by Ann Swinfen
Will hammered on the door.
The house was completely silent, with a sort of watching silence, although it was long past the hour when every citizen should be at work. The shutters had perished or been torn away from one of the ground floor windows, so I tried to peer inside. In this poor district the windows were still made of oiled paper. What with that, and with the dirt inside and out, I could make out little, but I thought I could just distinguish a furtive movement.
‘There is someone there,’ I told Will. ‘Keep knocking.’
He knocked until his knuckles were sore, then began kicking the door. His boots were stout and the door was a poor thing, so that it buckled under this assault.
‘Take care you do not break it down,’ Simon warned, ‘or we shall find ourselves in trouble.’
Eventually I suppose the person I had dimly seen inside must have realised that we were not going to leave. There was the scrape of bolts being drawn back, then the door opened a crack, just enough to allow the view of half a face, which might have been man or woman. A labyrinth of dirt-filled wrinkles turned a human visage into something resembling an explorer’s map. One bloodshot eye glared at us balefully out of this visage, and half of a gap-toothed mouth demanded, ‘What do you want?’
The voice was deep and husky, but I guessed it was a woman’s although I was still not quite sure.
‘We have come from Master Burbage,’ Simon said politely, recoiling slightly from the stench of the creature’s breath. ‘John Stoker’s master. We are here to examine his room.’
‘Whyfor would you be doing that? Master Stoker is not here. I can’t let you in.’
‘Master Stoker is dead,’ Will said. Somehow he had managed to insert his shoulder and the toe of his boot into the crack in the door. ‘We have come to collect his possessions.’
‘Dead!’ This was a shriek of genuine horror. Perhaps the man had friends after all. A moment later I was undeceived.
‘Dead! He owes me three weeks’ rent, the bastard! Got himself killed, has he? No wonder, the company he keeps. Three weeks’ rent! You’ll leave his goods here, I’ll take them in payment for the rent.’
‘You’ll do such thing,’ Will said. ‘The coroner will want to see them. Now, out of the way, goodwife. We have no wish to harm you.’
By dint of pushing, Will and Simon managed to force the door open and we slipped through. Will had guessed right, the creature was a woman, perhaps not as ancient as I had first supposed, but poverty, drink, and an ill temper had aged her beyond her years.
‘Where is his room?’ Will demanded of the creature.
Though it was clearly a woman, from the draggled skirts, her head was almost as bald as a man’s, sprouting a few sparse hairs. She gave off a powerful stink of strong beer and unwashed body.
‘First floor back,’ she said, glaring at him malevolently. She jerked her head toward a set of rickety stairs.
They were hardly even stairs, we realised as we climbed them. Starting life as a ladder, they had been hammered to a cross beam in the ceiling, with risers of rough planks nailed between the treads to create a makeshift staircase that shook under our feet. As we emerged into the upper floor, we had to stoop to avoid colliding with the roof beams, for this was no more than a sloping attic, partitioned with thin boards into three separate sections. Stoker’s room was cramped and mean, holding no more than a trestle bed, a couple of joint stools, and a board laid across two broken barrels to form a sort of table. A few clothes lay tumbled on one of the stools, the bedclothes were dragged half on to the floor as though the occupant had just arisen, and the only window was covered by nothing but a flimsy shutter, which Simon opened to give us more light.
Seeing the poverty and misery of Stoker’s lodging, I felt a twist of pity and wished I had been kinder to him. Too late, as such regrets often are.
Simon was poking about on the makeshift table, where a rotting apple core weighed down some sheets of paper.
‘Will,’ he said, ‘look at this.’
Will took the papers from him and tilted them toward the light.
‘I knew it!’ The words burst from him in an explosion of angry breath. ‘The writing is foul, but this is the opening scene of my Henry play. There are blunders, and the lines start and end in the wrong places, but there is no mistaking it. What skulduggery was he about? Was he planning to sell my play?’
The two players look at each other in consternation. Master Burbage, it seemed, was wrong, and Will was right. All these troubles seemed to point to the theft of plays.
‘But,’ I said, ‘surely Stoker could not pass it off as his own work? And in any case, what you have there cannot be the entire play.’
Will thumbed through the pages. ‘The beginning of Act One and part of Act Two. He seems to have been memorising it and then coming back here and writing it down.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Some people would not question too closely whether or not he had written it. They would pay for it and keep quiet.’
‘You mean Ned Alleyn was right?’ I said. ‘Guessing that it might be some rogue company of players who have no plays of their own to bring in an audience?’
‘It is as good an idea as any,’ Simon said, ‘though whether this theft of Stoker’s is related to the attack on Holles, who can say? And as for his death, that may be no more than a stabbing during a robbery.’
I gestured at the poverty of the room. ‘Would a man like this possess anything worth stealing?’
‘Unless he had copied other plays,’ Will said slowly. He peered at the sheets in his hand again. ‘Or . . . These are poorly written, even for Stoker. There are blots of ink and some beer stains on some of the sheets. I wonder whether these are rejected sheets. I finished my Henry play some time ago. What if he had already made a better copy, and that was what was stolen from him?’
Although it was clear that Stoker had been up to no good, I thought Will was too obsessed with the theft of his own work. It was more likely that Stoker, in death, was just another victim of London’s dangerous streets.
‘Besides,’ I said, what can any of this have to do with Master Wandesford’s murder, which came first of all?’
‘Wandesford’s room had been searched,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps Will is right and a play had been stolen from there.’
I shook my head. ‘You are forgetting. Wandesford always did his copying in the playhouse. The papers Will saw in his room were his own private affairs.’
‘His landlady said that his rough papers were missing.’
‘But do we know they were anything to do with the playhouse?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Will admitted gloomily. ‘In any case, we had better keep these papers for the coroner, in case they throw any light on Stoker’s death.’
We decided to leave Stoker’s poor garments where they were. If the coroner wanted them, he could send a servant to fetch them, but Will was determined not to let the fragments of his play fall into anyone else’s hands but his own. As Simon turned to close the shutter again, he moved out of the beam of light, so that it fell suddenly across the bed and the wall behind it. For the first time I noticed that there was a shelf above the bed, containing a few objects.
‘We should look at what we have here,’ I said, leaning across the bed in order to see better.
‘There is a razor and a pot of ink,’ I said. ‘A piece of mouldy cheese, with mouse droppings near it.’
Then, at the very back, there was a glint of light on a small glass bottle.
‘What is this?’
I lifted it down and held it up toward the window. A murky liquid, somewhere between grey and purple in colour, slightly viscous when I shook it. I drew out the cork and sniffed it. Then I sat down suddenly on the unmade bed.
‘What is, Kit?’ I suppose what Simon read in my face must have alarmed him.
I held it at arm’s length, as if it might bite me.
‘It is the crushed juice of berries,’ I said. ‘Belladonna.’
Walkin
g back to the Theatre we were too subdued to talk. All that we had decided was that we must first tell Master Burbage what we had found, and then someone (we hoped Master Burbage) would need to inform the coroner of our discoveries.
‘You are quite sure this is belladonna, Kit?’ Master Burbage said. He was troubled, yet at the same time relieved.
‘Quite sure,’ I said.
Rikki was pressed up against my knee, where I sat on a stool in Burbage’s office. Simon was leaning on the doorframe. I could not quite read his expression. Will was pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair until Master Burbage ordered him to sit down. He collapsed on a bench, knocking off a pile of papers, but none of us bothered to pick them up.
‘It would not seem too far fetched, then,’ Burbage went on, ‘to assume that it was Stoker who dosed Oliver Wandesford with belladonna and brought about his death.’
I nodded. ‘It seems likely that he was the murderer,’ I agreed.
‘But why?’ Simon said. ‘As far as we know, the two of them had never met before Stoker joined us a few weeks ago. And even after that, they can have had little to do with each other. Master Wandesford spent most of his time shut away in the book room, at work on his copying. Stoker was fetching and carrying, or running errands.’
‘How closely did any of you observe him?’ I asked. ‘As I told you before, he was always hanging about me when I was copying. Perhaps it was the same with Master Wandesford. Stoker was an insignificant fellow. You hardly noticed where he was or what he was doing, unless he was bothering you. Why, I think we had hardly noticed that he did not dine with us last night, not until we found him dying in the street, and then Simon remembered that he had not been at dinner.’
‘Are you saying,’ Master Burbage looked at me keenly, ‘that he bothered Oliver Wandesford while he was copying, and they had some sort of quarrel? A quarrel so serious it could lead to murder?’
‘Nay.’ I shook my head. ‘Had there been a quarrel that serious, someone would surely have noticed it. I only meant that they might have come to know each other better than you suppose.’
‘You have to realise,’ Will said, ‘that it is all to do with the plays, the copying and theft of plays.’
‘Will,’ Master Burbage said kindly, ‘try not to see everything as connected to your plays.’
‘But I think,’ Simon said slowly, ‘that Will may be right. There are just too many threads linking all these events together and to the plays.’
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Do you not remember, poor Master Wandesford was barely cold before Stoker was trying to take his place as your copyist?’
They all looked at me soberly, then Master Burbage voiced what they were all clearly thinking.
‘Are you suggesting, Kit, that Stoker would murder Wandesford simply to step into his shoes as copyist?’
‘It seems far fetched,’ I agreed. ‘But desperate men do desperate deeds. It was clear from his lodgings that Stoker was penniless. Perhaps he only meant to make Master Wandesford ill, so that he might take his place and earn his wages.’
Will shook his head. ‘You are forgetting that, having failed to secure the position as copyist, he was memorising the plays and writing them out at home. Which meant, incidentally, that he would have to buy paper. Where did he get the chinks for that?’
‘And writing them out at home would earn him no wages,’ Simon said firmly, ‘unless . . .’
‘Unless someone was paying him,’ Will finished.
‘Aye.’
‘But the murder of Stoker,’ I said, ‘that can have nothing to do with whatever scheme he may have been caught up in, for the copying of plays. He was merely stabbed in the street, the kind of killing that happens nearly every day in London.’
‘What I do not understand,’ Simon said, ‘is why he was out there anyway, instead of with us. As you say, Kit, the fellow was poor. He must have been glad of one good meal a day. I have never noticed him miss another. Why was he in an alley off Gracechurch Street, just after that thunderstorm, instead of eating a welcome hot meal at the Green Dragon?’
Master Burbage shook his head. ‘We shall probably never know. I doubt whether the coroner will be able to find the killers. There appear to have been no witnesses and none of you could identify the hooded men you saw running away. It is quite another matter when a stabbing occurs in a fight by day, with people all around. In this case it is unlikely the cutthroats will be found.’
He stood up with a sigh.
‘I suppose I must go again to the coroner’s office. It will do our reputation no good, being linked to two murders.’
‘You can never be sure,’ Simon said wryly. ‘It might make the citizens of London all the more anxious to spend their pennies to come and gawp at us – the notorious company of players, Lord Strange’s Men. Two murders already! Who will be next?’
‘I do not find that even a little amusing, Simon.’ Burbage held out his hand to me. ‘Best let me take that belladonna juice to the coroner, Kit. And, Will, I’ll need to hand over those pages you found.’
‘How secure is the coroner’s office?’ Will asked. ‘They might fall into the wrong hands.’
‘What good would these few pages do anyone?’ Burbage asked. ‘Give me the pages, Will. Your Henry play book is safely locked away.’
Reluctantly, Will handed them over and Master Burbage set off for the Guildhall.
‘I suppose the coroner will rule that it is likely Master Wandesford was killed by Stoker,’ I said. ‘I do not see what other conclusion he can come to.’
The following day, the whole sorry business of an inquest took place again, although fortunately the cooler weather after the thunder storm meant that the atmosphere was not so oppressive. This time I did not feel as conspicuous, since I had not instigated the whole investigation of the death. Simon, Will, and the two parish constables were also witnesses to the finding of Stoker’s body, and there was no ambiguity over the cause of his death, although there was little hope that the two hooded men would ever be found. The stabbing would probably go down in the court records as yet another unsolved killing in the streets of London.
However, there was no escaping mention of the items found in Stoker’s room. As we had expected, we were reprimanded by the coroner for having interfered with the investigation of his own sergeants, but the fact that the papers and the bottle had been handed over at once to the coroner’s office went some way to pardoning us.
Will put forward his idea that some scheme was afoot to steal plays from Burbage’s and Henslowe’s companies. Sir Rowland listened politely, but shook his head.
‘You have produced no evidence linking these papers found in the deceased’s lodgings with either his death or that of the other member of your company. It appears to me purely incidental and of no relevance to the inquiry before this court.’
He turned to me.
‘However, Dr Alvarez, your discovery of belladonna in the deceased’s possession would appear to have a connection with that other death. As you suggested in the previous case, I have had the contents of the bottle examined by an apothecary, who agrees that it is the concentrated liquid from the crushed berries of the belladonna plant. It is not the purpose of this inquest to rule on whether or not this was the poison used in the murder of Oliver Wandesford. Nevertheless, that seems a reasonable conclusion, and it will be entered in the record.’
He cleared his throat.
‘We have a further point to consider here. The three of you who have given evidence of finding the belladonna at the deceased’s lodging are also the three who have alleged that you found his body in the street. Now we must consider the possibility that, having discovered what appeared to be proof that this new member of your company murdered an old and valued friend, you took it upon yourselves to avenge that death by killing the deceased.’
He sat back, amidst a gasp from most of those in the court. I felt paralysed by shock. I had feared we would face trouble for sear
ching Stoker’s room, but I had never suspected that it might be twisted in this way. I looked wildly round at Simon and Will, who seemed stunned.
‘Your honour.’ Master Burbage sprang to his feet. ‘You must consider the order of events. The three witnesses came to me shortly after discovering the body. It was after that, several hours after the man was dead and carried to the church by the parish constables, that they visited his lodgings. They had some difficulty gaining entrance, as I am sure you will be able to ascertain from the woman of the house. It was only then that they discovered the belladonna, long after Stoker was dead.’
He sat down again and wiped his face with a large handkerchief. I suppose in a moment of panic he saw his play maker, his (temporary) copyist, and one of his promising young players hauled away to the gallows.
Sir Rowland inclined his head in acknowledgement of this nervous speech. I thought I saw a gleam of amusement in his eye. Surely he must be fully aware of the order of events? Perhaps he meant merely to have a little entertainment for himself, frightening us with his suggestion of a revenge killing.
As before, the new panel of jurors was sent away to debate their verdict, having been told that they need not consider the possibility that we had killed Stoker ourselves. It took them less than ten minutes to decide, for this was a simple case, a stabbing in the street, an everyday London occurrence, the killers unknown.
Nevertheless, I was relieved to escape from the court, although this time the proceedings had taken less than half a day. Even if the suggestion that we had been responsible for the killing was meant as no more than a diversion, it had been a shock.
‘So, you have escaped the halter this time, Will!’
We were hailed in the street and I saw that amongst the crowd leaving the inquest was Ned Alleyn.
‘Let me stand the three of you a sup of ale. You all went as white as bleached linen when he started accusing you of murder.’
He began to steer us toward an ale house across the street.
