The edge to her voice likewise caught his attention. His tone sharpened in his reply. “I was already married when you met me.”
Suzanne sighed, for it was true. For a moment she closed her eyes to calm herself, then continued. “In any case, William’s wife cannot be involved. I, however, am. Apparently it’s all over town that I’m the murderess, and it’s but a matter of time until Pepper has me apprehended. You’ve got to help me, Daniel.”
“What can I do?”
“Tell the king I didn’t do it!”
Daniel snorted. “The king doesn’t give a damn who killed William Wainwright.”
“Well, I do! And I must be cleared of it!”
“You haven’t been charged with it.”
“I will be.”
“And then, perhaps, there will be something I might do. But until then, bringing this excitement to the attention of Charles will only run you the risk of him deciding you did do it. He might say, The lady doth protest too much, methinks. You will defeat your own purpose.”
“Daniel, you were in the audience that night. You saw what happened, and you know I didn’t do it.”
He went silent for a moment, taken by surprise. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he said nothing and shut it.
“I know you were there, Daniel. I saw you. I would know your form from half a mile away, so don’t try to deny it. The way you move, your every gesture, are as familiar to me as…as Piers’s. You and your friends sat in the third gallery, directly over the entrance doors. You must have seen William fall.”
Daniel thought for a moment, deciding whether to admit he was there, then finally said, “Very well. I was there. But I saw nothing. At that moment I was talking to a friend who sat next to me. I wasn’t even looking at the stage, never mind the rest of the ’tiring house.”
“But before the fall. Did you see him before? You sat directly across from the stage galleries. Did you see William at stage right before he was shot?”
Daniel shook his head. “I can’t say I did. To the best of my recollection, the gallery opposite the musicians’ seating was empty. However, inside it was dark and I wasn’t paying any attention to the shadows across the way. My friends and I were attending to the play, as it was quite enjoyable indeed. Your little troupe does well, and I would hardly have missed a moment.”
Suzanne thanked him somewhat distractedly, mildly surprised at the compliment in the midst of her distress. Then she had an idea. “Come, Daniel. Come with me.” She leapt to her feet and hurried from the room with Daniel behind her.
They climbed the backstage stairs to the stage level and went to the green room. At that moment it was occupied by the three musicians, who were going through their paces, cue to cue, for that afternoon’s play. Another corner of the room was being used by actors rehearsing. The mummers had gone for good, so their part of the program had to be filled in temporarily by humorous skits the rest of the actors already knew. Small roles filled by Arturo and members of his family would have to be covered by other actors or simply left out. Big Willie and the others stood in the presence of the earl.
Suzanne addressed Willie, who set his fiddle on his three-legged stool to listen. “Dearest Willie, may I ask you something? In fact, all of you. None of you were watching the play. Did any of you see William fall from the gallery?”
All three shook their heads without having to think about it. Willie said, “I saw naught, Suze. Near as I could tell, he wasn’t even in the gallery. That is, when I did look, which was a bit before he fell. If he were there, he weren’t there long, I’d say.”
Suzanne looked at the other musicians, and they both agreed.
“Perhaps he was running from his killer? Could he have been fleeing, found himself cornered, and fell over the banister when he was shot?”
The musicians all shrugged, and Willie said, “That sounds as good an explanation as any, Suze. As I said, I never saw him until I heard that great crash and screaming from down in the pit.”
“Thank you, fellows,” said Suzanne. “I’ll leave you to your rehearsal now.”
They all gave awkward, nodding bows to the earl, then waited for him and Suzanne to move toward the door before seating themselves again.
Just outside the door, Suzanne stopped to think. She looked around at the narrow corridor that led in one direction to the stage and in the other toward the staircase that connected all three stories at the rear of the ’tiring house. A question was rising in her mind, and she found herself drawn toward the stairs.
“Come,” she said to Daniel. “I want to look at something.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him along with her.
He grunted with a bit of impatience, but followed her, probably out of curiosity more than anything else. She led him up the stone spiral stairs two levels to the rear of the stage right gallery. The bright afternoon sun lit up every corner of it. There were no benches here, for this area had not yet been prepared to seat an audience. The space was open, occupied only by a few pillars down the center holding up the roof. Suzanne went to the railing and looked over it to the stage below, where a short pantomime was being performed, heedless of the ever-darkening bloodstain that still marred the boards. Suzanne made a mental note to have that sanded clean.
She examined the railing and the floor alongside it.
“What are you looking for?” asked Daniel.
“Nothing.”
“Then why—”
“I mean, I think I’ll find nothing.”
“Should you find something?”
“If there were someone here. There’s no indication that anyone was ever here.”
“The place was recently restored. Of course there were people here.”
“The area is clean. The workers cleaned it up, and there’s nothing to indicate anyone has been here since.”
“Again, I ask, should there be?”
Suzanne thought hard. “Well, I suppose William could have fallen over the side without leaving a mark, but I don’t see any blood.”
That piqued Daniel’s interest, and he came to look at the railing and the floor beside it. “No blood?”
“I don’t see any. Do you?”
“Indeed, I do not. I find that disquieting. Wainwright was pierced in the throat with a crossbow bolt. There should be blood everywhere. I don’t see even one drop.”
“It couldn’t have spattered out over the stage?”
“Dear Suzanne, I’ve been in battle, and have seen many men’s throats cut or pierced. The force of blood leaving a body from such a wound sends it in a spray that would not only have reddened the entire area, but would also have marked the killer, were he standing within the confines of this gallery. I’ve spat out enough of my enemies’ blood to know it can’t be avoided.”
Suzanne looked down at the stage and its dark stain, then around at the floor beneath her feet. “Not a drop up here. Not anywhere.”
Chapter Thirteen
The very next afternoon they had another visit from Constable Pepper. Again he appeared as if from nowhere, and nobody noticed his presence until Suzanne came across him poking around in the ’tiring house. Some costumes hanging outside the stairwell interested him, and he was examining some moth-eaten wool that had been put back together with tiny stitches.
“How may I help you, constable?” Suzanne was breathless with terror that he must have come to arrest her, but she held her voice even. She could fake calmness. Panic would only make her appear guilty.
He fingered the fabric, and said, “This cloak is filled with holes.”
“Moths. They’re a scourge for the costumes. They make holes in the wool. Much cheaper to sew it than to replace it, and nobody more than a few feet away from the stage can know the difference, particularly if the fabric is a dark color.”
“Illusion is your business.”
“We’re here to tell a story.”
“Tell lies.”
“To entertain, if you please. The difference between a li
e and a story is that when one tells a story the audience is in on the fiction. A story can have holes, like this cloak, so long as they’re small, not obvious, and the audience is willing to overlook them. Just as with the cloak. A lie, on the other hand, unravels completely the very instant the listener detects a single, tiny flaw. A lie is much, much harder to construct, because it must be perfect or it’s worthless. I far prefer telling stories to lies, for lies require far more effort than I generally care to spend.”
Pepper peered at Suzanne, thinking. Then he said, “You’ve thought this over.”
“Not really. I should think it would be patently obvious to anyone with any sort of intelligence.”
Pepper’s lips pressed together, as if he’d been insulted, and Suzanne realized he may very well have felt she’d meant to insult him. She bit her lip, realizing a perverse impulse may have caused her to unintentionally insult him. She now worried she’d annoyed him. Not for the first time in her life, she mentally kicked herself for saying too much.
He let go of the cloak and turned to face her directly. “Remind me where you were when the body of William Wainwright fell to the stage.”
“I was in the stage left gallery. I sat with the musicians that night.”
“Was anyone else with you there?”
She blinked, wondering whether he had even heard her mention the musicians. She answered the question again. “The…musicians. Big Willie, Warren, and the Scottish fellow.”
“Are they willing to vouch for your presence in the gallery at the time of the murder?”
“I expect so.” They would be foolish to tell him anything other than what she’d told them, for she was their employer.
“Are any of them gentlemen? Landed, perhaps?”
“They’re musicians. I believe Warren also has a position with St. Paul’s Cathedral. Keeping books, or some such, I believe. Each is an upstanding Christian, and as honest as anyone, but not landed, I’m certain.” Suzanne knew “honest as anyone” to be faint praise, for most people she knew were habitual liars. But at least she didn’t lie when she said it, for Big Willie and the others were no worse than most people.
Pepper made a disappointed face Suzanne didn’t believe in the least. He’d surely known none of the musicians were gentlemen, and couldn’t have been disappointed at the news. “Terrible shame. Hardly an adequate alibi. Had a person of repute seen you there…”
“Why ever should I need an alibi? Am I under suspicion?”
“You had motive.”
“I wished him gone, but never dead. He was once my lover; I couldn’t hate him enough to kill him.”
“He was your lover? You didn’t tell me that last time we spoke.”
“You didn’t ask. In fact, you asked me no questions at all. Had you done so, I would have told you exactly what I saw and from whence I saw it, and why I could not possibly have killed William. A good Christian woman could not wish any man dead for any reason.”
Pepper tilted his head and peered into her face as if examining her eyes for a lie. “Good Christian woman? How do you reconcile that with your long history of prostitution? Your years of fornication with Wainwright? Your”—he glanced around him at the theatre building—“your current occupation as a purveyor of…fiction?”
“Plays are how we communicate our culture, constable. I do a service to England with my troupe. Stories are how we teach each other who we are, and who our ancestors were before us. Have you read Genesis, constable?”
He let out an offended harrumph. “Of course I have.”
“Have you really read it, and not just browsed bits of it during church?”
Pepper declined to reply and merely looked at her as if disgusted with the entire thread of thought.
She continued, “If you read the whole of the book of Genesis, you’ll notice that it’s a string of stories that tell where the Jewish culture originated.”
“Where we all originated.”
Suzanne nodded once and allowed as that was true. “And so each story tells us who we are and where we came from.” She gestured toward the stage. “Our plays are not the word of God, but they nevertheless tell us things about ourselves that help us to understand our place in the world. They serve our culture and bind the society together.” Pepper’s mouth pressed into a white line of disagreement, and she said somewhat tartly, “Also, constable, our plays keep the riffraff off the streets of an afternoon and give them something to do with themselves other than stealing from or injuring each other.”
“Well, apparently you’ve failed to keep the riffraff from murdering William Wainwright.”
“Knowing William, I’d say there must be a great many people who would have loved to see him quieted for good.”
“Such as whom?”
Suzanne suddenly wanted to kick herself for saying that, for she could think of no names.
“Such as yourself, I suppose?” said Pepper.
“His wife, I expect.” She knew little about his wife, but had no allegiance to her and was quite willing to send Pepper off to question her. “By all accounts, she was not particularly enchanted with him.”
“Neither were you, by all accounts.”
Suzanne burned to know who had been talking to him. “Not I, constable. As I said, I would wish no man dead, let alone actually make him so.” Then she had a sudden thought and blurted it. “You might look to the mummers who left so precipitously the night of the murder.”
Strangely, the look that came to Pepper’s face was almost one of disappointment. Certainly of irritation. “Ah. The mummers.”
“We had the troupe of them here for short commedia dell’arte bits and tumbling. They left so quickly, and without taking their money for the night, I thought it terribly suspicious.”
“And do you know where one might locate them?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. They packed up and left the night of the murder. Quite suddenly, and I can’t imagine why.”
“You didn’t tell me of this.”
“I did.”
Pepper’s eyes narrowed, and he looked as if he might want to argue the point, but then he only sidestepped the issue. “Surely you understand the implications.”
“Indeed, I think it relevant, but had doubts you thought so, too.”
Pepper went silent for a moment, clearly annoyed with her and unhappy to have these things pointed out to him. He said, “And you have no way of learning where this troupe went?”
“No. I don’t. They may be long gone from London by now.”
Pepper’s lips pressed together in irritation, and he eyed Suzanne for a moment, as if struggling to decide something. Then he said, “If you hear anything of them, do let me know.”
“I certainly will, constable. You can count on me.” This was a fine example of the difference between a story and a lie, for she was certain Pepper didn’t know she had no intention of ever telling him anything of the sort. If he wanted to arrest Arturo and his mummer troupe, he’d have to find them himself, without her help. If she ever had any knowledge of their whereabouts, she would speak to Arturo first, then determine whether Constable Pepper should know where to find him.
He nodded, confident he would be obeyed. “Then I’ll bid you good day, and return you to your lawful occasions.”
“Thank you, constable. Good day.” She watched him exit the ’tiring house to the stage, then went to the door to see him continue on his way out of the theatre, threading his way between the actors in rehearsal. Her heart raced still, and she dreaded ever seeing him again. She resisted the urge to have the main entrance doors closed against him, for she knew it would do no good.
THE theatre that night was packed, as it had been every night since the murder. Every seat sold before the show began, and the groundlings elbowed each other for space in the pit. By the time the actors took the stage for Henry V, the overspill from the house galleries filled the standing room in the stage galleries. The fortunate ones who bought their tickets late were t
reated to the opportunity to stand in the spot from whence the victim had fallen, and peer over the rail at the death stain below. Hardly anyone saw or heard the play for the chatter of speculation about how the murder had been done and who had done it. By the end of the performance when the audience had gone and only the resident actors remained, removing paint from their faces and cooking supper on the green room hearth, Horatio had risen to a fine temper at the audience behavior. He paced the floor, shouting and gesticulating.
“We’ve lost our audience! We’re no longer a theatre, we’re a curiosity! They were only interested in seeing the bloodied stage! None of them came for the play; it was only the murder that had their attention. This is a disgrace, I tell you!” He paced back and forth and his booming voice reverberated from the green walls of the ’tiring room.
Suzanne’s voice was as calm as she could make it, though she was nearly as annoyed as he and would have liked to have joined him in his tantrum. But she knew from past experience that someone had to stay calm when he was like this or the fabric of the troupe would continue to tear and become a rag. “Here, Horatio. It matters not why they came; what matters is they paid their admission and had a good time. Perhaps we should charge a premium for seats in the stage galleries, where the view of the bloodstain is excellent. Would that satisfy your pride?”
Horatio stopped his pacing and brought himself up to his full, considerable height. “We should charge a premium regardless, for we are the finest actors in London! And the quality of theatre in London has surpassed all of Europe for a hundred years!” One finger rose toward heaven to punctuate his speech. “’Tis a given that we should have the house full every night, for aught but interest in the play and eagerness to witness greatness!” He fairly shouted the word “greatness,” then continued in intense sotto voce as he leaned close to Suzanne’s face, finger still in the air, “Attendance as curiosity is not success!”
“Horatio, please calm down. You’re upsetting the players.”
He looked around at the frightened faces in the room. Louis sat perched on the edge of a table laden with pots of paint, brushes, and powders, his arms crossed over his chest. Christian stood in a corner, looking sideways at Horatio like a dog about to be beaten. Others by the hearth chewed slowly on sausages and bread. Horatio seemed to deflate, all the air sighing from him as he realized he was once again alarming people.
The Opening Night Murder Page 19