook his head, wide-eyed and speechless with terror, his palms still pressed to his ears.

  “Seriously, Horatio. How can we not do such a popular play?”

  “Easily enough. We simply don’t cast it, then carry on with our day. We’ve Romeo and Juliet to keep us occupied.”

  “But we must. What would I tell Daniel, should he ask when we’ll perform it?” Daniel Stockton, Earl of Throckmorton, was the father of her grown son, and the theatre’s patron.

  “I daresay I care not a fig what thou sayst to his grace, for I care not to bring that play into my theatre.”

  Plainly Horatio was upset, for now he was talking in quasi-Puritan thee-thou, an affectation that had begun as amusement and eventually became unconscious habit. A devout Catholic, he was no more Puritan than the pope, and therefore did it poorly so that he seemed to speak in a messy mish-mosh of Elizabethan and present-day English. But the more he protested and the more archaic his language doing so became, the more Suzanne wanted The New Globe Players to put on a production of that play. She replied, “Whose theatre?”

  Horatio sighed, and his face clouded over in a frown. “In truth, ’tis Shakespeare’s theatre. In technicality, ’tis owned by his grace the earl.”

  “But whose theatre is it for all intents and purposes?”

  He sighed, and let a long pause wind out. Then he allowed, “’Tis thine.”

  “Indeed, ’tis. So shall we have a production of the Scottish play, then?”

  Horatio glowered for another very long moment, and Suzanne waited. He would acquiesce, but would first make it clear he did it under protest. Finally he said, “Very well.”

  Diarmid Ramsay, who had been nearly forgotten in the clash of wills, said in a strong, booming voice that nearly rivaled Horatio’s, “Excellent! Where shall I stand for my recital?”

  “You’ve a speech prepared, I expect.” Horatio crossed his arms over his chest, dragging his heels every inch in protest.

  “I’m a Scot, my friend, and know the play well. Were I a mind to, I could recite the entire role in Gaelic, and much of it in French as well.”

  Horatio blanched, as if he were afraid Ramsay might attempt it right there. “The king’s English, if you please. I hear the play at all under duress; I’ll not listen to it in jibber-jabber, thank you.”

  Ramsay’s smile never faltered. “As you wish. And so, where shall I stand?”

  Horatio waved to the stage boards as he stepped down the side steps. “Up here, if you please. Let us see how well you rattle the rafters with your voice.”

  The Scot nodded as he made his way across the pit and up the side steps past Horatio. It was nearly a march he made, large and broad, each foot planted well, chin up, chest out, and the end of his tartan plaid drifting behind him, as if he were accompanied by the skirl of a bagpipe and the beat of a tabor. Suzanne found herself staring at his bare legs, which were lightly dusted with the sort of black hairs she had not seen since her days in a brothel in Bank Side. His calves were well-muscled, in a way that also steered her thoughts toward that brothel, and the urge to test their hardness made her fingers twitch. She shook her head to clear it, and drew a deep breath. Those days were gone, and she didn’t miss them. It was silly to think otherwise.

  As Ramsay took center stage the light changed, as if the afternoon suddenly plunged into dusk. A glance at the sky made her wonder where those clouds had come from. It seemed only a moment ago the heavens had been a flawless, pale blue. And now the clouds covered the sun so Suzanne could hardly tell where it was.

  Ramsay planted his feet and adjusted his plaid. For a moment he closed his eyes, and his entire attitude shifted somehow. His stance changed, though his feet stayed put. Tension gathered his shoulders together. His head tilted just slightly. He held out his hands, palms up, as if holding something across them. When he opened his eyes, the fellow who had walked through the theatre entrance was no longer there, replaced by a man screwing his courage to the sticking point to murder his king.

  His lungs filled, and his voice rolled out across the pit. It echoed from the empty galleries, and Suzanne knew it must be heard on the street outside.

  “Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which now I draw. Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going; and such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses, or else worth all the rest; I see thee still, and on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, which was not so before.”

  Now Ramsay’s energy gathered as if to tie him in a knot. His voice took on an edge of creeping fear. “There’s no such thing: it is the bloody business which informs thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one half-world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse the curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebrates pale Hecate’s offerings, and wither’d murder, alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace. With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear thy very stones prate of my whereabout, and take the present horror from the time, which now suits with it.” A note of trembling resolution struck. “Whiles I threat, he lives: words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.” Ramsay then started to the tolling of an imaginary bell. “I go, and it is done: the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell.”

  There was a dark silence. Ramsay remained in character during it, stock still, gazing upstage with a mimed dagger in one hand, ready to exit and murder Duncan.

  Horatio uttered a tiny whimper, his face pale as if Ramsay had actually stabbed someone to death. He said, “The role is yours. We’ll begin rehearsal on it in three days. Come and be ready at ten of the clock in the morning.”

  Louis said, alarmed, “He’s got the role? You won’t hear anyone else?”

  Horatio appeared defeated. “No. He will do it.”

  “I would have liked to play it.”

  “You’re too young.”

  “What about Matthew, then?”

  Horatio looked over at Matthew, for that actor might have done well with it. But he said, “Macduff. Matthew will play Macduff. The victor.”

  Louis muttered an Anglo-Saxon vulgarism that was not quite like him.

  Horatio seemed to shake off his funk and his booming voice of authority returned. “I’d not take such an attitude, young man, until I’d mastered the role at hand. You’ll have a better grip on Romeo or you’ll not set foot on my stage again for the Scottish play nor any other!”

  Louis’s lips pressed together, and he stared at the stage boards at his feet.

  Meanwhile, Ramsay adjusted the plaid slung over his shoulder, once more the cheerful and hale Scot who had knocked on the theatre entrance. “Well, then, I’ll be on my way, to return in three days.” He gestured to everyone present, and even to the empty galleries. “God bless you all, and keep you safe until then.” With that, he marched from the theatre, leaving The New Globe Players to stare after him.

  Suzanne wondered what had just happened, and realized that half an hour ago there had been no thought of performing Macbeth, and now they had committed to a production and two major roles were filled. Who was that man?

  Chapter Two

  “In all seriousness, Daniel, it was as if he were Macbeth himself, standing on the stage with a knife in his hand, about to steal into the ’tiring house and kill someone. Tall, black hair, ruddy cheeks, for the moment he appeared a different man, then voila, he was
himself again.” Suzanne was at dinner in her quarters with the Earl of Throckmorton, owner of the theatre and patron of the troupe. The duck was tasty and tender, the bread fresh and expertly baked, and the wine French. Life was good.

  Daniel sat back in his chair at the table in Suzanne’s quarters in the theatre, to sip on his pewter cup of whisky. She’d had it brought from Scotland, for she knew he enjoyed it and couldn’t find it easily in London. To her it was vile stuff, and she could smell the sharp woodiness of it from across the room. She much preferred her ale, or French wine when she had money for it. It was plain to her why whisky wasn’t a popular drink, and was scarce outside of Scotland. She disliked that Daniel had picked up this particular habit, though she had to admit there were things from the Americas that were worse. She was glad he hadn’t picked up the vice of tobacco.

  He said, “Scots are bloodthirsty. It comes naturally to them to want to kill someone.”

  Suzanne blinked. “I only have known one Scot well, and that is Angus, Big Willie’s musician friend. He plays pipes, and you can sometimes hear him accompanying Willie on his corner in Bank Side. I’ve never known him to be anything but sweet and gentle.” Angus reminded her of a big puppy dog, shaggy and waggy-tailed, eager to please. “Bloodthirsty” was the last word she would use to describe him. “Cuddly, even,” she added.

  “You’ve cuddled with him, then?” The curl at one corner of his mouth told her he was teasing. She thought it a poor attempt at humor, but she made a point of not laughing. She wished he would find things to joke about other than her former profession. After all, he was the one who had ruined her at the age of seventeen by giving her Piers, and so she thought he might at least show some regret for the years she’d spent as a whore. A futile hope, to be sure, but she wished it regardless.

  She replied, ignoring his jibe, “In any case, Ramsay should prove an excellent Macbeth, the least of his advantages being that his northern accent is genuine. I’m telling you, when he recited the dagger passage he became another person entirely. You would hardly know he wasn’t a man about to do murder.”

  “I should like to see the performance, then, when it’s presented.” Daniel took another sip and crossed his legs. He wasn’t eating much, and his eyelids were drooping some with the strong drink.

  “I think you should.” She spread a bit of butter on a piece of bread she’d torn, then bit it off and chewed. Last year there had been no butter, and precious little bread and meat. Duck and French wine had been a distant dream. This year things had improved by leaps and bounds for herself and Piers since Daniel had financed her to restore the Globe and put together its new players. Suzanne allowed that at least he had that much responsibility for his son. Though he’d had no contact with Piers as a boy, and had provided no support for either of them during his years with the king, he at least was able to provide Piers with a living. So Suzanne permitted a friendship that sometimes echoed of the love she’d once held for him. As for Piers, he administered the theatre’s business but his relationship with his father was far more strained than hers.

  In a voice that signaled a deliberate change of subject, Daniel said, “I suppose you’ve heard about the body that turned up at the end of the alley outside the Goat and Boar.”

  “No, I haven’t.” Murders in London were no rare occurrence, but the Goat and Boar was Suzanne’s favorite public house, and had been for nearly twenty years. It was also a favorite of The New Globe Players, most of whom ate meals and gathered there of an evening after performances. “Anyone we know?”

  “More than likely not. Rumor has it, ’twas a sailor, off a ship just in from the Americas. Other than that, I couldn’t say.”

  “Well, so long as it wasn’t one of our fellows. Now that we’ve got a working troupe, I’d hate to lose any of them.”

  A knock came at the outer door from the backstage stairwell, and both Suzanne and Daniel paused in their conversation as the maid, Sheila, came from the kitchen to answer it. The visitor was Horatio, who, with a note of urgency in his voice, asked to see Suzanne. Sheila started to tell him the mistress had a visitor, but Suzanne said to let him in.

  Horatio stepped into the sitting room, and when he saw the earl he came to attention and executed a stiff, awkward bow. Daniel was the only nobility he encountered with any regularity, and he had never quite developed the respectful grace cultivated by most commons who moved among lords and ladies not their masters. Horatio always became a great ball of nerves in the presence of the earl. “Good day, your grace.”

  “Hello, Horatio. I hear you’ve found a treasure in a certain Scottish fellow.”

  “I have, your grace.” Horatio found it impossible to remember how to address the earl, and insisted on calling Daniel “your grace.” His fingers splayed and clenched as he held his arms at his sides so they wouldn’t wave and gesture out of nervous habit. “He’ll have an audience thinking he’s the incarnation of the role, I vow.”

  “Best of luck with him, then.” Daniel returned to his meal, having discharged his noblesse oblige in a moment of polite chitchat with the commoner.

  But Horatio added, “Indeed, we’ll need all the good luck we might find, your grace.”

  Daniel let the comment pass, no longer interested in the subject. Suzanne addressed Horatio herself. “How may I help you, Horatio?”

  He turned to her, dropped the unnatural formality, and said, “I’ve come to plead with you once more to remove the Scottish play from our repertoire.”

  “I think I made myself clear yesterday, Horatio. We will do the play and that is the end of it.”

  “’Tis certain to bring bad luck, my niece. No good can come of this, I’m sure of it.”

  Daniel said, “You believe the play is unlucky, Horatio?”

  Horatio came to attention again to address the earl. “Indeed, your grace. ’Tis evil, and contains evil chants and spells.” He trembled with revulsion.

  “The witches, you mean,” said Suzanne.

  Horatio resumed an informal stance and replied to her, “Of course, the witches. They speak an incantation. I’m told Shakespeare had it from a true witch, and slipped it into the play. That is why all the manuscripts were lost.”

  “A fire destroyed Shakespeare’s original manuscripts. The Globe burnt.” Suzanne didn’t understand why Horatio thought it so magical. But he’d always been a strange sort. Horatio’s world was ever filled with ghosts, faeries, and saints that could fix anything.

  Horatio nodded vigorously. “It did! A sign of demonic work, for a certainty!”

  Daniel said, “Surely you don’t believe it was because of that play. From what I hear, the theatre was a den of iniquity quite without the help of Macbeth.”

  “Seriously, Daniel, you can’t believe all you heard about the Globe after it was closed by Cromwell and his friends. It couldn’t have been nearly as bad as they’ve said.”

  “If half of what I’ve heard was true—”

  “With all due respect, your grace.” Horatio came to attention once more and said to Daniel, “If I may be so bold as to differ, if the players were evil, it was under the influence of that play.”

  Suzanne said, “Well, be that as it may, we’re to perform the play and that is the long and the short of it. So assign the cast and get on with it.”

  Once more Horatio left his formal stance and said to her, “Very well, then, my niece. If I must proceed, then there is one thing I would ask of you.”

  “Anything, Horatio.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. My niece, I wish to discuss casting with you.”

  “If you mean Louis as Romeo, then I assure you I trust your judgment—”

  “No, Suzanne, I mean yourself. I wish you to play Lady Macbeth in the Scottish play.”

  “Me?”

  Daniel looked at her, then at Horatio, as if the big man had just suggested she strip naked and stroll through St. James’s Park, singing a bawdy song at full volume accompanied by a lewd dance. But he said no
thing.

  “Of course, you,” said Horatio. “You’re a fine actress, but we haven’t been able to take advantage of your talent because you are no longer believable as Juliet, Viola, or any of the roles you once performed so well. But since you have insisted we produce the Scottish play, it occurs to me you would be a brilliant choice for Lady Macbeth.”

  “A madwoman.”

  Daniel said, “Not much of a leap, I think.”

  “Daniel!”

  He shrugged and took another sip of whisky to hide the wicked grin on his face.

  “In all honesty, Suzanne, I believe you have the ability.”

  “I don’t know the lines. I’ve never performed in the play at all; I’ve only ever worked with you, and you hate the thing, and besides, I never appeared old enough for any of the women in it in any case.”

  Horatio fidgeted, as if reluctant to say what had risen to his lips, but he said it anyway. “My dear niece, I would gently suggest that you have matured into this role.”

  She gave a wry smile and ignored the chuckle Daniel emitted. “I suppose that’s true. It might very well suit me.” She took a deep, cleansing breath and said, “Well! The world appears to have a use for an old, worn tart after all.”

  That brought a full bark of a laugh from Daniel, and she waved a hand at him as if to slap his hand in playful admonishment.

  She turned back to Horatio and said, “I suppose I could—”

  A pounding came at the door, and it opened without help from Sheila, who had to take a step out of the way even as she reached for it. In stepped Louis, who addressed Horatio without preamble.

  “There you are! I tell you, Horatio, I should be the one to play that role!”

  Horatio turned on him, his face reddening. “Louis, this is not the place—”

  “But you don’t know what I can do!” Louis’s face was also red, and his mouth twisted in dismay.

  “It matters not what you can do. You’re not right for the role, and that is all I will say on the matter! You will play Malcolm and that is the end of it!”