"I suppose Richard Mull was properly grateful for Lady Saltmarsh' s attentions?''
"I do not doubt it," Will Shipman said.
"And that there was no jealousy among others in the company concerning those attentions."
The actor's face darkened. He said coldly, "I have said nay to that question afore. There's not one among us that would have wished the boy anything but good, even if it meant his leaving us for one of the great companies. Surely none among us wished him dead for any reason. Now if you will pardon me, I and my men must load our gear."
"It seems your fellows have done your work while we have talked," Matthew said, looking over the actor's shoulder to where Big Tod and Little Tod had just finished loading the wagon and were standing staring curiously in his direction.
"Nonetheless, I must be about my business, as you yours," Will Shipman said curtly.
"Indeed, we must. And you must know, Master Shipman, that it is my commission to discover the murderer of Richard Mull, and I trust you have no objection to it."
The actor lowered his eyes. "If you find the boy's murderer, you shall have a friend forever in Will Shipman, I promise you that. But do not say aught against the good faith of me or my men. We are honest, though we be players, and we live by God's laws."
"I trust that you do," the constable said, smiling, eager ' to have their conversation end on a more friendly note.
The actor turned and walked to where his fellows stood waiting. By this time Simon had brought up a horse and was at work hitching it to the wagon. Matthew watched as the three actors led the horse toward the road.
The chill of the pond took her breath away, but only for a moment, and she resumed breathing more slowly. She took another step into the water, and all her muscles came alive as she lost her footing in the mossy bottom. Then she was under the water, her eyes squeezed shut, and the darkness passed over her like a cloud across the face of the moon.
Saltmarsh Hall was a square, stone house with two towers and many windows. It was surrounded by a gracious park, had a goodly garden and pasture, an orchard of quinces, apples, pears, and plums, and a porter's lodge at the gate house. Matthew stood at the park paling to catch his breath. He had since morning been twice to the Triple Crown, once in a steady rain, twice upon a muddy road. It had been the same road Will Kemp had danced over the year before, when that madcap fool had created a sensation by dancing a morris from London to Norwich. Matthew and Joan had been in the throng that had gone out to greet him at Widford Bridge. But that was Will Kemp. Matthew was not so nimble. He had walked for his health and to spare the mare's legs, but now he was tired and discouraged. He had spoken to Will Shipman, to the innkeeper, and to the hostler. He had inspected the scene of the crime and the body of the victim, but had nothing more to report to Saltmarsh than the hostler's tale of a fatal meeting in the dark, a stranger and a pair of horses. Matthew realized he knew nothing for sure but that the boy was dead. He had seen that himself, to his regret he thought as the image of the brutalized body floated up again into his awareness like the memory of an old sin.
*
Alice had brought news of the scullery maid while Joan was still sitting in the window watching her husband turn beyond the glover's and head up High Street.
"The poor dear thing,'' she said in response to the news. She searched among her store for an appropriate proverb and finding none, settled on a phrase of her own coinage: "One sad death wants company."
"It is too true," Alice said, nodding her head sagely and still breathless. "They found her floating face up in the pond, and the water as icy as death. Brenner brought her back wrapped in a blanket, light upon his shoulders as though she were nothing more than a sheaf of corn newly mowed."
Joan mused, "She died then by her own hand?"
"Aye, she did by all accounts, although I suppose the master will be looking into it, him constable."
"I suppose he will, worst luck for him."
She rose and placed her work on the shelf. "And now, since he will return in three hours' time, we must prepare supper and something hardy, for I trust that discovering the acts of wickedness is harder on an honest man's back than the making of cloth or the selling of it, no matter the quality."
Alice, as much as her cheerful rotundity would permit, scurried to the yard to slaughter a hen. Joan walked quietly to the window and for a few moments watched the passersby, their bodies bent forward against the cold. She contemplated the life in the street in all of its color, variety, and, as she now reflected, vanity. She was given to such somber impulses, and in times such as now she preferred her own company, as much as she loved her husband. She had seen the dead girl from time to time; perhaps she might have distinguished her from others of her age at market or at church, but even as she thought of her the image began to fade like warm breath upon a glass. There remained but a vague impression of youth, vitality, and—even for one of such humble origins—the promise of something more, suddenly cut off—and by her own hand—in terrible violation of God's canon against self-slaughter. It was a crime quite beyond her understanding.
The image of the players' boy erased that of the girl like , an errant wind, and the brief juncture of the two inspired an idea. She made a note to discuss it with Matthew when he returned. She hoped he would not judge it too harshly.
The shop bell rang hectically. She hurried from the kitchen.
Five
MATTHEW looked curiously about, waiting to be spoken to and not exactly sure what to do with his hands. The vast shadowy room was dominated by a massive writing table littered with papers, books, small statuary, coffers, and other objects the nature of which Matthew could not discern. The walls were paneled and hung with tapestries. The chairs, high-backed and ornately fashioned, were made, Matthew was sure, by no village carpenter. But what impressed him most were the books. They rose in shelves from floor to ceiling. Had he been told the room contained all the books written since Adam he would have believed it.
Henry Saltmarsh cleared his throat, which Matthew took as a signal to begin. To the left of the magistrate, Varnell looked on with amused contempt.
"I have made inquiries. Not all have proved fruitful."
"By which you mean, I hope," Saltmarsh said, "that some of your inquiries have borne fruit? Well, let us have a look at them. If they be good fruit, we shall not mind the quantity of them.''
Matthew said, "I have spoken to the innkeeper and to the chief of players, Master Shipman. The hostler at the inn told me a tale, though I know not how to credit it."
"We will credit it or no," Varnell interrupted. "Your 'duty' is to report."
"Keep silent, Master Varnell," Saltmarsh said sharply, his gaze fixed on the constable. The secretary's face blanched. "You were about to tell us the hostler's tale," Saltmarsh said.
Matthew repeated the hostler's story, careful to omit no essential detail.
The knight and his secretary exchanged glances. "The man could not say who the person was he saw or identify the horses?" Saltmarsh asked when Matthew had done.
"He could not—or would not. He had concealed himself and watched only for a while. Then he went to bed."
Saltmarsh heaved a sigh and looked into his lap. "Then we know little indeed, Master Constable, and less, since as you say the man's story is somewhat lacking in credit."
"I think I know the man, sir," Varnell added. " 'Tis a hot day in December when he's sober."
Saltmarsh said, "I doubt it not, knowing the reputation of the Triple Crown. But have you not, Master Stock, something more—no suspects, no sturdy beggars lurking in I the neighborhood who might have killed the boy for his purse?"
"None. But I am satisfied that the lad's companions are free of guilt. They seem honest, though players, and indeed were great lovers of the boy."
"The innkeeper reported no quarrels among the players or travelers on the night of the murder?"
Matthew Stock said, "He did not."
"You are satisfied
that the innkeeper speaks the truth?"
"He does, although I have no special liking for the man. He seemed most upset at the behavior of the scullery girl, who has not been seen since."
"Might then she have part in this?"
"I know not. As I say, she has since disappeared. I suspect that the hostler tells us truthfully when he reports that she and the boy made merry together. It could be that she has run off, as such girls often do."
"I would not then overlook her either, Master Stock. Have you spoken to all the players?''
"Only to Will Shipman."
"Then I advise you to speak to them all. Let your authority be known. Abide no insolence, for though they may have of me royal entertainment I shall endure no murders."
"I will look to this business as you have directed, sir."
The knight rose from his chair and extended his hand to Matthew, who, seeing the magistrate rise, made haste to do likewise.
"The players have prepared a little entertainment for us tonight, a tragic theme befitting this sad day. We have invited a few of the neighborhood—you must come, too, and bring your good wife with you. We will first eat and when the play is over and the players merry, you may notice something in their manner to suspect. I am not convinced yet that some jealousy among them is not at the root of this."
"You do us great honor—" Matthew protested, astonished by the invitation.
"Not at all," Saltmarsh replied firmly. "I hold you in high regard, Master Stock. The common good behooves us to see more of each other—and our wives as well. Your wife's name is Joan, is it not?"
The magistrate took Matthew by the arm and led him toward the door of the chamber. "Good day to you, Constable," the magistrate said almost cheerfully. "Pursue your commission, which I trust may bear richer fruit on your next visit."
Outside, Matthew looked back at the Hall with wonder and awe. He had given his account, poor thing that it was, and without apparent oiFense. Indeed, at his leaving, Saltmarsh had seemed most pleased with him. Matthew heaved a great sigh of relief and felt for the first time that day almost happy. Now as he walked his thoughts turned toward evening; he tried to imagine his wife's face when he told her the news. A play and supper too—at the Hall! He should not have been surprised had she refused to believe it or, taking him at his word, excused her three frayed gowns and worn cap—none of which she would feel would be fine enough for the occasion.
Once home, he broke the news to Joan and watched with astonishment as his little wife bounded up the stairs calling for Betty and Alice to lay out her best gown.
Varnell copied the document—a tedious bill of sale— with growing irritation and despair. All too suddenly had his employer brought him back to his own essential servitude in the house. Somewhere, he reflected bitterly, a great door had been shut on his expectations, and by nothing more than a word. The blockhead constable would in the end discover no more than he now knew, nothing. His commission was a jest, and why his employer could not see that too was more than the secretary could imagine. And this was he—the constable, damn him—whose silly speculations and idiot mutterings had been given a ready ear, while his own sound counsel so often went ignored. The constable would be given, no doubt, a high place at table—he and his wife, a dumpy wench, stale with child-bearing and barley bread. He had seen her once or twice scurrying after a fishmonger in the street for a supper of cod. The two of them would sit at a higher place than he! The thought galled him beyond endurance.
His one consolation now, now that the master had set other sail, was his mistress, who if she offered less promise of advancement, promised him in her eyes more immediate pleasures. The thought of it sustained him until supper.
Will Shipman balanced carefully on two legs of a stool. The actors had the inn to themselves, their host gone off to sleep or growl at his servants, but Will was in an ill-humor nonetheless. Samuel Peacham had shaved his face raw, as instructed, complaining all the while about loss of manhood, but his powdered jaws still betrayed the shadow of a beard.
"Lay on more paint, man," Will said. "And speak more slowly or you'll lose the wind of your treble and sound like a goat bleating for its mate."
Dressed in a long gown of purple, somewhat tattered from use and musty from the chest, Samuel stopped in the midst of an expansive gesture of the right arm. "Damme, if I paint more, they'll think me my own ghost."
"And if less," Will retorted quickly, "a jaded sodomite and not the Queen of Love.''
From the back of the room came a peal of hearty laughter, richly insolent.
"Let Aeneas come forward now," Will said with authority, ignoring the outcry from the back of the room.
Big Tod rose from where he had been seated enjoying Samuel Peacham's management of the new part and took several great strides to the center of the room, his arms akimbo. Without a pause he thundered, " 'Of Troy am I, Aeneas is my name; who driven by war from forth my native world, puts sails to sea to seek out Italy; and my divine descent from sceptered Jove: With twice twelve Phrygian ships I plow'd the deep, and made that way my mother Venus led; but of all them scarce seven do anchor safe, and they so wracked and weltered by the waves, as every tide tilts . . .' "
Big Tod played his part well, of that Will Shipman had no doubt. It was Samuel Peacham's performance that worried him. The voice was low and thin, and although his figure was slight enough for a woman's and his treble achieved moments of credibility, there was that about it which was so palpably false that he feared Dido's speeches might provoke more laughter than pity. The lad—Richard Mull—had had no peer at woman's roles. How Will missed him. The play was no great thing; it would now be the worse. Will's attention was drawn to Little Tod's ungainly Venus.
" 'Fortune hath favored thee, whate'er thou be, in sending thee unto this courteous coast. 'A' god's name on and haste thee to the court.'"
"By Christ," Big Tod exploded. "That's a wretched phrase, 'A' God's name on and haste thee to the court'!" He mimicked the line in a high falsetto. "Why, he makes her sound an ale wife."
"The lines are not mine, brother," Little Tod retorted sharply.
"The worst for that, for you could hardly have done less vilely."
Will was accustomed to this fraternal bickering, but he had little patience for it at the moment. He looked sternly at the larger of the brothers. "Silence," he shouted, his face reddening like a parboiled pig. "We have but one hour more to rehearse and then 'tis off to the Hall. Master Marlowe's play may not be to your liking, but 'tis what's wanted and what we shall provide. I'll have no more quarreling or baiting. Go on with your parts."
Little Tod continued, his brother stifling his impatience in a glare that made him an even more ferocious Aeneas than the play required. Will watched the scene disapprovingly, his face fixed in a scowl not at all typical of him. He was at the moment tired and hungry, and for this reason his humor was worn thin. He was also frightened; his coni-pany was at the end of its tether. With the death of the boy there would be less welcome at the Hall, or at any great house for that matter. While they might proceed to London in a week's time, there was no telling what success they would find. The future looked bleak.
He thought of the boy again, but now not so much to regret the lad's death as to consider the cause of it. He had told the constable less than he knew, almost more out of habit than a desire to keep certain facts to himself. He had learned in his years as an actor that between players and townsfolk a gulf was fixed and that even when there was great laughter or moving to tears, such an audience could have little love for the players, scorned and mistrusted as they were and classed with common thieves and sturdy beggars.
The truth was that he knew Richard Mull had occupied his place in the straw on but a few nights since their arrival in Chelmsford, that he did have "friends" other than his mates in the company, and that where there was such a division of interest there were indeed grounds of a quarrel. The girl at the inn had made great moon eyes at the boy, a look he remembere
d well himself how to read, although as a younger man he had taken quicker advantage of it. Richard had tickled the girl's fancy, and she was as plump and saucy as they came and certainly willing as a bitch in heat to 'scape the yard.
No, he thought, it must have had something to do with the other one, whosoever she was, that drew the lad out of nights. Had he got some girl with child and then threatened to run off? The boy was rootless, as were they all; he would never have allowed himself to be tied down to a green and swollen wench. And she, angered by his unwillingness, might have given him his deserts by probing his innards. Poor lad. Well, he thought, bringing the theme of his reflection to a conclusion while his company thundered on, let Matthew Stock untangle that skein, if he could. But Will doubted that, putting no faith whatsoever in constables or magistrates either. However it all came out, the boy was dead; that was a fact. He prayed to God that at the very least the boy's murderer would sleep less well of nights, although his common sense told him that it was a soft bed that brought sleep to some, no matter the mind's preoccupations.
In the background of his thoughts, Big Tod's bass rolled on. It was good enough, Will decided. A strong Aeneas might carry the play.
" 'Tis enough for now, I pray," Little Tod said, casting the gown aside and reaching for his breeches. "I have the lines by heart; I need not say them more."
"Should you not," Will replied in a better mood, "Aeneas will whisper them sweetly in your ears so that not even the groundlings will hear."
Big Tod laughed genially, not one to remember an offense for more than five minutes. He said, "What may we tonight expect as a reward for our efforts?"
"More than we deserve," Will responded dryly. "Some silver and meat and drink for a moderate man, a piece of good cheese and brown bread. If there's a goose or ham in the bargain we'll give God thanks."
The brothers moved off toward the bar to ease their throats with a drink before the host returned to demand payment. Samuel Peacham, dressed as a man again, drew near to the chief player and took a stool opposite him. Samuel poured a mugful of dark ale, savoring it at his lips before drinking the mug dry. "What shall we do, Will, when the play's done in Chelmsford?"
The Player's Boy is Dead Page 5
