It was nearly noon, at which time they would all disperse to seek dinner. Someone settled into the seat next to Suzanne, and she sat back and turned to find Daniel there. A surge of pleasure filled her breast, but she fought it down, for too much pleasure in Daniel had always been her downfall and he’d ever disappointed her. She said, “Back so soon? You were here but three days ago.”
“I couldn’t stay away, struggle as I might to do so. I’m curious about this Ramsay fellow you’ve hired. Is that the man down there? The big one? Looks as though he should be wearing armor and charging down the lists on a destrier with his plaid floating in the wind behind him.”
“That is he. And what concern is he of yours?”
Daniel shrugged with his habitual and often false insouciance. Suzanne was of the opinion he’d languished in France far too long, and had picked up some of their more annoying mannerisms. That was one of them. He told her, “I’ve made some inquiries about him, wishing to ascertain he is not an arsonist or madman of some sort who might burn down my theatre.”
“He’s quite talented, and most of the players appear to like him. Short of burning down the theatre, I expect he might get away with a bit of bad behavior.”
“Do you know where he’s come from?”
“Scotland, I imagine. I never ask too many questions of our actors, for it tends to keep the most talented ones away. Nobody in this profession likes to be known as he truly is; that is why we all put on paint and gaudy costumes and pretend to be someone we’re not. It’s so much more cheerful than life in the real world. I feel obligated to let them all present themselves as they wish.” The men’s garb she wore about the theatre was her own protective costume, as she struggled to shed her past.
“Scotland would be the consensus, I’ve learned.” Daniel’s tone was so dry it was a wonder his tongue didn’t stick to his teeth. “Specifically Edinburgh. I’ve a friend who has recently returned from two years spent there. He tells me last spring there was a man at Holyrood, posing as a clan chieftain from the far northern Highlands, calling himself Diarmid Gordon and answering closely to the description you gave two days ago. Tall, black hair, ruddy cheeks, and an uncanny ability to present himself as gentleman or rabble at his whim.”
“This fellow presented himself as rabble? To whom? Your friend said he’d posed as a clan chieftain.”
Daniel frowned, trying to remember what his friend had said, then replied, “Well, I can’t say as he actually did present himself as rabble. All I’m saying is what was reported to me. I’m told he claimed to be the great-great-great-grandson of George Gordon, who once led a rising against Mary Stuart. He explained that because his lands were so remote he’d made little presence in Edinburgh until last spring. With some mention of several nobles now dead who may or may not have been relatives from one side of the blanket or another, he moved among the Lowland Scottish nobility for some months as a breed of long lost cousin or prodigal son returned to the fold.”
Though Suzanne found that unsettling, she didn’t take it terribly seriously and made no reply. She pretended to listen to the discussion on the stage below, where it appeared Horatio was explaining to Third Witch his role in the laying and lighting of the gunpowder.
Daniel continued, “Until, that is, he was discovered for a fraud and vanished overnight with a borrowed horse and tack, as well as several pieces of jewelry belonging to the Ladies Buchanan, Armstrong, and Stewart.”
“I expect those women were hard put to explain to their husbands how the faux Master Gordon laid hands on their trinkets.”
Daniel chuckled. “Well, the pieces were well known and when they went missing it caused quite a stir. I’m told there is a bounty on the thief’s head. Large enough to make him a temptation even to me, I say.”
“And you think this nefarious fellow is our Macbeth?”
Daniel shrugged. “He fits the description rather neatly, doesn’t he? Right down to his Christian name.”
“And you think all of Scotland is limited to just one tall, dark-haired man named Diarmid with a talent for acting?”
“It might very well behoove us to ask my friend to come see the play when it opens to have a glance at him in the flesh, wouldn’t you say?”
“Or we might just let this sleeping dog lie so long as he keeps his hands off the enormous trunks filled with gold and silver we’ve got standing about the place. Wouldn’t you say?” Her eye was on the cluster of actors still on the stage in conference with their director.
“You would have a thief in your troupe?”
Suzanne’s brow furrowed and she peered into Daniel’s face as if to determine whether he were joking. She said, “Don’t be absurd. Were I to eject every thief from this troupe, we would be left with myself, Horatio, and possibly Matthew, though I’m none too certain about him.”
“And Piers.”
“Of course, Piers. That goes without saying. But you can see how inconvenient it would be for us to maintain too high a standard here. I’m afraid the only one of the commandments we are able to enforce among actors is the one about killing. I’ll not concern myself overmuch about Ramsay and some jewels belonging to women who have entirely too much money in any case.”
Daniel again shrugged. He appeared not to care much about anything, as was his habit. His uncaring façade was an immature attitude he’d never outgrown, and at his age it made him appear shallow. Perhaps he was shallow; Suzanne had never had a glimpse beneath the mask. “As you wish.”
“He is an extremely talented fellow, and handsome in the bargain. He’ll be an enormous draw once the play opens and word of mouth spreads. And besides, if he were this Gordon fellow, then why on earth would he hop up on stage where all of London might see his face and remember him from somewhere else?”
“You said yourself that people become actors to hide themselves.”
“Even so, I should think that with so many powerful Lowlanders after his hide, that Gordon fellow would seek a passport to France in the most discreet manner possible, particularly if he had several pieces of highly valued jewelry in his possession.”
“Again, as you wish. I’ll not press further.”
“Besides, as you’re well aware, I’ve got no jewelry for him to steal.” Daniel had never given her anything to treasure other than Piers, and in any case, if he had she would have sold it long ago to support her son when they were destitute.
“So you’re safe from all harm. Nothing to lose.”
She looked over at him, wondering whether he meant that ironically or was truly ignorant of what a struggle her life had been. He couldn’t possibly believe she had ever felt safe.
He said, changing the subject and with a tone suggesting a lighter one, “They’ve learned the name of the fellow who was stabbed outside the Goat and Boar, you might be interested to know.”
“Anyone prominent?”
Daniel shook his head. “Not even an Englishman, so far as anyone can tell. He was a Spaniard, born in the Caribbean, by all the evidence.”
Suzanne’s knowledge of geography suffered from her father’s reluctance to educate his female children, and her interest in it had always been quite overshadowed by her far greater interest in keeping herself and Piers from starving, so she asked, “The Caribbean . . . near India?”
“The Americas. It lies more or less between North and South America. Full of islands covered in jungle.”
“Ah.” She’d never seen a jungle, but understood it was a sort of thick forest.
“It’s rumored he was a pirate, though the truth of that is anyone’s guess. From what I hear of the free-for-all in the Americas, I’m of the opinion we will eventually have to do something to protect our interests in that area.”
“Send ships of our own?”
“Costly. Charles hasn’t got the cash for it, and Parliament has no interest.”
“If this dead fellow was a Spanish pirate, then what was he doing here, in the very heart of English territory? He might as well h
ave had a sign on his back saying, ‘Please kill me.’”
Daniel shrugged, this time appearing truly puzzled. “It is certainly a mystery. They say he was gutted like a fish, just outside the entrance to the public house. Men inside heard one loud cry, though none of them could discern any word. Then it went silent, and everyone inside returned to their amusements. There was nothing more until one of them ventured out on his way home. There he discovered the dead man, his entrails spilled onto the cobbling and a rag stuffed into his mouth. He wasn’t quite dead yet, but he’d only a minute or so left on earth. Too far gone to name his killer.”
“Unfortunate,” said Suzanne. “Constable Pepper is too lazy to have any interest in a Spanish pirate, no matter how mysterious his presence in London, and so there will be a murderer loose in the city.”
“There have always been murderers loose in London; one more or less makes little difference, so long as he’s only killing rabble and foreigners.”
Suzanne shook her head. “I believe we commons should discourage murder of our kind as carefully as the king frowns on regicide. Letting murderers have their way will only encourage others to kill. Some who might otherwise live innocent lives.”
“Perhaps.” But Daniel’s tone suggested he really meant unlikely.
Suzanne let that go, for she didn’t care to struggle with Daniel about class distinction and the inherent grace of commons, or lack of it. There was no deterring him from his opinion that only commoners who were his friends had value, and even then less value than nobility who were not his friends.
After rehearsal was finished, the troupe dispersed for the midday meal, and Daniel departed for home, Suzanne sought Arturo to speak to him before he could leave to join his family in the tenement they’d rented in the next street.
“Master Arturo,” she said when she found him. He turned to her, attentive, amusement on his face at being called “master.” “Arturo, I wanted to tell you how glad I am you and your mummers have decided to rejoin us.”
He shrugged, as if it were of little matter. “No reason to stay away anymore, and the work here pays money enough to make us happier than elsewhere. ’Tis good to be back.”
“Excellent. We were hard put to fill our playbill without you.” Quickly she proceeded to the real reason she’d stopped him, and probably caught him by surprise. “You have a knowledge of the people around here I rather envy.” Most men had connections she envied. Men in general were reluctant to confide in women, and she could never ply one with liquor without finding a hand up her dress at some point in the proceedings. She’d had to learn how to talk to men in their own language. In the past Arturo had been a rare source of information for her, for he knew her and trusted her well. He also knew how to behave himself around a woman who was not his wife, for his wife was quick with her kitchen utensils and tolerated little in the way of disrespect. Naturally he was one she liked to go to for information.
Suzanne continued, “Have you heard anything about that poor fellow who was killed outside the Goat and Boar some days ago?”
He nodded. “Certainly I have. Poor sod. Have you come to ask about Ramsay, then?”
“What about Ramsay?”
Arturo hesitated. “Oh. Well, nothing. I was only wondering.”
“Were you there that night? Did you hear the noise outside? Did you see who did it?” If he had, it wouldn’t have surprised her that he hadn’t reported it to the constable. Nobody in this neighborhood liked a witness too eager to talk to the authorities.
Arturo shook his head. “No, I wasn’t there then. But the night before I witnessed a fight between him and Ramsay. Right there in the public room.”
“Is that why you thought I wanted to ask about Ramsay?”
Arturo nodded. “When I heard of the murder, the first person I thought of was Ramsay. New in town and all that, and all of a sudden he’s got in a tangle with a man who turns up dead the next night. Seems awful suspicious.”
It did seem strange. Even more strange that a man so new to Southwark would have so many people eyeing him for this and that all of a sudden. She’d never known even an actor to attract so much attention. Suzanne was forced to take this with a grain of salt. “Tell me what happened. What did you see?”
“Well, the room was all peaceful-like, everyone having a pleasant enough evening, when there was a great shout of, ‘You thief!’ Which, of course, caught the attention of the entire room, for ‘thief’ is a name most in there could own. In any case, I seen this big Scottish fellow get up and make for the door. I didn’t know his name at the time, but he’s difficult not to notice, as big and loud as he is. The Spanish sailor, whose name I never knew, leapt up from the table and came after him with a dagger. Quick as a snake, Ramsay knocked it from his hand, then slapped him sideways. It was nearly laughable, how he just reached out and silenced the sailor, hardly moving to do it. Then they stood and stared at each other a moment, and then Ramsay said, ‘Say that again and I’ll kill you.’ And with that Ramsay left. The sailor watched him go, then looked around at all of us staring. Then he went back to finish the pot of ale at his table. He was the first man I thought of when I heard about the murder.”
The news that one of the troupe thought Ramsay could be a murderer made Suzanne think hard. Her willingness to let her troupers ignore their pasts only went so far, for the safety of her players came second in importance only to the safety of her son. Having a killer in their midst was an ugly thing she would not tolerate. “Well, Arturo, this is unsettling.” It was also unsettling to learn this after a rehearsal during which it seemed Ramsay was well liked by the rest of the troupe. Or had Arturo and the others been truly needling him?
“So you think Ramsay is the murderer?” Arturo asked.
“A threat isn’t proof. Nobody saw it happen, and nobody has reported seeing Ramsay in the vicinity at the time.”
“Nobody has accounted for his whereabouts elsewhere, neither.”
Suzanne allowed as that was true, but then nobody had asked Ramsay that question. In fact, it was unlikely Constable Pepper had asked anyone anything regarding the case, as lazy as the man was.
“Are you going to find who killed that sailor fellow? Will you be taking this news to the constable?”
Suzanne shrugged, and thought for a moment she might become like Daniel if she made that gesture too much. “Our constable is like most, lazy because he can get away with being lazy. Nobody requires him to do his job, so he doesn’t. I doubt even your statement would move him to search for the murderer. I think our Macbeth has nothing to fear from the authorities, regardless of what we do. Not until something turns up that will solve the crime so that Samuel Pepper won’t have to lift a finger to do it himself.”
“Will you, then? Turn something up? Or at least make an attempt at it? I hear you’ve a talent for it.” His tone made it clear he didn’t like Ramsay and wanted him arrested as soon as possible.
“He may not have done it.”
“Then I would like to know he did not. Stealing I can tolerate, but I don’t care to share company with a man who could do what was done to that sailor.”
At the moment Suzanne felt ill-equipped to answer his question. She wasn’t sure how to go about finding a murderer, and wasn’t certain it would even be possible in this case. Furthermore, she needed Ramsay for the play. She was more inclined to leave it all alone and hope nothing further would happen until Macbeth was finished. She replied, “It wouldn’t do much good to pursue him, would it? You didn’t see him do it. And you had more than likely taken a few quaffs of ale beforehand, yes?”
Arturo nodded. “I wasn’t so drunk I couldn’t have remembered his face, but ’tis true I never saw him carry out his threat.”
“Then until more evidence presents itself, we can only hope Ramsay is not the killer.” Suzanne let Arturo go on his way, and was about to go downstairs to her quarters for dinner when Piers came through the upstage entrance doors.
“There you are,” he
said.
“Here I am,” she agreed, and continued toward the stairs, assuming Piers would follow her to dinner.
He didn’t follow, but said, “You’ll need to give that Ramsay the boot, Mother.”
She turned to him and peered into his face in the dim backstage light from windows high on the far wall. “You as well, Piers? Does nobody like that Scottish fellow?”
“I can’t speak for anyone else, but I assure you he’s not my favorite today.”
“What has he done?”
“Well, nothing exactly.”
“Then why the outburst?”
“I don’t like him, is all. He strikes me as a fellow who would stab you in the back as soon as look at you.”
“Surely you haven’t concluded that from only one rehearsal. Have you even spoken to him?”
“Have you?”
Suzanne had to admit she’d not yet spoken directly to him.
“There, you have it. The man is a weasel, and has slipped into our troupe like a rodent into a grain bin.”
“He was cast in a play by virtue of a magnificent audition.”
“A master at pretending to be what he is not.”
“We’re actors, Piers. In theory we all are masters at that, but some more than others.”
“You know what I mean. There are actors, and then there are pretenders.”
“Piers, I think I’ve heard enough. You and Arturo are just going to have to accept him. Keep an eye on him if you must, but don’t—”
“Arturo doesn’t like him?”
“No, and for that matter neither does Daniel.” The things said about Ramsay seemed to be adding up. Suzanne wondered whether that could mean something in itself, though the accusations didn’t appear well founded.
“Daniel as well?” That made Piers think for a moment. He said, “Well, then, perhaps the old man isn’t such an ass as I’d thought.” Suzanne was certain one had nothing to do with the other. She made a small disparaging noise, then went on her way toward her quarters. Piers called after her, “Louis hates him, too, you should know.”
The Scottish Play Murder (A Restoration Mystery) Page 4