The Opening Night Murder

by Anne Rutherford

  She looked around. “You still have many costumes and properties.”

  “These I’ve acquired recently. I hope to return to the stage.”

  “They must have cost a penny or two.”

  “The cost is unimportant. I need them, for what would I do, then, if I had an opportunity to play once more on the stage? I haven’t in so very long, but it would be too, too sorrowful to know I could not have a troupe again. That hope has kept me alive since the day I was arrested.”

  “Well,” she said, smiling, “I’ve come on business I think will please you.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed with his hands folded between his knees and attended her like a little boy awaiting instruction. “Do tell, then. What brings you to my humble establishment?” A rat ran across the room, then paused to sniff the plate on the hearth, but when Horatio stamped his foot at it, the creature scurried away to the shadows again.

  “I wonder, Horatio, whether you can still perform.”

  “Of course I can.” He made a broad, theatrical gesture. “All the world’s a stage, you know.”

  “And all the men and women merely players, which is as close as Shakespeare ever came to allowing women on the stage, I expect.”

  That made Horatio chuckle. “You certainly proved yourself in that. No young boy could ever match you for veracity as a young maid.”

  “One would hope that I, being genuinely female, would have the advantage in that.”

  Another chuckle. “Devoutly to be wished.”

  “In any case, my good and true friend, I bring you an offer to not only act, but to do it in the Globe in Southwark.”

  Horatio’s jaw dropped quite open. “The Globe? I’d thought it had been torn down.”

  “No, it stands even yet. If ever its destruction was ordered, the thing hasn’t been done. And won’t in the foreseeable future. I passed it coming here, in fact, and see that it is structurally sound in spite of nearly twenty years of neglect.”

  The smile on Horatio’s face was wide though not particularly toothy. “The Globe! I acted there once, you know.” Suzanne knew, for it was a story he told to anyone who would sit still for it. “’Twas as a lad, and I played Juliet’s nurse for being so large.” He gestured at his enormous frame, as if Suzanne might not have already noticed his size.

  “I expect you were an excellent nurse.”

  “I was an excellent nurse!” Horatio boomed. He wasn’t hearing her, for he had drifted off into his own memories. “How the audience howled with laughter for my antics!”

  “’Tis a pity you were born so late, and never met the great bard.”

  Horatio sighed and gazed at the floor for the pity of it. “Indeed. I would so loved to have known him. To have seen him on the stage or in rehearsal, directing the players.” He touched his right-hand fingertips together in the Continental manner to indicate just how sublime it would have been. “To have had his tutelage would have been the finest thing I could ever have dreamed of.”

  It was true that Horatio valued his craft more than he did the money he made from it. Suzanne prodded him a little more toward accepting her plan. “So, you would act on that stage once more?”

  “Of course I would. No actor worth his skin would decline such an opportunity.”

  “And would you act there for me?”

  Puzzlement crossed his face. “For thee? What have thee to do with the Globe?”

  She drew a deep breath and plunged into her explanation. “Well, Piers has leased it and today has begun hiring workers to make repairs on it. Within the season it will be returned to its former glory and will be ready for a troupe to occupy it.”

  Horatio’s expression reverted to one of gobsmacked astonishment. “You? You control the Globe? My little Suzanne?”

  She nodded. “As much as anyone other than the king controls anything.”

  “And you wish for me to act on that stage?” He spoke with awe, as if he could hardly believe his luck.

  “Not just perform. I wish for you to lead the troupe that will act on that stage. You are the finest man I know to do it. You know The Bard better than any man living, and I’ve seen you guide actors in their work. You can teach young actors, who have little experience and no tradition these past two decades, what it is to perform a role so that the audience believes and understands.”

  Horatio rose from the mattress and fell to his knees before her. He took up her hand and pressed his lips to it. He looked up into her face, his eyes filled with such joy she might have just told him she was St. Peter about to give him entry to heaven. “Bless you, my young friend! Bless you and your descendants unto seven generations!” He was orating now and gesturing to the heavens. “I shall accept with great happiness! Thank you!” He kissed her hand once more, then hugged her so hard she squeaked.

  Then he leaned back to gaze at her. There was a long silence, in which neither of them quite knew what to say next. Finally, Horatio stood and said quite conversationally now that his theatrical fit was over, “How did you obtain permission from the king to perform serious drama?”

  “The same way I acquired the money. Piers’s father. And I confess there are some limitations to the patent.”

  Horatio crossed his arms, waiting for the bad news.

  She continued with a blithe air, as if it were no matter, “Though we are allowed to play Shakespeare, and of course the commedia dell’arte, mummeries, and such, we will not be allowed to perform any of the new plays, or plays of any playwright other than Shakespeare.”

  “No Marlowe?”

  “Nobody. Only Shakespeare.”

  He thought that over for a moment, then drew a deep, thoughtful breath and declared in his clean, projecting baritone as if it were word from on high, “As Shakespeare was a finely honed dagger, Marlowe was a bludgeon, crude and unwieldy. All others were at least as clumsy, and ever beat the audience over the head with a story so that in the end they lay senseless.” He gestured and raised his chin as if speaking to the third gallery. “Shakespeare’s dialogue was poetry that came trippingly from the tongue. His words held flavor to be enjoyed well by an actor, and a sweetness for the listener’s ear.” He returned his focus to Suzanne and waved dismissal. “’Tis no loss to be disallowed Marlowe and his kind.”

  “And we cannot stray from the original text. We must perform the plays as written by Shakespeare.”

  Horatio narrowed his eyes at her. “Not even the prologues?”

  She shook her head. “Especially the prologues. And we’ll be kept to that. Any deviation from our patent will cause us to fall into bad odor with the king. His own troupe might be free to step out of bounds with satire, but we’ll be held to a tighter standard. Charles will have no humor for those of us outside the royal troupes.”

  Horatio shrugged and waved away the issue. “No matter. ’Tis no burden to be true to Shakespeare’s own words, for it would be an impossible task to improve upon them. What else?”

  “We cannot perform any play within a week of when it is performed by the king’s or the duke’s players.”

  That made Horatio pale. “A week? How far in advance will we know what we can play?”

  “I’m not sure yet. At least a week, maybe two. We have an advantage in that they use backdrops and set pieces, which will require construction. We’ll be far more versatile and ready to change because our only staging burden will be costumes and properties. So long as we have a repertoire ready, we can adjust to accommodate the king and not conflict with the royal players.”

  “There are two royal troupes. They could monopolize as many as six plays a week.”

  “Yes. We’ll need to be on our toes.”

  Horatio sighed, then threw up his arms. “No matter! It can be done, and we will do it well. Throngs will attend our plays, and we will be known all over England for our artful performances! France will hear of us, and weep for their inferiority!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. “When do we begin?”


  Suzanne, with Horatio committed to the venture and contributing to the artistic decisions, decided they would open with the history Henry V. Though the histories weren’t the most popular of Shakespeare’s works, beginning with one was a gesture of compliance with the patent and an effort to not steal thunder from the royal troupes. Every word would be as Charles would have it, and the play was less likely to upstage the royal companies than would a more popular comedy or tragedy.

  It had more than forty roles to fill, and gathering talent for The New Globe Players was an enormous job, requiring several weeks to find enough experienced and talented actors to form the kernel of a troupe. Though droves of men and women from all over London came to audition, very few pleased Horatio. He sought actors from the old troupe, but could find only four who were still alive and at large. Seven others he would have liked to bring into the fold were reported to be incarcerated in Newgate, and the rest were dead or had disappeared long ago.

  So by audition, one by one more players were accepted into The New Globe Players, and soon the hearth in the ’tiring room was surrounded of an evening by actors taking up residence in the Globe. Many lived there and slept on pallets on the floor, and were happy to have a place to sleep other than the street.

  Suzanne vacated the house she lived in and moved her residence to the Globe, again to save money. Inside the ’tiring house structure to the rear of the stage were three stories of various rooms for readying the actors and for storage of costumes and properties. At one end of the ’tiring house, at the bottom of the stairwell that traversed all three stories, were tucked some nondescript rooms private enough that Piers had the restoration crew close them off, leaving a single entrance door near the stairwell.

  There were five rooms, and they formed entirely adequate living quarters with windows to the east, which let in the morning light. One window in Sheila’s kitchen, high over the pallet she slept on, looked out on the cellarage below the stage. If Suzanne stood in that room, she could hear rehearsals on the stage as clearly as someone waiting under a trapdoor to make an entrance. It proved handy for the sake of keeping track of happenings on the stage without the disrupting presence of herself or Piers. Suzanne found the rooms cozy enough for comfort and roomy enough for her belongings, and the interior access gave Suzanne a sense of safety she’d never known before in her life. In fact, it felt odd to know that she was in control of her fate, no longer at the mercy of a man who may or may not have her best interests at heart. Also, there was the relief from paying the rent on that dreary house where William had placed her. Her outlook brightened every day that she awoke in the theatre to the sound of workmen restoring it. Soon she associated the sound of hammering and the smell of sawdust with hope and freedom.

  In that spirit of coming into her own, she sometimes wore men’s clothing, partly for comfort but also for the sake of blending in with the men and boys who surrounded her. She relished being able to climb stairs or step over obstacles of lumber and tools without having to grab her skirts and have them snag on the debris regardless. In breeches she could even climb ladders without fear of tangling her feet in her underskirts. Nobody minded her costume, and without skirts and a woman’s neckline she did not distract the workmen from their work. She was no longer on the market as a potential wife or mistress, so nobody cared whether she looked like one.

  While workers hammered away at construction, Horatio auditioned actors. Aside from the forty roles in Henry V, he also needed to consider plays they would perform in the future. Versatility was key. Though some actors could be cast in multiple roles, and Suzanne encouraged it, too much of that generally brought laughter from the audience when a single face appeared too obviously too often. The most treasured actor was one who could change his voice and demeanor to disappear into several roles in one play without eliciting snickers or hoots from the pit.

  Horatio needed acrobats and clowns in addition to characters, for part of their repertoire would be the medieval commedia and mummeries, which were very broad physical performance and tumbling, involving slap sticks, comedic costume, and face paint. When an already formed troupe of old-style mummers came to them and asked to play, Horatio chortled and raised his voice in praise at his excellent luck. Immediately he began planning out what they would perform throughout the opening week.

  Some of the would-be performers were women, having heard the king was now allowing genuine females to perform onstage. All were of the very lowest classes, which annoyed Horatio, who understood that such folk were not competent to portray most of the characters Shakespeare wrote. An actress raised on the street who had never met a gentlewoman could hardly be expected to mimic the behavior of Lady Macbeth, Desdemona, Ophelia, or Juliet Capulet. So Horatio was forced to reject the most eager, starving applicants and seek those who might have connections and not need him so much.

  A true gentlewoman, of course, would never do such a thing as perform in public; these days even some women of the lesser classes had acquired sensibilities delicate enough to wear vizards that hid their faces whenever outside their homes. None of the girls who auditioned were above the age of twenty-five; even the most base whores and thieves were only there because they thought acting must be better than prostitution and robbery. A sea of humanity flowed to the Globe, but the pool from which Horatio drew was quite small.

  All the hopefuls, male and female, gathered at noon outside the theatre doors and waited for summons to enter. Some were patient and silent, respectful of this rare opportunity. Some were not at all, drinking and gossiping as they lounged about the doors. Some missed their audition for being too drunk by the time they were called, and these were left lying in the street where they had collapsed.

  Suzanne enjoyed listening to the auditions from high in one of the galleries. Often she sat on a folding chair and leaned her chin on her arms resting on the banister in front. One afternoon while observing Horatio in his talent search, she noticed a young girl loitering in the pit, waiting among the boys and men who had just been called from outside. When she saw Horatio gesture the girl to the stage, Suzanne settled into her seat for some amusement.

  Horatio stood in the pit at the edge of the stage, surrounded by ends of sawn beams, boards, and bent nails, and waited for the girl to respond, but she was chatting with one of the workers and not paying attention. Finally he called out, “You! Child!”

  The worker hurried off, lest he be chastised for slacking from his job. The girl came to attention, her hands behind her back, a picture of innocence that spoke volumes of guilt.

  Horatio once again gestured for her to ascend to the stage. She picked up her skirts, hurried up the steps, and picked her way across the rickety boards to a relatively sturdy spot, then turned to face Horatio with a wide grin and her skirts still in her fists, exposing her ankles for all to see. The boys in the pit saw all they could as they ducked their heads to peer up her skirts at her bare calves. She appeared oblivious, though Suzanne knew she probably was not. “I’m Liza, yer honor.” Her accent was crude and northern, and barely understandable even to Suzanne.

  He said, far more serious than she, “Very well, then, Liza. Have you read the play?”

  “Ah cannae read, yer woorship.”

  “My name is Horatio, girl. Address me by that, if you please.”

  Some of her smile faded, but she carried on gamely. “Aye, then. Soorry ta ’ffend ye.” The girl’s tone was impertinent, which made Suzanne sigh. This one already wasn’t going to be accepted, she could tell.

  But Horatio continued, slipping into his annoyed taste-of-sarcasm quasi-Puritan speech, complete with rolling R’s, “Well. If thee cannot rrread, then how will thee learn thy lines?”

  “Ah ’spect I’ll have ta ask ye to read ’em ta me.”

  He emitted a bark of a laugh. “Not bloody likely, I’d say. Doest thou have someone else who might read them to thee?”

  “Oh aye, I’ve a client who would be ever so pleased to help.”

  “A c
lient?”

  “Aye. He’s right regular, comes every fortnight sure as anything. He’ll do nearly whatever I ask. He can read me the lines, and I’ll remember ’em, sure enough.”

  Suzanne groaned to herself. Horatio gazed blandly at the girl for a long moment. The girl sensed that things weren’t going well, so she held her skirts tighter and higher, and said, “Read me some o’ what ye got. A long passage. Ye’ll see I can remember.”

  Horatio hesitated, but the girl urged him on with a nod. So he recited to her a random passage from memory. “From Henry V, we have a speech by the Bishop of Canterbury speaking to King Henry, which readeth thusly: Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers, that owe yourselves, your lives and services to this imperial throne. There is no bar to make against your highness’s claim to France but this, which they produce from Pharamond. ‘In terrain Salicam mulieres ne succedant:’ ‘No woman shall succeed in Salique land:’ Which Salique land the French unjustly glose to be the realm of France, and Pharamond the founder of this law and female bar. Now say that back to me, girl.”

  She dropped her skirts and crossed her arms. “That innae long. Ah c’n say that back standin’ on me heed.”

  “Then by all means, do so. I am rrrapt with anticipation.”

  The girl threw back her head and obliged. Every word and syllable, even the Latin, exactly as Horatio had pronounced it.

  When she finished, there was dead silence in the theatre, for even the workmen listening were stunned. All sawing and hammering had stopped. Even Suzanne was wide-eyed with wonder at the feat, but at the same time wondered whether the girl understood any of the words she’d spoken.

  Horatio opened his mouth to speak, but the girl said in a rush, “What I cannae ken, ye see, is hae come, since this bishop feller must be a-talkin’ to King Henry about France and all, I mean, he’s a-tellin’ Henry why the French willnae give him his inheeritance, how come he says all these things auld Henry must a’ready ken, being king and all, and being the one as didnae get his inheritance in the first place he must ken why. So, what I mean is, who ever goes around a-tellin’ folks things they a’ready ken?”