“I did.”
“Did he go to speak with Bertrando or Hester?”
“I did not stay to see, but I think not. He is at enmity with them, for Hester once lived with Master Fulke and he bears no fondness for Bertrando. It is well known that Fulke is jealous of Bertrando and his success both on stage and with women.”
“Well, Master Painter, do you go to call this Hester here, but do not go beyond the confines of the theater until we tell you.”
The girl Hester came almost immediately.
Old Master Topcliff and his assistant, aware of the niceties and refinements, had stopped her from entering the dressing room with the dead body and proceeded to question her outside. She was an attractive woman whose silk gown may have seen better days but which still enhanced the contours of her figure, leaving little to the imagination. That she had taken the news of the death of her lover badly was written on her tearstained features. Her skin was pale and her eyes red with sobbing.
“I hear you were Bertrandos lover?” began Master Drew without preamble.
The girl sobbed and raised a square of muslin to the corner of her eye and dabbed it. “Lover? I am Mistress Herbert Eldred,” she announced, raising her chin slightly. “So have I been these past two years. I have a paper to prove it.”
Master Drew blinked, but it was the only expression that he gave of surprise.
Master Topcliff sighed as if totally puzzled. “Faith! Who is Herbert Eldred?” he demanded in bewilderment.
Master Drew glanced swiftly at him. “The actor, sir, Bertrando Emillio. Herbert Eldred is his real name.”
“Ah, I had forgotten. Why these people cannot stick to one name, I have no understanding.” He looked hard at the girl. “I am of the impression that no one in this company of players knows that you were married?”
“Herbert-Bertrando as was-felt it better that we keep our marriage a secret lest it impede his career. If you want proof of our marriage, then I have-”
Master Topcliff made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “No need for proof at this stage. So, if you are the dead man’s wife, you, therefore, had no cause to kill him?”
The girl stared at him in indignation. “Of course I had no cause to kill him! But there be others….” She hesitated as if regretting what she had said.
Hardy Drew was swift to follow her words. “Others?”
Her eyes were now narrowed in suspicion. “But why speak of that when I understood that a thief had attacked him and killed him?”
“Who told you that?”
“It is common talk among the players.”
“Were you in this part of the theater while the others were gathering on stage for the rehearsal?” pressed Drew without answering her previous question.
“For a moment, no more.”
“When did you last see Bertrando?”
“I came with him from our lodgings to the theater. I left him to change for the rehearsal while I did the same, and then I went to the stage, but Bertrando was not there. When he did not come, Master Burbage went to fetch him.”
“You left him well?”
The girl pursed her lips in a grimace. “Bertrando was always well. I left him entering that room behind you. Is that-?”
Master Drew nodded in answer to the unfinished question. “Please wait for us in the theater and send us who plays the part of Violenta.”
A tall fair-haired young girl appeared shortly after Hester Eldred had left them. From a distance, she looked the picture of maidenly virtue and innocence. Only when she grew near did Hardy Drew see the hard lines around the mouth, the coldness of the blue eyes, and the smoldering resentment in her features. Her body was too fleshy and would grow to fat in middle age, and the pouting mouth would turn to an ugly form.
“I am Nelly Porter,” she announced, her voice betraying signs of the West Country. “What is your need of me?”
“I understand that you play the part of Violenta in this new drama?”
“A joyous ‘comedy,’” she sneered. “And what of it? I have played many parts in the French theater.”
“How well did you know Bertrando?”
She gave a raucous laugh. “As well as any maid who trod the boards of this theater, aye, and who came within the grasp of the Pig!”
“There is hatred in your voice, mistress,” intervened Master Topcliff mildly.
“Hatred enough,” affirmed the girl, indifferent to his censure.
“Hatred enough to kill him?” demanded Hardy Drew.
“Aye, I’ll not deny it. I could have killed the pig who ravished girls and left them to bear his children and fend for themselves.”
“He did that to you?”
“So he did. Two years ago. But my child died.”
“And did you kill him for vengeance’ sake?”
“No, that’s Gods truth. But I do not grieve nor do I condemn his killer. If that is a crime, I am ready to be punished.”
“You are honest enough with your dislikes. Where were you just before the rehearsal?”
“I was late getting to the theater from my lodgings, that’s all.”
“Did anyone see you arrive at the theater?”
“None that I know of. I went straight to the stage on my arrival, so only the people there saw me.”
“I see. Wait for us now on stage and send us the actor who plays Parolles. I believe his name is Master Fulke.”
She walked away without another word, and they watched her go before exchanging glances.
“She is not exactly grieving over her former lover’s death,” Master Topcliff observed, stating the obvious.
Master Fulke was poised, could pass as a gentleman, but was not exactly handsome. He was too round of the face, and too smooth of skin and too ready with an ingratiating smile.
“Well, Master Fulke…”
“You want to know where I was before I joined the gathering on the stage?” Fulke greeted a little breathlessly.
“You seem to know my mind,” replied Drew gravely.
The genial actor shrugged. “It is hard to keep a secret among so small a company. I was delayed, if you wish to know. I arrived late at the theater-”
“Late from where?”
“From my lodgings in Potters Fields. I have a room in the Bell Tavern overlooking the river.”
“That is but ten minutes’ walk from here.”
“Indeed so.”
“Why were you delayed?”
The man rolled his eyes expressively. “A rendezvous.” He smiled complacently.
“And this, this rendezvous, it made you late arriving? Did anyone see you arrive?”
“I brushed by that young upstart, Will Painter.”
“But you did not see Bertrando?”
Master Fulke sneered. “Bertrando! Yes, I saw Master Herbert Eldred. He, too, had a rendezvous…. I saw him go to his dressing room. Then I saw someone enter after him. It was not my concern. So I went on my way to join those on stage for the rehearsal.” He sniffed. “We were fifteen minutes into the rehearsal when Master Burbage began to worry that Eldred had not appeared. I told Burbage where he might be found.”
Master Topcliff tried to suppress his excitement. “God’s wounds, man! Do you tell me that you actually saw his murderer?”
“No, I do not, sir. I said I saw someone enter his dressing room after Eldred had gone in. I have no way of saying this was the murderer. I did not stay longer, as I said, but passed on to the rehearsal.”
“Describe the person,” Topcliff ordered sharply. “Who else would it be but the murderer?”
“A man, short of stature, of wiry appearance, I would say. He wore his hair long and dark, underneath a feathered hat. There was a short cloak. He wore boots. The colors were dark and tailored in the latest fashion. I could see no more in the gloom of the passage. In truth, though, there was something familiar about him, though I cannot quite place it. It may come to me later.”
Master Topcliff was pleased. He dismissed Master Fulke and turned to Hardy Drew with grim satisfaction on his face. “Well, at least we know our killer was a man, and that he was no common cutthroat but someone who could afford to dress well.”