The Player's Boy is Dead

by Leonard Tourney

  Joan herself was no less curious as to the cause of the priest's death, and no less certain of its place of conception. And yet in the last few days she had found herself nearly overwhelmed with a sense of futility. There was, she-now accepted, no evidence for what she knew intuitively, and no safe way to bring the evildoer to justice even were there evidence to substantiate her intuition. She ceased eating to marvel at her husband's appetite, especially in light of what he was about to undertake. She realized suddenly that the unyielding pursuit of a goal which she had sometimes found mere willfulness now showed itself as courage. As for her husband, he was not so much mindful of his virtues as excited by the prospect of his next confrontation with the magistrate.

  After gulping the last of his ale, Matthew stuffed a piece of cheese in his pocket, brushed his wife's face with half a kiss, and seized his cloak like a man who had just heard where he might find pounds for shillings. In the street he walked briskly, nodding now and again at a passerby, customer, or friend, his mind already at work on the words and phrases with which he would present these new circumstances to Saltmarsh. They did not come easily, but by the time his long strides had carried him to the end of the street and the little town had dissolved into a few isolatedcottages and fields, the words and phrases did come, and although he knew himself no scholar, he was more than half pleased with their verve and polish. From time to time he was passed by carts and wagons,and once by the London coach proceeding on its way south at a stately pace that made him once again recall Joan's reasoning. When he came to the place in the road where the carrier had reported finding the priest's body, he poked around in the thorny brake with his staff, hoping to find evidence, but he found only the imprint of a body in the grass and a spot of blood, now dried and brown.

  By the time the Hall came within his view, he was breathing heavily, for he had walked the distance in less than an hour by the sun. It was the groom who answered the door. He led Matthew through the gloomy high-ceil-inged corridor to a small chamber he had not seen before and knocked twice. When a voice inside responded, the groom vanished into the darkness and the clothier entered to find himself in a small office where he was greeted coldly by Varnell.

  "Saltmarsh and his lady have departed this hour for London," Varnell snapped, obviously enjoying his pre-eminence in the house now that his master and mistress were gone. "I join them myself tomorrow, when I have finished up some of my employer's business."

  "Then I have come too late," Matthew said inaudibly, his heart heavy with disappointment.

  "You what?" the secretary said.

  "I am come to report another death, that of your master's guest."

  The secretary looked up suddenly; a strange expression passed across his face and then vanished into a sneer. He said, "I thought Sir Henry dismissed you as constable."

  "Indeed he has. Yet I remain a citizen of the town."

  Varnell's eyes came alive with curiosity. "Who found the body, and in what condition?"

  "His body was found early this morning, by the wayside not a mile below this house. He had been struck by a cart or coach, and drug a good distance, I should judge."

  The secretary turned pale and spoke hesitantly. "I will bear the news to Sir Henry tomorrow. He will be grieved to hear that a friend has met death so unfortunately."

  "It was not an accident," Matthew said bluntly.

  "What, no accident? How so?"

  "The circumstances do not fit the event. The night was clear of clouds and the moon full."

  "And from such you conclude foul play," the secretary responded. His penchant for mockery had returned; he had stopped trembling.

  Matthew continued: "Aye, and yet when joined with other things—"

  "What other things?" the secretary interrupted.

  "The other deaths."

  "The one died of her own hands, of grief 'tis likely. The other remains unsolved. How connect you those two deaths with this?"

  Matthew hesitated. The secretary had quickly come to the root of it, which he must now pull up, if only to save his own pride,

  "Someone from the Hall came to fetch Richard Mull, the night he was murdered. I've proof of it, if proof be needed."

  "And?"

  "Saltmarsh reported no theft of horses."

  The secretary turned his back on the constable, stood looking from his tiny window into the desolate garden. "Still you draw conclusions from no substantial evidence."

  "I conclude," Matthew returned sharply, "that this house has within this week become a place of death sufficient to alarm the folk of this town and justify the concern of the law."

  "Harry Saltmarsh is the law," Peter Varnell screeched, turning to face him.

  "Harry Saltmarsh is not the law," Matthew returned with equal force. "He has been given charge of its rule hereabouts, no more, and is subject to it as much as the next man.''

  The secretary seated himself behind the desk and began to play with his long fingers. The light in the room was bad; Matthew could not discern the man's expression.

  "I will inform Sir Henry of the death of his friend," Varnell said more calmly. "If you wish to convey aught else to him you may, but for my part I have nothing to report to him beyond your own remarks, which I believe he will hardly find pleasing in one who at this point has his nose well into business that is no longer his concern."

  The secretary picked from a pile a sheaf of papers and began to write. At first Matthew thought it might be a note for him; then he realized that he was deliberately being ignored, that the interview was over. So, Matthew thought, it is finished. Perhaps the man was right, justice must bow to power; and in this case the power was certainly Saltmarsh's. Matthew sought a closing word, something to restore the dignity of his presence, but he could find nothing to the purpose. Humiliated, he turned and found his own way out.

  Varnell read the same few lines over and over before giving it up as a bad job. Now he could think of nothing but the dead priest. He had not liked the man. He had perceived him to be but another threat to his own desired intimacy with the Saltmarshes, and particularly with his mistress. And yet he identified with him. They were near enough to the same age, they had sat at table together, and the man's ambitions were doubtless of a kind the secretary might appreciate, for he supposed it as fine a thing to be a bishop as be lord temporal. Despite what he had told the constable, Varnell could well believe the priest's death no accident. The idea of murder did not bother his conscience or disturb his sense of social propriety. He was now quite beyond such moral queasiness. What disturbed him was the discovery that here was a murder carried out close to home to which he was not a party and for a motive quite unknown to him. What might the priest have done to deserve this? Slandered Harry Saltmarsh, threatened his life, violated his bed?

  At the moment fear clenched his heart. He imagined himself standing naked before his employer, all of his sexual fantasies open to an outraged husband's inspection. Saltmarsh had never really struck him as a jealous man, despite the reason he had given the secretary for wanting the players' boy dead. Yet perhaps the quieter sort were the most dangerous. He had never been married himself; how could he know what suspicions lurked in a married man's heart, especially an older man with a young wife? Quickly he reviewed the events of the past week, seeking some incidental action of his own that might have provided Saltmarsh with a revelation of his secretary's lust. There was nothing, nothing that he could recall, and yet perhaps there need be nothing. His employer was a strange man. Peter Varnell would have felt so much better could he only know for certain just what was going on.

  He labored over his fears until the servingman came to inform him that dinner was served, and it was not until he had scratched at his plate—he ate alone—that it occurred to him that he might be possessed by idle fears no more substantial than his imaginary affair with Cecilia Saltmarsh. He had, after all, no proof that Saltmarsh was behind the priest's death, only the suspicions of the constable and his own guilty conscien
ce as a presumptive adulterer. His new awareness brought relief; he quickly finished his food before him and called to the kitchen for a second serving and another bottle of wine.

  After dinner he returned to his chamber and finished copying a long letter—the last of his duties. This and other documents he placed neatly in his chest, where they would not be damaged during the journey to London. Then he made a final inspection of the small room to see if he had left anything behind him which he might require. As he did so, and in a much lighter mood, he once again contemplated his own future. His fears, he concluded now that his stomach was full and his head light with wine, had not been ridiculous; they were in fact quite understandable. Saltmarsh was a dangerous man, willful, arrogant, and murderous if such would advance his cause, but so were all great men to Peter VarneU's mind. He must bear such risks. Besides, he should have hated it had his idle fancies deprived him of the comfortable social position he now enjoyed, one that might prove even more comfortable once he was situated in London, where his diligence might come to the attention of even greater persons. At the thought his heart swelled almost to overflowing and he wished for the moment that he might believe in some god again so as to have a divinity to thank for his good fortune.

  The next morning the sun flooded his chamber. He gathered his things and called for the groom, who somewhat resentfully helped him carry his chest to the front of the house and to the cart waiting beyond. He made a note to himself to speak to his employer about the man, and later at parting handed him but a single shilling for his pains, rather than the two he had intended in an earlier and more generous mood.

  Just as Peter Varnell hailed the London coach, his master and mistress were near halfway to their destination, riding comfortably in their own coach, with the Saltmarsh crest emblazoned on the door and at its top piled high with Cecilia Saltmarsh's luggage.

  They had been silent through the earlier part of their journey. She had stared sullenly at the passing scene; he had been engrossed in a book, a small volume of verse. The day was pleasant, the weather having turned for the better. Harry Saltmarsh would have been quite content had it not been for the painful itching in his groin. The rash had bothered him for weeks, but only in the last few days had it become a great vexation. Well, it was the French pox, he concluded, which a trip to Madame Mercury's baths could cure after he arrived in London.

  Cecilia Saltmarsh also anticipated her arrival in London, but for entirely different reasons. She was growing weary of her husband and was at that instant contemplating their future together. She was done with his tricks; she would have no more blood on her hands. She would still have admirers, lovers, and she might even be satisfied by them, but she would accomplish this without her husband's supervision. Perhaps, she supposed, he would find the city large and diverse enough to satisfy his appetite for curious pleasures. Let him do so, so he might leave her be.

  He was the first to break their long silence, with a comment that immediately set her teeth on edge.

  "You are thinking of how you may spend my money in the city?" His tone was polite, but she knew the intent of the question and felt her face flush with anger.

  She said, "I think my own thoughts, and to this minute had pleasure in them."

  "Well, then, if 'tis my silence you prefer, you shall have it aplenty in London, for my business will keep me away most nights."

  "I trust they will." She sneered.

  They nursed their mutual enmity in silence; then her husband spoke again. "I have but one satisfaction as I reflect on the events of this week. That is that in all things you were my partner."

  She turned to him coldly, searching the heavy features of the nose and chin, the leathery flesh. "You are generous with your guilt," she said. "Be not too content, though. I love you only for your wealth and place. Were it not for those, I should gladly keep company with your enemies."

  "At least you realize what I provide for you," he replied, his heavy lips curling into a smirk. He turned to stare at the passing countryside, as though she had done no more than remark upon the weather.

  "You have bound me to you," she continued with bitterness in her voice. "I daily enumerate the ways, as others count their beads. Yes, I like the conceit.'Tis all like my rosary. My devotion is a prayer to some obscure saint that you may one day be hanged."

  He brought the back of his hand sharply across her cheek. She drew back in her seat, startled, her face burning. She could taste blood in her mouth, but she contained her tears of rage. She would give him no satisfaction, let him do what he will. She turned from him. There were more cottages now, more traffic upon the road. In the distance she could see smoke of the great city. Slowly she reconstructed her dignity.

  "You are a man; I am only a woman and may not stay your anger. But you depend on me as I on you, and God knows why. We will not remain forever in London. We will return to Chelmsford, and when we do you will have need of me again. If I am to be your fellow in your tricks, then you had best treat me civilly, or I may forget what debt I owe you."

  "And do what?" he asked threateningly.

  She did not respond to his question; she wanted to give him time to consider the possibilities himself. His face was frozen in a smile of the sort bodies sometimes bear in the rigor of death.

  She said, "I will not tell you now. Much depends on how I am treated henceforth."

  The coach came to a halt; the driver called down that they had arrived at the inn where they would dine.

  "I am hungry," her husband said without emotion, as though nothing had passed between them.

  The driver, a busy little man with whiskers the color of straw, dismounted and held the door open for his mistress, who cast her husband one last threatening glance before extending her hand to meet her servant's. The driver, seeing the purplish bruise on her right cheek and the swollen lip, averted his gaze. Then Harry Saltmarsh dismounted. He gave the driver a look of warning and sent the man scurrying toward the stable to find a hostler.

  The walk home was longer. Matthew had missed his dinner, but not for that reason alone was his heart heavy. He found the shop full of customers efficiently served by Joan and one of the apprentices. He nodded to those he knew, then buried himself in his accounts until the light was spent, the shop closed, and supper called.

  Joan had not bothered him with questions; he had marveled at that, for he well knew her curiosity. They spoke instead of family things—of the crock Alice broke, of daughter's new husband, of the last vestiges of summer's garden, now dry and sere. When the supper was done and the table cleared, they passed from the kitchen up the stairs to their own bedchamber.

  "Have you had enough of my brooding?" he asked, looking into her gray eyes.

  "If you must brood more, then be it so," she said, making the bed ready. "I will not force you to speak of what you would not."

  He smiled, quite without wanting to. A black mood was still upon him, but he knew her means of having her way while seeming to allow him his.

  He said, "The Saltmarshes have left for London. There's no more to be done."

  "You found the Hall empty, then?"

  "Only the groom with the long face and Master Varnell. With him I spoke briefly but to no good end."

  Then he rehearsed his conversation with the secretary, surprised at how quickly, once he had come to the telling of it, his story was done.

  Joan listened attentively, nodding now and again to confirm his impressions or to express dismay or sympathy. She said, "You are right. There's no help for it now. But I think Master Varnell knows well of his master's wickedness. What choice had he but to defend him? To make you think your suspicions were no more than an illusion?"

  "Yet he was right in this," Matthew said, "that we had no proof, nothing that a court would give an ear to much less bring a conviction upon. I doubt not but that it would go hard with me were I to press a charge against a clear gentleman of name and land—and the magistrate to boot."

  He dropped his hands
into his lap in a gesture of defeat. The firelight played upon their faces so that the lines of age were exaggerated and the features sharpened. A mouse, perhaps drawn by the fire's warmth, scurried beneath their chairs, taking refuge near the wood box, and watched them fearfully with its small black eyes. Silent, but not uncommunicative, Joan reached over to place her hands in Matthew's. At last she spoke, shaping into words the answer to her own unspoken question.

  "You will sell cloth and keep honest accounts and I bake bread and pray for grandchildren. 'Tis no more nor less than we have done before . . . before the boy's death and we knew nothing more of the Hall than the way there. God has made a world in which Harry Saltmarsh may have his wickedness; let God then judge the man and see to his punishment.''

  "Do you remember old Jupiter in the play? Such a god would not have suffered such evil."

  "Though he might have practiced it himself," she responded wittily, although she could read in his face that her cleverness had gone unnoticed. "It is impious to compare the two," she said more seriously, trying to find her way back to his own mood. "Besides, 'twas only a play. There justice must be done that the folk may homeward full of sound doctrine. The world is not a stage."

  " 'Tis late," he said, feeling more weary than he had ever in his life before. "Come, Joan, you and I are older than we were, and maybe no wiser. Let's go pray and then to bed. Tomorrow I will reckon my accounts and you bake your bread, and if daughter be not with child by that son-in-law of mine we shall make him answer to it."

  She laughed with him, realizing that if his gloom had not been driven from the house it had at least been tempered by his normal cheerfulness. He was struggling—for her sake as well as his own—and she loved him for that and for the vexation of spirit and outrage that pained him now and would pain them many times before their posterity would weep over their graves.

  Twelve