“Indeed, a most joyous comedy called All’s Well That Ends Well,” affirmed Burbage, albeit a mite unhappily.
“Let us hope that it pleases the loyal subjects of the Queen’s Majesty better than your previous production,” muttered Master Drew.
Master Topcliff shot his deputy a glance of annoyance before turning back to Burbage. “This is a comedy that has turned to tragedy for your player, Master Director. All has not ended well here.”
Burbage groaned theatrically. “You do not have to tell me, sir. We must cancel our performance.” His eyes widened suddenly in realization. “Z’life! Master Shakespeare is already on his way from Stratford to attend. How can I tell him the play is canceled?”
“Isn’t it the custom to have an understudy for the part?” asked Hardy Drew.
“Usually,” agreed Burbage, “but in this case, Bertrando was so jealous of his role that he refused to allow his understudy to attend rehearsals for him to perfect the part. Now the understudy has no time to learn his part before our first performance is due.”
“What is known about this killing?” interrupted Master Topcliff, bored with the problems of the play-master.
Burbage frowned. “I do not follow.”
“Is it known who did this deed or who might have done it?”
“Why, no. I came on the body a half an hour since. Most of us were on stage reading our parts. When Bertrando did not come to join us, I came here in search of him and found him as you see.”
“So you suspect no one?”
“No one would wish to harm Bertrando, for he is one of… was one of our most popular players with our audiences.”
Hardy Drew raised an eyebrow. “Surely that would not endear him to his fellow actors? What of this understudy that he has excluded from rehearsals? Where is he?”
Burbage looked shocked. “You suspect one of our players of such a deed?” he asked incredulously.
“Whom should we suspect, then?” demanded Master Topcliff.
“Why, some cutthroat from the street who must have entered the playhouse in pursuit of a theft. Bertrando surprised the man and was stabbed for his pains. It seems very clear to me, sir.”
Hardy Drew smiled thinly. “But not to Master Topcliff nor myself,” he replied quietly.
Master Topcliff looked at his young deputy in surprise and then swiftly gathered his wits. “My deputy is correct,” he added, addressing Burbage.
“Why so, sir?”
Master Topcliff gave a shrug. “You tell him, Master Drew.”
“Easy enough. Your Bertrando, master-player, did not enter this room to surprise a thief. Bertrando was already in this room.Someone then entered while he was presumably dressing to join you on stage. The purpose of that person was to kill him.”
Burbage looked at him incredulously. “Do you have the second sight? By what sorcery would you know this?”
“No sorcery at all, sir, but by using my common sense and the evidence of my eyes.”
Master Topcliff was regarding his deputy anxiously. He did not like the word sorcery being leveled at his office. Such a charge could lead to unpleasant consequences. “Explain yourself further to the good Master Burbage,” he suggested uneasily.
“I will and gladly. There was a single stab mark in Bertrando’s back. I would say that the culprit entered the dressing room while Bertrando was donning his clothes with his back to the door. He had only his shirt on. The murderer raised the knife and stabbed Bertrando between the shoulder blades. It was a serious wound, but Bertrando was able to turn-with shock and surprise he recognized his assailant. The assailant in a surge of emotion, raised the knife and struck not once, not twice, but in a frenzy of blows, born out of that emotion, delivering five more stabs to Bertrando’s chest, each a mortal wound. That is an indication of the rage that the murderer felt towards him. Bertrando sank to the floor. Either he was already dead or dying within seconds.”
Master Topcliff looked on approvingly. “So you think this was done by someone who knew Bertrando or whatever his name is?”
“Sir, I am sure of it. No cutthroat would commit a murder in such a fashion. Nor is there sign of any theft.”
“How can you be so sure?” demanded Burbage.
Master Drew turned to the neat pile of clothes on top of the basket. “I presume that these are Bertrando’s clothes of which he divested himself, stacking them neatly there as he changed for the stage?”
Burbage glanced at the pile as if seeing the clothes for the first time. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I recognize his jacket. He was a vain man and given to gaudy colors in jacket and hose.”
Master Drew pointed. “Then I suppose that the leather belt and purse is Bertrando’s also?”
Burbages eyes widened. “That they are,” he agreed, seeing where the logic was leading.
Master Drew leaned forward, picked up the purse, and emptied the contents into his hand. There fell into his palm a collection of coins. “Would a thief, one who had been prepared to murder so violently to secure his theft, retreat leaving this rich prize behind? No, sir, I think we must seek other reasons as to this slaughter.”
Burbage bowed his head. His nose wrinkled at the smell of blood, and he sought permission to cover the body with a sheet.
“Now,” Drew said, turning to Burbage, “you say that most of you were on stage when you noticed that Bertrando was missing from your company?”
“That is so.”
“Can you recall anyone who was not on stage?”
Burbage thought carefully. “There were only a few that were latecomers, for I needed everyone on stage to rehearse the final scene; that is the scene set in the Count of Rousillon’s palace, where the King and all the lords, attendants, and main characters gather.”
Master Hardy Drew hid his impatience. “Who was not with you then?”
“Why, Parolles, Helena, Violenta… oh and young Will Painter.”
“You will explain who these people are.”
“Well, they are all characters in our play. Well, all except Will Painter. He was the understudy for Bertrando, who was excluded from the task. The only thing I could give him to do was to be a voiceless attendant upon our King.”
Master Drew scratched his chin. “And he was one with a motive, for, with Bertrando dead, he could step into this main role and win his reputation among the luminaries of your theater. Fetch this Will Painter to us.”
Will Painter was scarcely as old as Hardy Drew. A fresh-faced youth, well dressed and with manners and mode of speech that displayed an education that many theatrical players did not possess.
“Will Painter? That is a familiar name to me.” Master Drew greeted, having once more sought the permission of his superior to conduct the inquiry.
“It is my father’s name also, and he was admired as a writer of plays,” replied the youth, nonchalant in manner.
“Ah, indeed. And one who provided well for his family. It is strange that his son would seek such lowly footings in the theater.”
“Not so.” The youth flushed. “To rise to be a master-player, one must know and experience all manner of theatrical work.”
“Yet, methinks that you would have preferred to play the role of the Count de Rousillon in this new comedy?”
“Who would not cast an envious eye at the leading role?”
“Just so. Did you cast such an envious gaze in Bertrando’s direction?”
The youth flushed in annoyance. “I do not deny it.”
“And were you irritated beyond endurance by the fact that Bertrando was so jealous of his part that he refused that you understudy him in rehearsal?”
“Irritated by his popinjay manners, yes. Irritated, yes, but not beyond endurance. One must bear the ills with the joys of our profession. I admit that I liked him not. But dislike was not enough to slit his throat.”
“Slit his throat? Why do you use that expression?”
Will Painter frowned. “I do not understand.”
; “What makes you think that his throat was slit?”
“Why, Master Burbage waxing lyrical about a cutthroat having entered the theater in search of plunder and killing Bertrando. What other method would such an assassin use?”
Master Drew uncovered Bertrando’s body.
Will Painter saw the stab wounds and turned his face away in disgust. “I liked him not, but ‘tis oppressive to see a man so reduced as this.”
“And you cannot hazard a guess to the identity of anyone who would wish him so reduced?”
The young actor shrugged. “In truth, if I were to name one, I would name many.”
“How so? Master Burbage says he was well disposed to the entire company?”
The youth was cynical. “Well disposed, but more to the feminine gender of our company than aught else.”
“Women?” asked Master Topcliff, aghast. “Do you mean that you have women as players?”
“Aye. Master Burbage experiments in using women to play the female roles, as is common in Europe. Bertrando cast his net like a fisherman and trawled in as he could. However, he lives… lived with Hester at the Mermaid Tavern in Mermaid Court.”
“Hester? And who is she?”
“The maid that plays Helena in our comedy. I saw Bertrando and Hester arrive at the theater together. She was already dressed for her part, and so Bertrando went towards the dressing room, presumably to change. I saw Bertrando no more.”
“Did you go near the dressing room?”
“Not 1.1 went off to seek a flagon of ale in the Globe Tavern opposite, and there I remained until I heard the sound of disturbance. Master Fulke will tell you that I departed as he arrived, for he brushed past me as I quit the theater, although he didn’t greet me.”
“Master Fulke? And who is Master Fulke?”
“You have not heard of Raif Fulke, who plays the part of Parolles in our play?”
“Parolles?” mused Master Drew. “Let me stick with Master Fulke and not be confused by such a choice of names. You say that Master Fulke brushed past you?”
“I did.”
“Did he go to speak with Bertrando or Hester?”
“I did not stay to see, but I think not. He is at enmity with them, for Hester once lived with Master Fulke and he bears no fondness for Bertrando. It is well known that Fulke is jealous of Bertrando and his success both on stage and with women.”
“Well, Master Painter, do you go to call this Hester here, but do not go beyond the confines of the theater until we tell you.”
The girl Hester came almost immediately.
Old Master Topcliff and his assistant, aware of the niceties and refinements, had stopped her from entering the dressing room with the dead body and proceeded to question her outside. She was an attractive woman whose silk gown may have seen better days but which still enhanced the contours of her figure, leaving little to the imagination. That she had taken the news of the death of her lover badly was written on her tearstained features. Her skin was pale and her eyes red with sobbing.
“I hear you were Bertrandos lover?” began Master Drew without preamble.
The girl sobbed and raised a square of muslin to the corner of her eye and dabbed it. “Lover? I am Mistress Herbert Eldred,” she announced, raising her chin slightly. “So have I been these past two years. I have a paper to prove it.”
Master Drew blinked, but it was the only expression that he gave of surprise.
Master Topcliff sighed as if totally puzzled. “Faith! Who is Herbert Eldred?” he demanded in bewilderment.
Master Drew glanced swiftly at him. “The actor, sir, Bertrando Emillio. Herbert Eldred is his real name.”
“Ah, I had forgotten. Why these people cannot stick to one name, I have no understanding.” He looked hard at the girl. “I am of the impression that no one in this company of players knows that you were married?”
“Herbert-Bertrando as was-felt it better that we keep our marriage a secret lest it impede his career. If you want proof of our marriage, then I have-”
Master Topcliff made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “No need for proof at this stage. So, if you are the dead man’s wife, you, therefore, had no cause to kill him?”
The girl stared at him in indignation. “Of course I had no cause to kill him! But there be others….” She hesitated as if regretting what she had said.
Hardy Drew was swift to follow her words. “Others?”
Her eyes were now narrowed in suspicion. “But why speak of that when I understood that a thief had attacked him and killed him?”
“Who told you that?”
“It is common talk among the players.”
“Were you in this part of the theater while the others were gathering on stage for the rehearsal?” pressed Drew without answering her previous question.
“For a moment, no more.”
“When did you last see Bertrando?”
“I came with him from our lodgings to the theater. I left him to change for the rehearsal while I did the same, and then I went to the stage, but Bertrando was not there. When he did not come, Master Burbage went to fetch him.”
“You left him well?”
The girl pursed her lips in a grimace. “Bertrando was always well. I left him entering that room behind you. Is that-?”
Master Drew nodded in answer to the unfinished question. “Please wait for us in the theater and send us who plays the part of Violenta.”
A tall fair-haired young girl appeared shortly after Hester Eldred had left them. From a distance, she looked the picture of maidenly virtue and innocence. Only when she grew near did Hardy Drew see the hard lines around the mouth, the coldness of the blue eyes, and the smoldering resentment in her features. Her body was too fleshy and would grow to fat in middle age, and the pouting mouth would turn to an ugly form.
“I am Nelly Porter,” she announced, her voice betraying signs of the West Country. “What is your need of me?”
“I understand that you play the part of Violenta in this new drama?”
“A joyous ‘comedy,’” she sneered. “And what of it? I have played many parts in the French theater.”
“How well did you know Bertrando?”
She gave a raucous laugh. “As well as any maid who trod the boards of this theater, aye, and who came within the grasp of the Pig!”
“There is hatred in your voice, mistress,” intervened Master Topcliff mildly.
“Hatred enough,” affirmed the girl, indifferent to his censure.
“Hatred enough to kill him?” demanded Hardy Drew.
“Aye, I’ll not deny it. I could have killed the pig who ravished girls and left them to bear his children and fend for themselves.”
“He did that to you?”
“So he did. Two years ago. But my child died.”
“And did you kill him for vengeance’ sake?”
“No, that’s Gods truth. But I do not grieve nor do I condemn his killer. If that is a crime, I am ready to be punished.”
“You are honest enough with your dislikes. Where were you just before the rehearsal?”
“I was late getting to the theater from my lodgings, that’s all.”
“Did anyone see you arrive at the theater?”
“None that I know of. I went straight to the stage on my arrival, so only the people there saw me.”
“I see. Wait for us now on stage and send us the actor who plays Parolles. I believe his name is Master Fulke.”
She walked away without another word, and they watched her go before exchanging glances.
“She is not exactly grieving over her former lover’s death,” Master Topcliff observed, stating the obvious.
Master Fulke was poised, could pass as a gentleman, but was not exactly handsome. He was too round of the face, and too smooth of skin and too ready with an ingratiating smile.
“Well, Master Fulke…”
“You want to know where I was before I joined the gathering on the stage?” Fulke greeted a lit
tle breathlessly.
“You seem to know my mind,” replied Drew gravely.
The genial actor shrugged. “It is hard to keep a secret among so small a company. I was delayed, if you wish to know. I arrived late at the theater-”
“Late from where?”
“From my lodgings in Potters Fields. I have a room in the Bell Tavern overlooking the river.”
“That is but ten minutes’ walk from here.”
“Indeed so.”
“Why were you delayed?”
The man rolled his eyes expressively. “A rendezvous.” He smiled complacently.
“And this, this rendezvous, it made you late arriving? Did anyone see you arrive?”
“I brushed by that young upstart, Will Painter.”
“But you did not see Bertrando?”
Master Fulke sneered. “Bertrando! Yes, I saw Master Herbert Eldred. He, too, had a rendezvous…. I saw him go to his dressing room. Then I saw someone enter after him. It was not my concern. So I went on my way to join those on stage for the rehearsal.” He sniffed. “We were fifteen minutes into the rehearsal when Master Burbage began to worry that Eldred had not appeared. I told Burbage where he might be found.”
Master Topcliff tried to suppress his excitement. “God’s wounds, man! Do you tell me that you actually saw his murderer?”
“No, I do not, sir. I said I saw someone enter his dressing room after Eldred had gone in. I have no way of saying this was the murderer. I did not stay longer, as I said, but passed on to the rehearsal.”
“Describe the person,” Topcliff ordered sharply. “Who else would it be but the murderer?”
“A man, short of stature, of wiry appearance, I would say. He wore his hair long and dark, underneath a feathered hat. There was a short cloak. He wore boots. The colors were dark and tailored in the latest fashion. I could see no more in the gloom of the passage. In truth, though, there was something familiar about him, though I cannot quite place it. It may come to me later.”
Master Topcliff was pleased. He dismissed Master Fulke and turned to Hardy Drew with grim satisfaction on his face. “Well, at least we know our killer was a man, and that he was no common cutthroat but someone who could afford to dress well.”
An Ensuing Evil and Others Page 7