Varnell had not considered that. He shifted uneasily in his chair. "It would be his death as well," he reasoned.
Saltmarsh looked at him skeptically. "And yours.'''
Varnell wanted to say: "And yours too, Sir Henry." But he didn't dare. He dropped his eyes. He heard his employer make a move to stand, and he rushed to his feet. He felt sick at heart and his vision blurred, but not from wine.
His employer took his arm and led him from the chamber smiling coldly. "I'm sure you have nothing to fear,
Master Varnell. I have long admired your craft. Meticulous. I would be amazed were you not to show the same skill in your other duties. How much is it I pay you?"
In a weak, trembling voice Varnell named the sum.
"Well," Saltmarsh replied, jovially now. "It will be more—and in not a month's time. Hold me to it."
Four
MATTHEW warmed himself by the kitchen fire, eating goat cheese and brown bread heavy with butter and honey.
"He had no enemies," he said between mouthfuls. "Others in the company liked him, if Will Shipman say true. Lady Saltmarsh encouraged him to try his fortune in London. He had no money; his people were poor, decent folk of Devonshire, who no doubt believe him alive still."
"Yet someone wished him dead," Joan said without looking up from her stitchery.
He paused to cut himself another sliver of the rich cheese. "Indeed, and not only dead but painfully done. 'Twas more than the snuffing out of a life."
"God comfort his parents in their grief when they come to know of it."
"Aye," he said.
"I suppose," she said, looking up from her work now to stare into the little licks of fire, "it comes of how they live, traveling from one place to the next, sleeping however they may. And for a boy to travel in such company."
"He was fourteen," Matthew said.
" 'Tis young enough," she said firmly. "Fourteen is fourteen, and that's far enough from twenty and a fuller knowing of life. For a woman 'tis different. Woman knowledge grows inside, like the sap in a tree. A man must learn of what is about him, but a woman knows already when she becomes a woman."
They contemplated this mystery together, neither willing to interrupt the other's thought. The fire died out. Matthew finished the last crust of bread and rose to his feet.
"Must you go again?" she asked.
"I must, if only to tell Sir Henry I have found out nothing. The town might have found a better man to stand as constable this year."
"And a worse," she replied with a smile of encouragement.
"Aye, but I seem to have come upon a closed door in this business. Men murder for some reason. They do it because they want what another man has, or because they hate what he has done, or what he is. Richard Mull, it would appear, had no more than he should. Yet he is dead. There is no clue to all of this, and soon I must to Sir Henry and say as much.'Tis unlikely 'twill please him, since he himself bears his own office freshly."
"Aye, and I wonder at that," she said. "And he one who spends more time in London than here. They might have chosen for Justice of the Peace one local in fact."
"Well, his blood is good enough."
"And his purse full enough," she returned quickly, "though he may plumb its depths sooner than he thinks."
"He may indeed," her husband responded, "yet that is not for us to judge.''
She looked up from her work and smiled wryly. "My good Master Stock. I know I gossip overmuch, and beg your pardon and Sir Henry's too, though you cannot deny that I speak truth."
He smiled. "I have never heard you speak aught but the truth, Joan. For all your gossip, I have never found you anything but truthful. If your husband is better at trade than as constable, 'tis no fault of yours."
He started to go, but she stopped him. She said thoughtfully, " 'Tis possible you have found no reason for this murder because you suppose all men such as yourself, content with their lot, of a loving nature, and with reasons for what they do as ready as pennies in a purse. Some men act without reason, without thought. My father had a serving girl once who afterward killed a lad in the cornfield. They found her sitting by the boy's body, his throat cut neatly as though she were opening the belly of a pig. When the watch found her and asked her wherefore she had done the murder, she blamed the act on the slant of light upon the corn."
He said, "She was not in her right mind"
"Perhaps not, and yet later at her hanging she seemed calm and reasoned, begged those around about to take from her example, and before she died prayed to God for her soul. It made me weep to hear of it, for her voice was full of sadness and her face as lovely as a young child's'. As she died, I turned my head suddenly, so that I would not have to see her death. It seemed almost to me as wrong as her murder of the young man was."
"I hope you doubt not that it was rightfully done."
"Not a whit," she replied in the same wistful tone of her story, "but 'twas how I felt. Sometimes a person cannot find a word for a feeling, nor explain it to another. It was simply there inside of me, not to be denied even if it could not be spoken."
He considered this, stroking the bristles on his cheek and looking down on his wife in her chair, her hands immobile in her apron, firelight playing on her oval face, quite lost in her thoughts. He said, "Yet I think somewhere there must be a reason."
"Think so still. As for me, I know there be things for which there are no reasons. God alone can comprehend them."
The girl pulled up her smock so that her calves were bare and touched the cold surface of the pond just enough to send green mossy waves in ever-widening circles. This effect she watched for some time as though compelled.
The trees about the pond formed a little grove out of sight of the inn. She stepped farther into the water; it climbed up to her knees. She held up her smock even higher, an immodesty that only the privacy of the place and her present state of mind permitted. Her feet, ankles, and calves numbed, as though they were not a part of her. She stepped farther; the water came to her thighs and took her breath away, and still she walked, her feet sinking now into the ooze at the pond's bottom. Then she stopped and waited until her mind's eye had found its place in her memory.
At first Richard had not noticed her among the servants, but she had seen him. He had been caught up in his part and spoke with a voice different from his own. She reasoned that he did not speak for himself but according to what the playwright disposed. That was why Dido did not look at her, but at the other player, at Aeneas, not where he wished to cast his eye but at where the play required. But when the play was done and Richard Mull had cast off his woman's garb, would he see her then?
He did look at her later. She felt him watching her as the players drank and called for meat. The hour was late and she was weary with serving, for her day began early. His flaxen hair and pale skin were more beautiful than Dido's. He spoke and lifted his cup, inviting her to drink with him. She accepted, and when the master looked away she drank from his own cup, the cup his own lips touched. They had tasted each other's lips that way. Standing in the water reaching up to her thighs, she experienced the joy of it again.
The wind caused the water to ripple, the trees to bend in response, and she returned to herself and the present, standing in the pond like a statue in a rich man's garden. But then the picture returned.
After the play they drank, they all drank until the merchant and his fat wife were locked in each other's arms in the corner fast asleep and Big Tod and Little Tod sang quietly some plaintive song from their own country. She and Richard sat at the table alone, for Will Shipman had fallen asleep upon the board. She was not used to drink and her head ached. Richard stared into the fire as though watching a little play amidst the great logs and bright tongues of flame. After a while he rose and led her from the room and into the night.
The master was not about to order her to the scullery or to bed, so she and Richard walked silently together, hand in hand, toward the stable. Suddenly out of the darkn
ess a man had come. He had beckoned to Richard. His cloak was thick like the coat of a bear and she could not make out his features, only the sound of his voice, which was low. He and Richard whispered together briefly, words that she could not decipher, and then Richard turned to her, took her face in his hands, and kissed her so gently that she hardly felt the touch upon her lips. Then he was off into the night, unaccountably, and her heart was full of joy-She no longer felt the cold; she was hardly conscious ofher body at all, a loose, fleshly, insubstantial thing hanging about her. Boldly she stepped farther, pulling her smock over her head.
The hostler sat on the ground picking fleas from his beard, his legs crossed. He muttered resentfully, "You're the constable, are you?"
"Then you know I have power to make my word good."
"I'll tell you that the boy thought himself to be a fine bird.'Tis no wonder someone wearied of him and plucked his feathers."
"You did the deed yourself, did you?" Matthew put his question sharply, thinking to take the man by surprise.
"If I did, would I be talking as I be now, bragging? I am no fool." The hostler groveled in the straw as though anticipating a blow.
Matthew changed his tack. "Where was the boy last night when you saw him last?"
"The lot of them drank themselves to sleep. I watched them from the window."
"You watched them? Why?"
The hostler spit in the dirt. "Why to see them, man. Dost think I prefer the company of horses because I live in the stable? I watched them all from the window as they one by one fell into sleep or went their own ways."
"Who went his own way and where?" Matthew asked with interest.
"The merchant and his wife huddled in the corner like merry kittens. The players were strewn hither and yon upon the tables."
"And where was your master while all this was going on?"
The hostler spit upon the ground and uttered a curse. "He was looking to his own business, that's what; and if you must know, then you might ask him yourself."
"I will," Matthew replied dryly, his irritation beginning to grow at the man's surliness. "And where was the boy Richard Mull?"
The hostler paused, fingered in the straw with his right hand as though looking for a lost object. "He was minding his business with one of the maids, and should that prick your interest you may ask of him further, though I doubt that he's mind to reply, his ears and mouth now stopped with dirt." The hostler emitted a dry laugh, hardly distinguishable from a cough.
"You know I can have you whipped?" the clothier said sternly.
"You find me insolent, as they say?"
"Where was the boy?" Matthew repeated.
The hostler laughed again. "He was with the girl, her with the lofty nose that's too good to look upon a poor man. They sat at the table—I saw them—sharing a cup. I knew his mind."
"And what was his mind?"
"Why to bed, o'course, and the sooner the better."
"And did he bed her?" Matthew asked.
The hostler began to rise. "You may ask her, for she would have had the pleasure of him, not me. I must look to my horses."
"I am not finished with you," Matthew said sharply, pushing the old man downward. "Did you see the girl and Richard Mull go off together?''
"Maybe," the hostler replied enigmatically. "I saw them leave, followed them across the courtyard. I watched them go their own ways in the darkness, she back to the kitchen where she belonged before the moon was up."
"Then Richard Mull left her?"
"How might I know that? Maybe they met somewhere in the dark. Such deeds are best done in the dark, so that the devil may see 'em and mark those that do such foully." Matthew felt about in his purse; he found two coins, which he drew forth and held before the man's face.
"This may put you to sleep sweetly if you'll satisfy me as to the whereabouts of the boy."
The hostler's eyes lighted up with interest. "And how much would that be, sir?''
Matthew reached into his purse again and withdrew five more shillings. "This," he said, holding out his hand, "but only if you can find it in you to recall with whom Richard Mull went off and where."
Simon wrung his hands and coughed deeply. "I said he was with the girl and they went off into the dark together."
"So you say," Matthew replied curtly. "But that's not all that I've paid for."
Simon didn't answer directly. He hummed to himself and busied his hands with his hostler's tools. The man was thinking, and Matthew decided to wait.
"Well?" Matthew said, after a while.
The hostler stopped humming and looked up. "Were there as many coins again in my hand I might help you to a secret."
"How so?" asked Matthew.
"First, promise the other five shillings."
"Done," said Matthew, "but it must be worth the cost. Otherwise, you have no promise."
"There was another one last night," the hostler said. "Man or woman I could not tell. He, or she, beckoned to the boy and the lad followed. They didn't see me. I hid behind a bush, moved quiet and quick like a flea in a fine lady's farthingale."
"Where was this other one you speak of?"
Simon pointed to a stand of sturdy oaks on the other end of the pasture. "I followed them to know their business."
"Which was?" Matthew prompted.
The hostler shrugged. "The two of 'em talked. There was a pair of horses, too, tethered in the trees, I could hear the creatures snorting and stamping and see their shadows beneath the branches." The hostler held out his hand for payment. It was covered with filth, the fingers were contorted like a claw.
"Not so fast," Matthew said sharply. "What did the boy and this stranger do?"
"They talked. I couldn't hear. I left them to themselves and went to bed. The night was cold and I was shivering."
"You didn't see the horses?"
The hostler looked down thoughtfully. "Pitch black, that's what 'twas, and darker in the trees there. Each horse had four legs, but I can swear no more." Simon thrust his hand forward. Matthew handed him the coins reluctantly. The hostler murmured thanks and limped off across the yard, smiling to himself.
Matthew watched him go, wondering if he had been a fool to pay such a contemptuous fellow. It was not much of a story he had been told, but it was all the constable had and he was glad of it. A mysterious stranger and a pair of horses. Why two horses? he wondered, unless there were in fact two men, besides the boy, or perhaps the other horse was for the boy? He looked across the muddy pasture to the stand of oak and was about to proceed there when he thought the better of it. It was growing late, and he wanted to talk to the serving girl and to Will Shipman again before he paid a visit to the Hall.
He could not find the girl in the inn. The other scullery maids, Tabitha and May, had not seen her since midday. The innkeeper grumbled that her disappearance was not unusual, that such was the sad state of serving girls that they hardly did what they were paid to do before vanishing to do the devil's work.
"From her I have not had two day's work in as many years," Master Rowley fumed while pushing a tun of ale into its place. The big man was sweating fiercely. "If you find her, tell her she is no servant of mine unless she looks to her work better than she has done this past week."
In the yard Matthew found Will Shipman and the other players loading a wagon with the trappings of their craft, some bulky gowns and a painted tree, fully leafed in summer green. The players talked busily among themselves and Matthew was of a mind to pass them by before Will Shipman hailed him. The chief player left the work to his friends and hurried over to the constable. "A word, please, Master Constable?"
Matthew stopped and greeted the burly actor.
Will Shipman said, "If you should be seeing Sir Henry before we do at nightfall, would you tell him that we have found a replacement for the boy and that the play will be performed as we had promised?"
Matthew was in the middle of assuring the actor that the message would not be out of his way,
since he would be seeing Sir Henry within the hour, when it occurred to him that, saving for the scullery girl, Will Shipman was as likely to know of Richard Mull's involvement with the Saltmarsh family as anyone. He drew the actor aside where their voices would not be heard.
"Master Shipman, can you tell me if at any time since your coming to town Richard Mull was entertained at the Hall?"
The big actor frowned, stroked his beard, and said, "We were all entertained there, and royally too, upon coming to this place four days ago. Sir Henry and his lady feasted us in the great hall and heard an old play we had done to some applause in Norwich. If there were other times when the boy came alone, I know them not, for although I was close to the boy as any, he was a quiet one, full of his own thoughts and not given to sharing them with others. But if you ask concerning his entertainment at Norwich," he continued after a moment's pause, "then I must give you a different answer, for when we arrived in that city her ladyship sent her maidservant to us at play's end to ask about the boy and he went with her, although I know not where. Later when he returned he would not tell us what passed, beyond the delicacies of the table and her hope that such a one as he might find better fortune. None of us wished him aught but well."
"She was his patroness, then?"
"Indeed," the actor replied. "She fed his belly and his fancy; thereafter he had a fine conceit of himself."
Matthew studied the actor's face. He could see no guile, no jealousy, there. The man had a faraway look in his eyes, as though he were remembering something fondly. Will Shipman said, "It was all we could do to keep Richard in the bloom of girlhood. His voice was on the verge of changing. We had good times, in the towns and on the roads. He had a gentle nature, but he was fit and could walk ten miles before dinner without a complaint.''
Matthew asked, "Did the lady ever send for the boy. I mean to come alone?"
The big actor paused before replying, "I think not," he said. "The time in Norwich we played in an inn, and Lady Saltmarsh's maidservant called for the boy and they walked off together. Sir Henry and his lady had a fine house not a mile from where we played. It would have been an easy walk for a one-legged man."
The Player's Boy is Dead Page 4
