“Fine Saturday, indeed, brother! Tell him, Master Constable, while I am about my business. It lacks only an hour before the play begins.” He turned and scurried away.
Quickly, Master Drew told Cuthbert Burbage of what had passed.
“So, young Oliver is drowned, eh?”
“Oliver?”
“That was the lads name, Oliver Rowe. Did he fall drunk into the river to drown?”
Master Drew shook his head. “I said we hauled him from the river, not that he drowned. Young Oliver Rowe had his throat slit before he went into his watery grave. It was not for robbery either, for he still had money in his purse and”—he pulled out the ring from his pocket—”this ring on his finger.”
Cuthbert let out an angry hiss. “That, sir, is theater property. No more than a simple actor’s paste. A cheap imitation. I had wondered where it had gone. Damn Oliver—”
“He is damned already, Master Cuthbert,” interrupted Master Drew.
Cuthbert hung his head contritely. “Forgive me, I quite forgot. I was thinking of his making off with theater property.”
“Had this Oliver Rowe been long with you?”
“A year, no more.”
“A good actor?”
“Hardly that, sir. He lacked experience and dedication. Though, I grant, he made up for his lack with a rare enthusiasm.”
“Would anyone wish him ill?”
“You seek a reason for his murder?”
“I do.”
“Then I have none to give you. He had no enemies but many friends, particularly of the fairer sex.”
“And male friends?”
“Several within the company.”
“Was Master Hawkins a particular friend of his?”
“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
Quickly, Master Drew told Cuthbert Burbage of what had passed.
“So, young Oliver is drowned, eh?”
“Oliver?”
“That was the lads name, Oliver Rowe. Did he fall drunk into the river to drown?”
Master Drew shook his head. “I said we hauled him from the river, not that he drowned. Young Oliver Rowe had his throat slit before he went into his watery grave. It was not for robbery either, for he still had money in his purse and”—he pulled out the ring from his pocket—”this ring on his finger.”
Cuthbert let out an angry hiss. “That, sir, is theater property. No more than a simple actor’s paste. A cheap imitation. I had wondered where it had gone. Damn Oliver—”
“He is damned already, Master Cuthbert,” interrupted Master Drew.
Cuthbert hung his head contritely. “Forgive me, I quite forgot. I was thinking of his making off with theater property.”
“Had this Oliver Rowe been long with you?”
“A year, no more.”
“A good actor?”
“Hardly that, sir. He lacked experience and dedication. Though, I grant, he made up for his lack with a rare enthusiasm.”
“Would anyone wish him ill?”
“You seek a reason for his murder?”
“I do.”
“Then I have none to give you. He had no enemies but many friends, particularly of the fairer sex.”
“And male friends?”
“Several within the company.”
“Was Master Hawkins a particular friend of his?”
“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
Similar Books
