However, what marked this body out for the attention of the constable, among the half-dozen or so that had been fished from the river this particular Saturday morning, was the fact that it was the body of a well-dressed young man. Despite the effects of his immersion, he bore the stamp of a gentleman. In addition, he had not died of drowning, for his throat had been expertly cut-and no more than twelve hours previously, by the condition of the body.
The constable bent down and examined the features dispassionately. In life, the young man had been handsome, was well kempt. He had ginger hair, a splattering of freckles across the nose, and a scar, which might have been the result of a knife or sword, across the forehead over the right eye. His age was no more than twenty-one or twenty-two years. Master Drew considered that he might be the son of a squire or someone in the professions-a parsons son, perhaps. The constable’s expert scrutiny had ruled out his being of higher quality, for the clothes, while fashionable, were only of moderately good tailoring. Therefore, the young man had not been someone of flamboyant wealth.
The wherryman was peering over the constable’s shoulders and sniffed. “Victim of a footpad, most like?”
Master Drew did not answer, but keeping his leather gloves on, he took the hand of the young man and examined a large and ostentatious ring that was on it. “Since when did a footpad leave jewelry on his victim?” he asked. He removed the ring carefully and held it up. “Ah!” he commented.
“What, Master Constable?” demanded the wherryman.
Drew had noticed that the ring, ostentatious though it was, was not really as valuable as first glance might suggest. It boasted no, precious metals or stones, thus fitting the constable’s image of someone who wanted to convey a sense of style without the wealth to back it. He put it into his pocket.
There was a small leather purse on the man’s belt. Its mouth was not well tied. He opened it without expecting to find anything, so was surprised when a few coins and a key fell out. They were as dry as the interior of the purse.
“A sixpenny piece and three strange copper coins,” observed Master Drew. He held up one of the copper coins. “Marry! The new copper farthings. I have not seen any before this day.”
“What’s that?” replied the wherryman.
“These coins have just been issued to replace the silver farthings. Well, whatever the reason for his killing, robbery it was not.”
Master Drew was about to stand up when he noticed a piece of paper tucked into the man’s doublet. He drew it forth and tried to unfold it, sodden as it was.
“A theater bill. For the Blackfriars Theatre. A performance of The Maid’s Tragedy,” he remarked.
He rose and waved to two men of the watch, who were waiting on the quay with a cart. They came down onto the barge and, in answer to Master Drew’s gesture, manhandled the corpse up the stone steps to their cart.
“What now then, Constable?” demanded the old wherryman.
“Back to your work, man,” replied Master Drew. “And I to mine. I have to discover who this young coxcomb is… was, and the reason for his being in the river with his throat slit.”
“Will there be a reward for finding him?” the wherryman asked slyly. “I have lost time in landing my cargo of coal.”
Master Drew regarded the man without humor. “When you examined the purse of the corpse, Master Wherryman, you neglected to retie it properly. If he had gone into the river with the purse open as it was, then the interior would not have been dry, and neither would the coins.”
The wherryman winced at the constable’s cold tone.
“I do not begrudge you a reward, which you have taken already, but out of interest, how much was left in the purse when you found it?”
“By the faith, Master Constable…,” the wherryman protested.
“The truth now!” snapped Master Drew, his gray eyes glinting like wet slate.
“I took only a silver shilling, that is all. On my mothers honor.”
“I will take charge of that money,” replied the constable, holding out his hand. “And I will forget what I have heard, for theft is theft and the reward for a thief is a hemp rope. Remember that, and I’ll leave you to your honest toil.”
One of the watchmen was waiting eagerly for the constable as he climbed up onto the quay. “Master Drew, I do reckon I’ve seen this ‘ere cove somewhere afore,” he said, raising his knuckles to his forehead in salute.
Master Drew regarded the man dourly. “Well, then? Where do you think you have seen him before?”
“I do be trying ‘ard to think on’t.” His companion was staring at the face of the corpse with a frown. “ ‘E be right. I do say ‘e be one o’ them actor fellows. Can’t think where I see’d ‘im.”
Master Drew glanced sharply at him. “An actor?”
He stared down at the theater bill he still held in his gloved hand and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Take him up to the mortuary. I have business at the Blackfriars Theatre.”
The constable turned along the quay and found a solitary boatman soliciting for custom. The man looked awkward as the constable approached.
“I need your services,” Master Drew said shortly, putting the man a little at ease, for it was rare that the appearance of the constable on the waterfront meant anything other than trouble. “Blackfriars Steps.”
“Sculls then, Master Constable?” queried the man.
“Sculls it is,” Master Drew agreed, climbing into the small dinghy. The boatman sat at his oars and sent the dinghy dancing across the river to the north bank, across the choppy waters, which were raised by an easterly wind.
As they crossed, Drew was not interested in the spectacle up to London Bridge, with its narrow arches where the tide ran fast because of the constriction of the crossing. Beyond it, he knew, was the great port, where ships from all parts of the world tied up, unloading cargoes under the shadow of the grim, gray Tower. The north bank, where the city proper was sited, was not Constable Drew’s jurisdiction. He was constable on the south bank of the river but he was not perturbed about crossing out of his territory. He knew the City Watch well enough.
The boat rasped against the bottom of Blackfriars Steps. He flipped the man a halfpenny and walked with a measured tread up the street toward the tower of St. Paul’s rising above the city, which was shrouded with the acrid stench of coal fires rising from a hundred thousand chimneys. It was not far to the Blackfriars Theatre.
He walked in and was at once hailed by a tall man who fluttered his hands nervously. “I say, fellow! Away! Begone! The theater is not open for another three hours yet.”
Master Drew regarded the man humorlessly “I come not to see the play but to seek information.” He reached behind his jerkin and drew forth his seal of office.
“A constable?” The man assumed a comical woebegone expression. “What do you seek here, good Constable? We have our papers in order, the license from the Lord Chamberlain. What is there that is wrong?”
“To whom do I speak?” demanded Master Drew.
“Why, to Master Page Williams, the assistant manager of our company-Children of the Revel.” The man stuck out his chin proudly.
“And are any of your reveling children astray this afternoon?”
“Astray, good master? What do you mean?”
“I speak plainly. Are all your company of players accounted for today?”
“Indeed, they be. We are rehearsing our next performance, which requires all our actors.”
“Is there no one missing?”
“All are present. Why do you ask?”
Master Drew described the body of the young man that had been fished from the river. Master Page Williams looked unhappy.
“It seems that I know the youth. An impetuous youth, he was, who came to this theater last night and claimed to be a playwright whose work had been stolen.”
“Did he have a name?”
“Alas, I have forgotten it, if I were even told it. This youth, if it be one and the sa
me, strutted in before the evening performance of our play and demanded to speak with the manager. I spoke with him.”
“And what did he want?” pressed Master Drew.
“This youth accused our company of pirating a play that he claimed to be author of.”
Constable Drew raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, was there reason behind this encounter?”
“Good Master Constable, we are rehearsing a play whose author is one Bardolph Zenobia. He has written a great tragedy titled The Vow Breaker Delivered. It is a magnificent drama….” He paused at the constable’s frown and then hastened on. “This youth, whom you describe, came to the theater and claimed that this play was stolen from him and that he was the true author. As if a mere youth could have penned such a work. He claimed that he had assistance in the writing of it from the hand of some companion of his-”
“And you set no store by his claim, that this play was stolen from him?”
“None whatsoever. Master Zenobia is a true gentleman of the theater. A serious gentleman. He has the air of quality about him….”
“So you know him well?”
“Not well,” confessed Master Williams. “He has been to the theater on diverse occasions following our acceptance of his work. I believe that he has rooms at the Groaning Cardinal Tavern in Clink Street-”
“Clink Street?”
It was across the river, in his own Bankside jurisdiction.
“What age would you place this Master Zenobia at?”
“Fully forty years, with graying hair about the temples and a serene expression that would grace an archbishop.”
Master Drew sniffed dourly. Theater people were always given to flowery descriptions. “So did the youth depart from the theater?”
“Depart he did, but not until I threatened to call the watch. When I refused to countenance his demands, he shouted and threatened me. He said that if he did not recover the stolen play or get compensation, his life would be in danger.”
“His life?” mused Master Drew. “Marry! But that is an odd thing to say. Are you sure he said it was his life in danger, not the life of Master Zenobia? He did not mean this in the manner of a threat?”
“I have an ear for dialogue, good master,” rebuked the man. “The youth soon betook himself off. It happened that Master Zenobia was on stage, approving the costumes for his drama, and so I warned him to beware of the young man and his outrageous claims.”
“What did he say?”
“He just replied that he would have a care and soon after departed.”
“Is he here today?”
“No. He told me he would be unable to see the first performance of the play this afternoon but would come straightway to the theater after the matinee.”
“A curious attitude for an aspiring playwright,” observed Master Drew. “Most of them would want to be witnesses to the first performance of their work.”
“Indeed, they would. It seems odd that Master Zenobia only calls at our poor theater outside the hours of our performances.”
Constable Drew thanked the man and turned out of the theater to walk back to the river. Instead of spending another halfpenny to cross, he decided to walk the short distance to the spanning wooden piles of London Bridge and walk across the busy thoroughfare with its sprawling lopsided constructions balanced precariously upon it. Master Drew knew the watch on the bridge and spent a pleasant half an hour with the man, for it was midday, and a pint of ale and pork pie at one of the grog shops crowded on the bridge was a needed diversion from the toil of the day. He bade farewell to the watch and came off the bridge at the south bank turning west toward Clink Street.
The Groaning Cardinal Tavern was not an auspicious-looking inn. Its sign depicted a popish cardinal being burnt at the stake. It reminded Constable Drew, with a shudder, that only the previous year some heretics had been burnt at the stake in England. Fears of Catholic plots still abounded. Henry, the late Prince of Wales, had refused to marry a Catholic princess only weeks before his death, and it was rumored abroad by papists that this had been God’s punishment on him. Protestants spoke of witchcraft.
Master Drew entered the tavern.
The innkeeper was a giant of a man-tall, broad shouldered, well muscled, and without a shirt but a short, leather, sleeveless jerkin over his hairy torso. He was sweating, and it became evident that he was stacking ale barrels.
“Bardolph Zenobia, Master Constable?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Someone be telling you lies. Ain’t no Master Zenobia here. He do sound like a foreigner.”
Constable Drew had come to the realization that the name was probably a theatrical one, for he knew that many in the theater adopted such preposterous designations.
He repeated the description that Master Page Williams had given him and saw a glint of anxiety creep into the innkeeper’s eyes.
“What be he done, Master Constable? ‘E ain’t wanted for debt?”
Master Drew shook his head. “The man may yet settle his score with you. But I need information from this man, whoever he is.”
The innkeeper sighed deeply. “First floor, front right.”
“And what name does this thespian reside under?”
“Master Tom Hawkins.”
“That sounds more reasonable than Master Zenobia,” observed the constable.
“Them players are all the same, with high-sounding titles and names,” agreed the innkeeper. “Few of them can match their name to a farthing. But Master Hawkins is different. He has been a steady guest here these last five years.”
“He has his own recognizances?”
The man stared at him bewildered.
“I mean, does he have financial means other than the theater?”
“He do pay his bills, that’s all I do say, master,” the innkeeper replied.
“But he is a player?”
“One of the King’s Men.”
Master Drew was surprised. “At the Globe Theatre?”
“He is one of Master Burbage’s players,” confirmed the innkeeper.
Constable Drew mounted the stairs and knocked at the first floor, front right door. There was no answer. He did not hesitate but entered. The room was deserted. It was also untidy. Clothes and papers were strewn here and there. Master Drew peered through them. There were some play parts and a page or two on which the name Bardolph Zenobia was scrawled.
He took himself downstairs and saw the big innkeeper again.
“Maybe he has gone to the theater?” suggested the man when he told him the room was deserted.
“It is still a while before the time of the matinee performance.”
“They sometimes hold rehearsals before the performance,” the innkeeper pointed out.
Master Drew was about to turn away when he realized it would not come amiss to ask if the innkeeper knew aught of the youth whose body had been discovered. He gave the man a description without informing him of his death. But his inquiry was received with a vehement shake of the head.
“I have not seen such a young man here nor do I know him.”
Constable Drew walked to where the Globe Theatre dominated its surroundings in Bankside. Master Hardy Drew had been a boy when the Burbage brothers, Cuthbert and Richard, had built the theater there fourteen years before. Since then the Globe had become an institution south of the river. It had first become the home of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, who, on the succession of James VI of Scotland to the English throne ten years ago, had been given gracious permission to call themselves the King’s Men. Master Drew knew Cuthbert Burbage slightly, for their paths had crossed several times. Cuthbert Burbage ran the business side of the theater while his brother, Richard Burbage, was the principal actor and director of the plays that were performed there.
Master Drew entered the doors of the Globe Theatre. An elderly doorman came forward, recognized the constable, and halted nervously.
“Give you a good day, Master Jasper,” Master Drew greeted him.
“Is aug
ht amiss, good master?” grumbled the old man.
“Should there be?” The constable smiled thinly.
“That I would not know, for I keep myself to myself and do my job without offending God nor the King nor, I do pray, my fellow man.”
Master Drew looked at him sourly before glancing around. “Are the players gathered?”
“Not yet.”
“Who is abroad in the theater?”
Master Jasper looked suspicious. “Master Richard Burbage is on stage.”
The constable walked through into the circular auditorium, leaving the old man staring anxiously after him, and climbed the wooden steps onto the stage.
A middle-aged man was kneeling on the stage, appearing to be measuring something.
Master Drew coughed to announce his presence.
Richard Burbage was still a handsome man in spite of the obvious ravages of the pox. He glanced up with a frown. “And who might you be, you rogue?” he grunted, still bending to his task.
Drew pursed his lips sourly and then suddenly smiled. “No rogue, that’s for sure. I might be the shade of Constable Dogberry come to demand amends for defamation of his character.”
Burbage paused and turned to examine him closely. “Are you a player, good master?”
“Not I,” replied Drew, “and God be thanked for it.”
“How make you freely with the name of Dogberry, then?”
“I have witnessed your plays, sir. I took offense to the pompous and comical portrayal of the constable in Master Shakespeare’s jotting. Much Ado about Nothing was its title and, indeed, Master Burbage, Much Ado about Nothing was a title never more truly given to such a work. ‘Twas certainly Much Ado about Nothing.”
Richard Burbage stood up and brushed himself down, frowning as he did so. “Are you, then, a critic of the theater, sir?”
An Ensuing Evil and Others Page 4