“I certainly don’t know all their children, either.”
“Of course not.”
“Besides, nearly everyone has children who are off in various forms of fosterage or schooling.”
“Of course. But have you heard anything unusual?”
Daniel thought hard for some moments. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know. There are so many who send their children here and there, for education or to simply get them out of the way. To France, to the countryside . . . one never knows where the offspring are—or sometimes who the offspring are—even if one is friendly with the parents.”
“Someone terribly proper, Esmeralda said. Someone very high up.”
“I can’t—” Daniel stopped short, staring into the middle distance, remembering. “The Earl of Dandridge has a son about that age who was recently sent to France.”
“Good.” Suzanne nodded, pleased Daniel was now cooperating. “Any others?”
Daniel shook his head, then said, “Wait.” His head tilted, as if he were listening carefully to a dim memory. “Wait. There is another. It was months ago, though. Duke of Cawthorne.” He nodded. “Yes, Jacob Worthington, Duke of Cawthorne. He has a son that age, and by all accounts the boy has been in the country since last summer.”
“And you think our victim could be this boy? But if he’s been away for months, how was he killed in London?”
Daniel shrugged. “I wouldn’t hazard a guess. But you asked about absent sons of high-ranking gentlemen, particularly high-ranking gentlemen who are of extremely proper families. Cawthorne is a Puritan of the purest stripe. Never a word but in praise of God, and never a whisper of scandal about his entire family. Ever.”
“That strikes me as . . . unnatural.”
“Indeed.”
Suzanne determined to arrange visits to the families of the duke and the earl.
* * *
THE next morning, as Suzanne set out to visit the western end of London, she was exiting her rooms when there came a shouting from the upstairs dressing room, two stories above the stage level. She knew it was the dressing room, because the voice was Liza and Suzanne couldn’t tell what she was saying. Were she in one of the rooms closer to the basement, Liza’s voice would have carried clearly enough for everyone in the ’tiring house to hear and understand every word.
Then came Wally’s voice, in full, manly tenor, and Suzanne realized they weren’t rehearsing. She sighed, and hoped Horatio was in the vicinity to calm them down. At the very least to keep them from scratching each other’s eyes out.
She fled through the rear exit, hoping not to be dragged into the actors’ conflict, and found Ramsay waiting for her in the alley outside the rear door of the theatre. He lounged against the wall of the building across the narrow way, facing the Globe entrance, and when he saw her he regained his feet and presented himself at attention. “Good morning, my dear Suzanne!” He was bundled inside a bulky sheepskin coat, and today he wore breeches and tights against the sharp January weather rather than the kilt he usually preferred. His hat was broad brimmed, but old and had lost its shape so that the brim drooped. Bad for fashion, but good for warmth. Even a true Scot such as himself must appreciate warm clothing when he could get it.
She stopped short, quite surprised to see him lurking here. “What are you doing here in the alley, Ramsay? Why did you not come inside and out of the cold? Have you been here long?”
He glanced at the theatre door, then back at her. “Not long. I’ve come to escort you through your day. I’m told you’re hot on the trail of a murderer, and I aim to make certain you don’t share the fate of the victim in question.”
She made a vague shrug, as if shaking off the silly thought. “I don’t see any danger ahead for me today. In fact, I am headed for some rather genteel neighborhoods. I need to speak to some folks in Pall Mall and Westminster. I must see the Earl of Dandridge, who has a new estate in Pall Mall, and I’m told the Duke of Cawthorne maintains his London residence in Orchard Street.”
Ramsay’s eyebrows went up, and a not-quite-stifled smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Westminster? Are you sure they’ll let you in? Or even walk down the street?”
“Not at all. I rather expect the moment my foot touches the ground there a wild pack of palace guards will rush at me with pikes and demand to know my business. And further it is my firm belief the presence of a large, loud Scot would only hinder my chances at going unnoticed.” She headed off up the alley toward Maid Lane, where she could flag down a carriage for the ride across the river and around the bend in the Thames to the wealthiest part of London.
“You injure me, my lady.” Ramsay pressed a palm to his chest as he fell into step beside her. The icy cobbles beneath their feet caused much slipping, and Suzanne was forced to take his arm to steady herself. He pressed his free hand to hold hers secure, and made certain she didn’t fall. He continued, “I would stand ready to do your bidding. I wish only your safety.”
“Nonsense. You wish to occupy my bed.”
“That as well, but it can wait for a more suitable moment. And speaking of that, have you considered my offer?”
“I’ve been considering it, but cannot tell whether I am ready for marriage. You know I rather enjoy my new life, and already have too many men taking credit and money for my efforts.”
“I assure you, I wish no credit for anything I haven’t done myself. Were you my wife, I would laud your accomplishments to the heavens.”
“That’s very well, but marriage is a rather high price for praise I should have in any case. You could do that without having my lifelong commitment. I wonder what you could offer me I don’t already have on my own.”
“You did mention bed . . .”
“I have had all of that I care for, thank you very much, and also without the Lord’s blessing. With few exceptions, it’s pretty much all the same, once all is said and done. Since William left, I find I don’t miss it.” She was careful not to mention the one time with Daniel only a year ago, which at her age she’d found entirely too casual, and given his attitude she didn’t particularly miss being with him anymore, either.
“But you haven’t had me.”
“And what would be so special about a romp with you? Have you parts that are unlike other men? A secret knowledge of technique that has gone undiscovered by the rest of humanity since the beginning of the world?” She kept her tone light and humorous, lest she hurt his feelings. Her wish was to keep him at bay, not to chase him off with mean words, for she enjoyed his company and didn’t wish to lose it.
Ramsay chuckled, impervious. “Were I to reveal my parts to you, you might faint at the sight.” That brought a delighted guffaw from her, and she let him continue, which he did eagerly. “Why, my member is so large, and so vigorous, you could hardly contain it.”
“I don’t suppose I could.”
“However, I suggest you try. You’ll never know what you might accomplish unless you try.”
That made her laugh again, giddy in the chilly morning. They arrived at the street, and Ramsay waved down a carriage for hire. It stopped, and the driver leapt from his seat to open the door. Ramsay and Suzanne climbed inside and sat. She ordered the driver to take them to Pall Mall, and sat back for the fairly long ride. Ramsay settled in next to her, and had the good grace to not take her hand in his. Instead he crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. She likewise folded her hands in her own lap.
“It hasn’t escaped my notice that you are still here.”
He agreed cheerfully, took her hand from her lap, and kissed the back of it. “Aye. I’m most noticeable.”
“I can’t take you inside with me when we get there.”
“Assuming they let you inside and they don’t set the dogs on us.”
“Well, we’ll see what happens when we get there.”
“Aye. Won’t we
, though?”
Chapter Eight
Pall Mall was the newest neighborhood in London, suddenly fashionable since the return of the king. Previously it had been a park where the ball game of that name had been a popular pastime among the upper classes, and now it was a scattering of brand-new and unfinished houses of bright brick and new-cut stone, each surrounded by newly dug gardens and sparse-grown lawns. One of those belonged to Daniel, and as they passed it Suzanne stared hard to see whether his wife was in. She wished she could hate Anne, but had found it impossible. Most likely, everyone found it impossible to dislike her, for she was beautiful, graceful, and treated everyone she met with respect. Sometimes Suzanne even thought Daniel didn’t deserve her.
Today there was no sign of Anne at Daniel’s house.
The house belonging to the Earl of Dandridge was by no means the most elaborate in the street, but inspired enough awe in Suzanne and Ramsay that they both had to gawk out the carriage window as they approached up the circle drive. Ramsay was the only one with a comment. He said, “Och.”
Suzanne agreed. The stone in this house was so new, the hewn corners so sharp, they appeared able to cut flesh. Daniel’s house had been built only six months ago, but even it wasn’t this precise.
When the carriage stopped, Suzanne stepped down from it. Ramsay followed, and offered his arm to Suzanne.
“No, Ramsay, I think you should stay here and wait for me.”
“I would much rather accompany you.”
“I think it would be better for me to go alone. You can be very intimidating to some.”
“And that is my best feature.”
“I thought your member was your best feature.”
“Oh, aye, it is. Should I draw it out and render them all speechless?”
She pretended to think on that a moment, then shook her head and said, “No. I’m here to get them to talk, so that would defeat my purpose, I’m afraid. Just stay here and make certain our driver doesn’t wander off or drink too much from his flask.”
Ramsay glanced over at the driver, then said, “Very well, my lady.”
“Stop calling me that. It impresses me only with your eagerness to flatter. It doesn’t help your case.”
“Then by all means I will stop calling you that, you yeasty whore.”
“That’s better. Now wish me luck.”
“Good luck, you unprincipled tart.”
Suzanne laughed. “Very well, you may call me a ‘lady’ if you must. But only when we’re alone.”
With a grin he said, “Alone? Something to look forward to.” He retreated to the relatively warm carriage and graced her with a handsome smile that made her smile in return. Then she faced the front door of the earl’s house, and wiped that smile from her face as a servant opened it to see who had just arrived. Suzanne approached in all seriousness, having arranged her face into a somber and sympathetic expression. She might be bringing bad news, and even if the murdered boy weren’t the earl’s son there were certain to be tense and upsetting moments during this meeting.
“Good day,” she said. “My name is Mistress Suzanne Thornton, working under the authority of Constable Samuel Pepper of Southwark. I have an urgent matter to discuss with the earl, if I may.”
The manservant gazed at her stupidly for a moment, then said, “Southwark?” It was as if he’d never heard of the place and would consider mention of it beneath him if he had.
“Yes. Is the earl available for a short interview? This shouldn’t take long at all.”
“The earl?” The man seemed dumbfounded anyone from Southwark would be so bold as to ask for an interview.
Suzanne’s voice took on an edge of impatience. “Yes, good man. It’s a matter of utmost urgency. It involves his son.” She didn’t know the name of the son, and wished she’d looked into it before coming here. This wasn’t her first time to wish she’d prepared more thoroughly before an interview, but there was nothing for it now but to forge ahead and hope for the best.
“His son?”
Exasperation rose. “Yes. His son.”
Finally something sunk into the man’s head, and he gestured that Suzanne should enter.
Inside the door was an entryway larger than any Suzanne had ever seen. Doors gave egress to either side, and a stairway with a curved banister led to an upper floor. The newel post at the bottom was intricately carved and highly polished, brand-new and with nary a mark of use on it. Her hand, of its own accord, reached out to lay a finger on it, just to know it was real and not some magical thing created by faeries. The servant bade her wait, and so she waited, still and silent.
The wait was long enough for her to understand her time was not particularly valued, but she remained still and listened to the various household noises. There were voices in a distant room, and a single shout that must have come from the kitchen, for it was accompanied by a banging of copper pots and a clatter of what may have been wooden utensils. The smell of sawdust still permeated, even though the house was warm, with hearths everywhere busily burning wood.
Eventually the servant returned, followed by a handsome peer in his thirties or early forties, distinguished though wigless and wearing a velvet lounging robe. The servant announced him, and introduced her, then disappeared so expertly and discreetly Suzanne only looked up from her curtsey to see he was no longer there. The earl peered at her, frowning.
“What’s this I’m told about a problem involving my son? You’re aware he’s in France?”
“That is what I was told, but something has arisen and I must inquire after him. May I ask, when was the last you heard from him?”
“Why, we had a message from him only a few days ago. He tells us all is well. Tell me what is the matter.” He seemed intensely concerned about his son.
“He’s near the age of twelve or thirteen?”
“He’s fourteen years old. Why do you want to know? What could the constable in Southwark have to do with him?”
“Could you describe him to me?” Fourteen years old was perhaps older than the boy she’d seen, but one could never tell for a certainty with children.
The earl’s temper began to unravel. “Now hear me, good woman, I demand to know what the matter is you’ve come about. What of my son?”
“I’m sorry, but there’s been a murder, and we’re afraid the victim may be one of the nobility. If you could tell me what your son looks like, then perhaps we can rule him out and your worry will be over.”
Without hesitation, the earl said, “He’s got bright red hair, like his mother. Tall for his age, and somewhat hefty as well. His nose is covered with freckles, and his eyes are a light hazel color.” An edge of panic came into his voice. “Tell me, does your victim fit that description?”
Suzanne sighed, both relieved and dismayed. “He does not. This boy had dark brown hair, and was quite thin.”
Tears rose to the earl’s eyes, and he placed a hand over his mouth. “Thank God. He’s all right, then?”
“He’s not the boy we found several days ago. I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you, my lord.” She executed an especially deep curtsey to express her sincere regret.
“It’s quite all right, mistress.” Plainly the earl was relieved it was someone else’s child who had been murdered.
“I’ll leave you to your business, and again I am sorry to have given you a turn.”
The earl nodded, and gestured toward the door. “Good day to you, then. And I wish you success in your investigation.”
She thanked him and left. Now she had to do the same to the Duke of Cawthorne in Westminster.
While Pall Mall was London’s newest neighborhood, Westminster was one of its older ones outside of the ancient walled city. Orchard Street was named for orchards that once belonged to St. Peter’s Abbey near Westminster Hall, which trees had been taken down to make room for expe
nsive houses. In addition to being an old neighborhood, it was stultifyingly wealthy. Ramsay hadn’t exaggerated much when he’d spoken of having dogs set upon them. As their carriage approached the house belonging to the Duke of Cawthorne, huge, old trees shaded the road. Other houses lined the street, in high style and quietly assured of their superiority. Suzanne found herself looking up and down the street as the carriage hurried along it, half afraid of having attracted the notice of those whose business it was to eject the riffraff from the area. Unlike the areas of London to the east, where people came and went at will and often anonymously, this place was impermeable. Unassailable. Inviolable.
The duke’s mansion was a stately gentleman of brown brick, smaller, perhaps, than the showier houses in Pall Mall. This neighborhood may have been the less fashionable this year, but it was well established by old families, particularly those who had come through the interregnum in the good graces of God and Oliver Cromwell. This house was bare of unnecessary ornamentation, and though the garden seemed adequate and might bloom up nicely in the spring, there was no statuary at all and no color to speak of anywhere other than black trees, brown grass, and white ice. The structure was impeccably maintained, but was entirely brown. The carriage stopped in the street directly in front of it. Its driver opened the carriage door for Suzanne.
She stepped up to the magnificently large and solid, though plain, brown-painted door and tapped with its knocker. The wait for someone to answer was interminable. She was on the verge of trying again when the door finally opened to reveal a manservant in black livery. More plain than plain, with not even a white collar or sleeves to relieve the severity of the costume.
The footman said, “Good morning,” and gazed expectantly, as if he’d asked a question and expected a pertinent reply.
“Good morning. My name is Mistress Suzanne Thornton. I wonder if I might have a word with his grace the duke.” The footman’s eyes glazed over and a hard line came to his mouth, so that Suzanne could see she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. So she added quickly, “It’s regarding his son. I’m afraid I have some very bad news.” She wasn’t certain of it, but let this man believe she was, so that he would take her seriously and let her in.
The Twelfth Night Murder Page 10