An Ensuing Evil and Others

THE GAME’S AFOOT!

When the shrill voice of a boy, accompanied by an incessant thudding against his door, awoke Master Hardy Drew that morning, the Constable of the Bankside Watch was not in the best of moods.

He had retired to his room, which he rented above the Pilgrim’s Wink Tavern, in Pepper Street, in the early hours that morning. Most of the night he had been engaged in dispersing the rioters outside the Cathedral of Southwark. It had been a well-organized protest at the publication of the Great Bible, which had been authorized by King James. The Great Bible had been the production of fifty scholars from the leading universities, resulting in a work that the King had ordained to be the standard Bible used throughout his realms.

While it had been obvious to Master Drew that the Catholics would seize the opportunity to express their outrage at its publication, he had not expected the riots organized by the Puritan Party.

Not only were there rumors and reports of popish plots and conspiracies this year, but the activities from the extreme Protestant sects were far more violent. King James’s moderate Episcopalian governance angered the Puritans also. Only last month the Scottish Presbyterian reformer, Andrew Melville, had been released from the Tower of London in an attempt to appease the growing anger. The King had admitted that his attempt to break the power of the Presbyterian General Assembly in Scotland had not met with success. Rather than placate the Presbyterians, Melville’s release had increased the riots, and he had fled into exile in France where, rumor had it, he was plotting his revenge. James had fared little better with imposing his will on the English Puritans.

The kingdoms of England and Scotland echoed and reechoed with treasonable conspiracies. Indeed, a few months previously, another attempt to install James’s cousin Arabella Stuart on the throne had resulted in the unfortunate lady being confined to the Tower. Times were dangerous; Master Hardy Drew had been reflecting on this while quelling the outburst of anger of Puritan divines. Even his position of constable was fraught with political danger. There were many who might falsely inform on him for his religious affiliations or, indeed, for his lack of them, in order to secure the position of constable for themselves together with the small patronage that went with it.

The knocking increased in volume, and Master Drew rolled out of his bed with a groan. “Ods bodikms!” he swore. “Must you torture a poor soul so? Enter and have a good reason for this clamor!”

The door opened a fraction, and a dirty young face peered round.

Master Drew glared menacingly at the child. “You had better have a good reason for disturbing my sleep, little britches,” he growled.

“God save you, good master,” cried the young boy, not entering the room. “I’ve been sent to tell you that a gen’lemen be lying near done to death.”

Master Drew blinked and shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. “A gentleman is-? Who sent you, child?” he groaned.

“The master what owns the inn in Clink Street. The Red Boar, Master… Master Pen… Pen… some foreign name. I can’t remember.”

“And precisely what did this Master Pen ask you to tell me?” Master Drew inquired patiently.

“To come quick, as the gen’lemen be stabbed and near death.”

Master Drew sighed and waved the child away. “Tell him that I’ll be there shortly,” he said.

Had the news been other than that of a gentleman stabbed in an inn, he would have immediately returned to his interrupted slumber. London was full of people being stabbed in taverns, alleys, or along its grubby waterfront. They were usually members of the lower orders of society, whom few people of quality would miss, much less shed a tear over. But a gentleman… now that was a matter serious enough to bring a Constable of the Watch from his warm bed.

Master Drew splashed his face with cold water from a china basin and hurriedly drew on his clothes. Below, in the tavern, he spent a half-pence on a pot of beer to cut the slack from his dry throat and, outside, chose an apple from a passing seller to munch for the balance of his breakfast.

Clink Street was not far away, a small road down by the banks of the Thames, along the very Bankside that was Master Drews main area of responsibility. He knew of the Red Boar Inn but had little occasion to frequent it. Perhaps inn was too grand a title, for it was hardly more than a waterfront tavern full of the usual riffraff of the Thames waterfront.

There was a small crowd loitering outside when he reached there. A small boy was holding forth to the group, waving his arms and pointing up to a window. Doubtless, this was the same urchin who had brought the message to him. The boy pointed to the constable as he approached and cried, “This is ‘im naw!” The small crowd moved back respectfully as Master Drew halted before the dark door of the inn and pushed it open.

Although the morning was bright outside, inside candles were alight, but even so, the taproom was still gloomy, filled with a mixture of candle and pipe smoke, mingling with odors of stale alcohol and body sweat.

A thin, middle-aged man came hurrying forward, wiping his hands on a leather apron. He had raven-black hair but his features were pale, which caused his shaven cheeks to have a bluish hue to them.

“We do be closed, good sir,” he began, but Master Drew stopped him with a cutting motion of his hand.

“I am Constable of the Bankside Watch. Are you the host of this tavern?”

The man nodded rapidly. “That I do be, master.”

“And your name?”

“Pentecost Penhallow.”

Master Drew sniffed in disapproval. “A Cornishman by your name and accent?”

“A Cornishman I do be, if please you, good sir.”

Master Drew groaned inwardly. This day was not starting well. He did not like the Cornish. His grandfather had been killed in the last Cornish uprising against England. Not that he was even born then, but there were many Cornish who had come to London during the reign of the Tudors and stayed. He regarded them as a people not to be trusted.

The last uprising had been caused by the introduction of the English language into church services in Cornwall. The Cornish rebels had marched into Devon, even captured the suburbs of Exeter after a siege before defeating the Earl of Bedford’s army at nearby Honiton. That was where Master Drew’s grandfather had been killed. The eventual defeat of the Cornish rebels by Lord Grey, and the systematic suppression of the people by fire and sword, the execution of their leaders, had not brought peace to Cornwall. If anything, the people had become more restless.

Master Drew knew that the English Court feared a Catholic-inspired insurrection in Cornwall, as well as other of the subject nations on the isles. Cornwall was continuing to send her priests to Spain to be trained at St. Alban’s College of Valladolid.

Master Drew took an interest in such things and had read John Norden’s recent work surveying Cornwall, in which it was reported that, in the western part of the country, the Cornish tongue was most in use among its inhabitants. Master Drew felt it best to keep himself informed about potential enemies of the kingdom, for these days they all seemed to congregate in the human cesspool that London had become.

He realized that the innkeeper was waiting impatiently.

“Well, Master Pentecost Penhallow,” he asked gruffly, “why am I summoned hither?”

“If you would be so good as to go above the stair, good master, you may find the cause. One of my guests who do rent the room above do be mortally afflicted.”

Master Drew raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Mortally afflicted? The boy said he was stabbed? What was the cause? A fight?”

“No, no, good Master Constable. He be a gentleman and quite respectable. A temperate, indeed he be. This morning, as is my usual practice, I took him a noggin of mead. He do never be bestirring of a morn without his noggin. That ‘twas when I discovered he be still abed with blood all over the sheets. Stabbed he be.”

“He was still alive?” demanded Master Drew, surprised.

“And still be but barely, sir. Oh, barely!”

“Godamercy!” exclaimed Master Drew in annoyance. “Still alive and yet you sent for me and not a physician?”

Pentecost Penhallow shook his head rapidly. “Oh, sir, sir, a physician was sent for, truly so. He do be above the stair now. It be he who do be sending for thee, Master Constable.”

The constable exhaled angrily. “What name does your gentleman guest go by, and which is his room?”

The innkeeper pointed to the head of the stair. “Master Keeling, do be his name. Master Will Keeling. The second door on the right above the stair.”

Master Drew went hurrying up the stairs. On the landing he almost collided with a young girl carrying a pile of linen. He caught himself, but the collision knocked some sheets from her hand onto the floor. The constable swiftly bent down and retrieved them. The young girl was an exceptionally pretty dark-haired lass of perhaps no more than seventeen years. She bobbed a curtsy.

“Murasta, mester,” she muttered, and then added in a gently accented English, “Thank’ee, master.”

The constable gave a quick nod of acknowledgment and entered the door that the tavern owner had indicated.

A thin-faced man with a shock of white hair, clad in a suit of black broadcloth, making him appear like some Puritan divine, was sitting on the edge of a bed. On it a pale-faced young man lay against the pillows. Blood stained the sheets and pillows. Some bloodstained clothes were pressed against the man’s chest.

The thin-faced man glanced up. “Ah, at last. You have not come a moment too soon to this place, Master Constable. He has barely a moment more of life.”

“God send you a good morrow, Doctor Tate,” replied Constable Drew in black humor. He knew the elderly physician and acknowledged the man before he moved to the bedside.

The young man was, indeed, barely conscious and obviously feverish. There was a bluish pallor that lay over his skin, which showed the swift approach of death.

“Master Keeling,” he said loudly, bending to the dying man’s face. “Who did this thing? Who stabbed you?”

The young man’s eyes were open, but they were wandering about the room. He seemed to be muttering something. The constable leaned closer. He could just hear the words, and their diction indicated a person of some education.

“What’s that you say, good fellow? Speak clearly if you can.”

The lips trembled. “Oh for… for a Muse of fire… that would ascend the… the brightest heaven of invention…”

Master Drew frowned. “Come, good fellow, try to understand me. Answer you my simple question…. What manner of knave has done this to you?”

The young man’s eyes brightened, and Master Drew suddenly found a hand gripping his coat with a power that one would have not thought possible in a dying man. The lips moved; the voice was stronger. “Once more unto… unto…” He began to cough blood. Then suddenly he cried loudly, “Let the game begin!”

The voice choked in the man’s throat. The pale blue eyes wavered, trying to focus on the constable’s face, and then the pupils dilated as, for a split second, the young man realized the horror of the imminent fact of death.

The constable gave a sigh and removed the still-clutching hand from his jacket and laid it by the side of the body. He whispered softly: “Now entertain conjecture of a time, when creeping murmur and the pouring dark fills the wide vessel of the universe….”

“What’s that?” demanded the physician grumpily.

“No matter,” Master Drew replied as he moved aside and gestured to the body. “I think he has run his course.”

It did not need the physician’s quick examination to pronounce that the man was dead.

“What was the cause of death?” asked Master Drew.

“A thin blade knife, Master Constable. You will see it on the table where I placed it. It was left in the wound. One swift incision was made in the chest, which I deduced caused a slow internal bleeding, thus allowing him to linger between life and death for the last several hours.”

“Presumably not self-inflicted?”

“Most certainly not. And you will notice that the window is opened and a nimble soul might encounter little difficulty in climbing up with the intention of larceny.”

“You have an observant eye, Master Physician.” The constable smiled thinly. “Can it be that you are interested in taking on the burdens of constable?”

“Not I!” laughed the physician. “I need the prospect of a good livelihood.”

Master Drew was turning the knife over in his hands. It told him nothing. “Cheap,” he remarked. “The sort that any young coxcomb along the waterfront might carry at his waist. It tells me little.”

Doctor Tate was covering the body with the bloodstained sheet. “Poor fellow. I didn’t understand what he was saying at the end. Ranting in his fever, no doubt?”

“Perhaps,” replied the constable. “But articulate ranting nonetheless.”

Doctor Tate frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps you don’t frequent the Globe?” The constable smiled. “He was reciting some lines out of Master Shakespeare’s play The Life of King Henry the Fifth.”

“I didn’t take you for one who frequents the playhouses.”

“A privilege of my position,” Master Drew affirmed solemnly. “I am allowed free access as constable. I find it a stimulation to the mind.”

“There is too much reality to contend with than living life in make-believe,” dismissed Doctor Tate.

“Tell me, good Doctor, did the young man say aught else before I came?”

“He said nothing but raved about battles and the like. Something about St. Crispin’s Day but that is not until next October, so I do not know what he meant by it.”

The physician had turned from the body and was packing his small black bag.

“I can do no more here. The matter rests with you. But I would extract my fee before I depart.”

“Take your fee and welcome,” sighed the constable, glancing round the room. It was untidy. It appeared as if someone had been searching it, and he asked the physician if the room had been disturbed since he had arrived.

The physician was indignant. “Think you that I would search for a fee first before I treated a gentleman?” he demanded.

“Well, someone has been searching for something.”

“And not carefully. Look! Some jewels have been left on the table there. I’ll take one of those pearls in lieu of a coin of this realm.”

Master Drew pulled a cynical face. “A good profit in that, Doctor Tate. However, I’ll not gainsay your right.”

The physician swooped up the pearl and held it up to the light. The smile on his face suddenly deepened into a frown, and he placed the pearl between his teeth and bit sharply. There was a crack, and the physician let out a howl of rage. “Paste, by my troth!”

Master Drew walked over and examined the other pieces of jewelry scattered nearby. There were some crushed paste jewels on the floor. A small leather purse also lay there with a few coins in it. He took out the coins.

“Well, paste jewels or no, he was not entirely destitute. There is over a shilling here, which will pay for a funeral if we cannot find his relatives. And here, good physician, three new pennies for your fee.” He grinned sourly. “I wager that the three pennies are closer to the value of your service than ever that pearl, had it been real, would have been.”

“Ah, how is a poor physician to make a decent living among the impoverished derelicts along this riverbank, Master Constable? Answer me that, damme! Answer me that!” The physician, clutching his coins, left the room.

Master Drew gazed down at the shrouded body of the young man and shook his head sadly.

An educated young man who could recite lines from popular theatrical entertainment but who used cheap paste jewelry. Surely this was a curious matter? He turned and began to search the room methodically. The clothes were many and varied, and while giving an appearance of rich apparel, on closer inspection were actually quite cheap in quality and often hastily sewn.

He noticed that there were some papers strewn around the room, and bending to pick them up, he saw a larger pile on the floor under the bed. He drew these out and examined them. It was a text of the play The Life of Henry V by Will Shakespeare. The lines of Henry V had been underlined here and there.

“Well, well, Master Keeling,” the constable murmured thoughtfully. “This sheds a little light in the darkness, does it not?”

He gathered up the script and turned out of the room, closing the door. There was nothing more he could do there.

The innkeeper was awaiting him at the bottom of the stair. He appeared anxious. “The physician says the gentleman do be dead now, Master Constable. Did he identify his assailant?”

“Indeed he is, Master Penhallow. Some words with you about your gentleman guest.” Master Drew frowned suddenly, and an idle thought occurred to him. “Pentecost, is that your first name, you say?”

“That it be,” agreed the man, somewhat defensively.

“Your parents being no doubt pious souls?”

“Not more so than anyone else.” He was defiant, but then he realized what was in the constable’s mind. “Pentecost be a good Cornish name; the name of my mothers family. Pen ty cos means ‘dwellers in the chief house in the wood.’”

Master Drew found the explanation amusing. “Well now, Master Pentecost Penhallow, how long has Master Keeling been residing here?”

“One, nay two months.”

“Do you know what profession he followed?”

“Profession? He be a gentleman. What else should he do? You’ve seen his clothes and jewels?”

“Is that what he told you? That he was a gentleman?”

The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Suddenly a dark-haired woman appeared from a shadowy corner of the tavern. Twenty years ago, she must have looked much like the young girl whom he had encountered on the landing, thought Master Drew. She began to speak rapidly to him in a language that Master Drew did not understand. It sounded a little like Welsh, but he guessed that it was Cornish.

“Wait a moment, good woman,” protested Master Drew. “What is it you say?”

“Meea navidna cowza Sawsneck,” replied the woman in resignation.

“Taw sy!” snapped her husband, turning with an apologetic smile to the constable. “Forgive my wife, sir. She be from Kerrier, and while she has some understanding at her of English, she does not be speaking it.”

“So, what does Mistress Penhallow say?”

“She complains about the late hours Master Keeling did keep, that’s all.”

“Was he late abroad last night?”

“He was.”

“When did you last see him alive?”

“At midday, but my wife saw him when he came in last night.”

He turned and shot a rapid series of questions at his wife in Cornish.

“She says that he came in with his friend, another gentleman, about midnight. They were a little the worst for drink.”

The woman interrupted and repeated a word that sounded like tervans.

“What is she saying?” demanded Master Drew.

“That they were arguing, strongly.”

“Who was this man, this friend?”

There was another exchange in Cornish, and then Master Pen-hallow said, “My wife says that he was a young man that often used to drink with Master Keeling. Another gentleman by name of Cavendish.”

A satisfied smile spread over Master Drews face. “Master Hal Cavendish? Was that his name?”

“That do be the name, Master Constable. A fine gentleman, I am sure. Have you heard tell of him?”

“That I have. You say that the two came here last night, drunk and arguing? Is it known when Master Cavendish left Master Keeling’s room?”

“It was not by the time that my wife and I retired.”

“Where were you when Master Keeling came in that you did not see him?”

“I was out… on business.”

“On business?”

The man hesitated, with a swift glance at his wife, as if to ensure that she didn’t understand; then he drew the constable to one side. “You know how it be, good master.” He lowered his voice ingratiatingly. “A few shillings can be made from cock fights-”

“Kessynsy!” sneered his wife.

“You were gambling, is that it?” Master Drew guessed the meaning of her accusation.

“I was, master. I confess I was.”

“So you did not return until late? Was all quiet then?… I mean, you heard nothing of this argument overheard by your goodwife?”

“All was quiet. The place was in darkness.”

“And when was this?”

“About the middle watch. I heard the night crier up on the bridge.”

London Bridge stood but a few yards away. Master Drew computed that was between three and four o’clock. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And did your daughter notice anything before she went to bed?”

Master Penhallow’s brows drew together. “My daughter?”

“The girl that I met on the landing; I presume that she is your daughter? After all, she addressed me in your Cornish jargon.”

A look of irritation crossed the man’s face. “I do be apologizing for that, master. I know ‘tis thought offensive to address one such as yourself in our poor gibberish. I will speak harshly to Tamsyn.”

Master Drew stared disapprovingly at Pentecost Penhallow, for he heard no genuine regret in his voice.

What was it Norden had written? And as they are among themselves litigious so seem they yet to retain a kind of concealed envy against the English who they affect with a desire of revenge for their fathers’ sakes by whom their fathers received their repulse. He would have to beware of Penhallow’s feigned obsequiousness. The man resented him for all his deferential speech, and Master Drew put it down to this national antipathy.

“Is that her name? Tamsyn?” he asked.

“Tamsyn Penhallow, if it please you, good master.”

“Did she notice anything unusual last night.”

“Nay, that she did not.”

“How do you know?”

“Why, wouldn’t she be telling me so?”

“Perhaps we should ask her?”

“Truly, good Master Constable, we cannot oblige you in this, for she had only just left to go to the market by the cathedral.”

Master Drew sighed. “I will be back soon. In the meantime, no one must enter into the room of Master Keeling. Understand?”

Pentecost Penhallow nodded glumly. “But when may we clear the room, master? It is not pleasing to have a corpse lying abed there for when the vapors do be emanating-”

“I will be back before midday,” the constable cut him short, and left the Red Boar Inn, still clutching the script he had gathered from the floor of Keeling’s room.

Although it was still early in the day, he made his way directly to the circular Globe playhouse, which was only a ten-minute walk away. He was greeted by the elderly gatekeeper, Master Jasper.

“A good day, Master Constable. You are abroad early.” The old man touched his cap in respectful greeting.

“Indeed, I am, and surprised to see you here at this hour.”

“Ah, they are rehearsing inside this morning.” The old man jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“I had hoped as much. I’ll lay a wager with you, good Jasper.” The constable smiled in good humor. “I’ll wager you what new play is in rehearsal.”

The old doorkeeper laughed. “I know well enough not to lay wagers with the Constable of the Watch. But for curiosity’s sake, do make your guess.”

“The Life of King Henry the Fifth.”

“The very same,” chuckled Master Jasper in appreciation.

“Is Master Hal Cavendish playing in it?”

“You have a good memory for the names of our players,” observed the old man. “But young Hal Cavendish be an unhappy man because Hal cannot play Hal in this production.”

“Explain?” asked Master Drew, allowing the old gatekeeper a few moments to chuckle at his own obscure joke.

“Young Hal Cavendish fancied himself as playing the leading part of King Hal but now must make do with the part of the Dauphin. He is bitter. He is understudying the part of King Hal, but if he could arrange an accident to he who plays the noble Harry Fifth, young Cavendish would lief as not be more than content.”

Master Drew stroked the side of his nose with a lean forefinger. “Is that the truth of it?”

“Aye, truth and more. Hal Cavendish is a vain young man when it comes to an assessment of his talents, and that is no lie. Mind you, good Constable, all those who tread the boards beyond are of a muchness in that vanity.”

“Do you also have a player called Will Keeling in the band of King’s Players?”

To Master Drews surprise, Master Jasper shook his head.

“Then tell me, out of interest, who plays the part of Henry the Fifth, whose role Hal Cavendish so desires?”

“Ah, a young Hibernian. Whelton Keehan. He has newly joined the company.”

Master Drew raised a cynical eyebrow. “Whelton Keehan, eh. What manner of young man is he? Can you describe him?”

Master Jasper was good at descriptions, and at the end of his speech, the constable pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I would have a word with Master Cavendish, good Jasper,” he said.

The old man saw the grim look in his eyes. “Is something amiss, Constable?”

“Something is amiss.”

Master Jasper conducted the constable through the door and led the way into the circular auditorium of the theater.

An elderly lean-faced man was standing on stage with a sheaf of papers in his hand. There were a few other people about, but the central figure was a young man who stood striking a pose. One hand held a realistic-looking sword, while the other hand was on his waist and he was staring up into one of the galleries.

“Crispian Crispian shall never…,” he intoned, and was interrupted by an angry stamp of the foot of the lean man, who shook his wad of paper at him.

“God’s wounds! But you try my patience, Master Cavendish! Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by-! Do you aspire to rewrite the words of Master Shakespeare or can it be that you have grown indolent as the result of your previous success as Macduff? Let me tell you, good Master Cavendish, an actor is only as good as his last performance. Our production of Macbeth ended last night. You are now engaged to play the Dauphin in this play of Henry the Fifth, so why I am wasting time in coaching you to understudy the part of King Hal is beyond me.”

The young fair-haired man waited until the torrent had ended, and then he began again.

Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by

From, this day to the ending of the world

But we in it shall he remembered.

We few, we happy few, we band…

His voice trailed off as he suddenly noticed Master Hardy Drew standing nearby with folded arms.

The lean-faced man swung round. “And who might you be, who puts my players out of rhythm with their parts? Can you not see that we are in rehearsal?”

Master Drew smiled easily. “I would have a word with Master Cavendish.”

“Zoots!” bellowed the man, and seemed about to launch into a tirade when Master Jasper drew him to one side and whispered something.

“Very well, then,” sighed the man in irritation.

“Ten minutes is all we can spare. Have your word, master, and then depart in peace! We have a play to put on this night.”

The young man was frowning in annoyance as Master Drew approached him. “Do I know you, fellow?” he demanded haughtily.

“You will, fellow,” the constable replied in a jaunty tone. “I am Constable of the Bankside Watch.”

The announcement registered little change of expression on the players features. “What do you want of me?”

“I gather that you are a friend of Master Whelton Keehan.”

Hal Cavendish’s features formed a grimace of displeasure. “A friend? Not I! An unwilling colleague on these boards, this will I admit to. But he is no more than an acquaintance. If he is in trouble and needs money to bail him, then pray go to Master Cuthbert Burbage, who manages our company. Perhaps he will feel charitable. You will not extract a penny from me to help him.”

“I am afraid that he is beyond financial assistance.” Master Drew smiled grimly. Then without explaining further, he continued: “I understand that you accompanied him back to his lodgings last night?”

Hal Cavendish sniffed dismissively. “If you know that, then why ask?”

“Let me make it plain why I ask.” Master Drew’s voice rose in sudden anger at the young man’s conceit. “You stand in danger unless you answer me truthfully. Why was he known at his lodgings as Will Keeling?”

“It’s no crime,” Cavendish replied indifferently. “He was but a few months arrived in this city from Dublin and thought to better his prospects by passing himself off as a English gentleman at his lodgings. Poor fool-he had not two farthings to jingle in his pocket. I’ll grant you, he was a good actor, though. He borrowed props from here, costumes and paste jewelry to maintain his image at his lodgings and thus extend his credit with that sly old innkeeper. Ah… tell me, has his ruse been discovered? Are you carting him off to debtors’ prison?” Hal Cavendish began to laugh in good humor.

Master Drew waited patiently for him to pause in his mirth. “Why should that give you cause for merriment, Master Cavendish?”

“Because I now can play the part of King Hal in this production. Keehan was never right for the part. In truth, he was not. A Hibernian playing King Hal! Heaven forfend! That is why we argued last night.”

“Tell me, Master Cavendish, how did you leave Master Keehan? What was his condition?”

“Truth to tell, I left him this morning,” the young man admitted. “He was not in the best of tempers. We had been drinking after the last performance of Macbeth and visited one or two houses of… well, let us say, of ill repute. Then we fell to discussing tonight’s play.”

“You were arguing with him.”

“I do not deny it.”

“About this play?”

“About his inability to play his role. He had the wrong approach to the part, which rightfully should be mine. He had the audacity to criticize my part as the Dauphin, and thus we fell to argument. A pox on the man! May he linger a long time in the debtors’ jail. He deserves it for leading the innkeeper’s daughter on a merry dance with his assumed airs and graces. She, being a simple, country girl, was beguiled by him. There is no fun in debauching the innocent.”

Master Drew raised an eyebrow. “Debauching? In what way did he lead Master Penhallow’s daughter on?”

“Why, in his pretense to be an English gentleman with money and fortune. He gave the poor Penhallow girl some of his worthless jewels and spoke of marriage to her. The man is but a jack-in-the pulpit, a pretender.”

The constable considered this thoughtfully. “You say that Keehan promised to marry the Penhallow girl?”

“Aye, and make her a rich and great lady,” agreed Cavendish.

“He gave her paste jewels?”

“Poor girl, she would not know the like from real. I think she had set her heart on being the mistress of some great estate which only existed in Keehan’s imagination. He gambles the pittance that Master Burbage pays us and visits so many whorehouses that I doubt if he has not picked up the pox, which will cook his goose the sooner. I have never known a man who had such an excess of love for his own self. I rebuked him for it. By the rood! He had the audacity to recourse to a line from this very play of ours, Henry V…”

The young man struck a pose.

“ ‘Self love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.’ One thing may be said of Master Keehan, he never neglected himself.”

“This Master Whelton Keehan does not sound the most attractive of company,” agreed the constable.

“I doubt not that this view is shared by the father of the Penhallow girl. I never saw a man so lost for words when he espied Master Keehan treading the boards last night and realized that Keehan was none other than his gentleman lodger.”

“What?” Master Drew could not stay his surprise. “Do you mean to tell me that Master Pentecost Penhallow knew that his lodger was a player and residing at the Red Boar under a false name?”

“He knew that from last night. He was there in the ring having paid his penny entrance to stand in the crowd before the stage. Keehan did not see him, but I did. In fact, as I was coming offstage, Master Penhallow accosted me to confirm whether his eyes had played him false or not. I had to confess that they had been true. He went away in high dudgeon. He was in no better spirits when I saw him later at the Red Boar.”

“You saw Master Penhallow at the Red Boar? At what time was this?”

Master Cavendish considered for a moment. “I confess to having indulged in an excess of cheap wine. I scarcely recall. It was late, or rather, it was early this morning. He was coming in as I was going out.”

The elderly white-haired man came forward, clicking his tongue in agitation. “Sirrah! Can you desist with your questioning? We have a play to rehearse and-”

Master Drew held up his hand to silence him. “Cease your concern, good master. I shall leave you to your best efforts. One thing I have to tell you. You must find a new player for the part of King Hal this evening. Master Keehan is permanently indisposed.”

“Confound him!” cried the elderly man. “What stupidity has he indulged in now?”

Master Drew smiled grimly. “The final stupidity. He has gotten himself murdered, sir.”

Arriving back at the Red Boar Inn, he found Master Pentecost Penhallow moodily cleaning pewter pots. He started as he saw the dour look on the constable’s face.

“You lied to me, Master Penhallow,” Master Drew began without preamble. “You knew well that Will Keeling was no gentleman, nor had private mean. You knew that he was a penniless player named Keehan:”

Pentecost Penhallow froze for a moment, and then his shoulders slumped in resignation. “I knew,” he admitted. “But I only knew from last night.”

“Are you a frequent playgoer then, Master Penhallow?”

The innkeeper shook his head. “I never go to playhouses.”

“Yet you paid a penny and went to the Globe last night. Pray, what took you there?”

“To see if I could identify this man Keeling… or whatever his name was.”

“Who told you that he was a player there?”

“Two days ago, one of my customers espied him entering the inn and said, ‘That’s one of the King’s Players at the Globe.’ When I said, nay, he be a gentleman, the man laid a wager of two pence with me. So I went, and there I saw Master Keeling in cavorting pretense upon the stage. God rot his soul!”

“So you realized that he was in debt to you and little wherewithal to honor that debt?”

“Indeed, I did.”

“So when you returned home in the early hours of this morning, you went to his room and had it out with him?”

When Penhallow hesitated, Master Drew went remorsefully on.

“You took a knife and stabbed him in rage at how he had led you and your family on. I gather he gave faked jewels to your daughter and promised marriage. Your rage did wipe all sense from your mind. It was you who killed the man you knew as Will Keeling.”

“I did…,” began Master Penhallow.

“Na! Na, tasyk!” cried a female voice. It was the young woman the constable had seen on the landing that morning. Penhallows daughter, Tamsyn.

“Cosel, cosel, caradow,” Penhallow murmured. He turned to Master Drew with a sigh. “This Keeling was an evil man, Constable. You must appreciate that. He used people as if they meant nothing to him. Yet every cock is proud on his own dung heap. He crowed at his vice when I challenged him. He boasted of it. His debt to me is but nothing to the debt that he owed my daughter, seducing her with his glib tongue and winning ways. All was but his fantasy, and he ruined her. No man’s death was so richly deserved.”

The young girl came forward and took her fathers arm. “Gafeugh dhym, tasyk,” she whispered.

Penhallow patted her hand as if pacifying her. “Taw dhym, taw dhym, caradow,” he murmured.

Master Drew shook his head sadly as he gazed from father to daughter and back to father. Then he said, “You are a good man, Master Penhallow. I doubted it for a while, being imbued with my prejudice against your race.”

Penhallow eyed him nervously. “Good Master Constable, I understand not-”

“Alas, the hand that plunged the dagger into Master Keehan was not your own. Speak English a little to me, Tamsyn, and tell me when you learnt the truth about your false lover?”

The dark-haired girl raised her eyes defiantly to him.

“Gorteugh un pols!” cried Penhallow to his daughter, but she shook her head.

She spoke slowly and with her soft accent. “I overheard what was said to my father the other night; that Will… that Will was but a penniless player. I took the jewels which he had given to me and went to the Dutchman by the Blackpriars House.”

Master Drew knew of the Dutchman. He was a jeweler who often bought and sold stolen goods but had, so far, avoided conviction for his offenses.

“He laughed when I asked their worth,” went on the girl, “and said they were even bad as faked jewels and not worth a brass farthing.”

“You waited until Will Keehan came in this morning. But he came in with Hal Cavendish.”

“He was in an excess of alcohol. He was arguing with his friend. Then Master Cavendish departed, and I went into his room and told him what I knew.” Her voice was quiet, unemotional. But her face was pale, and it was clear to Master Drew that she had difficulty controlling her emotions. “He laughed-laughed! Called me a Cornish peasant who had been fortunate to be debauched by him. There were no jewels, no estate, and no prospect of marriage. He was laughing at me when-”

“Constable, good Constable, she does not know what she is saying,” interrupted Pentecost Penhallow despairingly.

“That was when you came in,” interrupted Master Drew. “One thing confused me. Why was it left until morning to raise an alarm? I supposed it was in the hope that Keehan would die before dawn. When he did not, good conscience caused you to send for a physician but hoping that he would depart without naming his assailant. That was why you asked me if he had done so. That was your main concern.”

“I have admitted responsibility, Master Constable,” Penhallow said. “I will admit it in whatever form of tale would best please you.”

“You are not a good teller of tales, Master Penhallow. You should bear in mind the line from this new play in which Keehan was to act which says, as I recall it to mind, ‘men of few words are the best men.’ Too many words allow one to find an avenue through them. Instead of saying nothing, your pretense allowed me to discover your untruths.”

“I admit responsibility, good Constable. She is only seventeen and a life ahead of her, please… I did this-”

“Enough words, man! Unless you wish to incriminate yourself and your family,” snapped the constable, “I have had done with this investigation.” He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a purse. “I found this in Master Keehans room. The physician took his fee out of it. There is enough to give Master Keehan a funeral. Perhaps there might be a few pence over, though there is not enough to clear his debt. But I think that debt has now been expunged in a final way.”

Pentecost Penhallow and his daughter were staring at him in bewilderment.

Master Drew hesitated. Words were often snares for folk, but he felt an explanation was needed. “Law and justice sometimes disagree. You have probably never heard of Aristotle but he once wrote, ‘Whereas the law is passionless, passion must ever sway the heart of man.’ Rigorous adherence to the letter of the law is often rigorous injustice.”

“But what of-?”

“What happened here is that a penniless player met his death by the hand of a person or persons unknown. They might have climbed the wall and entered by the open window to rob him. It often happens in this cruel city. Hundreds die by violence, and hundreds more by disease among its teeming populace. The courts give protection to the rich, to the well connected, to gentlemen. But it seems that Master Keehan was not one of these; otherwise, I might have had recourse to pursue this investigation with more rigor.”

He turned for the door, paused, and turned back for a moment.

“Master Penhallow, I know not what conditions now prevail in your country of Cornwall. Do you take advice, and if it be possible, return your family to its protective embrace and leave this warren of iniquity and pestilence that we have created by the banks of this foul-smelling stretch of river. I doubt if health and prosperity will ever be your fortune here.”

The young girl, eyes shining with tears, moved forward and grasped his arm. “Dursona dhys!” she cried, leaning forward and kissing the constable on the cheek. “Durdala-dywy!.. Bless you, Master Constable. Thank you.”

Smiling to himself, Master Drew paused outside the Red Boar Inn before wandering the short distance to the banks of the Thames. The smells were overpowering. Gutted fish and offal. The stench of sewerage. Those odious smells, to which he thought that a near lifetime of living in London had inured him, suddenly seemed an affront to his nostrils. Yet thousands of people were arriving in London year after year, and the city was extending rapidly in all directions. A harsh, unkind city that attracted the weak and the wicked, the hopeful and the cynics, the trusting and the swindler, the credulous and the cheat. Never was there such an assemblage of evil. The Puritan divines did not have to look far if they wished to frighten people with an image of what hell was akin to.

He sighed deeply as he glanced up and down the riverbanks.

A boy came along the embankment path bearing a placard and ringing a handbell. Master Drew peered at the placard.

It was an announcement that the King’s Players would be performing Master Will Shakespeare’s The Life of King Henry V at the Globe Theatre that evening.

Master Whelton Keehan would not be playing the role of King Hal.

Master Hardy Drew suddenly found some lines from another of Will Shakespeare’s plays coming into his mind. Where did they come from? The Tragedy of Macbeth! The last performance Whelton Keehan had given.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death.

Out, out brief candle!

Life’s hut a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more.