The Twelfth Night Murder (22 page)

“He wasn’t—”

“So, in perfect fairness, I would like to make up for your loss of income.” He reached into a pocket of his jacket and drew out several large silver coins. He counted out five in his hand and set them on the table before her. “Five pounds. Will that suffice?”

“Constable Pepper wasn’t paying me, your grace.”

Real surprise crossed the duke’s face. “Indeed? You were doing the work gratis? Is poking about in other people’s business a hobby for you, then?”

“The constable sometimes asks me to assist him. I’ve a talent for analyzing the stories people tell, and finding holes in a narrative. I’m an actress, you see, and have read and memorized many plays. I know fiction when I hear it, and can tell a liar when I see one.” Now the edge of hostility was creeping into her voice, though she struggled to keep it out. She needed to flee, and quickly, lest this turn into an ugly confrontation that would do her no good. “So, in a way, you might say the assistance I provide the constable is a pastime.” She didn’t see any point in telling the duke the details of her arrangement with Pepper. It was enough for him to know she wasn’t being paid. “I gain nothing more than the satisfaction of having taken a criminal from among the population of London and putting him where he belongs.” That was also true.

The stern tone he’d had on their first meeting returned, and it was an effort not to flinch. “I must insist that your investigation come to a halt. ’Tis far too upsetting for the duchess. The both of us are apprehensive there may be talk of it at court.”

“Surely not. The king must sympathize with your grief. Surely your friends at court must be considerate of the tender feelings you have for your son.”

“The duchess is terribly overwrought. I would have the matter entirely ignored. There is nothing to be gained by pursuing the robber who killed my son.”

“It was no robber.”

Cawthorne’s eyes narrowed. “I believe it was.”

“With all due respect, your grace, a robber would not have bothered to cut the body as this murderer did after Lord Paul was dead. A robber might have stabbed his victim once or twice, in order to get hold of a purse, then he would have fled as quickly as possible. He never would have loitered about, continuing to stab after the victim had died, severing an appendage and stuffing it into the mouth.” The duke did not blink when she revealed this, and anger rose in spite of herself. Her voice thickened and her brow knotted as she spoke.

His reply was angry. “Be that as it may, the duchess and I do not wish the crown to pursue this matter further. Since you are not employed by the constable’s office, and have no authority as an investigator, you needn’t bother yourself further. In fact, you are constrained from it.” Cawthorne pushed the stack of pound coins toward her across the table. “Take these, and consider yourself released from all obligation to Pepper. Go on with your life. You might consider quitting the pursuit of criminals altogether. I suspect you aren’t as talented at it as you think.”

“I think I am.” She ignored the money, and looked straight at the duke. “I know I am. I believe I perform a vital function, tracking down murderers so they don’t commit further crimes.”

“Take the coins, Mistress Thornton.”

She stood. “Thank you, no.” A strong, perverse urge to pick them up and do what she was told filled her heart, and she clenched her fists against it. It would have been so easy to simply give in and take this bribe. She thought of the security this money would bring to the troupe, the things it would buy, the ease it would bring her daily existence. And by letting the duke go on with his life, ignoring that he’d committed the most heinous deed she’d ever heard of, though she’d lived her entire life in a town known throughout the kingdom for terrible deeds, she would go her own way and their paths might never cross again. The idea of it was mighty appealing. But she steeled herself against those selfish thoughts. “I wouldn’t feel right taking your money, your grace. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll go home now.” She turned toward the door.

“Woman!” The duke rose, and so did his voice.

She stopped, but didn’t turn to face him. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she could feel heat on her face.

He said, “You will not speak to another soul about my son and what happened to him. If I hear anything further of your investigation, I promise you I will make you regret it.”

“And how will you do that?” Her voice tightened, and the words came with difficulty.

“If you believe I stabbed and mutilated my son, then think hard on what I might do to someone who is not a member of my family.”

Terror skittered through her and made her bones feel cold. Now more than ever she was convinced the duke had done the murder, and even more than that she believed he would carry out this threat. She turned, and with every bit of grace she could muster she made a slight curtsey, then turned and left the room without asking to be excused.

Outside the door, she picked up her skirts and broke into a run. Palace residents and servants gawked as she passed, but she couldn’t stop until she was out of the palace and on King Street, hurrying along the cobbles at a skipping half run. When finally she stopped, she found herself trembling and not entirely certain how far she’d gone. She looked around to gather her composure and gain her bearings.

Carriages passed and throngs of people walked along the street. Slowly her heart calmed until it stopped thudding in her ears. She looked back the way she’d come, half afraid she was followed by the duke and his dagger.

Then her blood ran cold and she gasped for breath. A man behind her was staring at her. Openly, and not even caring that she might see him do it. He stood at the corner of the building on the closest corner, next to a downspout that drained out at his feet. He wore no wig, and his narrowed eyes and grim mouth told her he wasn’t interested in hiring her for sexual services. He must be following her.

When she looked straight on, however, the lurker had melted into street traffic. As if he’d magically disappeared. She looked around for him, but saw nothing and nobody untoward. Certainly nobody she’d recognized. But she’d have sworn there had been a man staring straight at her. She continued walking, hoping to find a carriage to flag down and hire, but there didn’t seem to be any without passengers. She walked onward.

The walk all the way around and across the bridge to Southwark would be monstrous. And dangerous. In the depths of winter it would surely be dark by the time she arrived at the Globe, and if there were someone following her he would surely take advantage of that darkness. However, there was nothing for it but to keep on.

She walked north in Whitehall Street, past the Scotland yards toward Charing Cross. She thought briefly of making for one of the river stairs in hopes of finding a barge to take her directly across the Thames, but she hated to wait alone on the bank for a boat that might never come. Anyone following her would find her easily taken, were he to find her there. So she walked onward.

In an area where the crowds were a bit thinner, she hazarded a glance backward and thought she saw that same man duck into an alley off to the side. She stood and watched that spot, but he never reappeared. Perhaps she’d imagined him.

At Charing Cross were thick crowds, and when she looked back she couldn’t tell whether that man was following her again. Once more she thought she might have been imagining him. After all, she’d been told in the past her imagination was active and vivid. Nevertheless, she hurried onward, at a walk she hoped was quick but not so quick that others thought she was running from authorities.

Now she was on the Strand and veering east, still a long way from the bridge and looking for a coach to hire. Or even a sedan chair that would be carried by strong men who might prove protection. If only her favorites, Thomas and Samuel, might happen by! But she saw none available today. Where had they all gone? Any other day the chairmen would be swarming in hopes of a fare. She glanced behind and hoped not to see the man following her. Then she thought she should hope to see him, for then she would know where he was. She looked ahead now, fearing he might leap out at her. Her heart pounded, and she walked faster.

Finally she found a carriage and flagged it down. Without waiting for the coachman to leap down and help her in, she threw open the door and climbed in on her own. Her skirt caught on her shoe, and she had to yank it clear before settling into the seat. The coachman came to secure the door.

“Maid Lane in Southwark. The Globe Theatre, if you please.”

“Aye, mistress.”

“Posthaste, if you please, good man. There will be an extra shilling for you.”

“Aye, mistress.” The coachman hurried to his seat, and the carriage lurched into motion. Suzanne put her head out the window to look behind, and there she saw that same man, in the street and staring after her.

She settled back into her seat, and drew several deep breaths.

What to do now?

T
hat afternoon at the Globe, Suzanne watched the final performance of
Twelfth Night
, thinking hard about how to encourage Daniel to press his magistrate to charge Cawthorne with his son’s murder. The duke’s anger had quite frightened her, and filled her with dread for the future. Having lived on the street in the past, she knew well how horribly things could change, and how quickly, when one had little influence in the world.

Earlier, she’d been quite frightened at having been followed. Now, as she watched the play without really seeing it, her pulse skipped just a little too quickly for comfort, and her thoughts kept turning to the duke and his threat. She calmed herself by telling herself it had been done only to frighten her. It was coercion and nothing more. After all, there had been plenty of opportunity for that man to attack her, had he wished. But he’d let her go and she hadn’t seen him since. Surely it was only a tactic to frighten her.

So she needed to work out what next to do about the duke. If she wasn’t going to give in to the duke’s demand, then she needed to take decisive action of some sort. Only Daniel could convince the magistrate to initiate proceedings. Daniel would not help unless she had more proof of the duke’s guilt, and so that was what she needed to find. There was nothing else for it.

After the performance, Suzanne decided to cast about the neighborhood for more eyewitnesses. There had been many more men and women there that night than she’d talked to, and though seeking witnesses was a shot in the dark, she might stumble across something useful. Now that she could describe the duke and the outfit he wore that night, perhaps she could jog some memories and someone in addition to Warren might remember seeing him with Lord Paul. Perhaps if she had enough people to say they’d seen the duke at the Goat and Boar, talking to Lord Paul and leaving with him, then the crown would see fit to bring a case against him. There was always safety in numbers, and she believed there could be a chance the law would frown upon this murder in spite of the duke’s power if there were enough people to speak against it.

She wouldn’t take Ramsay with her on this foray, for he would only intimidate her prospective witnesses, and would press her to cease her efforts while he was at it. His heart might be in the right place, and he made her feel safe, but tonight she needed a light and persuasive hand rather than the bludgeon of a large, loud protector.

As she left her quarters she peeked out the door to see whether Ramsay was waiting for her. She didn’t find him sitting on the stairs, so she ventured forth at speed. At the upstage doors she peeked once again and looked out over the stage to the galleries and the front entrance. The house was empty of audience, they having all gone home. Only some boys were at work, picking up orange peels and chestnut shells from the pit and gallery floors. She caught the attention of Christian, who climbed to the stage and hurried over.

“What can I do for you, mistress?”

“Christian, would you be so good as to have a look out the back and see whether Master Ramsay is there in the alley?”

“Right. You want to talk to him, then?” He started off, but paused when she stopped him.

“No. I wish to avoid him. If he’s there, say nothing to him and come tell me.”

A puzzled look furrowed Christian’s forehead, but he went to look without saying anything more than “Yes, mistress.”

In a moment he returned to inform her that Ramsay was loitering against the wall in the alley across from the theatre’s rear door. Suzanne nodded and thanked him, then headed for the front entrance doors. She slipped out onto Maid Lane, and blended into the traffic away from the side alley, then headed for the Goat and Boar.

To avoid the possibility of being seen by Ramsay she wended through some empty alleys and closes. Though the days were somewhat longer now than at the solstice, they weren’t nearly long enough yet for the sun to still be up by the end of the afternoon performances. The darkness of early winter nightfall hid her well. She knew these streets thoroughly, and made her way in full confidence of getting where she was going. The Goat and Boar was not far. She turned up the collar of her cloak and buried her hands in her muff, put her head down against the cold, and hurried on.

As she passed through the pool of light surrounding a torch outside a coffeehouse, she noticed a shadow from behind stretch before her. It continued to follow her until the darkness swallowed her again. Just beyond the limit of the light, she turned to glance behind, for it must be Ramsay having discovered her attempt to avoid him.

But it wasn’t. Though the silhouette was tall and broad shouldered, the gait was absolutely not Ramsay’s. The man following her did not have the swagger that was his habit. This man walked plainly and gracefully. And when she looked toward him he slowed to a stop. And waited.

Fear fluttered to her breast. She couldn’t see who was following her, but she could only conclude that the man was up to no good. Otherwise he would approach her and speak to her. It was plain he was waiting for her to move away from the light. She realized that because the only light in the alley was behind him, she could see only a silhouette. But he, on the other hand, could see her quite well.

She looked around the alley. Beyond that light was utter darkness. Back the way she’d come there was the torch and a circle of safety. Inside the coffeehouse this time of the evening would be people who might protect her. Or at least would make an attacker hesitate. She took a step toward the door, hoping to slip past the figure and join whatever men she might find inside, but the silhouette took a step toward her. She stopped.

The figure also stopped. He stood like a statue, not moving or even seeming to breathe. His stance was casual. Not tense, but ready to move whichever direction was necessary to keep her from the light. It was the attitude of someone accustomed to physical superiority.

She took a step to the side in order to go around him, but he also stepped to the side, blocking her way. Suzanne halted, tensed for what he would do. He reached to his belt and withdrew a dagger. He held it to the side, point upward, so she could see it well.

Panic tried to steal her wits. She fought it down, but could hardly think of what to do. All she could think was how she wished she’d brought Ramsay along with her.

She looked behind her at the alley farther into the darkness, and couldn’t see what or who might be there. She knew this alley well. She knew where it led, and she knew there were empty barrels stacked a few yards beyond her vision. There was a hole in the cobbles a little beyond the barrels. The alley at that end came out on Bank Side, not far from the Goat and Boar, and if she made a run for it she might make it to another place with a number of people. Now she had to decide whether to take the chance of getting past that knife and into the coffeehouse, or turning the other direction and hoping to disappear into the darkness.

Her hesitation robbed her of whatever advantage she might have had if she’d been able to decide. The figure rushed at her.

With a rabbit’s terrified reflex she spun and fled the opposite direction, into the darkness. The barrels were just ahead. She held out a hand to find them, and dodged to the side as she touched them. Her footing wobbled on the cobbles, but behind her she heard a satisfying crash as her pursuer stumbled into the barrels. They came tumbling to the ground, and there were more bumps and crashes as the assailant stumbled among them, rolling in the street. Suzanne ran on, and leapt over the hole. A few more steps, and behind her came a thud and a cry.

“Come back here, you whore!” The voice belonged to the Duke of Cawthorne, shouting orders at her as if she would blindly obey for the sake of form.

Again, she ran on.

But he was large, and fast. He regained his feet in a trice and surged onward. From the darkness behind her came gasping of pain and angry grunting. Suzanne navigated by dim outlines here and there of reflected light from distant sources, but couldn’t see within the deep shadows all around. She held out her palms to feel the brick wall she knew was ahead, and there she would make a turn to the left, where she might possibly come upon another torch so that at least she would be able to see her way to Bank Side. But not wanting to smack headlong into the wall slowed her down. Running footsteps approached from behind. Before she could reach the end of the alley she was grabbed from behind, jerked backward by her hair.

She twisted, but he held her in a solid, painful grip. To her horror, he was able to detain her with only one hand, which gripped her throat. It pressed her against his chest, and his voice reverberated through her and shuddered down her spine. “Hold still, you stupid whore.”

She tried to scream, but the large hand cut off her air. She grabbed at it, and dug in with her fingernails. He cried out, a feral, angry roar. His other hand slammed into her flailing arm. The dagger went into her arm. Oddly, it didn’t hurt much. Only a slight, metallic pain. She continued to struggle, and again caught the blade with another part of her arm. The hand holding her throat loosened in the fray as he cursed his bad luck, and she drew a deep, ragged breath. She screamed again, this time at full throat and the sound echoed from the surrounding buildings.

“Shut up!”

“Let me go!”

He struggled to throttle her again, but she twisted to deny him sufficient purchase. The dagger tried for her throat, but missed her entirely as she grappled.

“Hold still!”

“No!”

There came a thud, and Cawthorne grunted once. Suddenly his grip released, and Suzanne staggered to keep her feet as the duke fell to the ground. Another figure had come behind, and now she watched that shadow draw a small dagger from his shirt and face off against the duke, who felt of the back of his head and said, “Who are you?”

“The archangel Michael.” Angel he might have been, but Suzanne recognized Ramsay’s voice. He continued, “You murdered your own son, and you’ll pay for it.”

“That’s hardly your business. He was my son.” He scrambled to his feet, and squared off against Ramsay, his dagger at ready.

There was a black moment of rage from Ramsay, who then muttered, “I believe you’re a man who just needs killing.” Then he attacked with his
sgian dubh
.

Cawthorne parried and backed toward Suzanne. She wished she had a knife of her own, and would gladly have cut his throat from behind. Instead she balled her fist and whacked the side of his head. He staggered and Ramsay attacked again, but the duke was close enough to parry and he backed around, away from Suzanne, to recover. Now Ramsay was between Suzanne and Cawthorne and she was no longer in a position to help.

Suzanne’s screams had attracted others, who called out alarm and came running with shouts of “Murder!” Men with some candles and a torch swarmed from the coffeehouse up the alley, and others in the surrounding tenements poked their heads from windows and held candles to see what was all the ruckus, shouting “You leave her alone!” Ramsay ignored the chatter of onlookers wanting to know what was going on and warning each other of the big man with a knife.

Ramsay made another foray, and this time was able to open a long cut in Cawthorne’s arm. Though the
sgian dubh
had a very short blade, the thing was uncommon-sharp. The duke gave a yelp, and jerked back that arm, but again recovered his en garde.

“Hold still so I can cut yer throat,” Ramsay mocked, his brogue thickening in disgust.

“You’ll hang for this.”

“Then I’ve nothing to lose by making certain you’re dead first.”

“You’re mad.”

“You’re soon to meet your maker.” Then Ramsay shouted, “Och! leave him alone, he’s mine!”

The duke took a glance behind to see who was there, and found nobody near. Ramsay took that brief slip, and drove a stab at Cawthorne’s throat. The small knife went in to the hilt. A spray of blood covered them both.

The next two stabs were probably unnecessary, and definitely the three after that were in excess. The duke collapsed to the pavement, dead without a doubt. He lay on the street, in the midst of an expanding pool of glistening blood. Ramsay watched him, alert to know whether he might still be alive, and ready to make sure he was not.

Cawthorne’s dagger lay on the cobbles, and Ramsay picked it up.

“Are you all right?” he asked Suzanne.

She shook her head. In a fit of unleashed rage, she hauled back and kicked the dead duke. She staggered back, then did it again. Then again, her ragged breaths feeling sharp in the cold air. There were no words for her anger, only the need to damage the evil at her feet.

Finally Ramsay took an arm and restrained her. “Where are you hurt?”

She pulled open her cloak, and held out her forearm for him to see the two stab wounds, and blood spreading along the white fabric of the shirt she wore. Along with the surrounding crowd she and Ramsay stared at the dead duke. Her terror hardened into anger. A knot formed in her heart and grew so large it choked her. Her fist clenched, and at that moment she wished with all her heart to hold that dagger in it and do to him the horrible thing he’d done to his son.