An Honourable Murderer (31 page)

Now I eased open the swollen door to Sam's office and ran my eyes over the range of keys hanging from pegs on the wall inside. Conveniently, they were labelled, ‘west door', ‘tire-room' and so on. I slipped those two particular keys off their pegs and went round to the west door. Abel was waiting.

“What took you so long?”

“Sorry.”

Once Abel was inside, I shut the outer door but did not lock it. Abel looked as uneasy as I felt. We made our way across to the tire-room, using Sam's key to get in. There was not much light down here but quite enough to see that the ‘robe of Truth' as worn by Sir Philip Blake and then by Ben Jonson in the masque had gone from the little chamber adjacent to the tire-room. We might have searched for it but, given the poor light and the sheer number of costumes stacked or hung up in these rooms or folded away in chests elsewhere, the chances of finding it were small.

I went to rummage in a corner of the main tire-room.

“It's gone, that costume,” said Abel.

“I know. We won't lay our hands on it now. There's no time.”

“So what are you doing, Nick?”

“Looking for my part in tomorrow's play. Here it is.”

I unearthed the
Melancholy Man
scroll from the place where I'd hidden it earlier. Abel didn't bother to ask me about this little rigmarole. Perhaps he'd already given up hope. I would have given up hope in his place. I would have been questioning my friend's sanity. Nevertheless, he followed me without speaking to the top storey of the theatre and from there we emerged on to the open roof with its hut and walkways.

So, without the costume, the first part of my scheme had foundered. And now, on the roof of the Globe, I had the feeling in my guts that the whole plan was doomed, as it deserved to be. For I'd been intending to snaffle the ‘robe of Truth' from the tire-room and then to confront . . . someone . . . and to surprise him (or her) into a confession or at least into a guilty response. Perhaps the drama of the setting and the idea of the costume had warped my brain. My self-appointed role was as the finder-out of truth. A ‘truth' which would be delivered from this elevated position on top of the world, the point from which the god descends to put right the affairs of mortals and lay down the law. But now, in the fading light of a late summer's evening, my plan seemed both arrogant and foolish. Who did I think I was? A
deus ex machina
equipped with superhuman powers? No, a poor player who was grotesquely out of his depth.

I looked up at the wide sky. The evening star twinkled in the east. The moon hovered on the other side, as if delaying to make an entrance until the night should begin in earnest and he could make a better show. I knew some players who were like that. I hoped night would fall soon. Then I would declare the madcap scheme a failure, and Abel and I could slink off to bed. Something kept me here until then: the fear of appearing a fool (but I was that already) or the hope that ‘someone' might come (and a stronger, conflicting hope that they would not). And since I was here so was my faithful friend, Abel Glaze, who was now sitting with his legs extended and his back propped against the cabin containing the lifting gear. I wondered whether he'd fallen asleep. Whatever happened next, it was not his fault. The blame lay exclusively at the feet of N. Revill.

I'd written letters, you see, to the four individuals Abel and I had discussed: Lady Jane Blake, Maria More, William Inman and Jonathan Snell. Four epistles to four different recipients but with identical contents. Each letter made an unsubstantiated accusation, claiming that Lady Blake – or Maria More – or Bill Inman – or Jonathan Snell – had had a hand in the killing of Sir Philip Blake during the practice for the
Masque of Peace
at Somerset House. I gave no specifics, reckoning that when it came to slanderous accusations the best policy was vagueness. Each letter was unsigned, showing what a courageous correspondent I was. Each letter indicated that the recipient's guilty secret would be safe with me (the anonymous writer) provided that he or she turned up at a certain place at a certain time to discuss ‘arrangements'. I hinted at money, I hinted at sealed lips.

The plan was simple. If any of the four responded to the letter it was a fairly sure sign that he or she was guilty. For, if you were innocent, there was a natural reaction to receiving such an anonymous accusation. The natural reaction would be to read the letter with horror, with disbelief, with incomprehension. To dismiss it as the work of a person who was mad or malicious or both. To tear it into small pieces and cast them down the privy and flush them away, perhaps in one of those new devices which Lady Blake and Jonathan Snell had been conspiring over. In short, to try to forget about the letter's existence. That would be the normal, natural response in the circumstances. It's how you or I would react, isn't it?

The one individual who wouldn't behave like that would be Sir Philip's murderer. The murderer might be horrified to be accused, especially anonymously, but he or she would be much less likely to tear up the letter, to forget about it et cetera. Instead the guilty person would – or should, if all went according to plan – follow instructions to turn up at such-and-such a place, at such-and-such a time, in order to silence me either with money . . . or with a more binding method. This second possibility was one reason why I'd wanted Abel's company, since I was conscious that, if my belief about Blake's death was right, I was dealing with an individual who was both ruthless and cunning. An individual who was possibly responsible for the deaths of John Ratchett and Giles Cass as well.

When I was penning those unsigned notes in my lodgings I experienced a schoolboyish thrill. Now, by the chill light of evening, my actions appeared dangerously stupid. I had accused four upright citizens of complicity in a murder. If a single one of them was guilty, this might be justified. But not a single one of them
was
guilty. I grew increasingly convinced of this, and of my foolishness, as the moon inched up the sky and the air grew colder.

I had sealed up the letters and handed them to a lad I'd found lounging in Chancery Lane. I didn't know him and didn't ask his name. Anonymity all round. Three of the letters were destined for the same place, the Blake mansion in the Strand not far off. I told the boy to hand them personally to the gatekeeper, promising there'd be another penny when he came back and described the gatekeeper to me. He asked no questions but ran off. I hung about on the corner of Chancery Lane, half enjoying the secrecy and the contrivance, and thinking that I might be cut out for a spy after all.

Then the boy came back to tell me about the large hairy wart on the gatekeeper's cheek. Since this was the only feature of note which the Blake gatekeeper possessed, I knew that he'd delivered the letters. I imagined the letters being passed from the gatekeeper to a household servant, one of those yellow-liveried fellows who glided about the place like a fish, and then eventually finding their way up to the individual recipients, Lady Blake, Maria More, William Inman. I imagined each person tearing at the seal, unfolding the paper – cheap paper, for this anonymous writer was no better than a cheap extortioner – and reading the slanderous words. It was at this point in my imaginings that doubts started to creep in.

Too late to go back now. You can't recall a letter once sent. The boy was still hanging about at my elbow, hoping for more errands, so I gave him the final letter and another penny, telling him to take it to the Snells' workshop in Three Cranes Lane, making sure it went to the older Snell, the father. I instructed him to bring back some news about the colour of the gate. He scuttled off in the opposite direction. I waited some more, the doubts growing stronger with every passing minute. This errand took longer than the first one, or so it appeared to me as I paced about or leaned against a wall. I remembered that Ben Jonson was supposed to have had a hand in building a wall in Chancery Lane, or was it in Lincoln's Inn? Eventually the lad returned to inform me that the workshop gate was painted green (it might have been green – I couldn't remember) and that he had entrusted the letter to a long-haired man who'd promised to pass it to Master Snell. Mission accomplished. I gave the messenger his final penny.

The die was cast. Four honest citizens had received letters which more or less accused them of murder. It was up to them whether they reacted to this outrageous slander or whether they simply threw the accusations away. A third possibility was that any one of the four might alert a local magistrate and come in search of the anonymous slanderer. Somehow, though, this seemed the least likely course of action. It would be too much . . . trouble. Alerting a magistrate would mean showing the letter to him. It would risk opening up an investigation into Sir Philip's death which, even if not murder, had some shadowy aspects to it.

I had set the time of assignation for eight o'clock this evening and the place as the roof of the Globe stage. I had hoped to to startle the murderer into an avowal of his, or her guilt, by rising up in the robe of Truth and pointing the finger of blame at whoever emerged on to the roof from the upper gallery
like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons
. It may sound far-fetched, this dressing-up and finger-pointing, but all I can say is that it worked for Shakespeare. That was in a play, of course, and he was perhaps a little more subtle.

To arrange a meeting at this dramatic location, and to give directions on climbing to the roof of the playhouse, would inevitably suggest that the anonymous accuser had some connection with the Globe. But many people had connections to the Globe, not just players but costumers and doormen and painters and the like. There was no particular reason for the anonymous letters to be traced back to N. Revill. I had even made an attempt to disguise my handwriting but this had produced such a blotchy, ragged scrawl that it looked like a child's efforts, so I reverted to my normal hand.

There was still some light in the sky. Abel had his eyes closed. I settled down with my back against the cabin wall. Thinking I might as well make some use of this blank time before somebody came, before nobody came, I reached into my pocket and fetched out the scroll which contained my part for the next day's play, that is, Martin Barton's
Melancholy Man
. Earlier on the bare stage I'd been unable to remember a single word or action belonging to the murderous character of Lussorio, but when I peered at the lines in the half-light it came back to me.

Barton had made comments about William Shakespeare being ‘unrealistic' for using a device like a handkerchief in
Othello
, as well as for taking seriously subjects such as cuckolding and infidelity when they were only fit for laughter. Well, when it came to a lack of realism his play took the prize. I'd never read or seen or acted in such an absurd hotchpotch as this thing of Barton's. Blood, satire, laughter, they were all mixed up together until everything was as clear as mud. But the audiences, in their new post-plague mood, liked it, which was the reason why it was being given a revival.

I won't weary you with the detailed plot of
The Melancholy Man
. Suffice it to say that the story concerns a Duke – Italian, naturally – who escapes an assassination attempt arranged by his wife's lover. As Lussorio, I was one of the murderers who failed to do him in. The Duke comes back in a hermit's disguise to flit around the outskirts of his court, passing bitter, satirical commentary on the parade of grotesques who populate it. No one guesses that this shag-haired hermit is actually the Duke until he whips off his disguise at the end of Act Five and puts the world to rights. Just as I'd planned to put the world to rights from the rooftop of the Globe.

Absurd, to think that a Duke could pass himself off as a shaggy hermit in the play. But not as absurd as believing that I was capable of acting as a
deus ex machina
in reality. In Barton's case the hermit disguise was a pretext, of course, since dirty old hermits are well known to be moral philosophers. It was a pretext for the playwright to vent his bile about courtly pretensions. Everyone was a parcel of seething rottenness, everyone was food for worms. (Everyone except well-muscled craftsmen and boy-players, no doubt. Not that Barton actually said this.) In my case, I had no excuse for my
deus ex machina
act. At least Martin Barton was earning an honest living. I was likely to lose mine altogether if anyone discovered what I'd done, what I was doing now.

It was getting too dark to read and I put the scroll back in my pocket. Even if anyone did arrive for the ‘meeting' I probably wouldn't be able to see them properly. I leaned my head back against the roughcast wall of the cabin and closed my eyes.

Various shapes crossed my mind's eye. Or rather they weren't shapes so much as a queer mixture of pictures and ideas which had taken on some pictorial form.

One was the signing of the peace treaty between Spain and England which we'd attended a few days previously as Grooms of the Outer Chamber. It wasn't the ceremony which preoccupied me, the King shambling up the aisle of the Chapel Royal and so on. It was the thought that had come to me afterwards, that
It was all a matter of show
. The same thing had applied to that glimpse of Cecil and Howard and the rest sitting opposite the Spanish Constable and his
señors
in the chamber at Whitehall Palace, as if they were waiting to have their portraits done.
A matter of show
.

Another reflection must have been prompted by the fact that I'd just looked at Barton's
The Melancholy Man
, or rather at my particular lines as Lussorio. I and others had failed to kill the Duke, who then reappeared to indulge himself as a shag-haired hermit dispensing his bitter wit on all sides. The Duke still lived on but not in the person of the Duke . . .

Then I had an image not from a play but from real life. It was of the craftsman-painter Ned Armitage as I'd first encountered him in the Three Cranes workshop with the marks of red paint on his face. He'd been painting a chest for a stage presentation by Worcester's Men out at the Curtain playhouse. What – or who – was meant to be hidden in the chest? I'd found a body in the same chest in the workshop on my second visit but that body was a mannequin. There was a real body further in, though, that of John Ratchett sprawled on the floor. By the next morning he'd disappeared as if he'd never existed.