The Scottish Play Murder (A Restoration Mystery)

by Rutherford, Anne

  “What would that be?”

  “Meat and cheese eaten between two slices of bread. Sometimes one cuts open a small loaf and stuffs it. We ate them many times while on the Continent. They can be quite tasty, and the ones available here are nearly as good as in Flanders. They use fresh bread, and the meat is never gristly.”

  “That sounds enticing.”

  “They put a sauce on the beef that will make your eyes roll back in your head.” He gestured for her to precede him from the shop.

  “You used to do that to me, and without sauce.” She didn’t look back to see his reaction, though he said nothing. She wasn’t certain why she’d said it, except that it was true.

  At the shop on the ground floor offering the belegde broodje, Daniel bought two of them. On bread so fresh it was still warm to the touch, the proprietor put a thick slab of beef, several thin slices of aged cheese, a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and he slathered on a thick white sauce. He wrapped them in paper and handed them to Daniel, who guided Suzanne to a nearby bench where they opened their packages to eat.

  The thing was as mouthwatering as the pies she’d had that morning. Today had certainly been an adventure in good food. As Daniel had said, the bread was fresh and the meat tender, with just a proper amount of fat for flavor and no gristle whatsoever. Suzanne, hungry as she was, took large bites and chewed them down quickly. The sauce was a bit vinegary, and lent a delicious tang to the meat.

  As they ate, Daniel spoke of the intrusion two nights before. “I think Piers should begin sleeping in your bedchamber. It’s not safe for you to be by yourself.”

  “Piers has his own rooms. He doesn’t need to stay with me.”

  “What he needs isn’t at question. ’Tis what you need.”

  “I don’t need it, either, as I demonstrated when I fended that pirate with a dagger.”

  “You don’t know how to handle a knife.”

  “He didn’t know that. Apparently I was fair convincing.” She held up the remainder of her dinner and said, “This is delicious. I wonder if Sheila could make one of these.”

  “Simple enough. Meat and cheese between slices of bread.”

  “But the sauce. What is this sauce?”

  “I’ve no idea. I only know ’tis a closely held secret; I’ve asked, so don’t bother. The proprietor is not telling.”

  Suzanne made a disappointed humph, and took another bite. She hoped that had been enough to get Daniel off the subject of Piers sharing her bedchamber, but he returned to it immediately.

  “I’m telling you, Suzanne, you are not safe by yourself in that theatre.”

  “I’m not by myself. I have Sheila in my quarters and nearly half the troupe sleeping upstairs in the ’tiring house.”

  “And where were they the other night?”

  “They chased him off well enough.”

  “And what if the next time this happens the intruder doesn’t give you a chance to wake up and find your knife?”

  “I hardly think there will be a parade of men through my bedchamber, brandishing guns. One should be my limit.”

  “In my experience, Suzanne, lightning does strike twice in the same place. Things always happen for cause, and that it happened once means it’s reasonable to expect it to happen again. You must take precautions, or next time you might not be so fortunate to escape harm.”

  “Very well. In future I’ll have Christian check the garderobes every evening before we lock the outer doors, to be certain nobody has stayed behind. That will solve everything, and we’ll all be safe from intrusion.”

  Daniel grunted, still wanting to insist Piers sleep in her bedchamber, but unable to think of an argument just then. He took another large bite of his food. Suzanne wondered whether the intruder he really wanted Piers to protect her from might be Ramsay. Further, she wondered whether the prospect of having Ramsay visit one night might be why she would not countenance Daniel’s suggestion.

  Voices of shoppers wandering here and there in the enormous structure echoed along the colonnaded storefronts. The place had been covered in stucco, and resembled a stone structure from the ancient world. The smell of cooking food mingled with scents of musky wool and sharp wintergreen, and beneath it was even a sweet whiff of some hothouse flowers for sale nearby.

  Daniel stuffed the last of his bread into his mouth, chewed, then moved the bite to his cheek to say, “I’ve something for you.” Then he swallowed.

  “Something else besides food?”

  “Food for the mind, I suppose.” He loosened a tie on his doublet, reached in, and drew out a package wrapped in paper. Plainly it was a book. He handed it to her without ceremony, then occupied himself with tidying up the greasy food wrappings. He wiped a smear from his lip with one of them.

  She unwrapped the book, and found it was the Aristotle she’d been admiring earlier. Her jaw dropped. She had no idea how to respond. The gesture touched her in places she hadn’t known existed. “Oh, my,” was all she could utter.

  “You like it?”

  “Of course I do. You watched me wish for it.”

  “Well, I could see how much you wanted it, and I couldn’t see letting you go without it.”

  “Thank you, Daniel.” She felt of the fine leather binding, so soft against her fingers. The title was tooled in gold. She thought she might not be brave enough to take a knife to it even to cut the pages. It was exquisite. “It’s beautiful.”

  Then the ugly thought came that he was now going to want to come to her bed for this. She shook that off and told herself he hadn’t exacted such payment for the far larger favor of patronizing the theatre troupe. But then the devil on her shoulder whispered in her ear that he was making money from that venture. This book was entirely different; it was exactly the sort of gift men had always given her when they’d expected favors in return. She didn’t know what to say now, except, “I don’t know if I can accept this.”

  “It’s nothing. You wanted it, you should have it. And now it’s yours. Read it, and then you can hold your own in conversation with your betters.”

  That was Daniel, ever pointing out the disparity in their status but never really meaning anything by it. His nobility was so much a part of the fabric of him, knowing his station and reminding others of it was something he did without thinking. But then he said, “You deserve such a book. I think you’re bright enough to understand it, and when you do you’ll raise eyebrows. I love that you raise eyebrows.”

  That made her smile, and she grinned at him. That was the closest he’d ever come to saying he had any regard for her. “Thank you, Daniel. I’ll read this thoroughly, and tell you what I find in it.”

  He held up a hand. “No need. Aristotle quite bores me. I’m sure you can find someone else who might discuss him with you.”

  Surely. Somewhere. Perhaps. But no matter. She was curious about what Aristotle had to say that the upper classes thought was so important, and now she would know.

  Daniel took a deep breath and said brightly, “Well, then. Have you finished your shopping for the day?”

  “I suppose I have, since I came here with nothing specific in mind.” She touched the bundle of lace beside her on the bench. “I’ve accomplished a veritable coup, having found a piece of lace that has gone by the wayside, though it’s perfectly adorable and would be gorgeous if paired with the right fabric. I feel I’ve had a successful day.”

  “Very good, then. I shall carry you back across the river in my carriage, and save you the walk.”

  She nodded and thanked him. A very successful day, indeed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Several days later Suzanne received a summons to Newgate Prison. It was from the warden there, who said there was a prisoner who wanted to talk to her. For a moment she couldn’t think of who that might be, then decided it must be Chauncey De Vries. They’d likely transferred him to the prison to await trial.

  The magistrate would surely not want her to go, for her testimony was half his case for
the conviction of this prisoner. But curiosity got the better of her and she couldn’t help but want to know what De Vries wanted. So she hired a carriage and crossed the river to have a chat with the man who had assaulted her in her bedchamber.

  Newgate Prison was an ugly place. She’d been here before, but never as a prisoner. The further she receded from the days when arrest was a daily fear, the more she despised the place. Its dark chambers lit only by torches, and vile odors so old they’d become unidentifiable, made her breaths come shallow and panicky. A turnkey escorted her to a chamber off a yard where prisoners loitered and stared as she passed.

  “Here ’tis, ma’am,” said the turnkey when he presented her to a door that was slightly ajar.

  “Stay with me, will you?”

  He gave her a puzzled look and shifted his pike to his other hand. “Wha’ for?” Most visitors were friends of the prisoners they visited.

  “Just, please stay.” She held out a shilling. The turnkey looked at it only a moment, then took it and returned his pike to his dominant hand.

  “At your service, ma’am.”

  Suzanne went into the chamber. It was a good-sized one, relative to the last one she’d seen, and she wondered where De Vries had gotten the money to pay for such a nice private room. A bed with clean blankets on it stood against the far wall, and the table boasted two chairs. Atop it was a loaf of bread and a jug that smelled of rum. Of course he still had his rum, even here. De Vries was seated in one of the chairs, and looked up when she entered. “De Vries.”

  “Hello, Lady Thornton.” He didn’t rise, but nodded toward the other chair. “Have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” He ripped a chunk of bread from the loaf to gnaw on, and didn’t offer her any. She wouldn’t have accepted it in any case.

  “What did you wish to see me about?”

  “I understand you want to know who killed his majesty the Earl of Larchford.”

  “You knew that the first day we met.”

  “Well, what you didn’t know the first day we met is that I know who done it.”

  Suzanne deflated somewhat, for this was shaping up to be a wasted trip. “Of course you know it. That’s why you were so eager to tell me during your interrogation. You knew the exact thing that would convince me to make Constable Pepper stop turning the thumbscrew.”

  “No, I mean it. I know who killed Larchford.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Not so fast. I figure this information’s worth something.”

  “Tell me what that information is, and I’ll tell you what it’s worth.”

  “I can’t do that. How do I know you won’t just walk out of here?”

  “How do I know the information is valid?”

  “I heered it from another prisoner. The one as done it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She had no idea who the fourth man was. It could be anyone, and certainly could be someone who’d been incarcerated for something else. “Why would he tell you what he’d done?”

  “Because he’s stupid. He were a-braggin’ about it, like it wouldn’t matter when time came to ask for a pardon for the thing he’d been arrested for. He were all ‘I killed an earl!’ and I queried him on it.”

  “And what do you want in return for this man’s name?”

  “I want out of here, of course. I want you to tell the magistrate I ain’t the fellow as came to your bedchamber that night.”

  “But you are. What makes you think I care more about finding Larchford’s murderer than I do about seeing you hang for attacking me?”

  He held up his broken thumb, which by now was quite black and the rag tied around it filthy. “I figure I paid for that.”

  “I figure not. Regardless, you do understand that you’ll have to give me the name before you could be released.”

  “I should be released, and as soon as I’ve set foot in the free world I’ll tell you the name of the prisoner as done Larchford in.”

  She shook her head. “There is no chance of that. Tell me, and I’ll see what can be done for your release.”

  “Recant your accusation.”

  “Tell me the prisoner’s name.”

  De Vries fell silent, and glared at her with the same evil he had in her bedchamber that night. Finally he said, “James Marsh. His name is James Marsh.”

  “And what, exactly, did Marsh say to you about Larchford?”

  “He said he was pleased to put a knife in the earl and may his soul be damned for a worthless nobleman no good to anyone.”

  Now Suzanne knew for a certainty she’d wasted a trip. “Nobody put a knife in Larchford. Henry, the Earl of Larchford, was bludgeoned to death.”

  De Vries’s jaw dropped open, and he flushed red. “I mean, bludgeoned! Marsh said he bludgeoned the bugger!” But the way he said the word, Suzanne was certain he didn’t really know what it meant. He was lying.

  “Good day, Master De Vries.” Suzanne immediately turned on her heel and left the room. The pirate shouted after her, but as she exited the turnkey barred him with his pike. He continued to shout, but she ignored him and made her way back the way she’d come. She sighed, disappointed, and thought what a satisfaction it would be when she saw De Vries hung.

  *

  IT wasn’t long before the magistrate sent a summons for Suzanne to testify against De Vries in his trial at the Old Bailey courthouse. This would be the last session until nearly spring, for December had turned and winter was hard upon them. Since the single courtroom was open to the world on one side for the sake of inhibiting diseases brought from the prison by defendants, the court officers preferred not to try cases in inclement weather. Today was cold, but the snow had melted off and the sky was clear.

  Suzanne arrived while the first trial of the session was in progress, and was directed to a spectators’ seat near a table occupied by the various prosecutors involved in the cases to be tried that day. She sat, drew her cloak tightly around her, and buried her hands deep in her muff. She didn’t expect to be there long, for trials took little time. Most defendants had little to say for themselves and often were too ignorant of the proceedings, or too much under the influence of drink brought to them in Newgate, to make sense of things. Those cases were dispatched quickly and easily by prosecution, judge, and jury. The man standing at the bar at that moment appeared at a loss to defend himself, and gaped at the jury sitting in rows on enclosed risers.

  The seating in the room was rigidly allocated to judge, jury, defense, and prosecution. The dock, where the defendant stood, was elevated and ringed with a balustrade, and a large mirror was set to reflect sunlight onto his face so everyone in the room could see his expression. This man’s hands gripped the rail with white knuckles, and he looked as if he might rip it from its seating as he listened to testimony that he’d stolen a woman’s apron and some other clothing she’d been carrying. He was dressed in rags himself, and appeared to have needed to steal, but it was difficult to tell whether he was guilty or simply knew it was no use to protest. His lips pressed together tightly, so that a white ring formed around his mouth.

  The spectators’ area where Suzanne sat appeared to be where persons with wealth and influence sat. There were chairs here. Big, comfortable ones that didn’t wobble or creak. The men and women around her had an air of involvement, and she wondered how many of them were witnesses like herself, summoned by the prosecution or the defense. The lesser spectators, who evinced more curiosity than anything else and appeared to be there for the entertainment value, stood in a gallery behind the jury box. They overlooked the entire proceeding from between a line of columns, some leaning over the railing for a better look at the participants.

  The jury box held a dozen men who seemed to take it all a bit more seriously than the rest. Even the officers of the court had a blasé air of being too familiar with the proceedings. They were there regularly, where the jury was not. Some talked amongst themselves, but most were rapt to hear the
judge’s instructions. Once the case was turned over to them, there was a break in the proceedings while they deliberated, their heads huddled together in low discussion. The men at tables shuffled papers, called occasionally to each other across the room, or had low discussions of their own. The defendant stood, gazing hard at the jury, as if he might influence their decision by force of his stare. They never looked up, not even when they came to their verdict and resumed their proper positions facing the center of the courtroom. Their conclusion was plain to see on their faces.

  Suzanne was not surprised when she heard they’d found the defendant guilty. In fact, the only one in the room who appeared shocked was the defendant. He was sentenced by the judge to be hung, at which his knees buckled and he clung to the balustrade for support. Two men came to help him up. Then they guided him from the bar and took him from the room.

  Suzanne settled in for a wait, for she had no idea how many cases would be tried before De Vries would be brought in. The room full of people warmed a little as the sun rose higher and the press of bodies lent their own heat.

  The man in the chair next to hers rose to make way for someone else who had leaned down to murmur in his ear. Suzanne looked up, and was pleasantly surprised to find Ramsay taking a seat.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she greeted.

  “I thought it would be worth a shilling to see your testimony today. Not to mention the look on that pirate’s face on hearing his sentence.”

  “You think he’ll be convicted?”

  “Of course, he will. He’s confessed and you are to corroborate that confession. You two were the only ones in your bedchamber when he attacked you, so there’s nobody to contradict you.”

  She laughed, softly so as not to disturb the testimony now being given. “Oh, you know he’s not going to just smile and nod and not say anything to defend himself. You know he’ll lie.”

  “Of course, he will. But you will be believed.”

  “An old, worn-out tart like me?”

  “Even you.” He laughed, but low so others in the room wouldn’t think he and Suzanne didn’t appreciate the gravity of the court. He took on a wickedly accurate ruling-class accent in parody. “God knows it’s the height of absurdity, but even an old, worn-out tart such as yourself has better credibility than a filthy, murdering pirate. I don’t know what society is coming to. The kingdom is going to hell in a wheelbarrow, I tell you.”