Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

The constable bent down and examined the features dispassionately. In life, the young man had been handsome, was well kempt. He had ginger hair, a splattering of freckles across the nose, and a scar, which might have been the result of a knife or sword, across the forehead over the right eye. His age was no more than twenty-one or twenty-two years. Master Drew considered that he might be the son of a squire or someone in the professions-a parsons son, perhaps. The constable’s expert scrutiny had ruled out his being of higher quality, for the clothes, while fashionable, were only of moderately good tailoring. Therefore, the young man had not been someone of flamboyant wealth.

The wherryman was peering over the constable’s shoulders and sniffed. “Victim of a footpad, most like?”

Master Drew did not answer, but keeping his leather gloves on, he took the hand of the young man and examined a large and ostentatious ring that was on it. “Since when did a footpad leave jewelry on his victim?” he asked. He removed the ring carefully and held it up. “Ah!” he commented.

“What, Master Constable?” demanded the wherryman.

Drew had noticed that the ring, ostentatious though it was, was not really as valuable as first glance might suggest. It boasted no, precious metals or stones, thus fitting the constable’s image of someone who wanted to convey a sense of style without the wealth to back it. He put it into his pocket.

There was a small leather purse on the man’s belt. Its mouth was not well tied. He opened it without expecting to find anything, so was surprised when a few coins and a key fell out. They were as dry as the interior of the purse.

“A sixpenny piece and three strange copper coins,” observed Master Drew. He held up one of the copper coins. “Marry! The new copper farthings. I have not seen any before this day.”

“What’s that?” replied the wherryman.

“These coins have just been issued to replace the silver farthings. Well, whatever the reason for his killing, robbery it was not.”

Master Drew was about to stand up when he noticed a piece of paper tucked into the man’s doublet. He drew it forth and tried to unfold it, sodden as it was.

“A theater bill. For the Blackfriars Theatre. A performance of The Maid’s Tragedy,” he remarked.

He rose and waved to two men of the watch, who were waiting on the quay with a cart. They came down onto the barge and, in answer to Master Drew’s gesture, manhandled the corpse up the stone steps to their cart.

“What now then, Constable?” demanded the old wherryman.

“Back to your work, man,” replied Master Drew. “And I to mine. I have to discover who this young coxcomb is… was , and the reason for his being in the river with his throat slit.”

“Will there be a reward for finding him?” the wherryman asked slyly. “I have lost time in landing my cargo of coal.”

Master Drew regarded the man without humor. “When you examined the purse of the corpse, Master Wherryman, you neglected to retie it properly. If he had gone into the river with the purse open as it was, then the interior would not have been dry, and neither would the coins.”

The wherryman winced at the constable’s cold tone.

“I do not begrudge you a reward, which you have taken already, but out of interest, how much was left in the purse when you found it?”

“By the faith, Master Constable…,” the wherryman protested.

“The truth now!” snapped Master Drew, his gray eyes glinting like wet slate.

“I took only a silver shilling, that is all. On my mothers honor.”

“I will take charge of that money,” replied the constable, holding out his hand. “And I will forget what I have heard, for theft is theft and the reward for a thief is a hemp rope. Remember that, and I’ll leave you to your honest toil.”

One of the watchmen was waiting eagerly for the constable as he climbed up onto the quay. “Master Drew, I do reckon I’ve seen this ‘ere cove somewhere afore,” he said, raising his knuckles to his forehead in salute.

Master Drew regarded the man dourly. “Well, then? Where do you think you have seen him before?”

“I do be trying ‘ard to think on’t.” His companion was staring at the face of the corpse with a frown. “ ‘E be right. I do say ‘e be one o’ them actor fellows. Can’t think where I see’d ‘im.”

Master Drew glanced sharply at him. “An actor?”

He stared down at the theater bill he still held in his gloved hand and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Take him up to the mortuary. I have business at the Blackfriars Theatre.”

The constable turned along the quay and found a solitary boatman soliciting for custom. The man looked awkward as the constable approached.

“I need your services,” Master Drew said shortly, putting the man a little at ease, for it was rare that the appearance of the constable on the waterfront meant anything other than trouble. “Blackfriars Steps.”

“Sculls then, Master Constable?” queried the man.

“Sculls it is,” Master Drew agreed, climbing into the small dinghy. The boatman sat at his oars and sent the dinghy dancing across the river to the north bank, across the choppy waters, which were raised by an easterly wind.

As they crossed, Drew was not interested in the spectacle up to London Bridge, with its narrow arches where the tide ran fast because of the constriction of the crossing. Beyond it, he knew, was the great port, where ships from all parts of the world tied up, unloading cargoes under the shadow of the grim, gray Tower. The north bank, where the city proper was sited, was not Constable Drew’s jurisdiction. He was constable on the south bank of the river but he was not perturbed about crossing out of his territory. He knew the City Watch well enough.

The boat rasped against the bottom of Blackfriars Steps. He flipped the man a halfpenny and walked with a measured tread up the street toward the tower of St. Paul’s rising above the city, which was shrouded with the acrid stench of coal fires rising from a hundred thousand chimneys. It was not far to the Blackfriars Theatre.

He walked in and was at once hailed by a tall man who fluttered his hands nervously. “I say, fellow! Away! Begone! The theater is not open for another three hours yet.”

Master Drew regarded the man humorlessly “I come not to see the play but to seek information.” He reached behind his jerkin and drew forth his seal of office.

“A constable?” The man assumed a comical woebegone expression. “What do you seek here, good Constable? We have our papers in order, the license from the Lord Chamberlain. What is there that is wrong?”

“To whom do I speak?” demanded Master Drew.

“Why, to Master Page Williams, the assistant manager of our company-Children of the Revel.” The man stuck out his chin proudly.

“And are any of your reveling children astray this afternoon?”

“Astray, good master? What do you mean?”

“I speak plainly. Are all your company of players accounted for today?”

“Indeed, they be. We are rehearsing our next performance, which requires all our actors.”

“Is there no one missing?”

“All are present. Why do you ask?”

Master Drew described the body of the young man that had been fished from the river. Master Page Williams looked unhappy.

“It seems that I know the youth. An impetuous youth, he was, who came to this theater last night and claimed to be a playwright whose work had been stolen.”

“Did he have a name?”

“Alas, I have forgotten it, if I were even told it. This youth, if it be one and the same, strutted in before the evening performance of our play and demanded to speak with the manager. I spoke with him.”