Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

“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?”