The Point of Death by Peter Tonkin Page B

of sorrow on the stage, Tom folded the wounded hand across the still chest, then he cast it aside again, in the grip of growing revelation. Short of breath suddenly, he tore Morton's shirt-front wide.
    The man was dark, his chest matted with hair, but a moment's careful search revealed, just below his left nipple, where the oily curls were thickest - and most heavily tenanted with fleas - another cut. A cut such as a slightly larger pen-knife, big brother to that which might have cut his hand, might have made.
    Shouts of warning and outrage from the audience. A flickering disturbance to the thick light. A distant rumble of thunder and the first stealthy whisper of rain in the old rose garden outside. Tom heaved the dead man up on to his side. As he moved the corpse, there came a sluggish slopping, as of a quart or so of liquid on the move in the hollow of a barrel. Tom pulled the fine, creased linen out of the dead man's belt above the dagger he wore across his buttocks. Half-balancing the fallen column of the man, holding him still with one hand as he pulled the voluminous linen up to the lightly furred shoulders, Tom stripped Morton's back bare. And there, on the inner curve of his ribs, running in through the inner edge of his shoulder blade almost into the ridged range of his spine, was a wound the width of a little finger. A tiny mouth with a coral gape and a dead black throat, reaching straight into the barrel of his chest. And, as though the weight of Tom's understanding had some magic property, a stream of dark heart's blood burst out of it. The black stream caused Tom to leap back - though its stain would hardly have discoloured his black breeches or boots. He used the movement to spin himself into physical action. A glance out of the window raked across the innocent bustle moving to and from the Bankside. Then he was out into the backstage area, even as Julius Morton, apparently merely asleep, rolled languidly back on to his back upon the table and began to examine the ceiling with bright but heavy-lidded eyes. The dripping sounds grew louder. Moved out of the garden and into the Rose.
    The wardrobe keeper was there, still clutching his precious cloth. 'You'll have some cleaning-up to do,' spat Tom in an undertone as he sprinted for the stage. He knew already he would be too late but he had to make assurance double sure. His long sword spat out of its scabbard, echoing warlike sounds from the stage itself. His shoulder hit the pillar by the stage curtain hard and, breathing a swift prayer of thanks that Master Griggs the carpenter had built Master Henslowe's theatre so stoutly, he used the rapier blade to ease back the heavy brocade. Across the stage, Dick Burbage danced in the final, desperate duel of the play and the County Paris was preparing to die. They were alone onstage except for the sixpenny gallants, so it was easy enough for Tom to see that one of the stools, which had all been full until Julius Morton's murder, stood starkly empty now. One of the courtly blades who had joined unbidden in the sword fights and the riots was gone.
    Then, so was the chance for further speculation. All of the actors came milling up around him, ready to go onstage again to complete the final, vital section of their play. All of their futures depended upon it. And the play could go on of course, for Mercutio, after all, was dead.
    Tom caught hold of Will's princely sleeve and pulled him aside. 'It was murder,' he said, his voice low. 'He has been run through from behind. It was a master's stroke. Only the finest of blades could have done it. Only the blade that came so close to us, I think. And the man that wielded it has gone.'
    'But how could it have been done, Tom? On the stage of the Rose under the eyes of half of London and no one the wiser?'
    'Not only How ?, Will, but W'hy ? This was a deep plot, carefully laid. And a tangled web behind it, like as not.'
    'But what are we to do, Tom?'
    Tom opened his mouth to answer. To