Topcliff rose to his feet at once. “A count, you say?”
“The Count of Rousillon, master.”
Topcliff exchanged an anxious glance with his deputy. “A foreign nobleman murdered at a London theater,” he sighed. “This does not augur well in the present travails. There is anxiety enough in this city without involving the enmity of the embassy of France.”
He reached for his hat and cloak and signaled Master Drew to follow, saying to the youth: “Lead on, boy. Show us where this Count of Rousillon’s body lies.”
The Globe Theatre was a half a mile from the rooms of the Constable of the Bankside Watch, and they made the journey in quick time. There were several people in small groups around the door of the theater. People attracted by the news of disaster like flies to a honey pot.
A middle-aged man stood at the door, awaiting them. His face bore a distracted, anxious gaze, and he was wringing his hands in a helpless, almost theatrical gesture. Hardy Drew tried to hide a smile, for the action was so preposterous that the humor caught him. It was as if the man were playing at the expression of agitated despair.
“Give you good day, sir,” Master Topcliff greeted breezily.
“Lackaday, sir,” replied the other. “For I do fear that any good in the day has long vanished. My name is Burbage, and I am the director of this company of players.”
“I hear from your boy that a foreign nobleman lies dead in your theater. This is serious.”
Burbage’s eyes widened in surprise. “A foreign nobleman?” He sounded bewildered.
“Indeed, sir, what name was it? The Count of Rousillon. Have I been informed incorrectly?”
A grimace crossed Master Burbage’s woebegone face. “He was no foreign nobleman, sir.”
“How now?” demanded Master Topcliff in annoyance. “Is the constable to be made the butt of some mischievous prank? Is there no murder then?”
“Oh, yes. Murder, there is, good Constable. But the body is that of our finest player, Bertrando Emillio. He plays the role of the Count of Rousillon in our current production.”
Master Topcliff snorted with indignation.
“An actor?” Master Topcliff made it sound as though it was beneath his dignity to be called out to the murder of an actor. He gave a sniff. “Well, since we are here, let us view the body.”
Burbage led them to the back of the stage, where several people stood or sat in groups quietly talking amongst themselves. One woman was sitting sobbing, comforted by another. Their whispers ceased as they saw the constable and his deputy. From their appearance, so Drew thought, they were all members of the company of actors. He glanced across their expressions, for they ranged from curiosity to distress to bewilderment, while others seemed to have a tinge of anxiety on their faces.
Burbage led them to what was apparently a small dressing room, in a darkened corridor behind the stage, which was full of hanging clothes and baskets and all manner of clutter. On one basket was a pile of neat clothes, well folded, with leather belt and purse on top.
In the middle of this room lay the body of a young man, who in life and been of saturnine appearance. He was stretched on his back, one arm flung out above his head. The eyes were open, and the face was masked in a curious expression as if of surprise. He wore nothing more than a long linen shirt that probably had once been white. Now it was stained crimson with his blood. It needed no physician to tell them that the young man had died from several stab wounds to his chest and stomach. Indeed, by the body, a long bone-handled knife, of the sort used for carving meat, lay discarded and bloody.
Master Topcliff glanced down dispassionately. Death was no stranger to the environs of London, either north or south of the river. In particular, violent death was a constant companion among the lanes and streets around the river.
“His name is Bertrando Emillio, you say? That sounds foreign to me. Was he Italian?”
Master Burbage shook his head. “He was as English as you or I, sir. No, Bertrando Emillio was but the name he used for our company of players.”
Master Topcliffe was clearly irritated. “God’s wounds! I like not confusion. First I am told that he is the Count of Rousillon. Then I am told he is an actor, one Bertrando Emillio. Who now do you claim him to be?”
“Faith, sir, he is Herbert Eldred of Cheapside,” replied Burbage unhappily. “But while he treads the boards, he is known to the public by his stage name-Bertrando Emillio. It is a common practice among us players to assume such names.”
Master Topcliff grunted unappeased by the explanation. “Who found him thus?” he asked curtly.
As he was asking the question, Master Drew had fallen to his knees to inspect the body more closely. There were five stab wounds to the chest and stomach. They had been inflicted as if in a frenzy, for he saw the ripping of the flesh caused by the hurried tearing of the knife, and he realized that any one of the wounds could have been mortal. He was about to rise when he saw some paper protruding under the body. Master Drew rolled the body forward toward its side to extract the papers. In doing so, he noticed that there was a single stab wound in Bertrando’s back, between the shoulder blades. He picked up the papers, let the body roll into its former position on its back, and stood up.
“Who found him thus?” Master Topcliff repeated.
“I did,” confessed Master Burbage. “We were rehearsing for our new play, in which he plays the Count de Rousillon. It was to be our first performance this very Saturday afternoon, and this was to be our last rehearsal in the costumes we shall wear. Truly, the stars were in bad aspect when Master Shakespeare chose this day to put forward his new work.”
“You are presenting a new play by Master Shakespeare?” queried Hardy Drew, speaking for the first time. He had ascertained that the papers under the body were a script of sorts, and presumably the part was meant for Bertrando.
“Indeed, a most joyous comedy called All’s Well That Ends Well,” affirmed Burbage, albeit a mite unhappily.
“Let us hope that it pleases the loyal subjects of the Queen’s Majesty better than your previous production,” muttered Master Drew.
Master Topcliff shot his deputy a glance of annoyance before turning back to Burbage. “This is a comedy that has turned to tragedy for your player, Master Director. All has not ended well here.”
Burbage groaned theatrically. “You do not have to tell me, sir. We must cancel our performance.” His eyes widened suddenly in realization. “Z’life! Master Shakespeare is already on his way from Stratford to attend. How can I tell him the play is canceled?”
“Isn’t it the custom to have an understudy for the part?” asked Hardy Drew.
“Usually,” agreed Burbage, “but in this case, Bertrando was so jealous of his role that he refused to allow his understudy to attend rehearsals for him to perfect the part. Now the understudy has no time to learn his part before our first performance is due.”
“What is known about this killing?” interrupted Master Topcliff, bored with the problems of the play-master.
Burbage frowned. “I do not follow.”
“Is it known who did this deed or who might have done it?”
“Why, no. I came on the body a half an hour since. Most of us were on stage reading our parts. When Bertrando did not come to join us, I came here in search of him and found him as you see.”
“So you suspect no one?”
“No one would wish to harm Bertrando, for he is one of… was one of our most popular players with our audiences.”
Hardy Drew raised an eyebrow. “Surely that would not endear him to his fellow actors? What of this understudy that he has excluded from rehearsals? Where is he?”
Burbage looked shocked. “You suspect one of our players of such a deed?” he asked incredulously.