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
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
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