The Play's the Thing (The Chronicles of Christoval Alvarez Book 7) Page 6

  He gave me a grateful, but shaky, smile. ‘That would be a kindness, Kit. I have had odd pains and flutterings in my chest as well, which has worried me, I must confess.’

  At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of Lord Hunsdon, accompanied by Master Burbage and followed by Aemilia Bassano and two gentleman servants who fussed over the table and the inn’s arrangements.

  Before long we were seated, Lord Hunsdon at the centre of the long table, next to Master Burbage, the rest of us arranged on both sides. I took a place near the end, feeling that it was not for me to sit too near the great man. To my surprise, instead of taking the other chair next to her patron, Mistress Bassano sat almost opposite me, next to Will and opposite Simon.

  Perhaps noticing my look of surprise, she laughed. ‘I have enough of the conversation of great lords every day. I am far more interested in this company of players and what you have to say for yourselves.’

  That was enough to freeze tongues temporarily, but we soon relaxed after Guy, sitting on her other side, had teased her a little about her family and talked of a new motet he had bought. They were soon engrossed in talk of music, drawing the rest of us in, for although Guy was the principal musician, all of the players could play an instrument or two, when needed, just as they could perform dances as complex as any at Court.

  I saw Will once again eyeing Mistress Bassano thoughtfully, but despite his occasional wildness and his fondness for dalliance, I hoped he knew better than to try to seduce the Lord Chamberlain’s mistress.

  From the start, I liked and admired Aemilia Bassano for her independence and her scorn of gossip. Somehow – I am not sure how – we had moved on from music to the part women must play in society.

  ‘A woman,’ she said, pointing an admonitory finger at me, ‘has an intellect as good as any man. She can be as fine a scholar – observe the Queen, one of the greatest scholars of our age and a gifted linguist. We can compose or paint or write as well as any man, did the men not stand in our way and mock us.’

  I saw that Simon was watching us with amusement, as we sat around over the Golden Dragon’s sumptuous fare, eating forgotten in the enthusiasm of our discussion.

  ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘but Kit’s former tutor, Dr Harriot, would swear that no woman can understand mathematics or astronomy.’

  Aemilia opened her mouth to protest, but I forestalled her.

  ‘I agree with you Mistress Bassano. And I do not agree with Dr Harriot, on this point at least.’

  She was clearly surprised at this answer.

  ‘You believe women can be scholars and writers?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It is good to hear that from the lips of a man. Someday,’ she said quietly, ‘I shall publish a book of my own, of my poems.’ She gave me a shrewd and somewhat disconcerting glance.

  ‘I should be glad to read it,’ I said. I wondered what she would think, were I to reveal my secret to her. She would probably urge me to continue to practise as a physician, even openly as a woman.

  Will was watching us with that look of his, keen as a hunting hawk. Sometimes his eyelids would fall heavily over his eyes, shielding his expression, then that bright glance would dart forth again, sudden as a rapier. I also found that disturbing, as if I were being stripped naked.

  ‘It would make an excellent subject for a play,’ he said, ‘an academy of learned women, who perhaps have forsworn the company of men.’

  Aemilia looked at him somewhat belligerently. ‘I suppose you would write a comedy of it, and make us a mockery for the groundlings.’

  He smiled thoughtfully. ‘I would never make a mockery of you, mistress. And, true, it would be a comedy, in that a comedy begins when something is awry in the world and ends when a balance is restored. From chaos to order. Indeed, it would be a world in chaos if love were denied, but love and learned women can surely live together, can they not?’

  I saw Aemilia blush at that, and thought again that Will must be careful.

  ‘And Kit,’ he said, ‘I might bring in a few Muscovites, in your honour.’

  I laughed. ‘I’ll wager you cannot manage it. An academy of learned women, and Muscovites? I think that would stretch credulity too far.’

  Afterwards, I would ponder long and hard on what Aemilia had said. Spending time in her company as I came to know her better in later months, I longed to have her freedom and her assurance that she had the right to be both a woman and a person of talent and learning. To my discomfort, I even envied her beautiful clothes. Would I ever have the courage to cast aside my male disguise and live again as a woman? I would have to sacrifice much, but could I find the kind of freedom she had? One thing was certain. I was known to too many dangerous men in London. If I were to carve out a new future as a woman, I would have to leave.

  Our discussion of the position of women moved on to discussion of the company’s new plays, several of which had been written by Will. I caught the admiration in Aemilia’s eyes as she spoke of his gift for poetry and sensed that Will was responding with more than usual warmth.

  The inn’s maidservants, more smartly dressed than usual, cleared away the broken meats and greasy dishes. Then the innkeeper himself appeared, lit on his way by two pot boys carrying flambeaux, which streamed out behind them in the dark like the tails of comets. The innkeeper bore on high a vast platter, on which stood a castle all made of sugar, which glittered in the light of the flames like hoar frost under a winter sun. We all gasped in admiration. The castle appeared to stand on a rocky crag, and affixed to the side of it was a flat disc of sugar paste, delicately painted with Lord Hunsdon’s arms. We burst into spontaneous applause.

  ‘Aemilia my love,’ Lord Hunsdon called down the table to her, ‘the honour of breaching my fortress falls to you. Come, and do your duty.’

  She rose, shaking out her skirts, and went obediently to his side. So, I thought, she has not so much freedom after all. Not as much freedom as I, if the truth be told. When the man who owns her calls, she must obey.

  ‘It seems a shame to spoil it,’ she said. ‘Someone has expended much time and artistry to make this.’ She smiled across the table at the innkeeper. ‘Was it made here at the Green Dragon?’

  ‘Nay, my lady.’ The innkeeper looked confused, uncertain how to address her. ‘We have no such skills here. It was made by a confectioner in Petty France. One of those Huguenot refugees from Paris.’

  ‘Then please convey our thanks and admiration to him – or her. Is it a man or a woman who has such talent?’

  ‘It is a woman.’ He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘I understand she was trained in the royal household in Paris before the family fled to England.’

  ‘I thought I detected a woman’s delicate handiwork.’ She flashed a smile down toward our end of the table before she began carefully to demolish the exquisite edifice, passing portions to a maidservant who carried them to the guests in turn.

  The maid had just reached Guy, with a plate containing a small sugar turret, when there was a curious sound from the far end of the table, a groan which ended in a sharp cry. Everyone stopped speaking and looked in that direction, but the end of the table, being beyond the light of the flambeaux, was in deep shadow.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ Master Burbage called sharply.

  ‘I’m not sure, Father.’ It was Cuthbert. ‘I think Master Wandesford has been taken ill.’

  There was another cry, then a crash and a tinkle of broken glass. One of the precious Venetian goblets, I thought.

  ‘Kit!’ Cuthbert’s voice was urgent. ‘I think you are needed.’

  I sprang from my chair and retrieved my satchel before running to the far end of the table.

  ‘Light!’ I said, ‘bring those torches nearer so that we can see what is amiss.’

  As the pot boys hurried after me, the scene became clear. Master Wandesford was slumped in his chair, the upper part of his body sprawled across the table. One arm, thrashing about, had smashed two glasses and the fragm
ents glinted in the light from the flames. A stinking pool of vomit lay amongst the plates of sugar confectionery and his neighbours had drawn away from him in disgust. He was convulsing and moaning.

  I grabbed one of the damask table napkins and lifted his face from the pool of vomit so that I could wipe his mouth and nose clear. His breathing was laboured and shallow. When I felt the pulse in his neck, I detected a racing heartbeat.

  He was trying to speak, so I leaned over, my ear as close to his mouth as possible. His lips, I saw, were turning blue.

  ‘In. My. Glass,’ he said. ‘Tasted it . . . before. Sweet but nasty.’

  ‘Which is Master Wandesford’s glass?’ I demanded of Cuthbert.

  He pointed to one which had escaped breakage. There was perhaps half an inch of wine left in it. I sniffed it, then set it down again.

  ‘Get me a clean glass,’ I told the maid. ‘Anything, not this fine glassware. Anything, as long as it is clean.’

  She ran off.

  Simon had appeared at my side. ‘Keep his head out of the vomit,’ I said, ‘while I mix a vomitive. He has brought some of it up, but–’ I let me voice trail away.

  Working as quickly as I could, I added the familiar ingredients to the pewter cup the girl handed me – eupatorium cannabium, sambucus nigra and viola tricolor, all purgative and emetic, together with salvia officinalis to ease his throat. Then I stirred in fresh wine. I helped myself without a word to the jug that stood between Lord Hunsdon and Master Burbage. This, at least, should be safe.

  ‘Now, you must drink this,’ I told Master Wandesford. ‘It will not be pleasant, but we must empty your stomach of anything that is left there.’

  He tried valiantly to swallow, but I knew from the blue tint under his staring eyes and around his lips that I was losing him. Simon met my glance over the man’s head. I knew that he was thinking, as I was, of the day we had met and I had treated the man Poley with this same vomitive.

  ‘You said you had tasted it before,’ I said. ‘In the wine, was it?’ I took the cup away from Wandesford’s mouth. He had managed barely a sip of the mixture, for the muscles of his throat were knotted. He could not swallow. In the light from the flambeaux, I could see that the pupils of his eyes were hugely dilated.

  He moved his head slightly in an attempt to nod. ‘In the wine,’ he whispered. Then he was gone.

  I let Simon take the weight of Wandesford’s body, while I picked up his glass and sniffed the contents again. Then, gingerly, I dipped the tip of my finger in the contents, and touched it to my tongue. There was a tingling sensation, even from that tiny drop, and a curious sickly sweetness. I turned aside and spat the saliva from my mouth on to the grass, but the taste lingered.

  Wandesford said he had tasted it before. Then why had he not avoided it? For this time the dose must have been stronger, to prove fatal. Someone had been slipping it to him, during the week he had been feeling ill. Stomach cramps, drowsiness, staggering, palpitations, and enlarged pupils.

  Most of the players had gathered around, though some kept their distance, looking queasy.

  Master Burbage pressed forward and, to my surprise, I saw that Lord Hunsdon was beside him. I had thought he would withdraw from such an unpleasant scene.

  ‘Is he–?’ Master Burbage cleared his throat. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said briefly.

  ‘Poor fellow. He has not been well these several days past, but we did not realise it was serious. Was it his heart, do you suppose?’

  Here was a dilemma. I was not sure I wanted to announce what I had discovered to the whole company, including the young boys and our distinguished host.

  ‘He was certainly suffering from palpitations of the heart.’ I chose my words carefully.

  Master Burbage turned to the innkeeper, who was looking shocked. I realised he must fear something in the dinner might have killed Wandesford, and was glad I had kept my tongue behind my teeth.

  ‘Have you an outbuilding where we may lay the poor soul,’ Master Burbage said, ‘until I can arrange for him to be taken to his parish church, St Botolph’s?’

  ‘Indeed, indeed!’ The innkeeper could not hasten fast enough to assist. ‘There is a shed next to the one where we keep the ale barrels, quite clean. Come, lads, light the way.’

  As I packed my satchel, Guy and Christopher lifted Wandesford’s body between them and followed the pot boys into a courtyard beside the inn. I found an empty phial in my satchel and carefully poured the remains of Wandesford’s wine into it. Looking up as I corked it and sealed it with wax, I saw Simon and Will watching me. Everyone else had drifted away, whispering amongst themselves. Master Burbage, Lord Hunsdon, Aemilia Bassano, and their two menservants were walking back into the inn.

  ‘So,’ said Simon. ‘Not heart failure, then?’

  I looked from him to Will. I could trust them to hold their tongues.

  ‘Atropa belladonna,’ I said. ‘Deadly nightshade. Master Wandesford was poisoned.’

  Chapter Four

  An hour or so later, Simon, Will, and I were sitting in Simon’s room, Rikki sprawled on the floor at my feet. Simon had flung open the window to let out the stale air, although the air that drifted in from outside was hardly fresher, carrying with it, for some reason, a strong scent of onions. We could hear raucous laughter and badly played hurdy-gurdy music coming from the whorehouse just along the road. Bessie Travis, who kept the house, had recently been given the hurdy-gurdy in lieu of cash payment by one of her clients and was determined to learn how to play it. All her neighbours were suffering.

  ‘How do you know Wandesford was poisoned?’ Will asked. ‘Could it not have been a simple heart attack?’

  Simon paused in pouring out ale for us and raised his eyebrows questioningly. He had been with me all those years ago when I had immediately and correctly diagnosed that Robert Poley, at the time an inmate of the Marshalsea prison, was suffering from food poisoning, having eaten bad oysters.

  ‘I know of an attempt to use belladonna to poison the Earl of Leicester,’ I said, ‘though fortunately it was unsuccessful. However, I have seen a death from belladonna before.’

  It was an unpleasant memory.

  ‘When I worked with my father at St Bartholomew’s,’ I said, ‘a little boy was brought into the hospital. He would have been about five or six, I suppose. He had all the same symptoms – staggering, grossly enlarged pupils, slurred speech, raised heart beat, difficulty breathing. He kept crying out that snakes were crawling up his legs. Then he went into violent convulsions. We fought hard to save him, but we failed.’

  I turned away from them. I could still see that child, the terrible fear on his face.

  ‘His right hand was tightly clenched on something. After he died, my father managed to prise his fingers apart and found several belladonna berries. He had already said that he had suspected that was the cause. This confirmed it. He had seen a few cases of the poisoning before, in Portugal. Deadly nightshade grows everywhere in Europe, and every part of it is poisonous. The root is the most virulent, but not something you might consume by accident. Even a single leaf can kill an adult. The berries are particularly dangerous, because to a child they look like blackcurrants. They even have a sweetish taste.’

  I looked down at the finger I had dipped in the poisoned wine. As soon as we reached Simon’s room I had washed it thoroughly, but it still felt tainted.

  ‘My father had me touch a tiny fragment of a crushed berry to my tongue, so that I would recognise it. The taste is unmistakeable. It is there. In that.’

  I gestured toward the phial containing the dregs of Wandesford’s wine, where it stood on the table between us. We all looked at it.

  ‘But the rest of us drank the wine with no harm,’ Simon said.

  I nodded.

  ‘So somehow the belladonna was slipped into Wandesford’s glass alone, sometime during the meal.’ Will looked at me.

  I nodded again.

  ‘Which part of the plant
would it have been?’

  ‘Probably neither root nor leaf,’ I said. ‘They would have left fragments in the wine, and there are none. It must have been juice from the berries. There will be berries on the plants now, at this time of year. They are probably growing all over London, wherever there is waste ground.’

  ‘It was dark, down at that end of the table,’ Simon said, ‘so it would have been fairly easy to slip something into his glass. Who else was sitting there?’

  We racked our brains.

  ‘I think all the boys were there,’ Will said slowly. ‘Master Burbage wanted them well away from Lord Hunsdon, lest they got up to mischief.’

  ‘Aye, you are right,’ I said. ‘And Cuthbert was there too, because he was the first to notice that Master Wandesford was ill. He called me to come to him.’

  ‘He must have been sitting next to Wandesford,’ Simon said.

  I closed my eyes and tried to visualise who had been sitting there.

  ‘Nay,’ I said, ‘Cuthbert was not next to him, he was nearer to his father. There was an empty chair between him and Master Wandesford. The trouble is, by the time I reached them, the glasses were smashed and Wandesford had vomited. People had drawn back, out of the way.’

  I shook my head, trying to remember. ‘Certainly Cuthbert was there, and several of the lads, and that new man, Stoker, and Christopher. And the doorkeeper.’

  ‘Pillings,’ Simon said.

  ‘Aye, Pillings.’

  ‘You do not suppose,’ Will said slowly, ‘that one of the lads, or several of them, did it for a prank? Not realising how serious it would be? I saw Wandesford box Davy’s ears the other day, for turning cartwheels near his table and knocking ink all over the parts he had just copied.’

  I felt a moment’s panic, for I was responsible for finding Davy his place in the company. Then I shook my head.

  ‘I do not think so. This was not the first time that Wandesford had been given belladonna. If the boys were playing a prank, it would surely only have been tonight.’

  They both stared at me.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Simon asked.