A page ran up to her and, bouncing on his toes before her, said, “Mistress Thornton? Suzanne Thornton?” He was a very young boy, and his breathless energy made her feel very old indeed.
“Yes?” She peered at him, wondering how the boy knew her name and trying to remember whether she’d seen him before. He wore black livery, which announced him as a servant of one of the many Puritans in Parliament. Personally, she knew no pages belonging to Puritans.
He said, still dancing in the cold though he was bundled into a heavy wool coat, “I’m instructed to escort you to the office of his grace the Duke of Cawthorne. Immediately, if you please, missus.”
“I’m ordered to go?”
“The duke wishes it.” The boy was certain that was enough to make it an order and she would obey. And he was right. To disregard the request would bring repercussions, for herself and the page as well. It wasn’t his fault she feared and loathed the duke, so she had no choice but to go.
“Very well. Lead on.”
The duke’s quarters were in an area of the palace newer than the building where Daniel stayed while at court, and were more spacious. But they weren’t more richly decorated, for Puritan Cawthorne could not display his wealth in that way, even had he wanted to. As a peer he needed to show he had wealth, and therefore power, but as a Puritan he was required to show it more subtly than the more libertine members of Parliament. So his clothing and furnishings were of plain design and subtle color, but were nevertheless of the highest quality materials and workmanship.
The front room where Suzanne awaited his grace, deserted by the page who had hurried to another room, was modestly furnished with a table and some chairs that were highly polished and marvelously burled wood. Though the fire was well fed and threw a great deal of warmth and light, the hearth was unembellished and made of flawless marble. There were no paintings nor tapestries on the walls, and no curtains at the windows. Only plain, brown shutters controlled the light and heat in the room. However, beneath her feet was a carpet of brown wool thick enough to make her totter on her heels. At the moment the shutters were closed, for the day was quite cold and a heavy overcast made it nearly dark as night outside. The carpet quite defeated the cold stone floor.
This time the wait for the duke to see her was short. He entered the room wearing a smile, and a plain black suit of clothes relieved only by a simple silver collar draped over his shoulders, and white shirtsleeves that gathered at the wrist. No rings on his fingers, and no other adornment. But every stitch was of silk and fine linen, and so perfectly tailored as to seem he’d been born in them.
Knowing what she now did about him, the cold, flinty light in his eyes now struck her as devilish. Evil in the most profound way. On first meeting him she’d wondered whether he owned a soul, and now she was certain he did not. Though overtly religious—and he literally wore his religion on his sleeve—she knew in her heart he’d never known God in any meaningful way. It curdled her blood to stand in this room with him, breathing the same air. It made her feel poisoned.
She thought back to her first meeting with him, and wondered why she hadn’t known on sight that he’d killed his son. There was nothing subtle about him; the way he addressed the world was as black and white as his wardrobe. How had she not seen immediately that he was a killer?
“Mistress Thornton.”
“Your grace.” She curtsied for the sake of form, and begrudged it.
He sat in a nearby chair, and gestured to one on the other side of the small table nearest the hearth. “Do have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” A welcoming smile curled the corners of his mouth, but it never reached those eyes. He narrowed them at her, as if trying to see inside of her. As she sat she found herself avoiding his gaze, lest the abyss look back were she to stare too long. She perched on the edge of the chair, unable to make herself comfortable.
“Mistress Thornton, I think you and I may have wandered into a misunderstanding.”
“Have we?” She tried to keep the sarcastic edge from her voice, difficult though it was. Ramsay, she now realized, had been right about the inadvisability of unnecessarily antagonizing the duke. Even talking to him at this point was probably a bad idea. She would want to excuse herself from this chat at the earliest opportunity.
“When you brought us the news of my son’s death, I’m afraid the duchess and I both reacted badly.”
“Perfectly understandable. I know how I would feel, were I to have heard the same news about my son.” She blinked as that horrifying image tried to rise, and fought it down. Her greatest fear on this earth was that she might outlive Piers.
Then she realized why she hadn’t seen the truth in this man when he’d lied to her about not knowing his son was not in Kent. She’d never asked herself the right question. The idea that a man could murder his own son was so unthinkable to her, and the lies he told were so many and so obvious, she’d never thought he could be successful in hiding something so very heinous. Now she looked at him—the fire of evil in his eyes—and thought herself stupid for not seeing his crime written on his face.
He was saying, “The next day I ordered Constable Pepper to remove you from his investigation. I told him I didn’t wish to have you stirring up an enormous fuss over something so upsetting to the duchess. I’m afraid I was inconsiderate in ignoring the compensation you would lose—have lost—by being dropped from the constable’s employ.”
“He wasn’t—”
“So, in perfect fairness, I would like to make up for your loss of income.” He reached into a pocket of his jacket and drew out several large silver coins. He counted out five in his hand and set them on the table before her. “Five pounds. Will that suffice?”
“Constable Pepper wasn’t paying me, your grace.”
Real surprise crossed the duke’s face. “Indeed? You were doing the work gratis? Is poking about in other people’s business a hobby for you, then?”
“The constable sometimes asks me to assist him. I’ve a talent for analyzing the stories people tell, and finding holes in a narrative. I’m an actress, you see, and have read and memorized many plays. I know fiction when I hear it, and can tell a liar when I see one.” Now the edge of hostility was creeping into her voice, though she struggled to keep it out. She needed to flee, and quickly, lest this turn into an ugly confrontation that would do her no good. “So, in a way, you might say the assistance I provide the constable is a pastime.” She didn’t see any point in telling the duke the details of her arrangement with Pepper. It was enough for him to know she wasn’t being paid. “I gain nothing more than the satisfaction of having taken a criminal from among the population of London and putting him where he belongs.” That was also true.
The stern tone he’d had on their first meeting returned, and it was an effort not to flinch. “I must insist that your investigation come to a halt. ’Tis far too upsetting for the duchess. The both of us are apprehensive there may be talk of it at court.”
“Surely not. The king must sympathize with your grief. Surely your friends at court must be considerate of the tender feelings you have for your son.”
“The duchess is terribly overwrought. I would have the matter entirely ignored. There is nothing to be gained by pursuing the robber who killed my son.”
“It was no robber.”
Cawthorne’s eyes narrowed. “I believe it was.”
“With all due respect, your grace, a robber would not have bothered to cut the body as this murderer did after Lord Paul was dead. A robber might have stabbed his victim once or twice, in order to get hold of a purse, then he would have fled as quickly as possible. He never would have loitered about, continuing to stab after the victim had died, severing an appendage and stuffing it into the mouth.” The duke did not blink when she revealed this, and anger rose in spite of herself. Her voice thickened and her brow knotted as she spoke.
His reply was a
ngry. “Be that as it may, the duchess and I do not wish the crown to pursue this matter further. Since you are not employed by the constable’s office, and have no authority as an investigator, you needn’t bother yourself further. In fact, you are constrained from it.” Cawthorne pushed the stack of pound coins toward her across the table. “Take these, and consider yourself released from all obligation to Pepper. Go on with your life. You might consider quitting the pursuit of criminals altogether. I suspect you aren’t as talented at it as you think.”
“I think I am.” She ignored the money, and looked straight at the duke. “I know I am. I believe I perform a vital function, tracking down murderers so they don’t commit further crimes.”
“Take the coins, Mistress Thornton.”
She stood. “Thank you, no.” A strong, perverse urge to pick them up and do what she was told filled her heart, and she clenched her fists against it. It would have been so easy to simply give in and take this bribe. She thought of the security this money would bring to the troupe, the things it would buy, the ease it would bring her daily existence. And by letting the duke go on with his life, ignoring that he’d committed the most heinous deed she’d ever heard of, though she’d lived her entire life in a town known throughout the kingdom for terrible deeds, she would go her own way and their paths might never cross again. The idea of it was mighty appealing. But she steeled herself against those selfish thoughts. “I wouldn’t feel right taking your money, your grace. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll go home now.” She turned toward the door.
“Woman!” The duke rose, and so did his voice.
She stopped, but didn’t turn to face him. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she could feel heat on her face.
He said, “You will not speak to another soul about my son and what happened to him. If I hear anything further of your investigation, I promise you I will make you regret it.”
“And how will you do that?” Her voice tightened, and the words came with difficulty.
“If you believe I stabbed and mutilated my son, then think hard on what I might do to someone who is not a member of my family.”
Terror skittered through her and made her bones feel cold. Now more than ever she was convinced the duke had done the murder, and even more than that she believed he would carry out this threat. She turned, and with every bit of grace she could muster she made a slight curtsey, then turned and left the room without asking to be excused.
Outside the door, she picked up her skirts and broke into a run. Palace residents and servants gawked as she passed, but she couldn’t stop until she was out of the palace and on King Street, hurrying along the cobbles at a skipping half run. When finally she stopped, she found herself trembling and not entirely certain how far she’d gone. She looked around to gather her composure and gain her bearings.
Carriages passed and throngs of people walked along the street. Slowly her heart calmed until it stopped thudding in her ears. She looked back the way she’d come, half afraid she was followed by the duke and his dagger.
Then her blood ran cold and she gasped for breath. A man behind her was staring at her. Openly, and not even caring that she might see him do it. He stood at the corner of the building on the closest corner, next to a downspout that drained out at his feet. He wore no wig, and his narrowed eyes and grim mouth told her he wasn’t interested in hiring her for sexual services. He must be following her.
When she looked straight on, however, the lurker had melted into street traffic. As if he’d magically disappeared. She looked around for him, but saw nothing and nobody untoward. Certainly nobody she’d recognized. But she’d have sworn there had been a man staring straight at her. She continued walking, hoping to find a carriage to flag down and hire, but there didn’t seem to be any without passengers. She walked onward.
The walk all the way around and across the bridge to Southwark would be monstrous. And dangerous. In the depths of winter it would surely be dark by the time she arrived at the Globe, and if there were someone following her he would surely take advantage of that darkness. However, there was nothing for it but to keep on.
She walked north in Whitehall Street, past the Scotland yards toward Charing Cross. She thought briefly of making for one of the river stairs in hopes of finding a barge to take her directly across the Thames, but she hated to wait alone on the bank for a boat that might never come. Anyone following her would find her easily taken, were he to find her there. So she walked onward.
In an area where the crowds were a bit thinner, she hazarded a glance backward and thought she saw that same man duck into an alley off to the side. She stood and watched that spot, but he never reappeared. Perhaps she’d imagined him.
At Charing Cross were thick crowds, and when she looked back she couldn’t tell whether that man was following her again. Once more she thought she might have been imagining him. After all, she’d been told in the past her imagination was active and vivid. Nevertheless, she hurried onward, at a walk she hoped was quick but not so quick that others thought she was running from authorities.
Now she was on the Strand and veering east, still a long way from the bridge and looking for a coach to hire. Or even a sedan chair that would be carried by strong men who might prove protection. If only her favorites, Thomas and Samuel, might happen by! But she saw none available today. Where had they all gone? Any other day the chairmen would be swarming in hopes of a fare. She glanced behind and hoped not to see the man following her. Then she thought she should hope to see him, for then she would know where he was. She looked ahead now, fearing he might leap out at her. Her heart pounded, and she walked faster.
Finally she found a carriage and flagged it down. Without waiting for the coachman to leap down and help her in, she threw open the door and climbed in on her own. Her skirt caught on her shoe, and she had to yank it clear before settling into the seat. The coachman came to secure the door.
“Maid Lane in Southwark. The Globe Theatre, if you please.”
“Aye, mistress.”
“Posthaste, if you please, good man. There will be an extra shilling for you.”
“Aye, mistress.” The coachman hurried to his seat, and the carriage lurched into motion. Suzanne put her head out the window to look behind, and there she saw that same man, in the street and staring after her.
She settled back into her seat, and drew several deep breaths.
What to do now?
Chapter Nineteen
That afternoon at the Globe, Suzanne watched the final performance of Twelfth Night, thinking hard about how to encourage Daniel to press his magistrate to charge Cawthorne with his son’s murder. The duke’s anger had quite frightened her, and filled her with dread for the future. Having lived on the street in the past, she knew well how horribly things could change, and how quickly, when one had little influence in the world.
Earlier, she’d been quite frightened at having been followed. Now, as she watched the play without really seeing it, her pulse skipped just a little too quickly for comfort, and her thoughts kept turning to the duke and his threat. She calmed herself by telling herself it had been done only to frighten her. It was coercion and nothing more. After all, there had been plenty of opportunity for that man to attack her, had he wished. But he’d let her go and she hadn’t seen him since. Surely it was only a tactic to frighten her.
So she needed to work out what next to do about the duke. If she wasn’t going to give in to the duke’s demand, then she needed to take decisive action of some sort. Only Daniel could convince the magistrate to initiate proceedings. Daniel would not help unless she had more proof of the duke’s guilt, and so that was what she needed to find. There was nothing else for it.
After the performance, Suzanne decided to cast about the neighborhood for more eyewitnesses. There had been many more men and women there that night than she’d talked to, and though seeking witnesses was a
shot in the dark, she might stumble across something useful. Now that she could describe the duke and the outfit he wore that night, perhaps she could jog some memories and someone in addition to Warren might remember seeing him with Lord Paul. Perhaps if she had enough people to say they’d seen the duke at the Goat and Boar, talking to Lord Paul and leaving with him, then the crown would see fit to bring a case against him. There was always safety in numbers, and she believed there could be a chance the law would frown upon this murder in spite of the duke’s power if there were enough people to speak against it.
She wouldn’t take Ramsay with her on this foray, for he would only intimidate her prospective witnesses, and would press her to cease her efforts while he was at it. His heart might be in the right place, and he made her feel safe, but tonight she needed a light and persuasive hand rather than the bludgeon of a large, loud protector.
As she left her quarters she peeked out the door to see whether Ramsay was waiting for her. She didn’t find him sitting on the stairs, so she ventured forth at speed. At the upstage doors she peeked once again and looked out over the stage to the galleries and the front entrance. The house was empty of audience, they having all gone home. Only some boys were at work, picking up orange peels and chestnut shells from the pit and gallery floors. She caught the attention of Christian, who climbed to the stage and hurried over.
“What can I do for you, mistress?”
“Christian, would you be so good as to have a look out the back and see whether Master Ramsay is there in the alley?”
“Right. You want to talk to him, then?” He started off, but paused when she stopped him.
“No. I wish to avoid him. If he’s there, say nothing to him and come tell me.”
A puzzled look furrowed Christian’s forehead, but he went to look without saying anything more than “Yes, mistress.”
In a moment he returned to inform her that Ramsay was loitering against the wall in the alley across from the theatre’s rear door. Suzanne nodded and thanked him, then headed for the front entrance doors. She slipped out onto Maid Lane, and blended into the traffic away from the side alley, then headed for the Goat and Boar.
The Twelfth Night Murder Page 25