The Twelfth Night Murder

by Anne Rutherford

  She agreed, more cheerfully than he, “Here I am.” She removed her gloves and handed them to Sheila, then her cloak, and the items disappeared into her bedchamber with the maid. Suzanne gestured that Daniel should sit, and she took a chair opposite the sofa where he sat. “I’ve been to see the Duke of Cawthorne.”

  “And what did you find?” His tone was wary, as if expecting bad news.

  “You were right. The victim is their youngest son, Paul.”

  He grunted and shifted in his seat. This was indeed bad news. “I could be right about nothing, for I told you nothing. I never said he was their son; I only said their son was not in London.”

  “You’re absolutely correct. It was Mistress La Tournelle who told me the boy was of the upper class.”

  “I hope you’re not going about telling people I said the duke’s son was a sodomite. I never did.”

  “Not to worry; I kept your name entirely out of it.”

  “You should be warned Cawthorne is nobody to take lightly. He’s among the peers who are prone to treat the king as their lackey, as if we controlled the kingdom rather than he.”

  “Well, Daniel, you must admit that Charles is dependent on money you in Parliament deign to give him. You are more powerful than you think.”

  “Cawthorne is among a tight clique who are apart from the rest of us. Even I wouldn’t want to cross those who are so powerful they have no regard for Charles. Caught between the king and the Puritan Parliament, I often feel powerless. Neither fish nor fowl, I am often alone in my efforts at anything.”

  “As I said, Daniel, so far as he and the world are concerned, the body was identified by a bystander whose name is quite forgotten. You needn’t worry.”

  “Still, I wish you would keep entirely out of it yourself. It’s not seemly, I think.”

  She sat up, pretending offense. “It seems to me that, with my background and experience, there should be very little I could do that might for me be termed ‘unseemly.’ It’s not as if I had great social standing to protect.”

  “You have an association with me.”

  “One you keep as hidden as possible.”

  “Nevertheless, I wish you would have a care about how things appear. I can’t have you running around town—”

  “You don’t have me at all.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, really, I don’t. Tell me what you mean.”

  He paused a moment, to calm his rising anger, and to think through his reply. Then he said, “I own your theatre. It’s known we have a relationship.”

  “What is known is that you have a business relationship with my son. What I do may reflect on him, but you have no responsibility regarding me. In fact, you’ve gone to great lengths to distance yourself from me in the eyes of society. There is little chance of me ever embarrassing you. I could strip naked and swing by my heels from a chandelier in the king’s privy chamber, and it would mean little to your reputation.”

  “Well, no, that might actually enhance it.”

  “In any case, you see my point.” Her lips pressed together at the memory of the day he’d told her to never visit him in his quarters at Whitehall, for fear his wife might learn he was Piers’s father. She was forced to accept his wish, but every day was sorely tempted to reveal their secret. Now her irritation over it harshened her tone.

  “Nevertheless, I don’t think it’s advisable to continue with this investigation.”

  “What do you think will be revealed?”

  “What has already been revealed is bad enough.”

  “That you are a chamberer and not so very particular about whom you invite to your bed?”

  Daniel blanched. “He was extremely well disguised.”

  “Not so very well I couldn’t tell he was a fraud from where I sat. You had an arm around him, if I recall.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did.”

  Daniel opened his mouth to protest, but she overrode him. “And even were he a girl, taking him upstairs would have been low behavior any way one might look at it. Even as a girl—”

  “He presented himself as a tart.”

  “I am of the school of thought that deems patronizing whores of any age is an unseemly activity for a Christian gentleman, no matter how wealthy, powerful, or handsome.”

  “Men patronizing whores supported you well enough.”

  “Which you did not. And ‘well enough’ is a matter of opinion. Besides, that boy was only twelve years old.”

  “As a girl he looked older.”

  “That’s no excuse, and in any case even as a girl he never appeared more than fourteen or so. Still too young for anyone other than an arranged fiancé, but particularly so for a man about to turn forty.”

  “If you thought so, then why didn’t you mention it?”

  “I am mentioning it now. Though I shouldn’t have to. I am, after all, not your guardian. In theory you should be responsible for your own behavior, and adult enough to know when you’re acting the fool.”

  That poked a sore spot, and his eyes went wide for a moment. Then they narrowed and his brow knotted in a frown. “A man should be able to do what he likes with his person and his money.”

  “I would rather enjoy listening in when you explain that to your Presbyterian wife. And won’t her equally Presbyterian brother the duke—who has no love for you in any case—be enchanted with your thoughts about the freedoms of men relative to respect for his sister?”

  He fell silent for a moment, then said, “Is that a threat?”

  “Is what a threat?” She couldn’t imagine what he meant.

  “If you dare speak to Anne of this—”

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t care whether you bang a hundred whores.” Not to mention that she’d thought it over carefully months ago, and decided that Anne was a sweet woman and didn’t deserve to hear that bit of bad news. All in all, Daniel was an adequately attentive husband, their life together was as pleasant as could be expected for an arranged marriage, and telling Anne about his dalliances would only hurt her in ways that would do no good. “I have no claim over you, and don’t wish to exert one.” It was a lie, but she only knew it in moments when she was most candid with herself. “But that doesn’t mean I am sanguine about your need to have every woman who glances your way.” Were she ever honest with Daniel, she would admit she’d much prefer that he would choose her over the others. But after more than twenty years of sharing him with his wife, mistresses, and assorted nameless professionals, she knew there was no hope of ever being his only love. So she closed off her feelings and pretended they didn’t exist. The terrible thing of it was that she sensed he knew her heart in spite of her caution, and he often touched it or skewered it according to his whim.

  There was a long silence as they both realized they’d quite gone off the subject and had nothing else to say in this particular argument. Then Daniel said, “Very well. I’ll take your word for it you will keep my name out of your investigation.”

  “It should go without saying.”

  He nodded, possibly because any further words might turn as ugly as the others. “So, then, what do you intend to do about this boy?”

  She sighed, relieved he’d accepted she would continue with the investigation. “I must learn how young Paul Worthington progressed from his father’s mansion to the Goat and Boar. Via Kent, it would seem.”

  “What will that tell you?”

  “Well, he was wearing the dress when he was killed. Someone who knew him in that dress became angry enough to stab him to death.”

  “Why angry? Perhaps it was a robbery. He was soliciting, and more than likely had a pocket full of cash beneath his skirt.”

  She shook her head. “Though there was no pocket, as one might expect of someone selling his body, it could be that the men who fished h
im out of the water took it. Or else he had a handler who relieved him of his proceeds periodically throughout the night. But regardless of that, the killer must have been very angry, to have cut off the willie and stuffed it in the boy’s mouth. A robber at the very least wouldn’t have bothered. Lord Paul didn’t die for his night’s takings.”

  “Then, what?”

  She thought for a long moment, waiting for inspiration. She let her mind wander as it often did, skipping down various paths without guidance. Then she blinked and peered at Daniel. “What did you feel when you discovered you had your arm around a boy and not a girl?”

  “I never had my arm around him.”

  “Very well, no arm. Tell me what you felt when I told you he wasn’t a girl.”

  Daniel shrugged. Plainly he was reluctant to revisit that moment. But she pressed.

  “Tell me, what did you feel? Embarrassment, of course. What did you feel toward him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing. And that’s not what I’m getting at. What emotion did you feel when you saw he was a boy who had fooled you into thinking he was a girl? A girl attractive enough to make your willie stiff.”

  “It wasn’t stiff.”

  “As you say. Tell me what you felt.”

  “Very well, anger. I was angry with him.”

  “Right. Of course you were angry, as any man would be who was not a sodomite. By attracting you to him, he put you in a very dangerous spot. Had I not warned you, and had you taken him upstairs to use him as a girl, and had there been anyone to see it whom you could not trust with your life, your very existence could have been at stake if an enemy in Parliament ever decided to make a case against you with the crown for sodomy.”

  Daniel paled. Apparently he hadn’t thought of that possibility.

  She continued, “At the very least your reputation would have been forever marred.”

  He nodded. “I was extremely angry to learn I’d been betrayed.”

  “Betrayed” might have been a stronger word than Suzanne would have used. “Fooled” would have suited better, in her opinion, but she kept that to herself for the moment. She said, “But, being who you were, you weren’t angry enough to hurt him for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Being the sort of man who will bed any creature that breathes—”

  “Not just any creature.”

  “Very well, human creature.”

  “Suzanne—”

  “Being as flexible in your preferences as you are, Daniel, you had no desire to kill him and took the incident with enough humor to do no more than blush and chuckle.”

  “That I did. I saw no need to make a huge fuss over the thing. I was happy to let it die down and be forgotten.”

  “Right. But what about the sort of man who is not so flexible? What about a man who would be terribly offended to even be approached by a sodomite? The sort who might think it reflected badly on him, and who would be horrified to think anyone might think he was a sodomite himself. Would such a man be moved to kill?”

  “Of course. And few would blame him.”

  “I would.”

  “You’re a tart yourself, and as you’ve said, you’ve no reputation to protect. A man whose entire life and livelihood depends on being seen as a man—a man in control and not subject to . . . unnatural practices—who would want to avoid a conviction and possibly execution for sodomy, would be justified in killing anyone who sullied his reputation.”

  “A boy.”

  “A boy who apparently was sophisticated in the ways of fornication, and who was quite old enough to have understood the danger in which he was putting his clients.”

  Suzanne made a small humming noise of concession that was nonetheless noncommittal, then said, “I’m certain someone encouraged him to do what he did. Surely he never decided for himself to seduce men by presenting himself as a girl. Surely there must have been someone else guiding him in it.”

  “Well, I suggest that might be a direction to take in your inquiry. Find the men who patronized young Worthington that night, and you’ll find your killer.”

  Suzanne sighed. “London is large. It will be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  Daniel shrugged. “The boy was pretty, and most convincing. Your haystack might very well be stiff with needles. It will be a question of which is the one who saw him last.”

  Some voices rose from the stage area outside the basement window in Suzanne’s kitchen. The window opened onto the below-stage area where a trapdoor at center stage gave egress for actors, who came and went from below-stage through another trapdoor, to the room above Suzanne’s quarters. That was the green room, where actors ready to perform awaited their time onstage. Situated as she was, most afternoons Suzanne could hear everything that went on in the theatre, and now there was a row started up onstage. She listened as it moved from the stage to the ’tiring house, then to one of the upstairs dressing rooms, and decided she needed to address the situation.

  Suzanne excused herself to Daniel and said to the maid, “Sheila, do serve Daniel some dinner, while I calm the actors.” She rose to leave. “I’ll return shortly.”

  “Aye, mistress.”

  Upstairs in the first dressing room, she found Liza and Wally shouting at each other. Several other actors sat around listening, and Horatio had just preceded Suzanne into the room.

  “What in bloody hell is going on here?” Horatio’s booming voice bounced from the close, wooden walls and hushed everyone in the room. When he had everyone’s instantaneous attention and they all gaped at him in silence, he continued, “I said, what is going on? What has you two at each other’s throats?”

  Liza and Wally glared at each other. She was in her costume for Twelfth Night, though that night’s performance wouldn’t go on for another two hours. Wally hadn’t yet donned his own costume and face paint, and so appeared slightly alien to Suzanne, who always pictured him in full female regalia. Today he had on no paint, and his light brown hair was free of wig and oddly masculine at shoulder length. His square jaw made him even somewhat attractive as a man. However his attire appeared, though, his stance was his customary hipshot, pseudo-feminine pose. Chin up, hands out and palm-down as if resting on a farthingale, he gazed down his nose at Liza as if he were a duchess and she a cinder girl.

  Liza, for her part, fumed at him with as much disgust as was at her disposal, which was considerable with her fiery temper learned on the streets of London’s old city. Suzanne could almost see the steam rising from the top of the girl’s head. She pointed to Wally and shouted, “He—”

  “Lower your voice, if you please!” shouted Horatio even more loudly.

  Liza fell silent for a moment, frowned at Horatio, then proceeded in a much more appropriate voice. “He says he’s a better woman than me!”

  “I only said I am the better choice to play a woman onstage.” He lowered his chin and gave her a withering stare. “And I am.”

  “I’m a real woman.”

  “I’m a real actor.”

  She hauled off with her hand to slap him, and Horatio grabbed it in one fist to hold her back. She staggered, thwarted.

  “Stop!” he ordered. His enormous hand held her in a solid grip.

  She struggled with him, but he was too big and too strong for her. He held her hand in his without much effort at all, until she gave up and stopped trying to get away. Then he let go of the hand. She held it to her chest and rubbed the sore knuckles.

  Horatio said to Wally, “Why do you antagonize her? You know she’s a temper.”

  “She’s an arrogant witch. She thinks all that is necessary to play a character is to be one. She’s no thought for how she presents herself onstage.”

  Suzanne commented, “I think she’s rather good.” Wally frowned at her, and she added, “Though I think you are als
o an excellent actor, Wal. But you should give Liza her due.”

  “She’s a no-talent whore.”

  Liza responded with, “I’ve got talent.” She was a whore, and had no qualms about it. Her great dream was to be one of the dozens of actresses known to have bedded the king. So far she went ignored by Charles, but she was young yet and held out hope.

  Wally said, “She thinks being a woman is better than knowing how to play one.”

  “It is.”

  “How can you even believe that? You, who clop across the stage like a horse, and bray like a mule!”

  “You, who prance across the stage like a wood nymph and whose voice is shrill and false as a tin whistle!”

  “I’m believable as a woman!”

  “Only because the audience has never seen a real one on the stage!” Voices were rising again.

  Horatio cleared his throat in a threat to shout them down again. They fell silent and looked to him as if he could settle the argument. So he did. “Neither of you is a better choice than the other.”

  Both Liza and Wally opened their mouths to protest in unison, but Horatio cut them off. “Depending on the role and on the play, but mostly on how that play is interpreted by the master of the troupe, which in our case is myself.” That made them both clamp their mouths shut and frown, waiting to hear what he meant by that. And he obliged. “Not every production of a given play has the same tone or style. Just as each individual performance is unique among others in a run, each cast brings its own flavor and character to the script. A creative master of the troupe will consider how all the actors work together, and how their own characters will fulfill the characters they play. There was a time when all women in a play were given to be played by small men or young boys. I’ve played many a witch and nurse myself in my day, and I vow I was as good an actor as a woman as I was as a man.” He nodded to Wally, who shifted his stance and glared at Liza as if he’d been vindicated. “However, the new idea of having real women play the women characters is an interesting style choice I applaud. ’Tis a fresh perspective on an ancient art. I would go so far as to say we are lucky to live in these times when such a monumental change is here for us to explore.” The last he said with a broad stage flourish of his hand.