The Opening Night Murder

by Anne Rutherford

  “All right, Mother.”

  Horatio took in the tableau of mother and son ready to travel. He leaned down and said to Piers, “You don’t seem very upset to be leaving your home.”

  Piers gave him a slightly puzzled look. “I’m leaving the house, not my mother.” He said it as a matter of fact that should have been obvious to Horatio, who must be terribly dense or just not paying attention to not know it.

  Horatio thought about that a moment, then said, “Good boy. You understand what is important; someone has taught you well.” He glanced at Suzanne, who replied with a bland, knowing smile. He again addressed Piers. “You’ll do well when you’re a man.”

  Suzanne said to Horatio, “Lead the way. Where you go, we follow.”

  Luckily, Maddie wasn’t in at the moment, or there might have been violence. As it was, two girls currently unoccupied and sitting in the downstairs parlor raised a fuss in her stead.

  “You’ll be sorry if you leave. Maddie will raise hell when she finds out!”

  “She’ll come after you!”

  Suzanne had never much liked her fellow tarts. She ignored them, handed the duffel off to Horatio when they reached the bottom of the stairs, and drew Piers away from the area before either of them could think twice about what was happening. She knew they had to get out of that brothel, Piers was nine and there was no time to lose, and this was an opportunity that wouldn’t present itself again. As she, Horatio, and Piers emerged onto Bank Side, the river air smelled like freedom.

  Over the next two years she and Piers made Horatio’s troupe their new family. Suzanne thought it a monumental improvement over the brothel. Playing on the stage was ever so much more interesting than banging one man after another all night long. And from Horatio she learned a great deal about William Shakespeare, who became nearly the idol to her as he was to Horatio.

  “Shakespeare was the greatest storyteller who ever lived,” he declared to anyone who would listen, and then he would enumerate the reasons he thought it, no matter who his audience or how many times it had been said. He knew every word of Shakespeare’s plays by heart, even the roles he could never have possibly played, and quoted them so often that some days it seemed he never spoke any sentence that was his own.

  Before meeting Horatio, Suzanne had barely known who Shakespeare was, but Horatio taught her more about The Bard than was known by most Londoners. As the troupe’s first female performer, she memorized the roles of Juliet and Viola readily enough. Horatio declared he’d always thought it odd and confusing to have a young man playing a woman pretending to be a young man, and so welcomed the new thinking toward women onstage. Shakespeare himself would have been appalled, but on this one point Horatio disagreed with the world’s greatest storyteller.

  The troupe made a tidy living by setting up a portable stage in alleyways to stop traffic and collect money in exchange for an afternoon of spontaneous entertainment. Henry V, Richard III, All’s Well That Ends Well, Romeo and Juliet…though they also knew Marlowe and Congreve, Horatio’s troupe performed Shakespeare’s plays far more frequently than those of any other playwright, and it was his good luck that the old plays were popular with folks in the street. Whenever word got out the troupe was setting up their stage, the ordinary people flocked to see them. And sometimes the not-so-ordinary people as well. In a fine spirit of participation, many in the audience brought rotten fruit and vegetables to throw if the performance was unsatisfactory, and Suzanne counted it a good day if they finished a performance without being pelted. Often the audience was offended to find the first woman any of them had ever seen onstage, so she felt especially accomplished if a performance held the attention of the crowd well enough to make them forget the soft, oozing rubbish in their pockets.

  Suzanne thoroughly enjoyed being onstage before a crowd. Pretending to be someone else made her own painful existence more bearable. For four hours or so each day she could be a young girl in love or the daughter of a king. She could writhe in the throes of a pretend death and know she would rise again. She could lose herself in the madness of a woman whose father had been murdered by her lover. All of it was better than what had been doled out to her by her Maker, and she was happy to live those other lives every day just before sunset.

  Then once the bows were taken, the sun was down, and the audience had gone home, the troupe would dismantle the stage, load it onto a wagon, and move to other parts, always one step ahead of the soldiers of the Protectorate. They had down to a science the process of breaking down the stage and loading the wagon, and could accomplish the task in half an hour. Then they were off to a spot at the London outskirts, a different camp every night. The troupe would make a cook fire, receive the day’s pay, and cook and eat whatever provisions might be available that day. They’d discuss where to set up in the morning and what play they would perform. Sometimes they stayed more than a day in a given location if the crowd was enthusiastic, and on those occasions there was time for rehearsal. They would use that time to invent new bits that might be too complex to toss into the mix willy-nilly.

  But generally practice was unnecessary, for most of the players knew their roles from long experience and being a quick study was a large part of success as an actor. Usually new bits came from improvised moments during a performance. Anything that worked stayed in and became part of the blocking. Those who weren’t inventive enough, or couldn’t keep up with those who were, never stayed long in the business.

  Suzanne was fortunate in her ability to memorize quickly and accurately, and whenever a line slipped her mind she was nimble enough to invent something similar to Shakespeare’s text, so her fellow players had no trouble picking up the thread and carrying on. At which point her memory would refresh and she would be back on the correct path. Those two years were the happiest of her life.

  Then one day when Piers was eleven and waiting offstage to hand some properties to actors awaiting their cues to enter, Suzanne was onstage in Twelfth Night and her character was in the midst of flirting with another woman, who was played by a boy not much older than Piers. The corner of her eye caught a glint of steel far off down the alleyway. Ever alert for trouble, and understanding the consequences of arrest, she broke character, gave a hard look, and saw the shining glint of a helmet making its way toward the stage.

  One enormous breath, and she shouted, “Roundheads!” And without any more ado, she leapt from the stage, grabbed Piers’s arm, and hauled him, running, away from the soldiers. There was hollering behind her, of soldiers, actors, and audience. Horatio’s voice rose above the others, urging the actors to run, then cut short with a cry of pain. The soldiers had grabbed Horatio.

  Suzanne never saw or heard what happened to the rest of her fellow thespians, for all she knew or cared about was to keep Piers out of the hands of the authorities, and any other loyalty came second to that. All their clothing and money she left behind in the trunk she and Piers kept in the wagon. Everything she’d accumulated with the troupe over the last two years, gone. She and Piers ran as far as they could, then when Piers could run no farther, she ducked into a doorway to gasp for breath. She held her son to her side, tight so that he wouldn’t move and couldn’t be flushed from hiding in a panic. She whispered for him to be quiet, an unnecessary caution, for he was as silent and alert as a rabbit.

  She listened for approaching soldiers, unsure which direction she would bolt if she heard them. When the actors and audience had been dispersed and the noises in the distance were reduced to normal street sounds of horses and vendors, she continued to wait until she was certain no soldiers lurked in search of stragglers.

  Finally she guided Piers away from the street and they walked as far as they could, until the boy began to complain of exhaustion. She found an alley that offered some protection from view, and they sat against a brick wall for the scant warmth it offered from fires inside.

  Piers kept quiet, though his eyes were wide with terror. Suzanne fought tears as she realized they were on
their own once more, with no money and only the clothes on their backs. Suzanne happened to be wearing the man’s clothing for her role as Viola. With Horatio in custody of the authorities, there was no troupe. They would have to return to Maddie’s, at least for now. There was nothing for it but that.

  But she couldn’t take Piers there again. At eleven years old, he was ripe for a career robbing people. He was no longer a toddler to be passed from auntie to auntie, and Suzanne wouldn’t have him taught what those women would teach him now. Something had to be done for him, for she wouldn’t have him a thief or beggar. His father was an earl; it would be wrong for Piers to live this way any longer. She said in a low, secret voice, “Piers, how would it be if you went away for a while?”

  His voice quaked with terror and shock. “Are they going to arrest me, Mama?”

  “No! No, son. They won’t arrest you, not so long as I’m here. But what if you went away where they couldn’t arrest you?”

  He didn’t reply right away, and when he did his voice was small. “I couldn’t leave, Mama.”

  “I mean, to work. Learn a trade.”

  “I don’t want to leave. I can’t leave you. Not ever.”

  “I could find you an apprenticeship somewhere. How would you like that? It would mean a warm place to sleep every night and enough food to keep your belly from complaining.”

  Piers was silent, thinking about that. Though he ate every day, it was rarely enough. The idea of having more to eat was surely appealing. But he said, “I’d miss you too much.”

  “But you could write to me.”

  “I don’t write so well, Mama.”

  “Then you’ll learn. Practice makes perfect. You’ll learn to write, and cipher, and then you could find employment and never be hungry again.”

  A great, rolling snuffle in the darkness told her he was crying. “I want to stay with you.”

  “You want me to be proud of you?”

  “I think so. But why can’t I stay here? We should find the others and go where the soldiers can’t find us. Then we could continue to be in plays and stay with the folks in the troupe.”

  “They can’t teach you to be a fine man; they can only teach you to pick pockets and cheat people. You should have a real master who will teach you how to make a decent, respectable living, so you won’t have to run away from soldiers or steal for your supper. It will take a few years, but when you’re old enough you’ll be a fine man, with a job and a place in the world.”

  “But what will become of you, Mama?”

  “I’ll be all right. I’m always all right, so no worries about your mother. Do you understand?”

  Piers made a reluctant mumble of assent. She knew he would do as he was told, but also knew she would have to keep pressing him in the right direction if he were to succeed at an apprenticeship.

  As soon as they were rested, she nudged her son to his feet and they began walking south, to the other side of the river and Bank Side, where the next day she imposed on Maddie’s goodwill for the night. She found Maddie stiff with anger, still unhappy at having been left by one of her girls. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and didn’t reply to Suzanne’s request for a temporary bed. The other girls in the room gawked in silence to see what would happen next, each of them fascinated and amused by the proceeding. Suzanne knew how silly she must look in her breeches and doublet, but kept her chin up as if she’d chosen the outfit from a closetful of fine gowns.

  She said, “Horatio is still your customer. He comes here when he’s a need. I haven’t stolen that.” Horatio had a policy of never sleeping with the women attached to the troupe, so he had always had a need that brought him to Maddie’s. Suzanne joining the troupe hadn’t changed that, and Horatio had visited Maddie’s as often as he ever did. “He’s not touched me once since I left, and you know you see him twice a month, just like before.”

  The frown on Maddie’s face smoothed out, and she gestured for Suzanne and Piers to go upstairs. “Your old room happens to be empty today. One night only, and then you’re on your own again.” Suzanne was glad for this one night.

  Then the next morning she begged her former employer for pen, ink, and paper to write to her former suitor and ask if Farthingworth would take her son. She wept as she wrote, knowing that if this letter accomplished her goal it would be years before she saw Piers again, but she pressed on because it was the only thing that would ensure his survival.

  The following weeks she and Piers spent on the streets. Suzanne engaged in as much commerce as she could cadge around the periphery of Maddie’s house, servicing her customers on a pile of rags tucked into an alley. Privacy there depended mostly on luck, and so her revenue was little and spotty, but in breeches and doublet she was able to sell herself as either girl or boy.

  Piers occupied himself however he might in a given day, loitering with the fiddle player on Bank Side, clearing tables at the Goat and Boar for tips, or hawking prepared food for a merchant on Maid Lane. Whenever he came to her with money, she prayed he hadn’t gotten it by stealing, but she never asked, and accepted that he’d worked for it. At night they slept on that pile of rags, rolled in a blanket together for warmth.

  After three weeks had passed, each day before venturing onto Bank Side to sell herself she checked in with Maddie to learn if there was a reply to her letter north. Piers began to speak hopefully of rejection when they’d had two weeks of disappointment.

  But finally one afternoon Maddie handed her a letter enclosed in a real envelope sealed with green wax. The thing was terribly fancy, and it made her nostalgic for her father’s house and the niceties of her childhood. Quickly she shook her head clear of the memory, broke the seal, and pulled out the pages. She read:

  My friend, Suzanne;

  She couldn’t imagine how Stephen could still consider her his friend, particularly since he never had before, but took the salutation as promising.

  I am in receipt of your letter regarding your son, Piers. Frankly, I find myself taken aback that you even remember me. I had the impression you thought me beneath notice. The night you confessed your condition was surely a difficult moment for all of us, and I expect it was a terrible strain on your family. I’m sorry your situation didn’t turn out as you’d hoped. It appears there was disappointment for everyone in it.

  I married not long after you left your father’s house. My wife is a fine and gentle woman, pious and responsible. She is the essence of what St. Paul would call a good wife. I am most pleased with her, so my own disappointment is, in the end, not crushing. For me the situation turned out better than I could ever have hoped. I did admire your forthrightness in confessing your sin and your reluctance to foist a child on me that was not mine. I believe that sort of honesty to be rare in a woman, for even my own dear wife is prone to disingenuous behavior whenever there is difficulty. I cannot help but respect honesty in you, and as I said that night, I would have liked it in a wife. But that was not to be.

  You have asked me to take on your son as an apprentice. Though my wife, as pious as she is, would not be sanguine about accepting the illegitimate son of a former fiancée, regardless of the boy’s actual parentage, I feel I can be charitable toward you and your child. So long as my wife never learns of our previous arrangement, I am open to the idea of having Piers as an apprentice in my offices for the customary seven years.

  Find enclosed a letter of credit sufficient for transportation to Newcastle and a suit of appropriate clothes, as I suspect your straitened circumstances would make obtaining them difficult. Send Piers to me at the earliest opportunity, and be assured he will learn a trade and live as safely as my own children during his tenure here.

  I wish you the best of luck in making your life in the future what you would have it be.

  Suzanne watched Daniel’s face when she spoke of his son’s childhood, but there was no flicker of guilt, or even of acknowledgment. He only looked at her as he listened, with a slight smile on his lips and a distant loo
k in his eye. She couldn’t be entirely certain he even heard what she was saying. Her chest tightened, but she continued. “I was terribly lucky to succeed in obtaining an apprenticeship for him.”

  That finally brought a glimmer from Daniel, but of surprise. “But you obtained one. Certainly if Farthingworth hadn’t come through, you might have wheedled it out of a patron.”

  Suzanne’s eyes narrowed at the intended slight, but pretended to ignore it. “I wasn’t yet so experienced in such things, had not yet had what might be termed a ‘patron,’ and wouldn’t have known how to convince such a man to put himself out for my son by another man. At the time I believed I had no choice but to make the arrangement as if I were Piers’s father myself, and the only man I had ever known who was in a position to give Piers what I wanted him to have was Stephen Farthingworth. He was my first and only thought.”

  Deeper surprise showed on Daniel’s face. “Rather bold of you. What made you think he would be of help?”

  “He was the only man I knew who might be charitable enough to help. When he was my suitor, he’d seemed a reasonable sort, and though I didn’t care to marry him, I nevertheless saw him as kind. Extraordinarily kind, enough to seem weak, and that was why I disliked the idea of marrying him. Besides, desperation makes one do odd, otherwise unthinkable things. I wrote to him in Newcastle and asked if he might be agreeable to taking on my intelligent, obedient, hardworking son. The worst that could happen was that he might say no, and I was used to that by then.”

  “Did you explain that said son had been raised in a whorehouse and was currently living on the street?”

  She straightened in her chair and raised her chin. “I couldn’t have him thinking Piers might have been raised to be a thief or thug. I told him we were in extreme need. I said we were temporarily reduced to taking a room at Maddie’s, which was true on the day I wrote the letter. I’m certain Mr. Farthingworth must have known enough of my circumstances, given he was there the night I left home.”