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…
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.
“Whom should we suspect, then?” demanded Master Topcliff.
“Why, some cutthroat from the street who must have entered the playhouse in pursuit of a theft. Bertrando surprised the man and was stabbed for his pains. It seems very clear to me, sir.”
Hardy Drew smiled thinly. “But not to Master Topcliff nor myself,” he replied quietly.
Master Topcliff looked at his young deputy in surprise and then swiftly gathered his wits. “My deputy is correct,” he added, addressing Burbage.
“Why so, sir?”
Master Topcliff gave a shrug. “You tell him, Master Drew.”
“Easy enough. Your Bertrando, master-player, did not enter this room to surprise a thief. Bertrando was already in this room.Someone then entered while he was presumably dressing to join you on stage. The purpose of that person was to kill him.”
Burbage looked at him incredulously. “Do you have the second sight? By what sorcery would you know this?”
“No sorcery at all, sir, but by using my common sense and the evidence of my eyes.”
Master Topcliff was regarding his deputy anxiously. He did not like the word
“I will and gladly. There was a single stab mark in Bertrando’s back. I would say that the culprit entered the dressing room while Bertrando was donning his clothes with his back to the door. He had only his shirt on. The murderer raised the knife and stabbed Bertrando between the shoulder blades. It was a serious wound, but Bertrando was able to turn-with shock and surprise he recognized his assailant. The assailant in a surge of emotion, raised the knife and struck not once, not twice, but in a frenzy of blows, born out of that emotion, delivering five more stabs to Bertrando’s chest, each a mortal wound. That is an indication of the rage that the murderer felt towards him. Bertrando sank to the floor. Either he was already dead or dying within seconds.”
Master Topcliff looked on approvingly. “So you think this was done by someone who knew Bertrando or whatever his name is?”
“Sir, I am sure of it. No cutthroat would commit a murder in such a fashion. Nor is there sign of any theft.”
“How can you be so sure?” demanded Burbage.
Master Drew turned to the neat pile of clothes on top of the basket. “I presume that these are Bertrando’s clothes of which he divested himself, stacking them neatly there as he changed for the stage?”
Burbage glanced at the pile as if seeing the clothes for the first time. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I recognize his jacket. He was a vain man and given to gaudy colors in jacket and hose.”
Master Drew pointed. “Then I suppose that the leather belt and purse is Bertrando’s also?”
Burbages eyes widened. “That they are,” he agreed, seeing where the logic was leading.
Master Drew leaned forward, picked up the purse, and emptied the contents into his hand. There fell into his palm a collection of coins. “Would a thief, one who had been prepared to murder so violently to secure his theft, retreat leaving this rich prize behind? No, sir, I think we must seek other reasons as to this slaughter.”
Burbage bowed his head. His nose wrinkled at the smell of blood, and he sought permission to cover the body with a sheet.
“Now,” Drew said, turning to Burbage, “you say that most of you were on stage when you noticed that Bertrando was missing from your company?”
“That is so.”
“Can you recall anyone who was not on stage?”
Burbage thought carefully. “There were only a few that were latecomers, for I needed everyone on stage to rehearse the final scene; that is the scene set in the Count of Rousillon’s palace, where the King and all the lords, attendants, and main characters gather.”
Master Hardy Drew hid his impatience. “Who was not with you then?”
“Why, Parolles, Helena, Violenta… oh and young Will Painter.”
“You will explain who these people are.”
“Well, they are all characters in our play. Well, all except Will Painter. He was the understudy for Bertrando, who was excluded from the task. The only thing I could give him to do was to be a voiceless attendant upon our King.”
Master Drew scratched his chin. “And he was one with a motive, for, with Bertrando dead, he could step into this main role and win his reputation among the luminaries of your theater. Fetch this Will Painter to us.”
Will Painter was scarcely as old as Hardy Drew. A fresh-faced youth, well dressed and with manners and mode of speech that displayed an education that many theatrical players did not possess.
“Will Painter? That is a familiar name to me.” Master Drew greeted, having once more sought the permission of his superior to conduct the inquiry.
“It is my father’s name also, and he was admired as a writer of plays,” replied the youth, nonchalant in manner.
“Ah, indeed. And one who provided well for his family. It is strange that his son would seek such lowly footings in the theater.”
“Not so.” The youth flushed. “To rise to be a master-player, one must know and experience all manner of theatrical work.”
“Yet, methinks that you would have preferred to play the role of the Count de Rousillon in this new comedy?”
“Who would not cast an envious eye at the leading role?”
“Just so. Did you cast such an envious gaze in Bertrando’s direction?”
The youth flushed in annoyance. “I do not deny it.”
“And were you irritated beyond endurance by the fact that Bertrando was so jealous of his part that he refused that you understudy him in rehearsal?”
“Irritated by his popinjay manners, yes. Irritated, yes, but not beyond endurance. One must bear the ills with the joys of our profession. I admit that I liked him not. But dislike was not enough to slit his throat.”
“Slit his throat? Why do you use that expression?”
Will Painter frowned. “I do not understand.”
“What makes you think that his throat was slit?”
“Why, Master Burbage waxing lyrical about a cutthroat having entered the theater in search of plunder and killing Bertrando. What other method would such an assassin use?”
