Twisted: The Collected Short Stories of Jeffery Deaver

All the World's a Stage

The couple were returning from the theater to the Thames ferry, through a deserted, unsavory area of South London, at four hours past candle-lighting.

Charles and Margaret Cooper ought, by rights, to have been home now with their small children and Margarets mother, a plague widow, who lived with them in a small abode in Charing Cross. But they had dallied at the Globe to visit with Will Shakespeare, whom Charles Cooper counted among his friends. Shakespeare's family and Charles's had long ago owned adjoining acreage on the Avon River and their fathers would on occasion hunt together with falcons and enjoy pints at one of the Stratford taverns. The playwright was busy this time of year — unlike many London theaters, which closed when the Court was summering out of the city, the Globe gave performances year round — but he had been able to join the Coopers for a time to sip Jerez sherry and claret and to talk about recent plays.

The husband and wife now made their way quickly through the dark streets — the suburbs south of the river had few dependable candle-lighters — and they concentrated carefully on where they put their feet.

The summer air was cool and Margaret wore a heavy linen gown, loose in the back and with a tight bodice. Being married, she cut her dress high enough to cover her breasts but she eschewed the felt or beaver cap customary among older wives and wore only silk ribbons and a few glass jewels in her hair. Charles wore simple breeches, blouse and leather vest.

" 'Twas a delightful night," Margaret said, holding tighter to his arm as they negotiated a crook in the narrow road. "I thank thee, my husband."

The couple greatly enjoyed attending plays but Charles's wine-importing company had only recently begun to show profit and the Coopers had had little money to spend on their own amusements. Until this year, indeed, they had only been able to afford the penny admission to be understanders — those crowded in the central gallery of the theater. But of late Charles's industry was showing some rewards and tonight he had surprised his wife with threepence seats in the gallery, where they had sat upon cushions and shared nuts and an early-season pear.

A shout from behind startled them and Charles turned to see, perhaps fifteen yards away, a man in a black velvet hat and baggy, tattered doublet, dodging a rider. It seemed that the man had been so intent on crossing the street quickly that he had not noticed the horse. Perhaps it was Charles's imagination, or a trick of the light, but it appeared to him that the pedestrian looked up, noted Charles's gaze and turned with haste into an alleyway.

Not wishing to alarm his wife, though, Charles made no mention of the fellow and continued his conversation. "Perhaps next year we shall attend Black Friars."

Margaret laughed. Even some peers shunned paying the sixpence admission at that theater, though the venue was small and luxurious and boasted actors of the highest skill. "Perhaps," she said dubiously.

Charles glanced behind them once more but saw no sign of the hatted man.

As they turned the corner onto the road that would take them to the ferry, however, the very man appeared from an adjacent alleyway. He had flanked their route at a run, it seemed, and now stepped forward, breathing hard.

"I pray thee, sir, madam, a minute of thy time."

A beggar only, Charles assumed. But they often turned dangerous if you did not come forth with coin. Charles drew a long dagger from his belt and stood between his wife and this man.

"Ah, no need for pig-sticking," the man said, nodding at the dagger. "This pig is not himself armed." He held up empty hands. "Not armed with a bodkin, that is to say. Only with the truth."

He was a strange sack of a creature. Eyes sunken in his skull, jaundiced skin hanging upon his body. It was clear that some years ago a whore or loose woman had bestowed upon him the bone-ache, and the disease was about to work its final misery upon him; the doublet, which Charles had assumed to be stolen from a fatter man, undoubtedly was his own and hung loose because of recent emaciation.

"Who art thou?" Charles demanded.

"I am one of those to whom thou owe this evening's play-going, to whom thou owe thy profession as a bestower of the grape's nectar, to whom thou owe thy life in this fine city." The man inhaled air that was as sulfurous and foul as always in these industrial suburbs, then spat upon the cobblestones.

"Explain thyself and why thou have been dogging me or, faith, sir, I shall levy a hue and cry for the sheriff."

"No need for that, young Cooper."

"Thou know me?"

"Indeed, sir. I know thee too well." The man's yellow eyes grew troubled. "Let me be forthright and speak no more in riddles. My name is Marr. I have lived a life of a rogue and I would have been content to die a rogues death. But a fortnight ago the Lord our God did appear to me in a dream and admonish me to make amends for my sins in life, lest I be denied entrance to the glorious court of Heaven. In truth, sir, I warrant that I should need two lifetimes to make such amends, when I have merely a fraction of one left, so I have but chosen the most worrisome deed I have committed and have sought out he whom I have wronged the worst."

Charles looked over the puny man and put the dagger away. "And how hast thou wronged me?"

"As I said before, it is I — and several of my comrades, now all gone to the plague and infesting hell, I warrant — who be responsible for ending thy idyllic life in the countryside near Stratford and coming to this mischievous city so many years ago."

"Howbeit that this is so?"

"I pray thee, sir, tell me what great tragedy befell thy life?"

Charles did not need a moment to reflect. "My loving father taken from us and our lands forfeited."

Fifteen years ago, it was claimed by the sheriff near Stratford that Richard Cooper was caught poaching deer on the property of Lord Westcott, Baron of Habershire. When the sheriff's bailiffs tried to arrest him he launched an arrow their way. The bailiffs gave chase and, after a struggle, stabbed and killed him. Richard Cooper was a landed gentleman with no need to poach deer and it was widely believed that the incident was a tragic misunderstanding. Still, a local court — sympathetic to the noble class — decreed that the family's land be forfeited to Westcott, who sold it for considerable profit. The rogue would not give so much as a tuppence to Charles's mother, who died soon after from grief. Eighteen-year-old Charles, the only child, had no choice but to walk to London to seek his fortune. He worked labor for some years, then apprenticed to the vintner's trade, became a member of the guild and over the years turned his thoughts away from the tragedy.

Marr wiped his unpleasant mouth, revealing as few teeth as a puking babe, and said, "I knew well that this would be thy answer." He looked about and whispered, "Faith, sir, I have intelligence about what truly happened that sad day."

"Continue," Charles commanded.

"Westcott was as many nobles then and now," Marr said. "His life was lived far beyond his means and he found himself increasingly in debt."

This was well known to anyone who read the Fleet Street pamphlets or listened to gossip in the taverns. Many of the nobles were selling off their goods and portions of their estates to meet the costs of their extravagant lifestyles.

"There came to Westcott an ignoble scoundrel named Robert Murtaugh."

"I know the name," Margaret said. "For reasons I cannot recall, there be an unsavory association accompanying it."

"Faith, good lady, I warrant that is so. Murtaugh is a peer of the realm, but a lowly knight, an office he himself did purchase. He hath made an enterprise of seeking out nobles deep in debt. He then arranges various schemes whereby they come into lands or property through illicit means. He himself takes a generous percentage of their gain."

Charles whispered in horror, "And my father was a victim of such a scheme?"

"Faith, sir, he was. It was I and those other scoundrels I made mention of who waylaid him on his own land and conveyed him, bound, to Lord Westcott's fields. There, by prior arrangement, the sheriffs bailiffs did arrive and kill him. A dead hart and a bow and quiver were set next to his cold body to testify, by appearance, that he had been poaching."

"Thy father, murdered," Margaret whispered.

"O merciful Lord in heaven," Charles said, his eyes burning with hatred. He drew his bodkin once more and pressed the blade against Marr's neck. The rogue moved not an inch.

"No, husband, thou cannot. Please." Margaret took his arm.

The man said, "Verily, sir, I did not know the bailiffs had murder in mind. I thought they be merely intent on extracting a bribe from thy father for his release, as such rustic lawmen are wont to do. No one was more shocked than I by the deadly turn the events that day took. But I am nonetheless as guilty of this heinous crime as they, and I will not beg for mercy. If God moves thy hand to slit my throat in retribution for what I have done, so be it."

The memory of that terrible night flooded through him — the sheriffs ignominiously carting the body to the house, his mother's wailing in grief, then the long days after: his mother's decline, the poverty, the struggle to start a new life in the unforgiving city of London. And yet Charles found his hand unable to harm this pitiful creature. Slowly he lowered the dagger and replaced it in the scabbard on his girdle. He studied Marr closely. He saw such penitence in the man's face that it seemed he had spoken truly. Still, he asked, "If Murtaugh be as thou say, then many would have cause to despise him. How know I that thou art not merely one of those aggrieved by him and have spun this tale to — as thy very name suggests — mar his reputation?"

"By God's body, sir, I speak the truth. Of bitterness against Sir Murtaugh I have none, for it was my choice to corrupt my soul with the foul deed I have revealed to thee. Yet thy jaundiced view of my motives I do comprehend and can offer unto thee a token of proof."

Marr took from his pocket a golden ring and placed it in Charles's hand.

The vintner gasped. "It is my father's signet ring. See, Margaret, see his reversed initials? I remember I would sit with him some evenings and watch him press this ring into hot wax red as a rose to seal his correspondence."

"I took this as part recompense for our efforts; my comrades partook of the coinage in thy fathers purse. I oft thought: Had I taken and spent his money, as did they, thus disposing of the mementos of our deed, perhaps then the guilt would not have burned me like smelters coals all these years, as hath this tiny piece of gold. But now I am glad I kept it, for I can at least return it to its rightful owner, before I cast away my mortal sheath."

"My father, not I, be the rightful owner," Charles muttered darkly. He closed his hand tightly around the ring. He leaned against the stone wall beside him and shook with rage and sorrow. A moment later he felt his wife's hand upon his. The fierce pressure with which he gripped the ring subsided.

Margaret said to him, "We must to the courts. Westcott and Murtaugh will feel the lash of justice upon them."

"Faith, madam, that cannot be. Lord Westcott is dead these five years. And his brigand son after him hath spent every pence of the inheritance. The land is gone to the Crown for taxes."

"What of Murtaugh?" Charles asked. "He lives still?"

"Oh, yes, sir. But though he is well and keeps quarters in London, he is further from the reach of justice than Lord Westcott in heaven. For Sir Murtaugh is much in favor with the duke and others highly placed at Court. Many have availed themselves of the villains services to diminish their debt. The judges at Queen's Bench will not even hear thy claim and, in truth, thou will put thy freedom, indeed thy life, in jeopardy to bring these charges into the open. My desire this night was not to set thy course on a reckless journey of revenge, sir. I intend merely to make amends to one I have wronged."

He gazed at Marr for a moment and then said, "Thou art an evil man and though I am a good Christian, I cannot find it in my heart to forgive thee. Still, I will pray for thy soul. Perhaps God will be more lenient than I. Now, get thee gone. I swear that should ever thou cross my path again, my bodkin hand will not be stayed from its visit to thy throat and thou shall find thyself pleading thy case in the holy court of heaven far sooner than thou didst intend."

"Yes, good sir. So shall it be."

Charles's attention turned momentarily to the ring so that he might place it on his finger. When he looked up once more, the alleyway was empty; the ruffian had vanished silently into the night.

Near candle-lighting the next day Charles Cooper closed his wares house and repaired to the home of his friend, Hal Pepper, a man near to Charles's age but of better means, having inherited several apartments in a pleasant area of the city, which he let out for good profit.

Joining them was a large man of deliberate movement and speech. His true name was lost in the annals of his own history and everyone knew him only as Stout, the words not referring to his girth — significant though that be — but to his affection for black ale. He and Charles had met some years ago because the vintner bought Stout's wares; the man made and sold barrels and he often joked that he was a cooper by trade while Charles was a Cooper by birth.

The three had become close comrades, held together by common interests — cards and taverns and, particularly, the love of theater; they often ferried south of the Thames to see plays at the Swan, the Rose or the Globe. Pepper also had occasional business dealings with James Burbage, who had built many of the theaters in London. For his part, Charles harbored not-so-secret desires to be a player. Stout had no connection with the theater other than a childlike fascination with plays, which he seemed to believe were his portal to the world outside working-class London. As he would plane the staves of his barrels and pound the red-hot hoops with a smithy's hammer he would recite lines from the latest works of Shakespeare or Jonson or from the classics of the late Kyd and Marlowe, much in vogue of late. These words he had memorized from the performance, not the printed page; he was a poor reader.

Charles now told them the story that Marr had related to him. The friends reeled at the news of the death of Richard Cooper. They began to question Charles but he brought all conversing to a halt by saying, "He who committed this terrible deed shall die by my hand, I am determined."

"But," Stout said, "if thou kill Murtaugh, suspicion will doubtless fall immediately upon thee, as one aggrieved by his foul deeds against thy father."

"I think not," Charles replied. "It was Lord Westcott who stole my father's land. Murtaugh was merely a facilitator. No, I warrant that this brigand hath connived so much from so many that surely to examine all those with reason to kill him would keep the constable busy for a year. I believe I can have my revenge and escape with my life."

Hal Pepper, who being of means and thus knowledgeable in the ways of the Court, said, "Thou know not what thou say. Murtaugh hath highly placed friends who will not enjoy his loss. Corruption is a hydra, a many-headed creature. Thou may cut off one head, but another will poison thee before the first grow back — as it surely will."

"I care not."

Stout said, "But doth thy wife care? I warrant thee, friend, she doth very truly. Would thy children care if their father be drawn and quartered?"

Charles nodded at a fencing foil above Hal's fireplace. "I could meet Murtaugh in a duel."

Hal replied, "He is an expert swordsman."

"I may still win. I am younger, perchance stronger."

"Even if thou best him, what then? A hobnob with the jury at the Queen's Bench and, after, a visit to the executioner." Hal waved his arm in disgust. "Pox… at best thou would end up like Jonson."

Ben Jonson, the actor and playwright, had killed a man in a duel several years ago and barely escaped execution. He saved himself only by reciting the neck verse — Psalm 50, verse 1 — and pleading the benefit of clergy. But his punishment was hard: to be branded with a hot iron.

"I will find some way to kill Murtaugh."

Hal persisted in his dissuasion. "But what advantage can his death gain thee?"

"It can gain me justice."

Hal's face curled into an ironic smile. "Justice in London town? That be like the fabled unicorn, of which everyone speaks but no one can find."

Stout took a clay pipe, small in his massive woodworkers hands, and packed it with aromatic weed from the Americas, which was currently very much in style. He touched a burning straw to the bowl and inhaled deeply. Soon smoke wafted to the ceiling. He slowly said to Hal, "Thy mockery is not entirely misplaced, my friend, but my simple mind tells me that justice is not altogether alien to us, even among the denizens of London. What of the plays we see? Ofttimes they abound with justice. The tragedy of Faustus… and that which we saw at the Globe a fortnight ago, inked by our friend Will Shakespeare: the story of Richard the Third. The characters therein are awash with evil — but right prevails, as Henry Tudor doth prove by slaying the 'bloody dog.'"

"Exactly," Charles whispered.

"But they be make-believe, my friends," Hal countered.

"They are of no more substance than the ink with which Kit Marlowe and Will penned those entertainments."

Charles would not, however, be diverted. "What know thou of this Murtaugh? Hath he any interests?"

Hal answered, "Other men's wives and other men's money."

"What else know thou?"

"As I said, he is a swordsman or so fancies himself. And he rides with the hounds whenever he quits London for the country. He is intoxicated with pride. One cannot flatter him too much. He strives constantly to impress members of the Court."

"Where lives he?"

Stout and Hal remained silent, clearly troubled by their friend's deadly intent.

"Where?" Charles persisted.

Hal sighed and waved his hand to usher away a cloud of smoke from Stout's pipe. "That weed is most foul."

"Faith, sir, I find it calming."

Finally Hal turned to Charles. "Murtaugh hath but an apartment fit for a man of no station higher than journeyman and far smaller than he boasts. But it is near the Strand and the locale puts him in the regular company of men more powerful and richer than he. Thou will find it in Whitefriars, near the embankment."

"And where doth he spend his days?"

"I know not for certain but I would speculate that, being a dog beneath the table of Court, he goes daily to the palace at Whitehall to pick through whatever sundry scraps of gossip and schemes he might find and doth so even now, when the queen is in Greenwich."

"And therefore what route would he take on the way from his apartment to the palace?" Charles asked Stout, who through his trade knew most of the labyrinthine streets of London.

"Charles," Stout began. "I like not what thou suggest."

"What route?"

Reluctantly the man answered, "On horse he would follow the embankment west then south, when the river turns, to Whitehall."

"Of the piers along that route, know thou the most deserted?" Charles inquired.

Stout said, "The one in most disuse would be Temple wharf. As the Inns of Court have grown in number and size, the area hath fewer wares houses than once it did." He added pointedly, "It also be near to the place where prisoners are chained at water level and made to endure the tides. Perchance thou ought shackle thyself there following thy felony, Charles, and, in doing, save the Crowns prosecutor a day's work."

"Dear friend," Hal began, "I pray thee, put whatever foul plans are in thy heart aside. Thou cannot —"

But his words were stopped by the staunch gaze of their friend, who looked from one of his comrades to the other and said, "As when fire in one small house doth leap to the thatch of its neighbors and continue its rampaging journey till all the row be destroyed, so it did happen that many lives were burned to ash with the single death of my father." Charles held his hand up, displaying the signet ring that Marr had given him yesterday. The gold caught the light from Hal's lantern and seemed to burn with all the fury in Charles's heart. "I cannot live without avenging the vile alchemy that converted a fine man into nothing more than this paltry piece of still metal."

A look passed between Hal and Stout, and the larger of the two said to Charles, "Thy mind is set, that much is clear. Faith, dear friend, whatever thy decision be, we shall stand by thee."

Hal added, "And for my part I shall look out for Margaret and thy children — if the matter come to that. They shall want for nothing if it be in my means to so provide."

Charles embraced them then said mirthfully, "Now, gentlemen, we have the night ahead of us."

"Wherefore shall we go?" asked Stout uneasily. "Thou art not bent on murder this evening, I warrant?"

"Nay, good friend — it shall be a week or two before I am prepared to meet the villain." Charles fished in his purse and found coins in sufficient number for that evening's plans. He said, "I am in the mood to take in a play and visit our friend Will Shakespeare after."

"I am all for that, Charles," Hal said as they stepped into the street. Then he added in a whisper, "Though if I were as dearly set on saying heigh-ho to God in person as thou seem to be, then I myself would forego amusement and scurry to a church, that I might find a priest's rump to humbly kiss with my exceedingly penitent lips."

The constable, whose post was along the riverbank near the Inns of Court, was much pleased with his life here. Yes, one could find apple-squires offering gaudy women to men upon the street and cutthroats and pick-purses and cheats and ruffians. But unlike bustling Cheapside, with its stores of shoddy merchandise, or the mad suburbs south of the river, his jurisdiction was populated largely with upstanding gentlemen and ladies and he would often go a day or two without hearing an alarum raised.

This morning, at nine of the clock, the squat man was sitting at a table in his office, arguing with his huge bailiff, Red James, regarding the number of heads currently resting on pikes upon London Bridge.

"It be thirty-two if it be one," Red James muttered.

"Then 'tis one, for thou art wrong, you goose. The number be no more than twenty-five."

"I did count them at dawn, I did, and the tally was thirty-two." Red James lit a candle and produced a deck of cards.

"Leave the tallow be," the constable snapped. "It cost money and must needs come out of our allowance. We shall play by the light of day."

"Faith, sir," Red James grumbled, "if I be a goose, as you claim, then I cannot be a cat and hence have not the skill to see in the dark." He lit another wick.

"What good art thou, sir?" The constable bit his thumb at the bailiff and was about to rise and blow the tapers out when a young man dressed in workman's clothing ran to the window.

"Sirs, I seek the constable at once!" he gasped.

"And thou have found him."

"Sir, I am Henry Rawlings and I am come to raise a hue and cry! A most grievous attack is under way."

"What be thy complaint?" The constable looked over the man and found him to be apparently intact. "Thou seem untouched by bodkin or cudgel."

"Nay, it is not I who am hurt but another who is about to be. And most grievously, I fear. I was walking to a warehouse on the embankment not far from here. And —"

"Get on, man, important business awaits."

"— and a gentleman pulled me aside and pointed below to Temple wharf, where we did see two men circling with swords. Then I did hear the younger of the two state his intent to kill the other, who cried out for help. Then the dueling did commence."

"An apple-squire fighting with a customer over the price of a woman," Red James said in a tired voice. "Of no interest to us." He began to shuffle the cards.

"Nay, sir, that is not so. One of them — the older, and the man most disadvantaged — was a peer of the realm. Robert Murtaugh."

"Sir Murtaugh, friend to the lord mayor and in the duke's favor!" Alarmed, the constable rose to his feet.

"The very same, sir," the lackey said breathlessly. "I come to thee in haste to raise hue and cry."

"Bailiffs!" the constable cried and girded himself with his sword and dagger. "Bailiffs, come forth at once!"

Two men stumbled into the room from quarters next to the den, their senses muddled by the difficult marriage of this mornings sleep and last nights wine.

"Violence is afoot upon Temple wharf. We go forthwith."

Red James picked up a long pike, his weapon of choice.

The men hurried out into the cool morning and turned south toward the Thames, over which smoke and mist hung thick as fleece on a lamb. In five minutes they were at the porch overlooking Temple wharf, where, as the lackey had assured, a dreadful contest was under way.

A young man was fighting vigorously with Sir Murtaugh. The peer fought well but he was dressed in the pompous and cumbersome clothing then fashionable at Court — a Turkish theme, replete with gilt robe and feathered turban — and, because of the restrictive garments, was losing ground to the young cutthroat. Just as the ruffian drew back to strike a blow at the knight, the constable shouted, "Cease all combat at once! Put down thy weapons!"

But what might have ended in peace turned to unexpected sorrow as Sir Murtaugh, startled by the constable's shout, lowered his parrying arm and looked up toward the voice.

The attacker continued his lunge and the blade struck the poor knight in the chest. The blow did not pierce his doublet but Sir Murtaugh was knocked back against the rail. The wood gave way and the man fell to the rocks forty feet below. A multitude of swans fled from the disturbance as his body rolled down the embankment and into the water, where it sank beneath the grim surface.

"Arrest him!" cried the constable, and the three bailiffs proceeded to the startled ruffian, whom Red James struck with a cudgel before he could flee. The murderer fell senseless at their feet.

The bailiffs then climbed down a ladder and proceeded to the waters edge. But of Sir Murtaugh, no trace was visible.

"Murder committed this day! And in my jurisdiction," said the constable with a grim face, though in truth he was already reveling in the promise of the reward and celebrity that his expeditious capture of this villain would bring.

The Crowns head prosecutor, Jonathan Bolt, an arthritic, bald man of forty, was given the duty of bringing Charles Cooper to justice for the murder of Robert Murtaugh.

Sitting in his drafty office near Whitehall palace, ten of the clock the day after Murtaugh's body was fished from the Thames, Bolt reflected that the crime of murdering an ass like Murtaugh was hardly worth the trouble to pursue. But the nobility desperately needed villains like Murtaugh to save them from their own foolishness and profligacy, so Bolt had been advised to make an example of the vintner Charles Cooper.

However, the prosecutor had also been warned to make certain that he proceed with the case in such a way that Murtaugh's incriminating business affairs not be aired in public. So it was decided that Cooper be tried not in Sessions Court but in the Star Chamber, the private court of justice dating back to His Highness Henry VIII.

The Star Chamber did not have the authority to sentence a man to die. Still, Bolt reflected, an appropriate punishment would be meted out. Upon rendering a verdict of guilt against the cutthroat, the members of the Star Chamber bench would surely order that Cooper's ears be hacked off, that he be branded with a hot iron and then transported — banished — probably to the Americas, where he would live as a ruined beggar all his life. His family would forfeit whatever estate he had and be turned out into the street.

The unstated lesson would be clear: Do not trouble those who are the de facto protectors of the nobility.

Having interviewed the constable and the witness in the cases — a lackey named Henry Rawlings — Bolt now left his office and proceeded to Westminster, the halls of government.

In an anteroom hidden away in the gizzard of the building, a half dozen lawyers and their clients awaited their turn to go before the bench, but Coopers case had been placed top on the docket and Jonathan Bolt walked past the others and entered the Star Chamber itself.

The dim room, near the Privy Council, was much smaller and less decorous than its notorious reputation imputed. Quite plain, it boasted only candles for light, a likeness of Her Majesty and, upon the ceiling, the painted celestial objects that bestowed upon the room its unjudicial name.

Inside, Bolt observed the prisoner in the dock. Charles Cooper was pale and a bandage covered his temple. Two large sergeants at arms stood behind the prisoner. The public was not allowed into Star Chamber proceedings but the lords, in their leniency, had allowed Margaret Cooper, the prisoner's wife, to be in attendance. A handsome woman otherwise, Bolt observed, her face was as white as her husband's and her eyes red from tears.

At the table for the defense was a man Bolt recognized as a clever lawyer from the Inns of Court and another man in his late thirties, about whom there was something slightly familiar. He was lean, with a balding pate and lengthy brown hair, and dressed in shirt and breeches and short buskin boots. A character witness, perhaps. Bolt knew that, based on the facts of this case, Cooper could not avoid guilt altogether; rather, the defense would concentrate on mitigating the sentence. Bolt's chief challenge would be to make sure such a tactic was not successful.

Bolt took his place beside his own witnesses — the constable and the lackey, who sat nervously, hands clasped before them.

A door opened and five men, robed and wigged, entered, the members of the Star Chamber bench, which consisted of several members of the Queen's Privy Council — today, they numbered three — and two judges from the Queen's Bench, a court of law. The men sat and ordered the papers in front of them.

Bolt was pleased. He knew each of these men and, judging from the look in their eyes, believed that they had in all likelihood already found in the Crown's favor. He wondered how many of them had benefitted from Murtaugh's skills in vanquishing debts. All, perhaps.

The high chancellor, a member of the Privy Council, read from a piece of paper. "This special court of equity, being convened under authority of Her Royal Highness Elizabeth Regina, is now in session. All ye with business before this court come forward and state thy cause. God save the queen." He then fixed his eyes on the prisoner in the dock and continued in a grave voice, "The Crown charges thee, Charles Cooper, with murder in the death of Sir Robert Murtaugh, a knight and peer of the realm, whom thou did without provocation or excuse most grievously assault and cause to die on fifteen June in the forty-second year of the reign of our sovereign, Her Majesty the queen. The Crown's inquisitor will set forth the case to the chancellors of equity and judges of law here assembled."

"May it please this noble assemblage," offered Bolt, "we have here a case of most clear delineation, which shall take but little of thy time. The vintner named Charles Cooper did, before witnesses, assault and murder Sir Robert Murtaugh on Temple wharf for reasons of undiscerned enmity. We have witnesses to this violent and unprovoked event."

"Call them forth."

Bolt nodded to the lackey Henry Rawlings, who rose and, his oath being sworn, gave his deposition, "I, sir, was making my way to the Temple wharf when a man did bid me come running. He said, 'Behold, there is mischief before us, for that is Sir Robert Murtaugh.' Faith, sirs, before our eyes the prisoner there in the dock was challenging Sir Murtaugh with a sword. Then he did leap toward the unfortunate peer and utter words most threatening against him."

"And what, pray, were those words?"

"They were somewhat to this order, sirs: 'Villain, thou diest!' Whereupon the dueling commenced. And Sir Murtaugh cried, 'Help! Help! Murder, murder!'

"I then did run to seek the aid of the constable. We did return, with the advantage of bailiffs, and arrived to see the prisoner strike poor Sir Murtaugh. He fell through the railing to his death. It was a most awful and unpleasant sight."

The court then allowed the defense lawyer to cross-examine the lackey Rawlings but the attorney for Cooper chose not to ask any questions of him.

Bolt then had the constable rise and take the witness's dock and tell much the same story. When he had done, Cooper's lawyer declined to examine this man too.

Bolt said, "I have no more to present by way of the Crown's case, my lords." He sat down.

The lawyer for the defense rose and said, "If it please this noble body, I shall let the prisoner report on the incident, and thy most excellent chancellors and most noble judges will behold, beyond doubt, that this is but a most egregious misunderstanding."

The men on the bench regarded one another with some irony, and the high chancellor administered the oath to Charles Cooper.

One of the judges from the Queen's Bench asked, "What say thou to these charges?"

"That they, my good lord, be erroneous. Sir Murtaugh's death was but a tragic accident."

"Accident?" a privy council member said with a laugh. "How say thou 'accident' when thou attacked a man with thy sword and he fell to his death? Perchance the instrument of his death was the rocks upon the embankment but the instigating force was thy thrust, which sent him headlong to embrace the unyielding stones."

"Aye," offered another, "I warrant to say, had the unfortunate Mr. Murtaugh not fallen, thou would have skewered him like a boar."

"I respectfully submit, lord, that, nay, I would not have harmed him in any way. For we were not fighting; we were practicing."

"Practicing?"

"Yes, my lord. I have aspirations to be a player in the theater. My profession, though, as thou have heard, is that of vintner. I was at Temple wharf to arrange for delivery of some claret from France and, having surplus time, thought I would practice a portion of a theatrical role, which chanced to involve some sword-play. I was so engaged when Sir Murtaugh happened by, on his way to Whitehall palace. He is — sadly, was, I should say — quite an accomplished swordsman and he observed me for a moment then reported to me what, alas, is true — that my talent with a blade be quite lacking. We fell into conversation and I said that if he might deign to show me some authentic thrusts and parries I would inquire about getting him a small part on the stage. This intrigued him greatly and he offered me the benefit of his considerable expertise at dueling." The prisoner cast his eyes toward the constable. "All would have gone well had not that man disturbed us and caused Sir Murtaugh to lose his stride. I merely tapped him on the doublet with my sword, Most High Chancellor, and he stepped back against the rail, which tragically was loose. For my part, I am heartsick at the good man's demise."

There was some logic to this, Prosecutor Bolt thought grimly. He had learned something of Cooper in the hours before the trial and it was true that he frequented the theaters south of the Thames. Nor could he find a true motive for the murder. Cooper was a guildsman, with no need for or inclination toward robbery. Certainly much of London would rejoice at the death of a lout like Murtaugh. But, as the nobles wished the case prosecuted swiftly, Bolt had not had time to make a proper inquiry into any prior relationship between Cooper and Murtaugh.

The knight, for his part, as everyone knew, had been vain as a peacock, and the thought of getting up on a stage and preening before members of the Court would surely have appealed to him.

Yet even if Cooper were telling the truth, the nobles would want Murtaugh's killer punished, whether his death was an accident or not, and indeed the five men on the bench seemed little swayed by the prisoner's words.

Cooper continued. "Those words of anger and threat reported by the lackey there? Sirs, they were not mine."

"And whose be they, then?"

Cooper glanced at his lawyer, who rose and said, "Prithee, sirs, we have a witness whose deposition shall bear on the events. If it please the bench, may we have William Shakespeare step forward."

Ah, yes, Bolt thought, that is who the witness is: the famed playwright and director of the Lord Chamberlain's Men troupe. Bolt himself had seen several of the man's plays at the Rose and the Globe. What was transpiring here? The playwright stepped to the front of the courtroom.

"Master Shakespeare, thou will swear oath to our holy Lord that thy deposition here shall be honest and true?"

"I so confirm, my lord."

"What have thou to say that bears on this case?"

"I pray thee, Lord Chancellor, I am here to add to the deposition thou have previous heard. Some weeks ago, Charles Cooper did come to me and say that he had always been a lover of the player's craft and had hoped to try his hand upon the stage. I bid him attempt some recitation for me and observed that he performed several passages, of my own creation, with exceeding grace.

"I told him I had no place for him just then but I gave him portions of a draft of the play I am presently writing and told him to practice it. When Court returns in the fall, I assured him, I might find a part for him."

"How exactly doth this bear on the case, Master Shakespeare?"

The playwright withdrew from a leather pouch a large sheaf of parchment with writing upon it. He read: "Enter Cassio… RODERIGO: I know his gait, 'tis he. Villain, thou diest!...' Roderigo makes a pass with his blade at Cassio… CASSIO draws his own weapon and wounds Roderigo… RODERIGO: 'O, I am slain!…' Iago from behind wounds Cassio in the leg, and exeunt. CASSIO: 'Iam maim'd for ever. Help, ho! Murder! murder!'"

Shakespeare fell silent and bowed his head. "My lords, so fall my humble words."

"'Villain, thou diest… Help, ho! Murder!' Why those," the high chancellor said, "with some alteration, are the very words that the witness heard the prisoner and Sir Murtaugh exchange. They are from a play of thine?"

"Yes, my lord, they are. It is as yet unperformed and I am presently reworking it." Shakespeare paused for a moment then added, "This shall be the play I did promise Her Highness the queen for her enjoyment when she and the Court return this fall."

A Privy Council member frowned and then asked, "Thou art, if I am not mistaken, much in the queen's favor."

"Humbly, sir, I am but a journeyman playwright. But I can say with little exaggeration that Her Highness hath from time to time offered expressions of pleasure at my work."

Hell's bells, thought the prosecutor. Shakespeare is indeed much in the queen's favor. This fact was well known. It was rumored that Her Highness would name his the sole royal acting company within the next year or two. The course of the case was now clear: To find Cooper guilty would require the judges to disavow Shakespeare's testimony. The queen would hear and there would be consequences. Bolt recalled an expression: "A hundred dukes against a single queen leaves a hundred coffins on the green."

The high chancellor turned to the rest of the Privy Council and they conferred again among themselves. A moment later he pronounced, "In light of the evidence presented, this court of equity rules that the death of Sir Robert Murtaugh was caused by no man's intent and Charles Cooper is herewith free to go forth unfettered, and untainted by any further accusation in this matter." He cast a stern gaze toward the prosecutor. "And, Sir Jonathan, if it be not too taxing in the future, the court would be honored if thou might at least peruse the evidence and consult with the prisoner before thou deign to waste the time of this court."

"I shall do, my noble lord."

One of the judges leaned forward, nodded at the sheaf that the playwright was replacing in his sack and asked, "May I ask, Mr. Shakespeare, what will this play be titled?"

"I know not for certain, my lord, what the final title shall be. I presently call it 'Othello, the Moor of Venice.'"

"And might I be assured from the testimony we have heard today that the audience may look forward to some good sword-play in this work?"

"Oh, yes, my lord."

"Good. I far prefer such plays to thy comedies."

"If I may be so bold, sir, I believe thou will then enjoy this piece," William Shakespeare said and joined Cooper and his wife as they left the dark room.

Near candle-lighting that night, three men sat in the Unicorn and Bear tavern in Charing Cross, tankards of ale before them: Charles Cooper, Stout and William Shakespeare.

A shadow filled the doorway as a man walked into the tavern.

"Behold, 'tis the mysterious gentleman on the wharf," Charles said.

Hal Pepper joined them and was served up an ale of his own.

Charles lifted his tankard. "Thou did well, my friend."

Hal drank long and nodded proudly to acknowledge the compliment. His role in the daring play, as writ by William Shakespeare and Charles Cooper in collaboration, was critical. After Charles had stopped Murtaugh on the wharf and, as he'd told the Court, piqued the knight's interest with the promise of an appearance onstage, it had been Hal's task to snare a passerby at just the right moment so that he witness the exchange of dialogue between Charles and Murtaugh at the start of their mock duel. Hal had then given the lackey Rawlings a half sovereign to raise the hue and cry with the constable, whom Shakespeare, as master plotter, had decided should perforce be a witness to the duel as well.

Shakespeare now examined Charles gravely and said, "Regarding thy performance in Court, friend, thou need some study as a player, yet on the whole" — the man from Stratford could not resist a smile — "I would venture to say that thou acquitted thyself admirably."

Will Shakespeare often deflected the course of the conversation to allow for the inclusion of puns, which he loved. But neither was Charles Cooper a stranger to wordplay. He riposted, "Ah, but 'tis sadly true, friend, that my talent for bearing witness in Court is no match for thy overbearing wittiness in taverns."

"Touche," cried Shakespeare and the men laughed hard.

"And here is to thee too, my friend." Charles tapped his tankard against Stouts.

It had been the big man's task to wield his barrel-maker's tools with sufficient skill to loosen the railing at Temple wharf just the right degree so that it would not give way under casual hands but would fall apart when Murtaugh stumbled against it.

Stout was not as quick as either Shakespeare or Charles and attempted no cleverness in reply. He merely blushed fiercely with pleasure at the recognition.

Charles then embraced Shakespeare. "But thou, Will, were the linchpin."

Shakespeare said, "Thy father was a good man to me and my family. I will always remember him with pleasure. I am glad to have played a small part in the avenging of his death."

"What might I do to repay thee for the risks thou took and thy efforts on my behalf?" Charles asked.

The playwright said, "Indeed thou have already. Thou have bestowed upon me the most useful gift possible for a dabbler in the writer's craft."

"What might that be, Will?"

"Inspiration. Our plot was the midwife for a sonnet which I completed just an hour ago." He drew a piece of paper from his jacket. He looked over the assembled men and said solemnly, "It seemed a pity that Murtaugh knew not the reason for his death. In my plays, you see, the truth must ultimately out — it needs be revealed, at the least to the audience, if not the characters. That Murtaugh died in ignorance of our revenge set my pen in motion."

The playwright then read the sonnet slowly:

"Well done, Will," Hal Pepper called out.

Charles clapped the playwright on the back.

"It be about Charles?" Stout asked, staring down at the paper. His lips moved slowly as he attempted to form the words.

"In spirit, yes," Shakespeare said, turning the poem around so that the big man could examine the lines right-way up. He added quietly, "But not, methinks, enough so that the Court of Sessions might find it evidentiary."

"I do think it best, though, that thou not publish it just yet," Charles said cautiously.

Shakespeare laughed. "Nay, friend, not for a time. This verse would find no market now, in any case. Romance, romance, romance… that be the only form of poesy that doth sell these days. Which, by the by, is most infuriating. No, I shall secrete it safe away and retrieve it years hence when the world hath forgot about Robert Murtaugh. Now, it is near to candle-lighting, is it not?"

"Very close to," Stout replied.

"Faith, then… Now that our real-life tale hath come to its final curtain, let us to a fictional one. My play Hamlet hath a showing tonight and I must needs be in attendance. Collect thy charming wife, Charles, then we shall to the ferry and onward to the Globe. Drink up, gentlemen, and let's away!"