Drew looked at his mentor blankly. “Yet this does not lead us any closer to apprehending the man.”
“There are too many of this description on the streets of this city for us to single one out and charge him,” agreed the old constable.
“Do you plan to leave it so?”
“For the time being. Come, Master Drew. I will have a word with this Burbage and his players before they are dismissed.”
The company was standing or sitting on stage in gloomy groups. A tall balding man, well dressed, was engaged in earnest conversation with Burbage.
“Ah.” Burbage turned. “This is the constable, Will. Master Topcliff, this is Master Shakespeare.”
The balding man inclined his head to the constable. “What news? Can you say who engineered the death of our player, sir?”
“Master Fulke saw the murderer enter your actors dressing room and has given a full description-”
There was a gasp from several members of the group, and all eyes turned to Master Fulke, who momentarily stood with flushed surprise. He had not expected the constable to reveal his attestation.
“So you mean to arrest the culprit?” queried the playwright.
“Not immediately, Master Shakespeare. We will consider our move for a while. Master Fulke here has given a good description, but he has not, so far, recalled where he has seen the person before, though he is sure he recognized him. We will wait to see if his memory improves.”
Fulke made a move forward as if to deny the constable’s interpretation, but Master Topcliff turned and glared at the man, so that Fulke lowered his head and hurried off.
The old constable turned to the assembly and bowed low, flourishing his hat.
As he left the theater, Master Drew came trotting in his wake. “I do not understand,” he ventured as he hurried to keep up with the long strides of the constable.
Master Topcliff paused in the street and turned to him. “Are you city bred or country bred, young man?”
“City bred, Master Constable.”
“I thought so. I am country bred and raised in the fields of Kent. When the quarry goes to ground, what does the huntsman do? You know not? Of course, you know not. What is done is that you prepare a lure.”
Hardy Drew frowned. “Then you have prepared Fulke as a bait in a trap?”
“If our murderer is one of the gentlemen of Master Burbage’s company, he will come this night to make sure that Master Fulke’s memory does not return.”
“A harsh judgment on Fulke if we are not there when the murderer visits him.”
“Indeed, but be there we will. We will go to the lodgings of Master Fulke and prepare our snare with Fulke as the unknowing decoy.”
Master Drew looked at the old constable with a new respect. “And I thought…”
Master Topcliff smiled. “You must learn the ways of the gamekeeper, young man, and learn that it is always best to tell the poacher where you have set your traps for him.”
They took themselves to the Bell Tavern in Potters Field. A few coins pressed in willing hands were able to secure a booth with curtains from which they could view the front entrance of the tavern. This station fell to Master Topcliff, while Hardy Drew, being the younger and hardier, took up his position at the rear entrance of the tavern, so that either entrance to Fulke’s rooms might be observed.
A little the worse for drink, Raif Fulke entered the tavern toward ten o’clock and made his way immediately up to his room.
It was well after midnight that there was a scream, and the innkeeper’s wife came running to Master Topcliff, her eyes wide and frightened. “ ‘E’s dead. Master Fulke is killed!”
Master Topcliff called to a young man hefting barrels to run around the back of the inn and inform Master Drew. Master Topcliff tried to make for the stairs but found the innkeeper’s wife clinging to his sleeve and expanding in detail on her fright.
No one had entered from the back door; of that Hardy Drew was certain. He hurried into the inn and up the back stairs to the bedchambers. He saw one of the doors open at the end of a corridor and ran in.
Master Raif Fulke lay on the floor. A candle burned nearby, but it scarcely needed the light to see that there was dark blood oozing from several wounds on the man’s chest. Miraculously, Fulke’s chest still rose and fell. He was not yet dead.
Drew knelt by him and raised his head. “Who did it, Fulke, who did it?”
The actor opened his eyes. Even in his condition, he smiled, though grimly. “I would not have known him…,” he wheezed painfully. “Like Rousillon, I knew him not…. Why? Why, young sir? Jealousy is a fierce foe. That was the reason.”
He coughed suddenly, and blood spurted from his mouth.
“Take it easy, Fulke. Name the man.”
“Name? Ah… for, indeed, he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what….”
He coughed again and then smiled, as if apologetically.
“The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud if our faults whispered this not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.”
“The name, man, quick, give me the name.”
Fulke’s breathing was hard and fast. “I am a’feared the life of Helena… was foully snatched…”
“Helena?” demanded Drew. “Do you say that Helena, Hester Eldred, that is, is now in danger from this man?”
Fulke forced a smile.
“Helena? Methought you saw a serpent…” he began.
Drew compressed his lips in irritation.
“Concentrate, Fulke, name your assailant.”
Fulke coughed again. He was growing weaker and had not long.
“The play… the play’s the thing…”
Then his eyes dilated and for the first time he realized that he was going to die. The moment of truth came for Master Fulke in one horrible mute second before he fell back and was dead. Master Topcliff hurried in, having shaken off the terrified innkeepers wife.
“Did he say aught?” he asked breathlessly.
Drew shook his head.
“He was rambling. His last words were something about the play being the thing… what thing?”
Master Topcliff smiled grimly.
“I fear it was only a line from Master Shakespeare’s tragedy of the Prince of Denmark. I recognize it well, for it is a play of murder and intrigue that held much meaning for me. ‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll capture the conscience of the king.’ No use to us. This is my fault. I was too confident. I let this murderer out of my grasp.”
“How did he get in? I can swear that he did not pass me at the back door.”
“Nor from the front,” vowed Master Topcliff.
He peered round. The window was still open, the curtain flapping. There was a small balcony outside, built out above the waters of the Thames. The river, smelly and dirty, was lapping just below. The window and balcony were on the side of the building, for it was built sideways onto the river, and was blind to the scrutiny of anyone watching the front and back.
They stared out onto the darkened waters. The assailant must have come by rowing boat and pulled up against the wall of the inn, under the balcony. It was high water, and easy to pull oneself up toward this balcony and then climb through Fulke’s window.
“Our man will be long gone by now. Now, truly, all we can do is return to our lodgings and secure a good nights repose. Tomorrow morning, I think we will have another word with Master Will Painter. Logic shows him as our likely suspect.”
Hardy Drew sighed with exasperation as he stared down at the actors body. “Faith, he rambled on so much. Had he known he was dying, I doubt whether he would have quoted so much from his part in this play.”
He suddenly spied a sheaf of papers on the bed. Bending, he picked them up and perused them.
“All’s Well That End’s Well,” he quoted the title. “A bad ending for some.”