Master Drew coughed to announce his presence.
Richard Burbage was still a handsome man in spite of the obvious ravages of the pox. He glanced up with a frown. “And who might you be, you rogue?” he grunted, still bending to his task.
Drew pursed his lips sourly and then suddenly smiled. “No rogue, that’s for sure. I might be the shade of Constable Dogberry come to demand amends for defamation of his character.”
Burbage paused and turned to examine him closely. “Are you a player, good master?”
“Not I,” replied Drew, “and God be thanked for it.”
“How make you freely with the name of Dogberry, then?”
“I have witnessed your plays, sir. I took offense to the pompous and comical portrayal of the constable in Master Shakespeare’s jotting. Much Ado about Nothing was its title and, indeed, Master Burbage, Much Ado about Nothing was a title never more truly given to such a work. ‘Twas certainly Much Ado about Nothing.”
Richard Burbage stood up and brushed himself down, frowning as he did so. “Are you, then, a critic of the theater, sir?”
“Not I. But I am a critic of the portrayal of a hardworking constable and the watch of this fair town of ours.”
“How so, good master?”
“I judge because I am a constable myself. Constable of Bankside in which this theater is placed.”
“Ar’t come to imprison me for defaming the watch then, sir?” asked Burbage stiffly.
Master Drew chuckled with good humor. “Marry, sir, there be not enough prisons in the entire kingdom wherein to imprison everyone who makes jest of the constable and his watch.”
“Then what-?”
“I am seeking one Tom Hawkins.”
Burbage groaned aloud. “What has he done? He is due on stage in an hour or so, and I fear we have no competent understudy. Do not tell me that you mean to arrest him? On what grounds?”
“I come not to arrest anyone… yet. Where is Master Hawkins?”
“Not here as yet.”
Master Drew looked round. There were a few people in corners of the theater, apparently rehearsing lines. “What play are you rehearsing?” he asked with interest.
“Will Shakespeare’s Famous History of the Life of King Henry VIII.”
“Ah, that is a play that I have not seen.”
“Then you would be most welcome to stay….”
“Does Master Hawkins take part in this play?”
“He does, for he is Cardinal Campeius,” came Burbage’s immediate response. “It is a part of medium tolerance, a few lines here and yonder.”
“The elderly harassed-looking doorman approached Burbage. “I declare, Master Richard, that the fools have not sent us gunpowder. What shall I do?”
Burbage took an oath by God and his angels that all except himself were incompetent fools and idlers. “Go directly to Master Glyn’s gunsmithy across the street and take a bucket. Return it filled with gunpowder, and tell Master Glyn that I will pay him after this evening’s performance.”
The old man went scurrying off.
“Gunpowder?” Master Drew frowned. “What part has gunpowder to do in your play?”
Burbage pointed to the back of the theater. “We have mounted a small cannon in one of the boxes on the second floor. The box will not be hired out during any performance.”
“And what will this cannon do, except blow the players to kingdom come?” demanded the constable wryly.
“Not so, not so. In act two, scene four, we have a grand scene with everyone on stage and the king and his entourage enters, with princes, dukes, and cardinals. It is a grand entrance, and Will Shakespeare calls for a sennet with divers trumpets and cornets. I thought to add to the spectacle by having a royal salute fired from a cannon. It will just be the ignition of the gunpowder, of course, but the combustion shall be explosive and startle our dreaming audience into concentration upon the action!”
Master Drew sniffed. “I doubt it will do more than cause them to have deafness and perhaps start a riot out of panic for fear that the papists have attacked the theater.” He was about to settle down to wait for Tom Hawkins when he had a further thought. “In truth, turning to concentration reminds me that I would have you set your mind upon a youth whose description I shall presently give.” He quickly sketched the description of the youth whose body they had fished out of the river.
Richard Burbages reaction was immediate. “God damn my eyes, Master Constable, I have been searching for that miscreant since this morning. He failed to turn up at the rehearsal, and I have had to give his part to his friend. Where is the execrable young rogue?”
“Dead these past twelve hours, I fear.”
Richard Burbage was shocked. He clapped his hand to his head. But the main reason for his perturbation was soon apparent. “A player short! If ever the gods were frowning on me this day…”
“I would know more about this boy…,” insisted the constable. Richard Burbage had turned to wave to a man who had just entered the theater.
Master Drew recognized Richard Burbage’s brother, Cuthbert, immediately.
“A good day to you, Master Constable. What is your business here this fine Saturday?” Cuthbert Burbage greeted him as he came forward.
His brother raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “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.