An Ensuing Evil and Others

AN ENSUING EVIL

“It’s a body, Master Constable.”

Master Hardy Drew, Constable of the Bankside Watch, stared in distaste at the wherryman. “I have eyes to see with,” he replied sourly. “Just tell me how you came by it.”

The stocky boatman put a hand to the back of his head and scratched as if this action were necessary to the process of summoning up his memories. “It were just as we turned midriver to the quay here,” the wherryman began. “We’d brought coal up from Greenwich. I was guiding the barge in when we spotted the body in the river, and so we fished it out.”

Master Drew glanced down to the body sprawled in a sodden mess on the dirty deck of the coal barge.

The finding of bodies floating in the Thames was not an unusual occurrence. London was a cesspool of suffering humanity, especially along these banks between London Bridge and Bankside. Master Drew had not been Constable of the Watch for three years without becoming accustomed to bodies being trawled out of this stretch of water whose southern bank came under his policing jurisdiction. Cutthroats, footpads, and all manner of the criminal scum of the city found the river a convenient place to rid themselves of their victims. And it was not just those who had died violent deaths who were disposed of in the river, but also corpses of the poor, sick and diseased, whose relatives couldn’t afford a church burial. The pollution of the water had become so bad that this very year a water reservoir, claimed to be the first of its kind in all Europe, had been opened at Clerkenwell to supply fresh water for the city.

However, what marked this body out for the attention of the constable, among the half-dozen or so that had been fished from the river this particular Saturday morning, was the fact that it was the body of a well-dressed young man. Despite the effects of his immersion, he bore the stamp of a gentleman. In addition, he had not died of drowning, for his throat had been expertly cut-and no more than twelve hours previously, by the condition of the body.

The constable bent down and examined the features dispassionately. In life, the young man had been handsome, was well kempt. He had ginger hair, a splattering of freckles across the nose, and a scar, which might have been the result of a knife or sword, across the forehead over the right eye. His age was no more than twenty-one or twenty-two years. Master Drew considered that he might be the son of a squire or someone in the professions-a parsons son, perhaps. The constable’s expert scrutiny had ruled out his being of higher quality, for the clothes, while fashionable, were only of moderately good tailoring. Therefore, the young man had not been someone of flamboyant wealth.

The wherryman was peering over the constable’s shoulders and sniffed. “Victim of a footpad, most like?”

Master Drew did not answer, but keeping his leather gloves on, he took the hand of the young man and examined a large and ostentatious ring that was on it. “Since when did a footpad leave jewelry on his victim?” he asked. He removed the ring carefully and held it up. “Ah!” he commented.

“What, Master Constable?” demanded the wherryman.

Drew had noticed that the ring, ostentatious though it was, was not really as valuable as first glance might suggest. It boasted no, precious metals or stones, thus fitting the constable’s image of someone who wanted to convey a sense of style without the wealth to back it. He put it into his pocket.

There was a small leather purse on the man’s belt. Its mouth was not well tied. He opened it without expecting to find anything, so was surprised when a few coins and a key fell out. They were as dry as the interior of the purse.

“A sixpenny piece and three strange copper coins,” observed Master Drew. He held up one of the copper coins. “Marry! The new copper farthings. I have not seen any before this day.”

“What’s that?” replied the wherryman.

“These coins have just been issued to replace the silver farthings. Well, whatever the reason for his killing, robbery it was not.”

Master Drew was about to stand up when he noticed a piece of paper tucked into the man’s doublet. He drew it forth and tried to unfold it, sodden as it was.

“A theater bill. For the Blackfriars Theatre. A performance of The Maid’s Tragedy,” he remarked.

He rose and waved to two men of the watch, who were waiting on the quay with a cart. They came down onto the barge and, in answer to Master Drew’s gesture, manhandled the corpse up the stone steps to their cart.

“What now then, Constable?” demanded the old wherryman.

“Back to your work, man,” replied Master Drew. “And I to mine. I have to discover who this young coxcomb is… was, and the reason for his being in the river with his throat slit.”

“Will there be a reward for finding him?” the wherryman asked slyly. “I have lost time in landing my cargo of coal.”

Master Drew regarded the man without humor. “When you examined the purse of the corpse, Master Wherryman, you neglected to retie it properly. If he had gone into the river with the purse open as it was, then the interior would not have been dry, and neither would the coins.”

The wherryman winced at the constable’s cold tone.

“I do not begrudge you a reward, which you have taken already, but out of interest, how much was left in the purse when you found it?”

“By the faith, Master Constable…,” the wherryman protested.

“The truth now!” snapped Master Drew, his gray eyes glinting like wet slate.

“I took only a silver shilling, that is all. On my mothers honor.”

“I will take charge of that money,” replied the constable, holding out his hand. “And I will forget what I have heard, for theft is theft and the reward for a thief is a hemp rope. Remember that, and I’ll leave you to your honest toil.”

One of the watchmen was waiting eagerly for the constable as he climbed up onto the quay. “Master Drew, I do reckon I’ve seen this ‘ere cove somewhere afore,” he said, raising his knuckles to his forehead in salute.

Master Drew regarded the man dourly. “Well, then? Where do you think you have seen him before?”

“I do be trying ‘ard to think on’t.” His companion was staring at the face of the corpse with a frown. “ ‘E be right. I do say ‘e be one o’ them actor fellows. Can’t think where I see’d ‘im.”

Master Drew glanced sharply at him. “An actor?”

He stared down at the theater bill he still held in his gloved hand and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Take him up to the mortuary. I have business at the Blackfriars Theatre.”

The constable turned along the quay and found a solitary boatman soliciting for custom. The man looked awkward as the constable approached.

“I need your services,” Master Drew said shortly, putting the man a little at ease, for it was rare that the appearance of the constable on the waterfront meant anything other than trouble. “Blackfriars Steps.”

“Sculls then, Master Constable?” queried the man.

“Sculls it is,” Master Drew agreed, climbing into the small dinghy. The boatman sat at his oars and sent the dinghy dancing across the river to the north bank, across the choppy waters, which were raised by an easterly wind.

As they crossed, Drew was not interested in the spectacle up to London Bridge, with its narrow arches where the tide ran fast because of the constriction of the crossing. Beyond it, he knew, was the great port, where ships from all parts of the world tied up, unloading cargoes under the shadow of the grim, gray Tower. The north bank, where the city proper was sited, was not Constable Drew’s jurisdiction. He was constable on the south bank of the river but he was not perturbed about crossing out of his territory. He knew the City Watch well enough.

The boat rasped against the bottom of Blackfriars Steps. He flipped the man a halfpenny and walked with a measured tread up the street toward the tower of St. Paul’s rising above the city, which was shrouded with the acrid stench of coal fires rising from a hundred thousand chimneys. It was not far to the Blackfriars Theatre.

He walked in and was at once hailed by a tall man who fluttered his hands nervously. “I say, fellow! Away! Begone! The theater is not open for another three hours yet.”

Master Drew regarded the man humorlessly “I come not to see the play but to seek information.” He reached behind his jerkin and drew forth his seal of office.

“A constable?” The man assumed a comical woebegone expression. “What do you seek here, good Constable? We have our papers in order, the license from the Lord Chamberlain. What is there that is wrong?”

“To whom do I speak?” demanded Master Drew.

“Why, to Master Page Williams, the assistant manager of our company-Children of the Revel.” The man stuck out his chin proudly.

“And are any of your reveling children astray this afternoon?”

“Astray, good master? What do you mean?”

“I speak plainly. Are all your company of players accounted for today?”

“Indeed, they be. We are rehearsing our next performance, which requires all our actors.”

“Is there no one missing?”

“All are present. Why do you ask?”

Master Drew described the body of the young man that had been fished from the river. Master Page Williams looked unhappy.

“It seems that I know the youth. An impetuous youth, he was, who came to this theater last night and claimed to be a playwright whose work had been stolen.”

“Did he have a name?”

“Alas, I have forgotten it, if I were even told it. This youth, if it be one and the same, strutted in before the evening performance of our play and demanded to speak with the manager. I spoke with him.”

“And what did he want?” pressed Master Drew.

“This youth accused our company of pirating a play that he claimed to be author of.”

Constable Drew raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, was there reason behind this encounter?”

“Good Master Constable, we are rehearsing a play whose author is one Bardolph Zenobia. He has written a great tragedy titled The Vow Breaker Delivered. It is a magnificent drama….” He paused at the constable’s frown and then hastened on. “This youth, whom you describe, came to the theater and claimed that this play was stolen from him and that he was the true author. As if a mere youth could have penned such a work. He claimed that he had assistance in the writing of it from the hand of some companion of his-”

“And you set no store by his claim, that this play was stolen from him?”

“None whatsoever. Master Zenobia is a true gentleman of the theater. A serious gentleman. He has the air of quality about him….”

“So you know him well?”

“Not well,” confessed Master Williams. “He has been to the theater on diverse occasions following our acceptance of his work. I believe that he has rooms at the Groaning Cardinal Tavern in Clink Street-”

“Clink Street?”

It was across the river, in his own Bankside jurisdiction.

“What age would you place this Master Zenobia at?”

“Fully forty years, with graying hair about the temples and a serene expression that would grace an archbishop.”

Master Drew sniffed dourly. Theater people were always given to flowery descriptions. “So did the youth depart from the theater?”

“Depart he did, but not until I threatened to call the watch. When I refused to countenance his demands, he shouted and threatened me. He said that if he did not recover the stolen play or get compensation, his life would be in danger.”

“His life?” mused Master Drew. “Marry! But that is an odd thing to say. Are you sure he said it was his life in danger, not the life of Master Zenobia? He did not mean this in the manner of a threat?”

“I have an ear for dialogue, good master,” rebuked the man. “The youth soon betook himself off. It happened that Master Zenobia was on stage, approving the costumes for his drama, and so I warned him to beware of the young man and his outrageous claims.”

“What did he say?”

“He just replied that he would have a care and soon after departed.”

“Is he here today?”

“No. He told me he would be unable to see the first performance of the play this afternoon but would come straightway to the theater after the matinee.”

“A curious attitude for an aspiring playwright,” observed Master Drew. “Most of them would want to be witnesses to the first performance of their work.”

“Indeed, they would. It seems odd that Master Zenobia only calls at our poor theater outside the hours of our performances.”

Constable Drew thanked the man and turned out of the theater to walk back to the river. Instead of spending another halfpenny to cross, he decided to walk the short distance to the spanning wooden piles of London Bridge and walk across the busy thoroughfare with its sprawling lopsided constructions balanced precariously upon it. Master Drew knew the watch on the bridge and spent a pleasant half an hour with the man, for it was midday, and a pint of ale and pork pie at one of the grog shops crowded on the bridge was a needed diversion from the toil of the day. He bade farewell to the watch and came off the bridge at the south bank turning west toward Clink Street.

The Groaning Cardinal Tavern was not an auspicious-looking inn. Its sign depicted a popish cardinal being burnt at the stake. It reminded Constable Drew, with a shudder, that only the previous year some heretics had been burnt at the stake in England. Fears of Catholic plots still abounded. Henry, the late Prince of Wales, had refused to marry a Catholic princess only weeks before his death, and it was rumored abroad by papists that this had been God’s punishment on him. Protestants spoke of witchcraft.

Master Drew entered the tavern.

The innkeeper was a giant of a man-tall, broad shouldered, well muscled, and without a shirt but a short, leather, sleeveless jerkin over his hairy torso. He was sweating, and it became evident that he was stacking ale barrels.

“Bardolph Zenobia, Master Constable?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Someone be telling you lies. Ain’t no Master Zenobia here. He do sound like a foreigner.”

Constable Drew had come to the realization that the name was probably a theatrical one, for he knew that many in the theater adopted such preposterous designations.

He repeated the description that Master Page Williams had given him and saw a glint of anxiety creep into the innkeeper’s eyes.

“What be he done, Master Constable? ‘E ain’t wanted for debt?”

Master Drew shook his head. “The man may yet settle his score with you. But I need information from this man, whoever he is.”

The innkeeper sighed deeply. “First floor, front right.”

“And what name does this thespian reside under?”

“Master Tom Hawkins.”

“That sounds more reasonable than Master Zenobia,” observed the constable.

“Them players are all the same, with high-sounding titles and names,” agreed the innkeeper. “Few of them can match their name to a farthing. But Master Hawkins is different. He has been a steady guest here these last five years.”

“He has his own recognizances?”

The man stared at him bewildered.

“I mean, does he have financial means other than the theater?”

“He do pay his bills, that’s all I do say, master,” the innkeeper replied.

“But he is a player?”

“One of the King’s Men.”

Master Drew was surprised. “At the Globe Theatre?”

“He is one of Master Burbage’s players,” confirmed the innkeeper.

Constable Drew mounted the stairs and knocked at the first floor, front right door. There was no answer. He did not hesitate but entered. The room was deserted. It was also untidy. Clothes and papers were strewn here and there. Master Drew peered through them. There were some play parts and a page or two on which the name Bardolph Zenobia was scrawled.

He took himself downstairs and saw the big innkeeper again.

“Maybe he has gone to the theater?” suggested the man when he told him the room was deserted.

“It is still a while before the time of the matinee performance.”

“They sometimes hold rehearsals before the performance,” the innkeeper pointed out.

Master Drew was about to turn away when he realized it would not come amiss to ask if the innkeeper knew aught of the youth whose body had been discovered. He gave the man a description without informing him of his death. But his inquiry was received with a vehement shake of the head.

“I have not seen such a young man here nor do I know him.”

Constable Drew walked to where the Globe Theatre dominated its surroundings in Bankside. Master Hardy Drew had been a boy when the Burbage brothers, Cuthbert and Richard, had built the theater there fourteen years before. Since then the Globe had become an institution south of the river. It had first become the home of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, who, on the succession of James VI of Scotland to the English throne ten years ago, had been given gracious permission to call themselves the King’s Men. Master Drew knew Cuthbert Burbage slightly, for their paths had crossed several times. Cuthbert Burbage ran the business side of the theater while his brother, Richard Burbage, was the principal actor and director of the plays that were performed there.

Master Drew entered the doors of the Globe Theatre. An elderly doorman came forward, recognized the constable, and halted nervously.

“Give you a good day, Master Jasper,” Master Drew greeted him.

“Is aught amiss, good master?” grumbled the old man.

“Should there be?” The constable smiled thinly.

“That I would not know, for I keep myself to myself and do my job without offending God nor the King nor, I do pray, my fellow man.”

Master Drew looked at him sourly before glancing around. “Are the players gathered?”

“Not yet.”

“Who is abroad in the theater?”

Master Jasper looked suspicious. “Master Richard Burbage is on stage.”

The constable walked through into the circular auditorium, leaving the old man staring anxiously after him, and climbed the wooden steps onto the stage.

A middle-aged man was kneeling on the stage, appearing to be measuring something.

Master Drew coughed to announce his presence.

Richard Burbage was still a handsome man in spite of the obvious ravages of the pox. He glanced up with a frown. “And who might you be, you rogue?” he grunted, still bending to his task.

Drew pursed his lips sourly and then suddenly smiled. “No rogue, that’s for sure. I might be the shade of Constable Dogberry come to demand amends for defamation of his character.”

Burbage paused and turned to examine him closely. “Are you a player, good master?”

“Not I,” replied Drew, “and God be thanked for it.”

“How make you freely with the name of Dogberry, then?”

“I have witnessed your plays, sir. I took offense to the pompous and comical portrayal of the constable in Master Shakespeare’s jotting. Much Ado about Nothing was its title and, indeed, Master Burbage, Much Ado about Nothing was a title never more truly given to such a work. ‘Twas certainly Much Ado about Nothing.”

Richard Burbage stood up and brushed himself down, frowning as he did so. “Are you, then, a critic of the theater, sir?”

“Not I. But I am a critic of the portrayal of a hardworking constable and the watch of this fair town of ours.”

“How so, good master?”

“I judge because I am a constable myself. Constable of Bankside in which this theater is placed.”

“Ar’t come to imprison me for defaming the watch then, sir?” asked Burbage stiffly.

Master Drew chuckled with good humor. “Marry, sir, there be not enough prisons in the entire kingdom wherein to imprison everyone who makes jest of the constable and his watch.”

“Then what-?”

“I am seeking one Tom Hawkins.”

Burbage groaned aloud. “What has he done? He is due on stage in an hour or so, and I fear we have no competent understudy. Do not tell me that you mean to arrest him? On what grounds?”

“I come not to arrest anyone… yet. Where is Master Hawkins?”

“Not here as yet.”

Master Drew looked round. There were a few people in corners of the theater, apparently rehearsing lines. “What play are you rehearsing?” he asked with interest.

“Will Shakespeare’s Famous History of the Life of King Henry VIII.”

“Ah, that is a play that I have not seen.”

“Then you would be most welcome to stay….”

“Does Master Hawkins take part in this play?”

“He does, for he is Cardinal Campeius,” came Burbage’s immediate response. “It is a part of medium tolerance, a few lines here and yonder.”

“The elderly harassed-looking doorman approached Burbage. “I declare, Master Richard, that the fools have not sent us gunpowder. What shall I do?”

Burbage took an oath by God and his angels that all except himself were incompetent fools and idlers. “Go directly to Master Glyn’s gunsmithy across the street and take a bucket. Return it filled with gunpowder, and tell Master Glyn that I will pay him after this evening’s performance.”

The old man went scurrying off.

“Gunpowder?” Master Drew frowned. “What part has gunpowder to do in your play?”

Burbage pointed to the back of the theater. “We have mounted a small cannon in one of the boxes on the second floor. The box will not be hired out during any performance.”

“And what will this cannon do, except blow the players to kingdom come?” demanded the constable wryly.

“Not so, not so. In act two, scene four, we have a grand scene with everyone on stage and the king and his entourage enters, with princes, dukes, and cardinals. It is a grand entrance, and Will Shakespeare calls for a sennet with divers trumpets and cornets. I thought to add to the spectacle by having a royal salute fired from a cannon. It will just be the ignition of the gunpowder, of course, but the combustion shall be explosive and startle our dreaming audience into concentration upon the action!”

Master Drew sniffed. “I doubt it will do more than cause them to have deafness and perhaps start a riot out of panic for fear that the papists have attacked the theater.” He was about to settle down to wait for Tom Hawkins when he had a further thought. “In truth, turning to concentration reminds me that I would have you set your mind upon a youth whose description I shall presently give.” He quickly sketched the description of the youth whose body they had fished out of the river.

Richard Burbages reaction was immediate. “God damn my eyes, Master Constable, I have been searching for that miscreant since this morning. He failed to turn up at the rehearsal, and I have had to give his part to his friend. Where is the execrable young rogue?”

“Dead these past twelve hours, I fear.”

Richard Burbage was shocked. He clapped his hand to his head. But the main reason for his perturbation was soon apparent. “A player short! If ever the gods were frowning on me this day…”

“I would know more about this boy…,” insisted the constable. Richard Burbage had turned to wave to a man who had just entered the theater.

Master Drew recognized Richard Burbage’s brother, Cuthbert, immediately.

“A good day to you, Master Constable. What is your business here this fine Saturday?” Cuthbert Burbage greeted him as he came forward.

His brother raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Fine Saturday, indeed, brother! Tell him, Master Constable, while I am about my business. It lacks only an hour before the play begins.” He turned and scurried away.

Quickly, Master Drew told Cuthbert Burbage of what had passed.

“So, young Oliver is drowned, eh?”

“Oliver?”

“That was the lads name, Oliver Rowe. Did he fall drunk into the river to drown?”

Master Drew shook his head. “I said we hauled him from the river, not that he drowned. Young Oliver Rowe had his throat slit before he went into his watery grave. It was not for robbery either, for he still had money in his purse and”-he pulled out the ring from his pocket-”this ring on his finger.”

Cuthbert let out an angry hiss. “That, sir, is theater property. No more than a simple actor’s paste. A cheap imitation. I had wondered where it had gone. Damn Oliver-”

“He is damned already, Master Cuthbert,” interrupted Master Drew.

Cuthbert hung his head contritely. “Forgive me, I quite forgot. I was thinking of his making off with theater property.”

“Had this Oliver Rowe been long with you?”

“A year, no more.”

“A good actor?”

“Hardly that, sir. He lacked experience and dedication. Though, I grant, he made up for his lack with a rare enthusiasm.”

“Would anyone wish him ill?”

“You seek a reason for his murder?”

“I do.”

“Then I have none to give you. He had no enemies but many friends, particularly of the fairer sex.”

“And male friends?”

“Several within the company.”

“Was Master Hawkins a particular friend of his?”

“Hardly. Tom Hawkins is twice his age and an actor of experience, though with too many airs and graces of late. He is a competent performer, yet now he demands roles which are beyond his measure. We have told him several times to measure his cloth on his own body.”

“Where did this Oliver Rowe reside?”

“But a step or two from here, Master Constable. He had rooms at Mrs. Robat’s house in the Skin Market.”

A youth came hurriedly up, flush-faced, his words tumbling over themselves.

Cuthbert Burbage held up a hand to silence him. “Now, young Toby, tell me slowly what ails you?”

“Master Burbage, I have just discovered that there is no gunpowder for the cannon that I am supposed to fire. What is to be done?”

Master Drew pulled a face. “If I may intervene, Master Burbage? Your brother has sent old Jasper across to the gunsmithy to purchase this same gunpowder.”

The youth gave Drew a suspicious glance and then left with equal hastiness. “I will ascertain if this be so,” he called across his shoulder.

Cuthbert Burbage sighed. “Ah, Master Constable, the play’s the thing! The player is dead-long live the play. Life goes on in the theater. Let us know what the result of your investigation is, good master. We poor players tend to band together in adversity. I know young Rowe was impecunious and a stranger to London, so it will be down to us thespians to ensure him a decent burial.”

“I will remember, Master Cuthbert,” the constable agreed before he exited the theater.

It took hardly any time to get to the Skin Market, with its busy and noisome trade in animal furs and skins. A stall holder pointed to Mrs. Robat’s house in a corner of the market square.

Mrs. Robat was a large, rotund woman with fair skin and dark hair. She opened the door and smiled at him. “Shw mae. Mae hi’n braf, wir!”

Constable Drew glowered at her ingenuous features. “I speak not your Welsh tongue, woman, and you have surely been long enough in London to speak in good, honest English?”

The woman continued to smile blandly at him, not understanding. “Yr wyf yn deal ychydig, ond ni allaf ei siarad.”

A thin-faced man tugged the woman from the door and jerked his head in greeting to the constable. “I am sorry, sir, my wife, Megan, has no English.”

Master Drew showed him his seal of office. “I am the Constable of the Watch. I want to see the room of Master Oliver Rowe.”

Master Robat raised his furtive eyebrows in surprise. “Is anything amiss?”

“He is dead.”

The man spoke rapidly to his wife in Welsh. She turned pale. Then he motioned Master Drew into the house, adding to his wife: “Arhoswch yma!”

The constable followed the man up the stairs for five flights to a small attic room.

“Was there an accident, sir?” prompted the man nervously.

“Master Rowe was murdered.”

“Diw! Diw!”

“I have no understanding of your Welshry,” muttered the constable.

“Ah, the loss is yours, sir. Didn’t Master Shakespeare give these words to Mortimer in his tale of Henry the Fourth?…” The man struck a ridiculous pose. “I will never be a truant, love, till I have learn’d thy language; for thy tongue makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d-”

Master Drew decided to put an end to the man’s theatrical eloquence. “I come not to discuss the merits of a scribbling word-seller nor his thoughts on your skimble-skamble tongue,” snapped the constable, turning to survey the room.

There were three beds in the room. Two of them untidy, and there were many clothes heaped upon the third. There were similarities to the mess he had observed in Hawkins’s room. A similar pile of untidy papers. He picked them up. Play scripts again. He began to go through the cupboards and found another sheaf of papers there. One of them, he observed, was a draft of a play-Falsehood Liberated. The name on the title page was Teazle Rowe.

“What was Master Rowe’s first name?” he asked the Welshman. He had thought the Burbages had called Rowe by the first name of Oliver.

“Why, sir,” confirmed the man, “it was Oliver.”

“Did he have another name?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you read, man?”

The Welshman drew himself up. “I can read in both Welsh and English.”

“Then who is Teazle Rowe?”

“Oh, you mean Master Teazle, sir. He is the other young gentleman who shares this room with Master Rowe.”

Constable Drew groaned inwardly.

He had suddenly remembered what Page Williams, at the Blackfriars Theatre, had said. What was it? Rowe had complained that Bardolph Zenobia had stolen a play written by Rowe with the help of his friend.

“And where is this Master Teazle now?”

“He is out, sir. I don’t suppose he will return until late tonight.”

“You have no idea where I will find him?”

“Why, of course. He is doubtless at the theater, sir.”

“The theater? Which one, in the name of-!”

“The Globe, sir. He is one of Master Burbages company. Both Master Rowe and Master Teazle are King’s Men.”

Master Drew let out an exasperated sigh.

So both Rowe and his friend Teazle were members of the same company as Hawkins, alias Bardolph Zenobia?

Rowe had accused Hawkins of stealing a play that both he and Teazle had written and of selling it to the Blackfriars Theatre. A pattern was finally emerging.

“When did you last see Master Rowe?”

“Last night, sir,” the reply came back without hesitation.

“Last night? At what hour?”

“Indeed, after the bell had sounded the midnight hour. I was forced to come up here and tell the young gentlemen to be quiet, as they were disturbing the rest of our guests.”

“Disturbing them? In what way?”

“They were having a most terrible argument, sir. The young gentlemen were quite savage with each other. Thief and traitor were the more repeatable titles that passed between them.”

“And after you told them to be quiet?”

“They took themselves to quietness and all was well, thanks be to God. Sometimes Master Teazle has a rare temper, and I swear I would not like to go against him.”

“But, after this, you saw Master Rowe no more?”

The man’s eyes went wide. “I did not. And you do tell me that Master Rowe is dead? Are you saying that-?”

“I am saying nothing, Master Robat. But you shall hear from me again.”

The play had already started by the time the constable reached the Globe again.

He marched in past the sullen old doorman and examined the auditorium. The theater was not crowded. It being a bright summer Saturday afternoon, many Londoners were about other tasks than spending time in a playhouse. But there was a fair number of people filling several of the boxes and a small crowd clustering around the area directly in front of the stage. He noticed, in disapproval, the harlots plying their wares from box to box, mixing with fruit-sellers and other traders, from bakers’ boys and those selling all kinds of beverages.

Master Drew saw a worried-looking Cuthbert Burbage coming toward him.

“Where is Master Hawkins?” he demanded.

“Preparing for the second act,” replied the man in apprehension. “Master Constable, swear to me that you will not interrupt the play by arresting him, if he be in trouble?”

“I am no prophet, Master Burbage,” returned the constable, moving toward the area where the actors were preparing themselves to take their part upon the stage. He looked at them. What was the part that Hawkins was said to be playing-a cardinal? He picked out a man dressed in scarlet robes.

“Are you Master Hawkins?”

The actor raised a solemnly face and grimaced with contempt. “I am not, sir. I play Cardinal Wolsey. You will find Cardinal Campeius at the far end.”

This time there was no mistake. “Master Thomas Hawkins?”

The distinguished-looking cleric bowed his head. “I am yours to command, good sir.”

“And are you also Master Bardolph Zenobia?”

The actors face colored slightly. He shifted uneasily. “I admit to being the same man, sir.”

Master Drew introduced himself. “Did you know that Master Oliver Rowe has been discovered murdered?”

There was just a slight flicker in the eyes. “It is already whispered around the theater from your earlier visit, Master Constable.”

“When did you first learn of it?”

“Less than half an hour ago, when I came to the theater.”

“When did you last see Master Rowe?”

“Last evening.”

“Here, at this theater?”

“I was not in last nights performance. I went to stay with… with a lady in Eastcheap. I have only just returned from that assignation.”

“And, of course,” sneered the constable, “you would have no difficulty in supplying me the lady’s name?”

“None, good master. The lady and I mean to be married.”

“And she will be able to tell me that you were with her all night?”

“If that is what you require. But not just the lady but her father and mother, for she lives with them. They own the Boar’s Head in Eastcheap and are well respected.”

Master Drew swallowed hard. The alibi of a lady on her own was one thing, but the alibi of an entire respectable family could hardly be faulted.

“When last did you see Master Rowe?”

“It was after yesterday afternoon’s performance. Rowe asked me to go with him to a waterside tavern after the matinee performance. I had an appointment across the river before I went on to Eastcheap and could not long delay. But Rowe was insistent. We wound up by having an argument, and I left him.”

“What was the argument about?”

Hawkins’s color deepened. “A private matter.”

“A matter concerning Master Bardolph Zenobia’s literary endeavors?”

Hawkins shrugged. “I will tell you the truth. Rowe and a friend of his had written a pretty story. Rowe wanted help in finding a theater to stage it.”

“Why did he not take it to Burbage?”

“Sir, we are the King’s Men here. We have a program of plays of surpassing quality for the next several years from many renowned masters of their art, Master Shakespeare, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, and the like. Master Burbage would not look at anything by a nameless newcomer. Rowe knew I had contacts with other theaters and gave me the script to read. The basic tale was commendable, but so much work needed to be done to revise it into something presentable. I spent much time on it. In the end, the work was mine, not Rowe’s nor that of his friend.”

“I suppose by ‘his friend,’ you mean Teazle?”

“Yes, Teazle.”

“So you felt that the play was your own to do with as you liked?”

“It was mine. I wrote it. I will show you the original and my alterations. At first, I asked only to be made a full partner in the endeavor. When Rowe refused, saying the work was his and his friend’s alone, I put the name of Zenobia on it and took it to Blackfriars. I told Rowe after I had sold it and offered to give him a guinea for the plot. I did not wish to be ungenerous. He refused. Rowe found out which theater I had sold it to and even went to the theater after I had left him last night, claiming that I had stolen the work.

“But from what was said yesterday afternoon, I had the impression that Rowe might have accepted the money if Teazle had not refused his share of the guinea. Rowe told me that Teazle thought him to be in some plot with me to cheat him and share more money after the play was produced. I told Rowe that it was up to him to make his peace with Teazle. I think a guinea was a fair sum to pay for the idea which I had to turn into literature.”

“I doubt whether a magistrate would agree with your liberal interpretation of the law,” Master Drew replied dryly. “Has Master Teazle spoken to you of this business? Where is he now?”

Hawkins gestured disdainfully. “Somewhere about the theater. I avoid him. He has a childish temper and believes himself to be some great artist against whom the whole world is plotting. Anyway, I can prove that I am not concerned in the death of young Rowe. I have robbed no one.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Master Drew left him and went to the side of the stage. The third scene of the second act was closing. The characters of Anne Bullen and an Old Lady were on stage. Anne was saying,

— Would I had no being,

If this salute my blood a jot; it faints me,

to think what follows.

The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful

In our long absence: pray, do not deliver

What here you’ve heard to her.

The old lady replied indignantly: “What do you think me?” And both made their exit.

All was now being prepared for the next scene.

Master Drew glanced around, wondering which of the players was Teazle.

Something drew his eye across the auditorium to the box on the second story in front of the stage. Someone was standing, bending over the small cannon that had been pointed out to the constable earlier. Master Richard Burbage had explained that the cannon would herald the scene with a royal salute, followed by trumpets and cornets, and then the King and his cardinals would lead a procession onto the stage.

The muzzle of the cannon appeared to be pointing rather low.

The constable turned to find Master Cuthbert Burbage at his shoulder.

“That is going to stir things a little.” The business manager of the theater, who had observed Master Drew’s examination, grinned.

“Your brother has already explained it to me,” the constable replied. “The cannon will be fired to herald the entrance of the procession in the next act, but isn’t the muzzle pointing directly at the stage?”

“No harm. It is only a charge of gunpowder which creates the explosion. There is no ball to do damage. Take no alarm; young Toby Teazle has done this oftimes before.”

Master Drew started uneasily. “That is Master Teazle up there with the cannon?”

A cold feeling of apprehension began to grip him as he stared at the muzzle of the cannon. Then he began to move hurriedly toward the stairs on the far side of the auditorium, pushing protesting spectators out of his way in his haste. He was aware of Cuthbert Burbage shouting something to him.

By the time he reached the second floor, he was aware of the actors moving onto the stage in the grand procession. He heard a voice he recognized as the actor playing Wolsey. “Whilst our commission from Rome is read, let silence be commanded.” Then Richard Burbages voice cried: “What’s the need? It hath already publicly been read, and on all sides the authority allow’d; you may then spare that time.” Wolsey replied: “Be’t so. Proceed.”

The cacophony of the trumpet and cornets sounded.

Drew burst into the small box and saw the young man bending with the lighted taper to the touch hole. On stage he was aware that the figures of Burbages King, and the actors playing Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeius, the urbane figure of Hawkins, had come to the front of the stage and were staring up at the cannoneer, waiting. The constable did not pause to think but leapt across the floor, kicking at the muzzle of the small cannon. It jerked upward just as it exploded. The recoil showed that it had been loaded with ball; its muzzle had been pointed directly at the figure of Cardinal Campeius. The hot metal crashed across the interior of the theater and fell into the thatch above the stage area.

There were cries of shocked surprise and some applause, but then the noise of the crackle of flames where the hot metal landed on the dry thatch became apparent. Cries of “Fire!” rose on all sides.

Master Drew swung round only to find the fist of the young man, Toby Teazle, impacting on his nose. He went staggering backward and almost fell over the wooden balustrade into the crowds below as they streamed for the exits of the theater.

By the time the constable had recovered, the young man was away, leaping down the stairs and was soon lost in the scuffling fray.

Master Drew, recovering his poise, hastened down the steps as best he could. The actors, with Cuthbert Burbage, were pushing people to the exits. The dry thatch and tinder of the Globe were like straw before the angry flames. The theater was becoming a blazing inferno.

Master Drew groaned in anguish as he realized that the young man was lost among the crowds now and there was never a hope of catching him.

It was more than nine months later, in the spring of the following year, 1614, that the new Globe Theatre eventually rose from the ashes. This time it was erected as an octagonal building with a tiled roof replacing the thatch. Fortunately no one had been injured in the fire, and all the costumes and properties had been saved thanks to the quick wit of the actors, and all the manuscripts of the plays had been stored elsewhere, so the loss was negligible.

Apart from Master Oliver Rowe, two other players were not present to see the magnificent new Globe Theatre. Master Tom Hawkins was languishing in Newgate Gaol. However, he was not imprisoned for the fraudulent misuse of another playwrights work. In fact, The Vow Breaker Delivered had been taken off on the third night and had made a loss for the Blackfriars Theatre. No, Master Hawkins was imprisoned for breach of promise to the young lady who lived at the Boar’s Head Tavern in Eastcheap. As Constable Hardy Drew remarked, The Vow Breaker Delivered had been an inspired prophetic title, as apt a title as could have been chosen by Master Bardolph Zenobia.

The other missing player was Master Toby Teazle.

It was the very day after the new Globe Theatre had opened that Constable Drew was able to conclude the case of the murder of Master Oliver Rowe, sometime one of the Kings Men. Master Cuthbert Burbage asked Constable Drew to accompany him to the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem.

Drew was mildly surprised at the request. “That is the hospital for the insane,” he pointed out. Most Londoners knew of Bedlam, for as such the name had been contracted.

“Indeed it is, but I think you will want to see this. I have been asked to identify someone.”

An attendant took them into the gray-walled building, which was more of a prison than a hospital. The stench of human excrement and the noise arising from the afflicted sufferers was unbelievable. The attendant took them to a small cell door and opened it.

A young man crouched inside in the darkness was bent industriously over a rough wooden table. There was nothing on it, yet he appeared to be in the act of writing in the blackness. His right hand held an invisible pen, moving it across unseen sheets of paper.

The attendant grinned. “There he is, good sirs. He says he’s a famous actor and playwright. Says he is a King’s player from the Globe Theatre. That’s why you were asked here, good Master Burbage, just in case there might be truth in it.”

The young man heard his voice and raised his matted head, the eyes blazing, the mouth grinning vacuously. He paused in his act of writing.

It was Toby Teazle.

“Ah, sirs,” he said quietly, calmly regarding them. “You come not a moment too soon. I have penn’d a wondrous entertainment, a magnificent play. I call it The Friend’s Betrayal. I will allow you to perform it but only if my name should go upon the handbill. My name and no other.” He stared at them, each in turn, and then began to recite.

’Tis ten to one this play can never please

All that are here; some come to take their ease

And sleep an act or two; hut those, we fear,

We have frightened with our cannon; so, ‘tis clear,

They’ll say, ‘tis naught… naught…

He hesitated and frowned. “Is this all it is? Naught?” He stared suddenly at the empty table before him and started to chuckle hysterically.

As Constable Drew and Master Cuthbert Burbage were walking back toward Bankside, Drew asked: “Were those his own lines which he was quoting with such emotion?”

Master Burbage shook his head sadly. “No, that was the epilogue from Henry VIII. At least, most of it was. The poor fellow is but a poor lunatic.”

Master Drew smiled wryly. “Didn’t Will Shakespeare once say that the lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact?”