Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

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.”