Suzanne leaned forward in her chair and said, “Well, mistress, I might point out that I would rather be playing my roles onstage than to be poking around London after a man who would stab a boy, cut off his willie, and stuff it in his mouth.”
“The boy didn’t drown?” La Tournelle seemed disappointed, and the horror of what Suzanne had just said seemed not to make a mark on her thoughts. She began to wonder whether the woman’s empathy were genuine, or manufactured.
“He was murdered, then thrown into the river. They found him at the bank just downstream of the bridge, caught among some flotsam. It was a terrible thing.”
“Oh yes. Terrible.” The old woman was suddenly reminded that her prediction had been about a soul who had once been living and now was not. She ducked back into the kitchen, and after some clinking of stoneware and clanking of pot, returned with a rough-hewn clay cup emitting steam from the top. “There you are,” she said, and shoved aside a stack of books to make room, then set the cup on the table where Suzanne could reach it.
Suzanne picked up the cup to sip from it, and the chocolate was delicious. “This is delightful, Mistress La Tournelle.”
“Oh, call me Esmeralda.”
“I come as a client.”
“Even so.”
“Very well, Esmeralda, and you shall call me Suzanne.” She raised her cup to the old woman and continued, “You do your own cooking?”
“I prefer it.” She settled into a chair nearby. “I’m rather good at it, and would be hard put to afford to hire someone more skilled than myself.”
“Well, I think you tell the truth, judging from this fine chocolate.” And also judging from these small, cramped quarters, which spoke to her financial state. She seemed to have a firm and proper idea of priorities regarding money.
Esmeralda nodded her thanks, then folded her hands in her lap and buckled down to business now that pleasantries had been accomplished. “So, Suzanne, what brings you to me as a client today?”
“You’ve intrigued me by the strange accuracy of your prediction the other day.”
“Not so strange, by my lights. And not so terribly accurate in my experience, I’m afraid. I would have sworn the death would have been yours.”
Suzanne was a bit nonplussed by the woman’s bluntness, but only blinked once and continued. “Nevertheless, it seems to me your story was more about the poor victim than myself.”
“We aren’t none of us alone on this earth.” She raised her hands and gazed upward, to indicate all the earth and the heavens as well. “All is entwined, everything connected to everything and everyone. That is why we can know of things that haven’t yet happened, for all was set in the beginning, when there was only the Word.” She returned her hands to her lap and graced Suzanne with a beatific smile that seemed utterly genuine. Esmeralda was the most peaceful soul Suzanne could remember ever meeting. She reflected that she might be as serene, had she been able to see the future and lived a life with no ugly surprises.
“I hope you’re right, and that in you I might have a thread to lead me to the boy’s killer.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and her eyebrows raised. “You think I know who the murderer is?”
Suzanne shook her head. “No, but you plainly have an insight into this event I do not. I think if we follow it, we might find ourselves heading the right direction.”
“We? I must advise you, Suzanne, I have no stake in others’ lives. I only see what I see and that is all.”
Again Suzanne was struck by lack of empathy, but it occurred to her that Esmeralda’s heart was hardened by too much exposure to others’ fortunes and misfortunes. She thought it must be terribly wearing to deliver news that could be good or bad, over which she had no control. Too much empathy would certainly make for a sad life. She said brightly, “Then let us learn what there is to learn and see where it takes me. What do you charge for your service?”
Esmeralda nodded, down to business again. “Very well. I’ll need half a crown for my fee, if you please.” She watched as Suzanne drew the silver coin from the pocket under her dress. The coin disappeared immediately into the old woman’s pocket, then she said, “Tell me your birthday, then. And time of birth, if you know it.”
“I do, but what importance is it?”
“Oh, my dear!” The old woman rocked back and waved a hand that Suzanne could be so silly. “The hour of your birth can mean the difference between Libra with Virgo rising and Libra with Aries rising! Rising sign is a third of your fate, along with sun and moon. It gives us the houses, and which planets are in them. It tells us so much more than your simple planets. It can make all the difference, and pinpoint terribly important influences. I would always hope for a time of birth, rather than be left with nothing but sun sign. So, tell me your birthday, and where you were born, if you would be so kind. Sometime in October, I think, yes? Early October. Possibly the first week, or even very late September.”
Suzanne couldn’t help but to blink. “Why, that’s quite correct. My birthday is the second of October.”
“Ah. Same as King Richard III.”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed. So you see the importance of detail and accuracy in a chart. There are far more than a few hundred personalities and destinies. To leave out time of birth would be disastrous.”
“It was half past eight in the morning, thereabouts. Just after sunrise.” Suzanne hoped Richard had been born late in the evening.
Esmeralda nodded, as if she’d known it all along. “Of course. Scorpio rising; I can see it in your eyes. What year, then?”
“1625.”
At this the old woman seemed surprised again. “Truly? You’re that old? I would not have guessed.”
“Thank you,” said Suzanne, not entirely certain it was true, but hoping it was. She watched as Esmeralda rose from her chair and went to a stack of books nearby. She leafed through one for a bit, then when she found what she wanted, she reached for a scrap of paper then went looking for something else. After a busy search she found a quill and a bottle of ink. Then she cleared a bit of the table, drew her chair to the spot, and sat down to work.
On the paper she drew a circle, and sectioned it into twelve pie pieces. Quickly, looking to the book and back, she drew small figures in the circle’s pieces and made notations beneath it on the paper. She rose several times in search of other books, then sat to work on her paper. Suzanne sat, ignored, for many minutes, and sipped her chocolate patiently.
Finally Esmeralda rose from her work, took a deep breath, and said, “There we have it!”
“Me in a nutshell?”
“You and your past, present, and future.”
Suzanne felt a twinge of discomfort at that. Though she’d not been harmed by the earlier prediction, she had a mild feeling it might be not a very good idea to meddle with fate. Particularly since her situation had been improving so well this past year or so, and she had no desire to rock that particular boat. She said, “What does it tell you?”
Esmeralda drew her chair closer to where Suzanne sat, laid the paper on her knees, and began. “Well, you’ve Scorpio rising, and so you appear more dangerous than you actually are.”
“I’m not dangerous?” Suzanne didn’t know whether to be disappointed by that.
“Not so much as you appear.” She examined the paper some more, then said, “I see that you’re an intelligent woman. Most Libras are.”
“King Richard?”
“Intelligence doesn’t necessarily mean a good heart. You, I can see, have Venus in Taurus, and that is your ruling planet. ’Tis also the ruling planet of Taurus. You’re a lover of love, and yours is a stalwart heart. Virgo moon, so you don’t give love or friendship freely, but once given you never take it back. You can be depended upon.”
All that touched Suzanne in a carefully hidden spot. The men in her life had bee
n enormous disappointments at the very least. She pressed her palms together between her knees, forced herself to breathe normally, then said, “Go on.”
Esmeralda wasn’t looking at her, and so didn’t see how this reading was affecting her. She continued, “You’ve had a struggle, probably in childhood. Close family members have given you difficulty in the past. I see . . . violence.”
Suzanne had to shut her eyes, and said nothing.
Esmeralda continued, “Yes, the opposite sex has always been a trial for you. You were—” She looked up, and stopped short. Then said, “I’m sorry. Shall I stop?”
Suzanne said, “Violence, yes.” Her father had beaten her often during her childhood, and she hadn’t seen him, nor anyone else of her family, since before Piers was born. But that wasn’t why she was here. She added, “What of now?”
“You attract other people who are dangerous. The same influences that brought you hurtful people in the past are at work in your life now.”
“I should expect to be beaten again?”
The old woman shrugged. “I cannot say, but the risk is there. I can say it may or may not be by those close to you. That is not in the chart.”
“How did you know I was beaten by someone close to me?”
Esmeralda had to think over the answer to that question, her palms against the paper in her lap and her eyes cast upward. Then she drew a deep breath, looked over at Suzanne, and said in an utterly straightforward tone, “Who else? You were not raised in Southwark, that is plain. You lived as a middle-class woman, with middle-class manners. The roughness you present as one who manages a troupe of actors—and as an actress yourself—is learned. I didn’t need to see your chart to observe that. I must assume that if you lived with violence in your childhood, it was at the hands of someone close. The logical assumption is that it was your father. Am I correct?”
Suzanne had always thought herself a skilled observer of behavior, but found herself awed by this woman. She didn’t wish to answer, for the assessment was quite correct. She shifted in her seat and reached again for her chocolate. Another sip of that soothed her, and she replied, “Yes.” That was as much as she would confess, and she said, “Please, continue with the matter at hand. What of the boy?”
“Have we a natal date for him?”
“We haven’t even a name for him. I was hoping you might give me some indication as to where to look for that.”
“In your chart? That question would be more specific than is truly possible. God hides certain things even from those of us able to read the stars.”
In spite of her current frustration, Suzanne thought that might be a very good thing. She said, “Well, then is there an indication of what the influences will be for me during the next month or so? Perhaps that would give me an idea of where to begin my investigation.”
Esmeralda nodded once to confirm she understood, then leapt to her feet in search of another book. It happened to be at the top of a nearby stack. Paging through it, she sat back down next to the paper with Suzanne’s chart, and quickly came to the page she sought. “Very well, then. We have . . .”—she made a humming noise and muttered to herself—“. . . Mercury retrograde . . . no . . . Neptune . . . no . . . riches.” She slapped a palm against the page. “Ah. I see you will come into the presence of money. Great wealth. Are you expecting to gain an inheritance or a windfall of any kind?”
Suzanne shook her head, though her heart skipped at the thought of suddenly gaining great wealth.
“Then you will be in the presence of someone else’s wealth.”
That was nothing particularly noteworthy. She saw Daniel often, and he had more than a few guineas to his name these days. He was an earl, after all, and well aligned with the king. “More than usual?”
“Enormous wealth. Refined folk. Very much more than what you might be accustomed to. Very proper people.”
“Proper people would be something new to me, to be sure.” During her years as a tart she serviced a great many members of the peerage, and none of them had ever struck her as having any better moral sense than a jackal.
“There you have it. Look to the ruling classes in your quest for the identity of the boy.”
“Thank you, Esmeralda. I hope this steers me in the right direction.” Suzanne drained the last sip of chocolate from her cup, then rose. The old woman set aside the book and the chart, and rose also.
“Best of luck with all this. Do beware of the violent men.”
“Always, I assure you. Good day, mistress.”
Once again in Thread Needle Street, Suzanne fell into deep thought about the boy and what Esmeralda had said. Ruling class. Perhaps she was right. The child had certainly been beautiful. Besides comely features, he had an air of sureness about him that bespoke a privileged background. His manners had been smooth. Cultured, not learned. Surely the old woman had been right. Suzanne would need to ask Daniel about this. And wouldn’t that be a study in frustration, to get him to help her with a task he didn’t want her to do in the first place?
She stopped walking, and looked at where she was, as she realized she hadn’t cut across Cornhill Street as she should have to head home. She stood in Bishopsgate Street, where it crossed Thread Needle. A turn to the right would take her in the correct direction, back across the river, and her detour would only have been a slight one, but to the left she realized she was not very far from Dunning’s Alley, where she’d grown up. She’d not been there since she’d left at the age of seventeen. It was the only place in London she dared not go, and until today she’d always made great detours to avoid this section of Bishopsgate.
For a long moment she considered her route. South toward the bridge, home. North and not very far, the home she’d fled. She gazed northward along the bustling throughway thronging with pedestrians, carts, sedan chairs, and carriages. The words of the old woman returned to her. Esmeralda had known there was violence in her past. It wasn’t an uncommon thing, but nobody else had ever brought it up to her before, because it was so common among the people she knew. Nobody thought it all that noteworthy, and they all got on with their lives, as did she. She’d thought she had forgotten those days, first in the scramble for survival and more recently in the peace that was her new life in the theatre, but now memories swarmed over her like bees. She wanted to run away from those sharp, painful thoughts.
At the same time curiosity leapt into flame from the embers in her heart. It had been twenty years since she’d seen that house or anyone in it. Nobody had ever come looking for her. Nobody had ever tried to speak to her again. She wondered who of them might still be alive. Two older brothers, two younger sisters. Mother. And the father who had never valued her, for being a girl.
Her chest tightened, and she took a step to the north. What if she went there? What would she find? She took another step. Would anyone still be there? Her oldest brother, Benjamin, more than likely. Would Father or Mother still be alive? The more she wondered the more surely her feet moved her toward her old home, and soon she was walking as if she’d meant to go there all along.
Dunning’s Alley was more of a close than an alley. The narrow street led from Bishopsgate Street, back in among a row of narrow houses that, like most other houses built in the past two centuries, leaned out over the street for the sake of gaining space inside. A fairly good-sized close lay at the other end of the street, where four houses stood around a square in which a single tree grew. It was an oak, and hadn’t changed terribly much in the past twenty years. Perhaps a little taller, but it had been tall all her life. One torn limb stuck out, ragged, over the paved close. It looked like it had come off a few years before, and its raw end was dark and rotting.
Her father’s house stood on the north side of the close. Its door was blue now, rather than the brown it had been before, and may have been freshly painted. Or perhaps she just saw it that way since she’d expected the tired,
old brown shade and the blue was far brighter. All in all, the place seemed cheerier than she remembered. There was a sharp twinge of envy, which she couldn’t explain. Envy for a house? She’d hated it as a child. This was a place where pain was an everyday thing, where nobody spoke unless spoken to, as if Father were the king in his domain. Nobody in the house, not even Benjamin, wanted to attract his attention, for it was never good.
Many women lived that way, but Suzanne knew not all, and she also knew it was not how she had ever wanted to exist. When she was old enough to understand that certain people did not have to fear being beaten, when Daniel had shown her that another sort of life was possible, she had determined for herself that she would get away from that man who had made her hate herself as much as he hated her.
She looked up at the windows, which were shuttered against the winter cold though there was little wind here in the close. She could remember playing under this tree as a child. Never climbing it, though she would have liked to follow her brothers up it and see the world from high in its branches. She thought they could see all of London from up there. Little girls weren’t supposed to climb trees, and she was told if she did so she would never find a husband. It was so terribly important to her father that she find a husband! All her life, everything she was taught or allowed was aimed at securing a husband and freeing her father from the burden of her upkeep.
The peek hole in the blue front door opened for a moment, then closed. The door then opened and a woman stepped into the frame to look out. “May I help you?”
Suzanne shook her head, then looked toward the alley exit, ready to flee rather than answer questions, but she hesitated. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She turned to the woman and replied, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I am looking for a family named Thornton.”
The woman was young, perhaps a few years older than Piers, but not many. Her attire was plain brown without adornment, and that identified her as Puritan, or at least leaning in that direction. She said, “My father bought this house from Master Thornton nigh on ten years ago.”
The Twelfth Night Murder Page 7