An Ensuing Evil and Others

METHOUGHT YOU SAW A SERPENT

Master Hardy Drew, the newly appointed deputy to the Constable of the Bankside Watch, gazed from the first floor latticed window onto the street, watching in unconcealed distaste as a group of drunken carousers lurched across the cobbles below. The sounds of their song came plainly to his ears.

Sweet England’s pride is gone!

Welladay! Welladay!

Brave honor graced him still

Gallantly! Gallantly!

The young man turned abruptly from the window back into the room with an expression of annoyance.

On the far side, seated at a table, the elderly Constable of the Bankside Watch, Master Edwin Topcliff, had glanced up from his papers and was regarding the young man with a cynical smile. “You have no liking for the popular sympathy then, Master Drew?” the old man observed dryly.

Hardy Drew flushed and thrust out his chin. “Sir, I am a loyal servant of Her Majesty, may she live a long life.”

“Bravely said,” replied the constable gravely. “But, God’s will be done, it may be that your wish will be a futile one. Tis said that the Queens Majesty is ailing and that she has not stirred from her room since my lord Essex met his nemesis at the executioners hands.”

It had been scarcely two weeks since the flamboyant young Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, had met his fate in the courtyard of the Tower of London, having been charged and found guilty of high treason. Rumor and disturbances still pervaded the capital, and many of the citizens of London persisted in singing ditties in his praise, for Essex had been a hero to most Londoners, and they might even have followed him in overturning the sour, aging Queen, who now sat in solitary paranoia on the throne in Greenwich Palace.

It was rumored that the auspices were evident for Elizabeths overthrow, and even the usually conservative Master William Shakespeare and his theatrical company had been persuaded to stage a play on the deposing and killing of King Richard II but a couple of weeks before Essex’s treason was uncovered. It was claimed that many of Essex’s supporters had, after dining together, crossed the Thames to the Globe to witness this portentous performance.

In the middle of such alarums and excursions, young Master Hardy Drew had arrived to take up his apprenticeship in maintaining the Queen’s Peace with the aging constable. Drew was an ambitious young man who wanted to create a good impression with his superior. The son of a clerk, he had entered the Inns of Court under the patronage of a kindly barrister, but the man had died, and Hardy Drew had been dismissed because of his lowly birth and lack of social and financial support. So it was, he found himself turning from one aspect of law to another.

Old Master Topcliff rubbed his nose speculatively as he examined his new assistant. The young man’s features were flushed with passionate indignation. “I would not take offense at the songs you hear nor the people’s sympathies, young man. Times are in a flux. It is a time of ebb and flow in affairs. I know this from reading the Almanacs. What is regarded as seditious today may not be so tomorrow.”

Master Drew sniffed disparagingly. He was about to make a rejoinder when there came a banging at the door, and before he or Master Topcliff could respond, it burst open and a young man, with flushed features, his chest heaving from the exertion of running, burst into the room.

“How now? What rude disturbance is this?” demanded Master Topcliff, sitting back in his chair and examining the newcomer with annoyance.

The youth was an angular young man of foppish appearance, the clothes bright but without taste. Topcliff had the impression of one of modest origins trying to imitate the dignity of a gentleman without success.

“I am from the Globe Theatre, masters,” gasped the young man, straining to recover his breath. “I am sent to fetch you thither.”

“By whose authority and for what purpose?”

The young man paused a moment or two for further breaths before continuing. He was genuinely agitated. “I am sent by Richard Burbage, the master of our group of players. The count has been found murdered, sirs. Master Burbage implores you, through me, to come thither to the crime.”

Topcliff rose to his feet at once. “A count, you say?”

“The Count of Rousillon, master.”

Topcliff exchanged an anxious glance with his deputy. “A foreign nobleman murdered at a London theater,” he sighed. “This does not augur well in the present travails. There is anxiety enough in this city without involving the enmity of the embassy of France.”

He reached for his hat and cloak and signaled Master Drew to follow, saying to the youth: “Lead on, boy. Show us where this Count of Rousillon’s body lies.”

The Globe Theatre was a half a mile from the rooms of the Constable of the Bankside Watch, and they made the journey in quick time. There were several people in small groups around the door of the theater. People attracted by the news of disaster like flies to a honey pot.

A middle-aged man stood at the door, awaiting them. His face bore a distracted, anxious gaze, and he was wringing his hands in a helpless, almost theatrical gesture. Hardy Drew tried to hide a smile, for the action was so preposterous that the humor caught him. It was as if the man were playing at the expression of agitated despair.

“Give you good day, sir,” Master Topcliff greeted breezily.

“Lackaday, sir,” replied the other. “For I do fear that any good in the day has long vanished. My name is Burbage, and I am the director of this company of players.”

“I hear from your boy that a foreign nobleman lies dead in your theater. This is serious.”

Burbage’s eyes widened in surprise. “A foreign nobleman?” He sounded bewildered.

“Indeed, sir, what name was it? The Count of Rousillon. Have I been informed incorrectly?”

A grimace crossed Master Burbage’s woebegone face. “He was no foreign nobleman, sir.”

“How now?” demanded Master Topcliff in annoyance. “Is the constable to be made the butt of some mischievous prank? Is there no murder then?”

“Oh, yes. Murder, there is, good Constable. But the body is that of our finest player, Bertrando Emillio. He plays the role of the Count of Rousillon in our current production.”

Master Topcliff snorted with indignation.

“An actor?” Master Topcliff made it sound as though it was beneath his dignity to be called out to the murder of an actor. He gave a sniff. “Well, since we are here, let us view the body.”

Burbage led them to the back of the stage, where several people stood or sat in groups quietly talking amongst themselves. One woman was sitting sobbing, comforted by another. Their whispers ceased as they saw the constable and his deputy. From their appearance, so Drew thought, they were all members of the company of actors. He glanced across their expressions, for they ranged from curiosity to distress to bewilderment, while others seemed to have a tinge of anxiety on their faces.

Burbage led them to what was apparently a small dressing room, in a darkened corridor behind the stage, which was full of hanging clothes and baskets and all manner of clutter. On one basket was a pile of neat clothes, well folded, with leather belt and purse on top.

In the middle of this room lay the body of a young man, who in life and been of saturnine appearance. He was stretched on his back, one arm flung out above his head. The eyes were open, and the face was masked in a curious expression as if of surprise. He wore nothing more than a long linen shirt that probably had once been white. Now it was stained crimson with his blood. It needed no physician to tell them that the young man had died from several stab wounds to his chest and stomach. Indeed, by the body, a long bone-handled knife, of the sort used for carving meat, lay discarded and bloody.

Master Topcliff glanced down dispassionately. Death was no stranger to the environs of London, either north or south of the river. In particular, violent death was a constant companion among the lanes and streets around the river.

“His name is Bertrando Emillio, you say? That sounds foreign to me. Was he Italian?”

Master Burbage shook his head. “He was as English as you or I, sir. No, Bertrando Emillio was but the name he used for our company of players.”

Master Topcliffe was clearly irritated. “God’s wounds! I like not confusion. First I am told that he is the Count of Rousillon. Then I am told he is an actor, one Bertrando Emillio. Who now do you claim him to be?”

“Faith, sir, he is Herbert Eldred of Cheapside,” replied Burbage unhappily. “But while he treads the boards, he is known to the public by his stage name-Bertrando Emillio. It is a common practice among us players to assume such names.”

Master Topcliff grunted unappeased by the explanation. “Who found him thus?” he asked curtly.

As he was asking the question, Master Drew had fallen to his knees to inspect the body more closely. There were five stab wounds to the chest and stomach. They had been inflicted as if in a frenzy, for he saw the ripping of the flesh caused by the hurried tearing of the knife, and he realized that any one of the wounds could have been mortal. He was about to rise when he saw some paper protruding under the body. Master Drew rolled the body forward toward its side to extract the papers. In doing so, he noticed that there was a single stab wound in Bertrando’s back, between the shoulder blades. He picked up the papers, let the body roll into its former position on its back, and stood up.

“Who found him thus?” Master Topcliff repeated.

“I did,” confessed Master Burbage. “We were rehearsing for our new play, in which he plays the Count de Rousillon. It was to be our first performance this very Saturday afternoon, and this was to be our last rehearsal in the costumes we shall wear. Truly, the stars were in bad aspect when Master Shakespeare chose this day to put forward his new work.”

“You are presenting a new play by Master Shakespeare?” queried Hardy Drew, speaking for the first time. He had ascertained that the papers under the body were a script of sorts, and presumably the part was meant for Bertrando.

“Indeed, a most joyous comedy called All’s Well That Ends Well,” affirmed Burbage, albeit a mite unhappily.

“Let us hope that it pleases the loyal subjects of the Queen’s Majesty better than your previous production,” muttered Master Drew.

Master Topcliff shot his deputy a glance of annoyance before turning back to Burbage. “This is a comedy that has turned to tragedy for your player, Master Director. All has not ended well here.”

Burbage groaned theatrically. “You do not have to tell me, sir. We must cancel our performance.” His eyes widened suddenly in realization. “Z’life! Master Shakespeare is already on his way from Stratford to attend. How can I tell him the play is canceled?”

“Isn’t it the custom to have an understudy for the part?” asked Hardy Drew.

“Usually,” agreed Burbage, “but in this case, Bertrando was so jealous of his role that he refused to allow his understudy to attend rehearsals for him to perfect the part. Now the understudy has no time to learn his part before our first performance is due.”

“What is known about this killing?” interrupted Master Topcliff, bored with the problems of the play-master.

Burbage frowned. “I do not follow.”

“Is it known who did this deed or who might have done it?”

“Why, no. I came on the body a half an hour since. Most of us were on stage reading our parts. When Bertrando did not come to join us, I came here in search of him and found him as you see.”

“So you suspect no one?”

“No one would wish to harm Bertrando, for he is one of… was one of our most popular players with our audiences.”

Hardy Drew raised an eyebrow. “Surely that would not endear him to his fellow actors? What of this understudy that he has excluded from rehearsals? Where is he?”

Burbage looked shocked. “You suspect one of our players of such a deed?” he asked incredulously.

“Whom should we suspect, then?” demanded Master Topcliff.

“Why, some cutthroat from the street who must have entered the playhouse in pursuit of a theft. Bertrando surprised the man and was stabbed for his pains. It seems very clear to me, sir.”

Hardy Drew smiled thinly. “But not to Master Topcliff nor myself,” he replied quietly.

Master Topcliff looked at his young deputy in surprise and then swiftly gathered his wits. “My deputy is correct,” he added, addressing Burbage.

“Why so, sir?”

Master Topcliff gave a shrug. “You tell him, Master Drew.”

“Easy enough. Your Bertrando, master-player, did not enter this room to surprise a thief. Bertrando was already in this room.Someone then entered while he was presumably dressing to join you on stage. The purpose of that person was to kill him.”

Burbage looked at him incredulously. “Do you have the second sight? By what sorcery would you know this?”

“No sorcery at all, sir, but by using my common sense and the evidence of my eyes.”

Master Topcliff was regarding his deputy anxiously. He did not like the word sorcery being leveled at his office. Such a charge could lead to unpleasant consequences. “Explain yourself further to the good Master Burbage,” he suggested uneasily.

“I will and gladly. There was a single stab mark in Bertrando’s back. I would say that the culprit entered the dressing room while Bertrando was donning his clothes with his back to the door. He had only his shirt on. The murderer raised the knife and stabbed Bertrando between the shoulder blades. It was a serious wound, but Bertrando was able to turn-with shock and surprise he recognized his assailant. The assailant in a surge of emotion, raised the knife and struck not once, not twice, but in a frenzy of blows, born out of that emotion, delivering five more stabs to Bertrando’s chest, each a mortal wound. That is an indication of the rage that the murderer felt towards him. Bertrando sank to the floor. Either he was already dead or dying within seconds.”

Master Topcliff looked on approvingly. “So you think this was done by someone who knew Bertrando or whatever his name is?”

“Sir, I am sure of it. No cutthroat would commit a murder in such a fashion. Nor is there sign of any theft.”

“How can you be so sure?” demanded Burbage.

Master Drew turned to the neat pile of clothes on top of the basket. “I presume that these are Bertrando’s clothes of which he divested himself, stacking them neatly there as he changed for the stage?”

Burbage glanced at the pile as if seeing the clothes for the first time. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I recognize his jacket. He was a vain man and given to gaudy colors in jacket and hose.”

Master Drew pointed. “Then I suppose that the leather belt and purse is Bertrando’s also?”

Burbages eyes widened. “That they are,” he agreed, seeing where the logic was leading.

Master Drew leaned forward, picked up the purse, and emptied the contents into his hand. There fell into his palm a collection of coins. “Would a thief, one who had been prepared to murder so violently to secure his theft, retreat leaving this rich prize behind? No, sir, I think we must seek other reasons as to this slaughter.”

Burbage bowed his head. His nose wrinkled at the smell of blood, and he sought permission to cover the body with a sheet.

“Now,” Drew said, turning to Burbage, “you say that most of you were on stage when you noticed that Bertrando was missing from your company?”

“That is so.”

“Can you recall anyone who was not on stage?”

Burbage thought carefully. “There were only a few that were latecomers, for I needed everyone on stage to rehearse the final scene; that is the scene set in the Count of Rousillon’s palace, where the King and all the lords, attendants, and main characters gather.”

Master Hardy Drew hid his impatience. “Who was not with you then?”

“Why, Parolles, Helena, Violenta… oh and young Will Painter.”

“You will explain who these people are.”

“Well, they are all characters in our play. Well, all except Will Painter. He was the understudy for Bertrando, who was excluded from the task. The only thing I could give him to do was to be a voiceless attendant upon our King.”

Master Drew scratched his chin. “And he was one with a motive, for, with Bertrando dead, he could step into this main role and win his reputation among the luminaries of your theater. Fetch this Will Painter to us.”

Will Painter was scarcely as old as Hardy Drew. A fresh-faced youth, well dressed and with manners and mode of speech that displayed an education that many theatrical players did not possess.

“Will Painter? That is a familiar name to me.” Master Drew greeted, having once more sought the permission of his superior to conduct the inquiry.

“It is my father’s name also, and he was admired as a writer of plays,” replied the youth, nonchalant in manner.

“Ah, indeed. And one who provided well for his family. It is strange that his son would seek such lowly footings in the theater.”

“Not so.” The youth flushed. “To rise to be a master-player, one must know and experience all manner of theatrical work.”

“Yet, methinks that you would have preferred to play the role of the Count de Rousillon in this new comedy?”

“Who would not cast an envious eye at the leading role?”

“Just so. Did you cast such an envious gaze in Bertrando’s direction?”

The youth flushed in annoyance. “I do not deny it.”

“And were you irritated beyond endurance by the fact that Bertrando was so jealous of his part that he refused that you understudy him in rehearsal?”

“Irritated by his popinjay manners, yes. Irritated, yes, but not beyond endurance. One must bear the ills with the joys of our profession. I admit that I liked him not. But dislike was not enough to slit his throat.”

“Slit his throat? Why do you use that expression?”

Will Painter frowned. “I do not understand.”

“What makes you think that his throat was slit?”

“Why, Master Burbage waxing lyrical about a cutthroat having entered the theater in search of plunder and killing Bertrando. What other method would such an assassin use?”

Master Drew uncovered Bertrando’s body.

Will Painter saw the stab wounds and turned his face away in disgust. “I liked him not, but ‘tis oppressive to see a man so reduced as this.”

“And you cannot hazard a guess to the identity of anyone who would wish him so reduced?”

The young actor shrugged. “In truth, if I were to name one, I would name many.”

“How so? Master Burbage says he was well disposed to the entire company?”

The youth was cynical. “Well disposed, but more to the feminine gender of our company than aught else.”

“Women?” asked Master Topcliff, aghast. “Do you mean that you have women as players?”

“Aye. Master Burbage experiments in using women to play the female roles, as is common in Europe. Bertrando cast his net like a fisherman and trawled in as he could. However, he lives… lived with Hester at the Mermaid Tavern in Mermaid Court.”

“Hester? And who is she?”

“The maid that plays Helena in our comedy. I saw Bertrando and Hester arrive at the theater together. She was already dressed for her part, and so Bertrando went towards the dressing room, presumably to change. I saw Bertrando no more.”

“Did you go near the dressing room?”

“Not 1.1 went off to seek a flagon of ale in the Globe Tavern opposite, and there I remained until I heard the sound of disturbance. Master Fulke will tell you that I departed as he arrived, for he brushed past me as I quit the theater, although he didn’t greet me.”

“Master Fulke? And who is Master Fulke?”

“You have not heard of Raif Fulke, who plays the part of Parolles in our play?”

“Parolles?” mused Master Drew. “Let me stick with Master Fulke and not be confused by such a choice of names. You say that Master Fulke brushed past you?”

“I did.”

“Did he go to speak with Bertrando or Hester?”

“I did not stay to see, but I think not. He is at enmity with them, for Hester once lived with Master Fulke and he bears no fondness for Bertrando. It is well known that Fulke is jealous of Bertrando and his success both on stage and with women.”

“Well, Master Painter, do you go to call this Hester here, but do not go beyond the confines of the theater until we tell you.”

The girl Hester came almost immediately.

Old Master Topcliff and his assistant, aware of the niceties and refinements, had stopped her from entering the dressing room with the dead body and proceeded to question her outside. She was an attractive woman whose silk gown may have seen better days but which still enhanced the contours of her figure, leaving little to the imagination. That she had taken the news of the death of her lover badly was written on her tearstained features. Her skin was pale and her eyes red with sobbing.

“I hear you were Bertrandos lover?” began Master Drew without preamble.

The girl sobbed and raised a square of muslin to the corner of her eye and dabbed it. “Lover? I am Mistress Herbert Eldred,” she announced, raising her chin slightly. “So have I been these past two years. I have a paper to prove it.”

Master Drew blinked, but it was the only expression that he gave of surprise.

Master Topcliff sighed as if totally puzzled. “Faith! Who is Herbert Eldred?” he demanded in bewilderment.

Master Drew glanced swiftly at him. “The actor, sir, Bertrando Emillio. Herbert Eldred is his real name.”

“Ah, I had forgotten. Why these people cannot stick to one name, I have no understanding.” He looked hard at the girl. “I am of the impression that no one in this company of players knows that you were married?”

“Herbert-Bertrando as was-felt it better that we keep our marriage a secret lest it impede his career. If you want proof of our marriage, then I have-”

Master Topcliff made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “No need for proof at this stage. So, if you are the dead man’s wife, you, therefore, had no cause to kill him?”

The girl stared at him in indignation. “Of course I had no cause to kill him! But there be others….” She hesitated as if regretting what she had said.

Hardy Drew was swift to follow her words. “Others?”

Her eyes were now narrowed in suspicion. “But why speak of that when I understood that a thief had attacked him and killed him?”

“Who told you that?”

“It is common talk among the players.”

“Were you in this part of the theater while the others were gathering on stage for the rehearsal?” pressed Drew without answering her previous question.

“For a moment, no more.”

“When did you last see Bertrando?”

“I came with him from our lodgings to the theater. I left him to change for the rehearsal while I did the same, and then I went to the stage, but Bertrando was not there. When he did not come, Master Burbage went to fetch him.”

“You left him well?”

The girl pursed her lips in a grimace. “Bertrando was always well. I left him entering that room behind you. Is that-?”

Master Drew nodded in answer to the unfinished question. “Please wait for us in the theater and send us who plays the part of Violenta.”

A tall fair-haired young girl appeared shortly after Hester Eldred had left them. From a distance, she looked the picture of maidenly virtue and innocence. Only when she grew near did Hardy Drew see the hard lines around the mouth, the coldness of the blue eyes, and the smoldering resentment in her features. Her body was too fleshy and would grow to fat in middle age, and the pouting mouth would turn to an ugly form.

“I am Nelly Porter,” she announced, her voice betraying signs of the West Country. “What is your need of me?”

“I understand that you play the part of Violenta in this new drama?”

“A joyous ‘comedy,’” she sneered. “And what of it? I have played many parts in the French theater.”

“How well did you know Bertrando?”

She gave a raucous laugh. “As well as any maid who trod the boards of this theater, aye, and who came within the grasp of the Pig!”

“There is hatred in your voice, mistress,” intervened Master Topcliff mildly.

“Hatred enough,” affirmed the girl, indifferent to his censure.

“Hatred enough to kill him?” demanded Hardy Drew.

“Aye, I’ll not deny it. I could have killed the pig who ravished girls and left them to bear his children and fend for themselves.”

“He did that to you?”

“So he did. Two years ago. But my child died.”

“And did you kill him for vengeance’ sake?”

“No, that’s Gods truth. But I do not grieve nor do I condemn his killer. If that is a crime, I am ready to be punished.”

“You are honest enough with your dislikes. Where were you just before the rehearsal?”

“I was late getting to the theater from my lodgings, that’s all.”

“Did anyone see you arrive at the theater?”

“None that I know of. I went straight to the stage on my arrival, so only the people there saw me.”

“I see. Wait for us now on stage and send us the actor who plays Parolles. I believe his name is Master Fulke.”

She walked away without another word, and they watched her go before exchanging glances.

“She is not exactly grieving over her former lover’s death,” Master Topcliff observed, stating the obvious.

Master Fulke was poised, could pass as a gentleman, but was not exactly handsome. He was too round of the face, and too smooth of skin and too ready with an ingratiating smile.

“Well, Master Fulke…”

“You want to know where I was before I joined the gathering on the stage?” Fulke greeted a little breathlessly.

“You seem to know my mind,” replied Drew gravely.

The genial actor shrugged. “It is hard to keep a secret among so small a company. I was delayed, if you wish to know. I arrived late at the theater-”

“Late from where?”

“From my lodgings in Potters Fields. I have a room in the Bell Tavern overlooking the river.”

“That is but ten minutes’ walk from here.”

“Indeed so.”

“Why were you delayed?”

The man rolled his eyes expressively. “A rendezvous.” He smiled complacently.

“And this, this rendezvous, it made you late arriving? Did anyone see you arrive?”

“I brushed by that young upstart, Will Painter.”

“But you did not see Bertrando?”

Master Fulke sneered. “Bertrando! Yes, I saw Master Herbert Eldred. He, too, had a rendezvous…. I saw him go to his dressing room. Then I saw someone enter after him. It was not my concern. So I went on my way to join those on stage for the rehearsal.” He sniffed. “We were fifteen minutes into the rehearsal when Master Burbage began to worry that Eldred had not appeared. I told Burbage where he might be found.”

Master Topcliff tried to suppress his excitement. “God’s wounds, man! Do you tell me that you actually saw his murderer?”

“No, I do not, sir. I said I saw someone enter his dressing room after Eldred had gone in. I have no way of saying this was the murderer. I did not stay longer, as I said, but passed on to the rehearsal.”

“Describe the person,” Topcliff ordered sharply. “Who else would it be but the murderer?”

“A man, short of stature, of wiry appearance, I would say. He wore his hair long and dark, underneath a feathered hat. There was a short cloak. He wore boots. The colors were dark and tailored in the latest fashion. I could see no more in the gloom of the passage. In truth, though, there was something familiar about him, though I cannot quite place it. It may come to me later.”

Master Topcliff was pleased. He dismissed Master Fulke and turned to Hardy Drew with grim satisfaction on his face. “Well, at least we know our killer was a man, and that he was no common cutthroat but someone who could afford to dress well.”

Drew looked at his mentor blankly. “Yet this does not lead us any closer to apprehending the man.”

“There are too many of this description on the streets of this city for us to single one out and charge him,” agreed the old constable.

“Do you plan to leave it so?”

“For the time being. Come, Master Drew. I will have a word with this Burbage and his players before they are dismissed.”

The company was standing or sitting on stage in gloomy groups. A tall balding man, well dressed, was engaged in earnest conversation with Burbage.

“Ah.” Burbage turned. “This is the constable, Will. Master Topcliff, this is Master Shakespeare.”

The balding man inclined his head to the constable. “What news? Can you say who engineered the death of our player, sir?”

“Master Fulke saw the murderer enter your actors dressing room and has given a full description-”

There was a gasp from several members of the group, and all eyes turned to Master Fulke, who momentarily stood with flushed surprise. He had not expected the constable to reveal his attestation.

“So you mean to arrest the culprit?” queried the playwright.

“Not immediately, Master Shakespeare. We will consider our move for a while. Master Fulke here has given a good description, but he has not, so far, recalled where he has seen the person before, though he is sure he recognized him. We will wait to see if his memory improves.”

Fulke made a move forward as if to deny the constable’s interpretation, but Master Topcliff turned and glared at the man, so that Fulke lowered his head and hurried off.

The old constable turned to the assembly and bowed low, flourishing his hat.

As he left the theater, Master Drew came trotting in his wake. “I do not understand,” he ventured as he hurried to keep up with the long strides of the constable.

Master Topcliff paused in the street and turned to him. “Are you city bred or country bred, young man?”

“City bred, Master Constable.”

“I thought so. I am country bred and raised in the fields of Kent. When the quarry goes to ground, what does the huntsman do? You know not? Of course, you know not. What is done is that you prepare a lure.”

Hardy Drew frowned. “Then you have prepared Fulke as a bait in a trap?”

“If our murderer is one of the gentlemen of Master Burbage’s company, he will come this night to make sure that Master Fulke’s memory does not return.”

“A harsh judgment on Fulke if we are not there when the murderer visits him.”

“Indeed, but be there we will. We will go to the lodgings of Master Fulke and prepare our snare with Fulke as the unknowing decoy.”

Master Drew looked at the old constable with a new respect. “And I thought…”

Master Topcliff smiled. “You must learn the ways of the gamekeeper, young man, and learn that it is always best to tell the poacher where you have set your traps for him.”

They took themselves to the Bell Tavern in Potters Field. A few coins pressed in willing hands were able to secure a booth with curtains from which they could view the front entrance of the tavern. This station fell to Master Topcliff, while Hardy Drew, being the younger and hardier, took up his position at the rear entrance of the tavern, so that either entrance to Fulke’s rooms might be observed.

A little the worse for drink, Raif Fulke entered the tavern toward ten o’clock and made his way immediately up to his room.

It was well after midnight that there was a scream, and the innkeeper’s wife came running to Master Topcliff, her eyes wide and frightened. “ ‘E’s dead. Master Fulke is killed!”

Master Topcliff called to a young man hefting barrels to run around the back of the inn and inform Master Drew. Master Topcliff tried to make for the stairs but found the innkeeper’s wife clinging to his sleeve and expanding in detail on her fright.

No one had entered from the back door; of that Hardy Drew was certain. He hurried into the inn and up the back stairs to the bedchambers. He saw one of the doors open at the end of a corridor and ran in.

Master Raif Fulke lay on the floor. A candle burned nearby, but it scarcely needed the light to see that there was dark blood oozing from several wounds on the man’s chest. Miraculously, Fulke’s chest still rose and fell. He was not yet dead.

Drew knelt by him and raised his head. “Who did it, Fulke, who did it?”

The actor opened his eyes. Even in his condition, he smiled, though grimly. “I would not have known him…,” he wheezed painfully. “Like Rousillon, I knew him not…. Why? Why, young sir? Jealousy is a fierce foe. That was the reason.”

He coughed suddenly, and blood spurted from his mouth.

“Take it easy, Fulke. Name the man.”

“Name? Ah… for, indeed, he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what….”

He coughed again and then smiled, as if apologetically.

“The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud if our faults whispered this not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.”

“The name, man, quick, give me the name.”

Fulke’s breathing was hard and fast. “I am a’feared the life of Helena… was foully snatched…”

“Helena?” demanded Drew. “Do you say that Helena, Hester Eldred, that is, is now in danger from this man?”

Fulke forced a smile.

“Helena? Methought you saw a serpent…” he began.

Drew compressed his lips in irritation.

“Concentrate, Fulke, name your assailant.”

Fulke coughed again. He was growing weaker and had not long.

“The play… the play’s the thing…”

Then his eyes dilated and for the first time he realized that he was going to die. The moment of truth came for Master Fulke in one horrible mute second before he fell back and was dead. Master Topcliff hurried in, having shaken off the terrified innkeepers wife.

“Did he say aught?” he asked breathlessly.

Drew shook his head.

“He was rambling. His last words were something about the play being the thing… what thing?”

Master Topcliff smiled grimly.

“I fear it was only a line from Master Shakespeare’s tragedy of the Prince of Denmark. I recognize it well, for it is a play of murder and intrigue that held much meaning for me. ‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll capture the conscience of the king.’ No use to us. This is my fault. I was too confident. I let this murderer out of my grasp.”

“How did he get in? I can swear that he did not pass me at the back door.”

“Nor from the front,” vowed Master Topcliff.

He peered round. The window was still open, the curtain flapping. There was a small balcony outside, built out above the waters of the Thames. The river, smelly and dirty, was lapping just below. The window and balcony were on the side of the building, for it was built sideways onto the river, and was blind to the scrutiny of anyone watching the front and back.

They stared out onto the darkened waters. The assailant must have come by rowing boat and pulled up against the wall of the inn, under the balcony. It was high water, and easy to pull oneself up toward this balcony and then climb through Fulke’s window.

“Our man will be long gone by now. Now, truly, all we can do is return to our lodgings and secure a good nights repose. Tomorrow morning, I think we will have another word with Master Will Painter. Logic shows him as our likely suspect.”

Hardy Drew sighed with exasperation as he stared down at the actors body. “Faith, he rambled on so much. Had he known he was dying, I doubt whether he would have quoted so much from his part in this play.”

He suddenly spied a sheaf of papers on the bed. Bending, he picked them up and perused them.

“All’s Well That End’s Well,” he quoted the title. “A bad ending for some.”

He was about to replace it on the bed when he spotted a line on the pages to which the play script had fallen open. “Methought you saw a serpent,” he whispered. He turned to the old constable. “Are you sure those words ‘the plays the thing’ comes from this other tragedy you mentioned? Are they not used in this new play?”

“I have seen the tragedy of the Prince of Denmark, but I have not seen this new comedy, nor has anyone else, remember? They were just rehearsing it for its first performance.”

“True enough,” Drew replied thoughtfully. After a moment or so, with a frown gathered on his forehead, he tucked the play script under his arm and followed the old constable down the stairs, where Master Topcliff gave instructions about the body. There was nothing further to do but to return to their lodgings.

It was morning when Master Topcliff, sitting over his breakfast,observed a pale and blearyeyed young Hardy Drew coming into the room.

“You have not slept well,” he observed dryly. “Does death affect you so?”

“Not death. I have been up all night reading Master Shakespeare’s new play.”

Master Topcliff chuckled. “I hope that you have found good education there?”

Drew sat down and reached for a mug of ale, taking a mouthful. He gave an almost urchinlike grin. “That I did. I found the answer to many mysteries there.”

Master Topcliff gave him a hard look. “Indeed?”

“Indeed. I learnt the identity of our murderer. As poor Raif Fulke was trying to tell me-the play’s the thing, the thing which reveals the secret. He was quoting from the play so that I might find the identity of his assailant there. But you are right-that line does not occur in this play, but the other lines he quoted do.”

An hour later they stood on the stage of the Globe with the players gathered in somber attitude about them. Burbage had recovered his shock of the previous day and was now more annoyed at the loss of revenue to his theater by the delays. “How now, Master Constable, what now? Two of our good actors are done to death and you have named no culprit.”

Master Topcliff smiled and gestured to his deputy. “My deputy will name the assailant.”

Drew stepped forward. “Your comedy says it all,” Drew began with a smile, holding up the play script. “Herein, the Count of Rousillon rejects a woman. She is passionate to have him. She pursues him, first disguised as a man.”

There was a muttering.

“The story of the play is no secret,” pointed out Burbage.

“None at all. However, we have Bertrando, who actually plays Rousillon, in the same situation. He is a man of several affairs, our Bertrando. Worse, he has rejected a most passionate woman, like Helena in the story. Bertrando is married and likes to keep his marriage a secret, is that not so, Mistress Eldred?”

Hester Eldred conceded it among the expressions of surprise from the company.

“So one of his lovers,” continued Hardy Drew, “that passionate woman, likes him not for his philandering life. Having been rejected, like Helena in the play, she pursues him. However, unlike the play, she does not seek merely to win him back, but her intention is to punish him. She stabs him and ends his life.”

“Are you telling us that a woman killed Bertrando?” gasped Burbage. “But Fulke saw a man enter the dressing room.”

“Fulke described a man of short stature. He was positive it was a man. Unfortunately, we”-he glanced at his superior-”decided to allow Fulke to act as bait by pretending he knew more than he did. Thus lured out, the assailant murdered Fulke before we had time to protect him. Luckily Fulke was not dead. He survived long enough to identify his assailant….”

He turned to Hester Eldred. She read her fate in his eyes, leaped up with a curse, and ran from the stage.

Master Topcliff raised a hand in signal, and a burly member of the guard appeared at the door and seized her.

A babble broke out from the company.

Burbage raised his voice, crying for quiet.

Nelly Porter moved forward. “I thought you were going to accuse me. I was Bertrando’s lover, and thanks to him, my child died. I had more reason to hate and kill him than she did.”

Hardy Drew smiled softly. “I did give you a passing thought,” he admitted.

“Then why-?”

“Did I discount you? When we arrived, Hester was on stage in a dress. Now her part, as I read the play, calls for her, as Helena, to appear in men’s clothes. Yet she clearly told us that she had arrived at the theater with her lover, left him to change while she went to change herself. Presumably from her own clothes she would change into that of her part as a man. But Will Painter said that he saw her arrive with Bertrand, in men’s clothes ready for her scene. She told me that she had left Bertrando and went to change into the clothes for her scene. When we came to the theater, she was in a dress and had been so from the time of the rehearsal. She had, therefore, killed her husband while in the male clothing, changed into a dress, and joined you all on stage.”

“But her motive? If she was passionately in love with Bertrando, why would she kill him?”

“The motive is as old as the Earth. Love to hatred turned. For Bertrando was just as much a ladies’ man during his marriage as ever he had been. Hester as his wife could not abide his philandering. Few women could. She did not want to share him with others. I could feel sympathy for her had she killed in hot blood. But she planned the scene and brought her victim to the theater to stage it. She also killed Fulke when she thought that he had recognized her-”

“Who knows,” intervened Master Topcliff, “maybe he had recognized her. Didn’t Will Painter say they had lived together before she took up with Bertrando? Painter implied that Fulke still loved her. Even when dying, perhaps for love, he could not name her outright but, for conscience’ sake, gave you the coded clue instead?”

“One thing this deed has also killed,” interrupted Master Burbage. “We shall no more experiment with women as players. They bring too many dangers with them.”

Master Hardy Drew turned and smiled wanly at Master Topcliff. “By your leave, good Master, I’ll get me to my bed. It has been a tiring exercise in drama.” He paused, smiled, and added with mocking tone. “The king’s a beggar now, the play is done.”