The Scottish Play Murder (A Restoration Mystery)

by Rutherford, Anne

  “What did you do for a living there?”

  There was another brief pause as Ramsay considered his reply. It was hard to tell if he was being disingenuous or merely circumspect. Finally he said, “I acted.”

  “Theatre? During Cromwell’s rule?”

  “Some types of performance were allowed. Small crowds, brief presentations. I learned the craft out of need.”

  “You’ve a talent for it.” She wondered whether she was seeing an example of it at that moment.

  “Aye, I do. I was well received among the players.”

  “These players were the cousins you were talking about?”

  A slight hesitation caught her attention and made her wonder. Then he said, “Yes. Cousins of my father, actually. They performed privately for parties of certain individuals whose cash resources were greater than their respect for Cromwell’s laws proscribing theatre.”

  “You were able to perform in the open?”

  Ramsay shrugged. “More or less. We played rather restricted versions of the most popular plays. Scenes from Hamlet and Macbeth, short bits that were more like a play about the play, or else a vignette or a single scene that could stand on its own.”

  Suzanne thought how wonderful it would have been to have found a troupe during the interregnum that was free to work in the open. But she remembered her purpose in asking Ramsay to join her for supper. “Tell me, Ramsay, while you were in Edinburgh, you must have heard tell of that fellow who presented himself as one of your cousins and helped himself to some jewelry before he disappeared.”

  Ramsay’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted his seat in what appeared irritation, but Suzanne couldn’t imagine what about the thing she’d said might have irritated him. Unless she’d struck close to a bone of some sort, though she also didn’t want to know what bone that might have been. He said, “No, I can’t say as I’ve heard about any such fellow.” His tone told her he was a liar. Nothing about that sentence was true. He absolutely had knowledge of the pretender in Edinburgh; Suzanne was sure of it.

  “You haven’t? Surely you must have heard of what happened. ’Tis rumored even here in London; it’s puzzling that you could have missed hearing it in the city where it happened.”

  He adjusted his seat once more, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table and look directly into her eyes. “Tell me what is rumored in London. I’m interested in hearing what the English have to say about Scotland; it’s fair amusing, they so often get it so very wrong.”

  It was Suzanne’s turn to shift in her seat and lean back, away from him. Whatever she said at this point would be challenged in some way. But she folded her hands in her lap and told the story she’d heard from Daniel, and she told it as if it were nothing more than a bit of juicy gossip. “Well, what I heard is that a fellow calling himself Diarmid Gordon appeared out of nowhere, with a story about being descended from George Gordon, clan chieftain and traitor to Queen Mary of Scotland.”

  “There are a great many of us descended from auld George. ’Tis strong blood, in spite of our stained history. A great many forced marriages, don’t ye ken.” He winked at her and grinned.

  Suzanne wasn’t certain how to take that, and had to clear her throat as it tightened. “Right. In any case, this Gordon fellow imposed on everyone he could charm, and apparently was well liked by the wives of all that nobility, for he managed to lay hands on several very rich pieces of jewelry. Then he absconded and hasn’t been seen since.”

  Ramsay laughed, but not with the sort of surprise usually heard in response to an amusing story. Again Suzanne had the feeling he’d known what she was about to say. He said, “And where do they think he went?”

  Suzanne shrugged. “I surely cannot say. I would expect he’d fled to France, like every other criminal with a need to leave the country.”

  “I’m sure the French would rather the English and Scottish all just stayed on our island. I’m told they have no great love for us there. Even Catholic royalty in fear for their heads have to beg for alms when they flee to the Continent. It’s positively degrading.” He sounded as if this had crossed his mind often.

  “So . . . you think such a criminal may have gone elsewhere for not wanting to upset the French? How terribly considerate of him.”

  Ramsay chuckled in genuine amusement.

  Suzanne changed the subject, though in her mind it was not different at all. “’Twas a terrible thing happened to the Earl of Larchford, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh, aye. Terrible indeed. A messy death, and to no purpose. To be bludgeoned in battle is honorable; to be laid low from behind by a coward must carry into the next life as shameful. A waste.”

  “How do you know he was attacked from behind? I saw the body personally and couldn’t tell where the first blow had fallen.”

  Ramsay sat back again and shrugged. “No man of any worth would have let such a weapon past his sword, had the villain approached from the front. Was Larchford’s sword drawn when you saw it?”

  Suzanne had to admit it hadn’t been.

  “There, you have it. A coward assaulted him from behind. He probably never saw his attacker.”

  “An academic point, since he’s no longer able to tell.”

  “I have to wonder whether anyone witnessed it. Nobody has come forth, have they?”

  Suzanne shook her head. “Nobody would.” Her head tilted and she peered into Ramsay’s eyes. “Though I suppose you would. I imagine you would have gone straight to the constable and told everything you saw. Had you seen.”

  “Perhaps. But then, perhaps not.”

  “You were at the Goat and Boar that night, weren’t you? I seem to recall you saying you were going there after you left the theatre.”

  “I did not.”

  She sat back. “Didn’t you? Are you sure? The evening was early when you left.”

  “I did go there, but I did not say so. It happens I stopped for a tankard and some supper on my way home. All my former drinking companions being dead, and my current associates being less than eager to drink with me, it was a short visit and I left early to make my way up Bank Side to my rooms.”

  Suzanne nodded, wondering whether Ramsay was telling the truth, or if his involvement with Angus, Santiago, and Larchford went deeper than he was saying.

  *

  “DANIEL, I would ask a favor of you.” Suzanne was escorting him to his coach the following morning just after he’d finished his business with Piers and the theatre’s accounts, and just before rehearsal would begin that day. Lately she’d noticed he handled his affairs regarding the theatre more personally than someone of his stature might, and she’d also noticed he spent a great deal of time chatting with Piers of things other than business. Over the previous months his conversations with his son had been short and not so sweet, but lately the two seemed thick as thieves, their heads together in low voices. She hoped it was a good sign, but feared it was only their dislike of Ramsay that had brought them together.

  Daniel replied, “What might I do for you?” The this time went unsaid. It was his guarded, neutral tone, the one he used when he knew she was about to ask for something outrageous, such as the five hundred and fifty pounds she’d first requested to buy the theatre.

  “Nothing terribly much. I wonder whether you might be able to invite your friend one night to come see Mac . . . the Scottish play. Tonight would be good, but tomorrow would be sufficiently soon.”

  “Which friend?”

  “The one just back from Edinburgh. The fellow you said was all aflutter over the faux Gordon who disappeared with some well-known but not terribly well-guarded jewelry.”

  “Ah. Robert. Why ever do you want him to see the play?”

  “Not the play. Ramsay. I want him to have a look at Ramsay and tell us definitively whether he’s the thief.”

  “What did he do that convinced you?”

  “I’m not convinced. That’s why I wish your friend to see his face. If he tells us that Ramsay is the
fellow who stole all that jewelry . . .”

  “Then what?”

  Hm. What would she do if Robert said he’d seen Ramsay in Edinburgh? Would she then suspect him of also murdering Larchford? Of course not. One had nothing to do with the other. But it certainly would speak to his character if she knew. And it would be nice if Robert said he was not the thief, and that particular shadow would be gone from Ramsay’s reputation. “I simply would like him to come see our Diarmid and settle the issue once and for all.”

  Daniel nodded. “Very well, and gladly. But if I’m any judge of character, you’ll do well to have your friend Constable Pepper and some redcoats or palace pikemen handy when Robert identifies him.”

  “We’ll see.” Suzanne hoped strongly that Daniel’s friend would not recognize Ramsay.

  Daniel didn’t bring Robert that evening, pleading a prior engagement. Suzanne assumed his wife must be complaining about the amount of time he spent at the theatre. She was a sweet woman, and though Anne had never caught on to the former relationship between Suzanne and Daniel, Suzanne thought her intelligent. Anne had never met Piers, and never would if Daniel had his way, for everyone who met Piers guessed the young man’s parentage immediately. So, to keep his home life on an even keel, Daniel stayed away from the theatre that night.

  The performance of Macbeth went better than the night before, its only flaw the subdued energy of the cast, who seemed to anticipate trouble. At the last bow the cast relaxed in relief that nothing bad had happened this time.

  Suzanne went directly to her bedchamber, locked the door, and stepped up into her desk alcove with the packet of letters she had found in Larchford’s house. There were enough pages to keep her occupied for a good many hours, and she’d instructed Sheila that she not be disturbed. Her pulse picked up as she untied the ribbon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Straightaway she laid out the code key she’d written when she’d decoded the letter found on Larchford’s body. She untied the ribbon binding the letters and set it aside, then unfolded the first note, which was several pages long. Block after block of gibberish, some Roman letters punctuated by Greek letters and some symbols. Plainly it was the same code as was used in the first letter. She began writing it out according to the key.

  But at the first word she could see the key she was using was not correct. The result was just as much gibberish as the original. Suzanne laid her ink-stained hands in her lap and stared, disappointed. She was going to have to do all the laborious guesswork over again to find the key for this note. She looked at the stack of messages and sighed. It would take a very long time if all these messages had a unique key.

  But if the letters used different keys, how did Larchford know which to use for decoding? There must be thousands of possible arrangements of the twenty-six letters. And if any of the solutions allowed any of the symbols to be used as letters instead of spaces, the possible solutions increased exponentially.

  Suzanne sighed and looked at the stack of letters to be decoded. Then she gazed at her worthless code key and uttered a curse that would have sent Horatio running from the room for fear of being hit by a lightning bolt.

  Then she noticed that all the letters in her key were in order, but only offset by a few letters. The letters on the right started at O, ran through Z, then began at A again to finish at N. In the code alphabet, A was the thirteenth letter. The first message, the one from Larchford to Santiago, had the number 13 written at the bottom, as if it were a page number.

  Definitely not a page number. The message Suzanne had open before her had a number on only the first page, scribbled in the upper left corner, and it was 20. Breathless with discovery, she wrote that alphabet beside the other two. A became T, B became U, and so on. Then she applied this solution to the message at hand, and words began to appear.

  My lord.

  Excitement shook Suzanne and made her fingers slippery. It was a letter to Larchford. She guessed from Santiago but she couldn’t be sure until she decoded it. As she worked, it became plain by the clumsy English and word syntax that the writer was at least a foreigner and probably Spanish. And as she worked she learned a great deal about Larchford’s business with Spanish pirates, whichever ones they might be. When she finished decoding the message, she reread it, agog at what she’d found.

  My lord.

  You will be pleased your ship has made its first conquest, off the coast of Gibraltar, of the English king’s ship Merryman. Her crew did well fought, and the guns you have equipped your ship has destroyed the rigging the other ship until she did adrift in the sea. Only the rigging were destroyed, and we did not sink her. We aboarded her and took every cargo and the very ship. Her crew was set loose in long boats and enough food and water they could make her to Espania. We have sold Merryman and her cargo. I send your share of the resulting gold in London soon.

  There followed several pages describing the cargo, including raw sugar, finished goods from Italy, French wine, and a great many assorted textiles. Then there was an accounting of the sale of those goods and the ship itself. The final page was a bit of bragging about the sea battle that had been fought and how skilled the earl’s ship’s crew was in the fight, particularly the writer of the letter. To read it, one would think Santiago was the bravest and most skilled sea captain ever to put to sail. Suzanne suspected his conquest of Merryman had been his first and he thought all ships would be as easy to take. It was the sort of overconfidence she might expect in someone who would try to blackmail a man who carried a knife and then not beware of attack. The thing was signed “Santiago” and Suzanne took that to be Diego Santiago. The writer might have been another Santiago, but she doubted it.

  Subsequent messages revealed that the captain of the pirate ship had become restless and dissatisfied with the size of his share of the booty in each successful raid. One of the latter letters said in no uncertain terms that there would be trouble if Larchford didn’t let the ship’s crew keep more of the proceeds. Santiago cited the standard of the privateers in the Caribbean, who by this statement were given a much larger share than what Larchford allowed.

  The final message spoke of an attack on a Scottish ship departed from Glasgow, carrying raw wool and whisky. Most of the victim’s crew was reported killed in the battle. Santiago threatened Larchford with exposure. His pirates were preying on British ships as well as French galleys and Spanish galleons. This amounted to treason, which would put Larchford in the Tower for a very short time before he would be hung, drawn and quartered as a traitor.

  Suzanne knew Larchford’s reply to that threat. She had it on her desk. Plainly he hadn’t reacted to it the way Santiago had hoped. She sat back in her chair and thought through the scenario. Santiago had come to London shortly before he was killed. None of the messages were dated, but she could surmise that the one from Larchford to Santiago had been sent shortly before Santiago’s death. Though there were no further messages after this one, Suzanne guessed that when it had arrived Santiago then made his way up the Thames. Possibly even in the very ship he’d captained, if—as indicated by the first message—Larchford owned it and it could reasonably fly the English flag and show papers of English ownership when boarded by authorities. The stolen cargo would have been sold long before, and the hold would contain nothing but an innocuous, legitimate, low-worth cargo for ballast. Perhaps containing nothing at all. If bringing Larchford’s ship up the Thames was too risky, then Santiago would still have been able to reach London somehow, either finding personal transport up the Thames or overland from Portsmouth. In any case, he’d obviously managed to reach London one way or another, for his body had been found here and was now buried in a public grave.

  What had he done once he’d arrived?

  She knew he’d come with some whisky, which he’d sold to Ramsay then tried to extort more money for it. Perhaps the barrels had been intended for Angus, but they had ended up with the other Scot. It was possible Ramsay had been involved with the pirate ship itself,
but none of the letters mentioned him or Angus. She took that as a sign they were both nothing more than buyers of Santiago’s swag and Ramsay may not have even been known by Larchford. Except for the blood on Larchford’s dagger and shoes, Suzanne might not have thought he’d known Angus, either.

  Could Santiago have been killed for selling the whisky behind Larchford’s back? Could that have also been why Angus was murdered? Then why was Ramsay still walking around? Had he killed Larchford in self-defense?

  Suzanne shook her head. Possible, but not likely. There were far better and easier ways to settle such a dispute, and Larchford was far too dependent on his piracy income to go to that extreme over a few barrels of whisky. No, there must have been a more compelling reason for Larchford to have killed Santiago and Angus. She was certain he had killed them, but still didn’t know why he’d done it.

  So when Santiago arrived in London, he’d contacted Larchford. How had he done that? Not by letter; there was no letter in Larchford’s bundle that appeared to have been written after Santiago’s arrival. Had the pirate captain accosted him somewhere? At the docks? At the Goat and Boar? Had the night of the murder of Santiago been Larchford’s first notice that Santiago had come?

  That made sense. Santiago arrives in London, frequents the Goat and Boar, as evidenced by Arturo’s statement, until one night Larchford is there. He steps forward to press Larchford on the subject of money. There ensues an argument, Santiago renews his threat of exposure, and Larchford responds by killing his mutinous ship’s captain.

  But then, why kill Angus? What did he have to do with Santiago that would cause Larchford to stalk him and kill him days later?

  *

  SUZANNE went to Pepper’s office to tell him what she’d found, and show him the decoded letters. By the time she arrived he was well into his brandy bottle, red-nosed, bleary-eyed, and fumbling of hand. He fingered the translations as he read, making humming noises, taking sips of brandy from his glass, and smacking his lips often. Suzanne sat in one of the chairs nearby and waited for him to finish. He was a slow reader.