Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

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

“Where did this Oliver Rowe reside?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He is dead.”

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

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

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

“Master Rowe was murdered.”

“Diw! Diw!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he have another name?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you read, man?”

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

“Then who is Teazle Rowe?”

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

Constable Drew groaned inwardly.

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

“And where is this Master Teazle now?”

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

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

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

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

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

Master Drew let out an exasperated sigh.

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

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

“When did you last see Master Rowe?”

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

“Last night? At what hour?”

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

“Disturbing them? In what way?”

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

“And after you told them to be quiet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is Master Hawkins?” he demanded.

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

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

“Are you Master Hawkins?”