Final Act

By Don Jacobson

In the Fall of 1590, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, playwright and news pamphlet writer Connolly Flynn is about to have his first play produced at the Rose Theater in London, when a body found floating in the Thames turns his life upside down. Investigating the death for the sensational Red Pepper news pamphlet, he is shocked to learn that he knows the murder victim, and that despite overwhelming evidence of foul play, the Coroner is insisting on a verdict of suicide.
The more that Connolly digs into his friend’s death, the deeper he gets entangled in a devious plot that goes far beyond anything he could have imagined. Besides going up against the Coroner, the Sheriff of London, most of the city’s Constables, and a renegade Spanish waterman, he must also face the full enmity of one of England’s most powerful families, putting his own life and the lives of his friends and family in mortal danger.
The story is set in greater London, including the area known as Southwark, south of the Thames. This is where Londoners went for their entertainment. It was the location of the Rose Theater, built a few years before Shakespeare's Globe. Nearby were the Bear and Bull baiting rings, two of London's most popular entertainment spectacles. The Thames, ever present in London daily life, is the setting for a good deal of the action, including a close encounter with death for Connolly Flynn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Jacobson
• Release date: Nov 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465922779

Don Jacobson

Don Jacobson’s 28 years in publishing included serving as the president and owner of Multnomah Publishers, where he oversaw the production of more than 1,000 titles and the sale of more than 100 million books.  He sold Multnomah to Random House in 2006. Don founded D.C. Jacobson & Associates, an author management company, so that he could continue working closely with authors. Don and his wife, Brenda, have four adult children.

Book preview

Prologue

London, England

October, 1590

During the Reign of Queen Elizabeth I

The tall man in a long dark cloak walked erratically along Bankside near the river’s edge, his steps hesitant, uncertain. A young boy crouched low thirty paces away, watching in the twilight of early evening. The man stumbled over a loose pavement stone, caught himself, stumbled again and nearly plunged down a dozen stone steps into the Thames. The boy stood and took a few steps towards the tall man, perhaps thinking to help, or more likely rob him—if he collapsed into a drunken stupor.

The tall man needed to reach London. The messenger he had waited for in the Golden Tooth ale-house had arrived late, and had insisted on a drink before handing over the package. By the time the tall man reached the Thames, London Bridge was blocked for the night.

He looked for a wherry to take him from Southwark to London. Two watermen, headed his way, from opposite directions, running along Bankside, flares in hand. Their wherries, nearly identical flat-bottomed boats, were tied to the landing at the foot of the steps.

The waterman approaching from the east, from the direction of London Bridge, reached him first. The other waterman, slowed to a walk, but kept on ready to compete for the fare.

Go about your business, Charley—you’re not wanted here! the first waterman said, stepping forward to block the other’s approach. That the two watermen would compete for a fare was hardly surprising. The clenched fist and wide planted stance of the first waterman implied something more, stopping the second man in his tracks. After a moment Charley turned away, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Tuppence anywhere across since the bridge has shut down, the first waterman said, pressing close to the tall man. We’d best be on our way. He gestured toward the river. A blanket of fog was rolling across the water. If you want to get across…quickly…safely.

Yes, I need to get across, the tall man said.

The waterman took a firm hold of the man’s arm and started to edge him towards the landing steps. The tall man took a moment to look around, and noticed a boy standing a dozen paces away, watching.

The waterman noticed the boy too and yelled get away with you! The boy ran back a dozen paces and stopped to watch.

The tall man let the waterman help him down the steps. When they reached the river, with the current flowing swiftly downstream, the waterman pulled the wherry close to the landing. He held it there while the tall man stepped aboard, where he collapsed onto a seat near the prow on a well-worn, slightly damp bench. The waterman placed the flare in a holder at the stern, and untied the lead. He held it, but didn’t launch the boat

What are you waiting for?

The waterman ignored him. He looked up towards the top of the embankment. A moment later, a young man carrying a coil of rope appeared. He and the waterman exchanged nods.

What’s going on? the tall man said. The waterman ignored him.

The young man scampered down the steps, taking them two at a time. He threw the rope aboard and climbed in, taking a seat directly facing the tall man. He wore a hooded cape that kept his face in shadows for the few seconds it took the waterman to push the wherry into the current and clamber aboard. When the waterman swung his long oars out and began to row, the young man swept his hood back. For a moment the flare’s flickering light illuminated the young man’s face.

The tall man recognized him immediately. What are you doing here?

I need to get across. You don’t mind do you—sharing the wherry? He picked up the rope and arranged it carefully on his lap.

I suppose not.

The tall man pulled his cloak tightly across his chest and looked at the receding shoreline, turning his thoughts to the woman who awaited him, and the decision he would ask her to make. Soon the riverbank, and the boy watching, disappeared into the swirling mist.

Chapter 1

Hattie’s Tavern

Connolly! Wake up! Simone is here. She’s found a body—floating in the Thames.

I rolled over and opened my eyes to a vision. Pretty little Lizzy Wentworth leaned over my bed, dressed in her nightshift, with a light robe wrapped around her shoulders. I looked beyond her at the only window in the room. Sunlight filtered through the shutter’s, splaying a pattern on the opposite wall. Dawn had apparently arrived.

Simone is here? This early? I started to turn over away from the light.

She grabbed my shoulders and shook me. She wants to see you right away, Connolly. She told me to pour water over your head if you refuse to get up. Lizzy laughed.

I groaned. Simone and her bodies. It was not as if this was an unusual occurrence—a body floating in the Thames. I started to extricate myself from the twisted covers. Lizzy stepped back, but made no move to give me any privacy. She was no different from the rest of Hattie’s girls, at least in this regard. That’s what comes from living in the rooms above a Southwark tavern, the only male in an extended family of women.

Kenny Walsh, my actor friend, envied my arrangement, and frequently liked to kid me about my harem. But it wasn’t the ideal arrangement he thought it was. Especially for a writer needing some semblance of quiet and privacy. Still, I was grateful to Hattie, who owned the tavern, for giving me a room, for the small pittance a struggling writer could afford. The alternative was to move back in with my widowed mother and unmarried youngest sister, not an acceptable option.

Master Flynn! Are you going to get up, or do I have to fetch the water pitcher? Lizzy said, taking great pleasure in making the threat.

Lizzy Wentworth! Are you going to stand there and watch while I dress? I said, when she made no move to leave.

Simone warned me not to come back without you.

Then stand outside the door for a minute, and you can escort me downstairs! This must be quite a remarkable body that she’s found.

Strangled! Murdered—she said.

They usually are.

Lizzy saw that I wasn’t going to move until she made herself scarce, so she did. I had to admit that I had a sort of sisterly fondness for Lizzy. She was the youngest of Hattie’s girls, barely fifteen, destined to soon join the ranks of the Winchester Geese, the common name for officially sanctioned prostitutes, legally licensed by the Bishop of Winchester. The august clergyman had jurisdiction over most of Southwark, the notoriously unsavory suburb of London, south of the Thames, where Londoners in droves went to have fun.

I jumped out of bed, splashed some water over my face, and reached for my jerkin and trousers, draped over the back of one of the two small chairs that faced an equally modest table. I spotted my manuscript lying on the table and remembered with a start and a flutter of butterflies what the day really signified. My play, an extravagant, ribald comedy entitled The Bishop’s Wicked Sister, would go into rehearsals at The Rose Theater. The first time that exquisite pleasure had come to me, after three frustrating years and five unsuccessful plays.

A few minutes later I sat down at a table, next to Kenny Walsh, a leading actor in the theater company that ran The Rose. He was eating oatmeal and bacon, washed down with a light ale. He acknowledged my arrival with a half-hearted wave of a hand, when I grabbed a slice of bacon.

Across from me Simone Fortier sat on the edge of her chair, impatiently waiting. It was highly unusual to see her this early in Southwark, considering that she lived over her shop on Fleet Street in London, on the north side of the Thames. She wasn’t eating or drinking anything. Instead she was impatiently drumming her fingers on the table.

Who’s body? I asked.

Unidentified. Nothing on him. Stripped to his drawers.

Foul play, you think?

Of course. And we have a chance for an exclusive. I found the body myself, and saw to it that the Coroner took it away quickly. She said this with great excitement, her eyes lighting up as she leaned across the table towards me.

Simone Fortier was a rarity in London: the female publisher of one of the city’s most popular and notorious daily news pamphlets, appropriately named The Red Pepper. She was a rarity for other reasons also. She was a French woman who had come to England to escape some unspoken troubles in Paris. She was barely five feet tall, and weighed less than seven stone soaking wet, with the perfect body of a dancer, which I think she once was. Yet she feared no one, taking on the world, fighting her way into the predominantly man’s world of publishing.

I worked for her on a free-lance basis. To support my playwriting habit, as Simone called my less than successful career choice, I wrote articles for The Red Pepper, specializing in the most sensational news events. That’s what sold news pamphlets in London. The more sensational the better, even if it meant taking liberties with the strict truth, capitalizing on unfounded rumors, promoting scandals. A grisly murder, described in florid detail, which I was highly adept at, could sell an enormous number of copies, at a tuppence each. This made Simone a contented woman, if not quite wealthy. And it put food in my mouth, clothes on my back…and kept my playwriting dreams alive.

Where was the body?

Just upriver from the bridge. I spotted it floating just off shore.

I turned to Kenny. She’s always strolling along the Thames looking for bodies. Probably has found more than any other living person in London.

I grabbed a waterman to help me pull him onto the embankment. Another few minutes and he’d have been swept beyond the bridge, never to be seen again. No doubt that’s what the murderer hoped for.

I knew what she was about to ask, so I took the initiative. The Rose starts rehearsals of my new play this morning. I have to be there.

It was as if I hadn’t spoken. I need four to five-hundred words by this afternoon, before dusk. Any later and you’ll have to spend the night in London.

You have other writers that—

You’ll need to see the Coroner first thing, Connolly…find out what he’s thinking…see if he’s identified the victim.

You’re not listening Simone. I can’t neglect rehearsals.

Don’t worry, Connolly. We don’t really need you, Kenny said. We have your manuscript. Go have some fun…with Simone’s body! He started to laugh, which turned into a cough as he nearly choked on a piece of bacon.

I want you for this assignment. It could build into something big, Simone said. Besides, you and Coroner Murphy are pals.

That was a joke. The Coroner and I had had many encounters over the couple of years that I’d been writing for the Red Pepper—and he hated the sight of me. I let out a long, painful sigh. I’ll have to go to the Rose this morning, but after that I suppose I can stir up something useful from Erin—if he’ll talk to me.

As long as I get my article, before dusk, Simone said, standing up.

Male or female?

A man, unfortunately, and tall, well over six feet, Simone said, but I’ll bet there’s a woman lurking in the background. You know what to do. You know the stories that sell pamphlets, those that insure that the Red Pepper will keep supporting your playwriting indulgence.

I shook my head in feigned annoyance. She never grew tired of kidding me about my playwriting.

How about cause of death? Did you examine the body before the Coroner arrived?

Of course I did. The fact that there was a rope tied around his neck indicated to me the likelihood of foul play…wouldn’t you agree?

I shrugged.

Go see the Coroner, and find out what you can. Make him show you the body. Front page story by this afternoon, Connolly, Simone said, coming to me around the table.

I started to get up. She put her hands on my shoulders to hold me down, then leaned over to whisper in my ear. I really am happy about your play, but don’t forget who made your two-year struggle possible. Stay over tonight, and we can celebrate—after we print tomorrow’s Red Pepper.

Chapter 2

The Rose Theater

By the time I left for the theater it had been raining for an hour. Cobble stone streets were dangerously slippery. Unpaved alleys were a quagmire. The sun that had filtered through the shutters when I awoke was a distant and misleading memory. Fortunately, I didn’t have far to go.

Hattie’s Tavern was conveniently located on Bankside, with a breathtaking view of London across the Thames. The Rose theater was only three blocks to the south. The highly popular bear and bull baiting rings lay just to the east. In fact, most of Southwark’s amusements and pleasures were located on, or within a stone’s throw of Bankside. Londoners found this highly convenient. A short walk across London Bridge, or a slightly longer ride in a wherry across the Thames, found them in a place where the strict Puritan rules of London proper were largely overlooked.

My cloak was soaked by the time I ducked through the alley door leading backstage. I hung up my cloak to dry next to Kenny’s and took out a copy of my script from beneath my jerkin where I had carried it to keep it dry. I heard loud voices from the stage and assumed that they had begun a read through, the first step of staging a play, once roles were assigned.

The Rose was only a couple of years old. It was built by Philip Henslowe who didn’t know what else to do with the land he had acquired in some sort of a business deal. He was a businessman first, theater patron second, but he can at least be credited with establishing the first theater in Southwark.

Henslowe built The Rose in the fashion of existing London theaters, like The Curtain, roughly round in shape, three stories high, with galleries for seating around three-quarters of the circumference. The raised stage thrust out from the remaining quarter of the circle, hanging over a standing-only area known as The Pit. It cost just two pence to view a play from that area, if you could put up with the crowding, the smell, and several other unmentionable attributes. In contrast, situated on the stage itself were two rows of seats on either side, reserved for those who could pay for the best. There was a canopy that inadequately covered a portion of the stage, in case of rain, but nothing to keep the audience dry. Rain rarely stopped a performance. The same applied to rehearsals.

I put the script under my arm, and turned down the hall to the main stage entrance. I didn’t get far, immediately running into Kenny hurrying in the opposite direction. Has the read through started? I asked, grabbing his arm.

Waiting for the script, Kenny said, looking worried. He pulled away from me.

Where are you going?

Costume shop…new directions, he said, hurrying away.

I looked after him, concerned that something had happened. He stopped and turned back for a moment. Connolly, you need to talk to Nicholas. Then he was off again. No explanation. My level of concern raised a notch higher.

Nicholas Scott was one of the founding members of The Rose’s acting company, known as The Henslowe Company, in honor of the theater’s builder and current majority owner. Nicholas directed many of the plays in which he didn’t take an important role. That was the case with my play. That he wanted to see me already could only mean one thing: rewrites.

Changes already? I called after Kenny, who was about the disappear down a hall. He stopped and turned. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Yes…you could say that. Then he was gone.

I continued towards the stage entrance. Before I got ten feet, a young boy named Ted, that often took female roles hurried past me with an armful of what appeared to be scripts in his arms.

Wait Ted! I called, darting forward to grab him by the shoulder, meaning to ask him whether Nicholas was on stage.

Oh, sorry Master Flynn, didn’t notice you, Ted said, and then handed me one of the scripts.

I already have one, I said, holding up my script.

Oh, I thought you wanted the new play.

A horrible sinking feeling hit me in my gut. What do you mean new play?

Ted shrugged. New play, that’s all I know. Talk to Nicholas.

He was still offering me the script. I shook my head, and he ran towards the stage entrance. I slowly wandered after him, my anger building at the injustice I sensed was about to envelope me.

Nicholas came from the stage before I got there. There you are, he said, wringing his hands in a gesture I’d learned to associate with extreme nervousness. We need to talk.

What is this about a new play, Nicholas?

I’m sorry about this—

You mean it’s true? You’re not going to do my play, after—

Wait, Connolly—this has never happened before. I fought against it. I did everything I could.

This is unbelievable. Just yesterday morning I watched while you and the others argued and fought over roles, and everything was settled, with rehearsals to start this morning.

Let me say right away, that this was not my idea. I objected as strongly as I could when William Fleetwood brought this new script and said he wanted it performed next week.

Fleetwood!—the goldsmith? I said, as if uttering an obscene word. I don’t understand.

Henslowe brought him around. Introduced him. Said Fleetwood represented a family willing to put up a lot of money to get this play produced next week. Couldn’t turn down the offer. You understand.

Of course I understood. A matter of money. Theaters were always starving for money.

Why the hurry? Who is the playwright?

Something was said about an important visitor from Scotland. No specifics. He wouldn’t give me the name of the author. Wants anonymity apparently.

Sounds crazy.

Don’t worry. We’ll do your play next. What’s a few weeks delay?

It’ll be November, with rain a certainty. If this year is like last year, we’ll not get it staged until next Spring. Does Fleetwood know that it’s my play that he’s pushing aside?

I don’t know…probably not…why?

I was an apprentice to Fleetwood for several years, before abandoning it all to join the Queen’s army in Flanders. Mainly as an excuse to escape Fleetwood’s clutches. He was furious. He resented his wasted effort to turn me into a goldsmith.

Nicholas laughed. He did seem a rather pompous fellow, used to having his way. I hope he doesn’t turn into the sort of patron that likes to interfere with a production.

You’re going to have your hands full with him.

He groaned, and turned to go back on stage. We’re going to start a read through. Want to listen?

No thanks. I’m going to go cry on Mary’s shoulders.

Nicholas hesitated again at the stage door. You haven’t seen Richard have you?

I thought for a moment. Not for a couple of days.

No one has, it seems. Another problem. Nicholas ducked through the door onto the stage.

Richard Ramsey was The Rose’s stage manager, crucial to any production. The playwright, director, costume designers and a handful of others built a play, but from opening day on, the stage manager ran the show. Nicholas did indeed have a problem.

Chapter 3

Near The Rose

No play could succeed without extravagant, jaw-dropping costumes. Audiences expected them…demanded them in fact. Consequently, my friend Mary Trent, in charge of The Rose’s costume shop was all-important to the theater’s success. She and her assistants designed, sewed, repaired, cleaned, and efficiently held together as many as two dozen costumes throughout a play’s run. They kept equally busy during a performance. Getting the actors in and out of costumes, sometimes in seconds invariably called for heroic efforts.

I found Mary and two of her seamstresses huddled over a copy of what was undoubtedly the new script. Mary saw me, slapped her hand on the script, and shook her head in disgust.

A week of wasted work. This is a completely different sort of play, and with the same deadline. She made it sound like it was my fault.

Don’t blame me, Mary. It was my play that’s been indefinitely postponed.

Why in heaven’s name did you let them?

Let them? Did you say let them?

They were already committed to doing your play.

You think I should hire a lawyer?

Mary smiled. I think you should shout and stamp your feet, and maybe toss a chair around.

I laughed. I’ve already done that. Want to see me do it again?

Mary stood up and came to meet me. I’m sorry. You must be furious.

Mary met me with arms outstretched, then hesitated. I reached out and took her hands and pulled her in close, wrapping my arms around her waist. It still felt novel, holding her that way. We’d known each other for two years—the time that I’d spent attempting to get one of my plays produced. Only recently had our friendship drifted—with hardly any effort on our part—into something special. It was a mystery we never talked about. We could only wonder where it would end.

Did Nicholas tell you what happened? I said, letting her push away.

He did. Some rich London goldsmith suddenly appears and upsets everything.

With a satchel full of money, it seems.

I think it’s a mistake, Mary said. We’re sacrificing the integrity of the theater.

Nicholas would probably say that artistic integrity would be of little use with the theater doors locked shut.

Mary, lets get away from here. Can you take a break from all this? I waved my hand around the room.

Isn’t it still raining?

Hardly at all. I really didn’t know. It could have been pouring.

Mary hesitated. She glanced at her assistants. They smiled and waited, enjoying Mary’s struggle.

Nicholas wants us to see if any of the costumes we’ve designed for your play can be salvaged for this one. We’ve just gotten started—

We can take care of that, Mary, one of her assistants said, —if you bring us back an apple tart.

Mary and I both laughed. They always asked for some sort of reward when I came to steal Mary away.

Mary got her cloak out of a cupboard and wrapped it around her shoulders. It barely reached mid-calf. She was tall for a woman, over five and a half feet, about my height. I pulled the cloak’s hood forward to better cover her head. She shoved a few stray strands of hair back beneath the hood. She had beautiful hair. It was the color of straw, with streaks of dark red, as if some alien hair had taken foothold. The wrong colors annoyed Mary, but I liked them.

We left The Rose through the alley entrance. The rain continued to fall, but it had lessened to a light drizzle. I could see a thin edge of color in the sky far off in the east. It was possible that the sun would make a reappearance before the day ended.

We started up Dead Man’s Place, but the creek of the same name running down the center of the street had swollen with the rain, crowding out much of the right of way. We darted down an alley between houses, enduring the mud, laughing every time we splashed in a deeper than expected puddle. Once we reached the open park surrounding the Bear Baiting Ring, it was clear that commerce would not take a back seat to a little rain, though the attendance at the noon bear baiting would likely be less than normal.

There’s Sarah’s stall, over there, Mary said. Want a tart, or something? I can’t disappoint my girls.

Sarah sold some of the best fruit tarts and meat pies in all Southwark. Her stall was inevitably the earliest to open on bull or bear baiting days—which were most days. Many people came from London as much for her food, as for the bloody spectacle held in the nearby ring.

I don’t feel like eating anything. I just had breakfast. But you have one. I reached for my purse to get some coins.

Put that away, Connolly. I’ll get paid for this new play. You won’t.

You have a point there, I said, careful not to mention the fact that Simone paid me more for Red Pepper articles than I was likely to ever make from my plays. That sort of remark would likely set off an argument.

Mary bought the tarts, and we continued on to Bankside where we managed to get out of the rain under a shelter near a ferry landing. Mary ate one of the tarts while we watched boat traffic on the river, always heavy that time of the morning. There seemed to be wherries everywhere we looked. The sounds of the waterman shouting at each other to avoid collisions, carried well over the water.

With your play postponed, I suppose you’ll continue to write for the Red Pepper, Mary said, with a sense of resignation.

I knew she would eventually bring this up. The Red Pepper, and its owner and editor, Simone Fortier, were something of a sore point between us. Not only was the Red Pepper known for its shocking articles, but its owner, a French woman, was the frequent subject of scandalous gossip. Not surprisingly, Mary viewed my involvement with Simone and the Red Pepper as reprehensible, and wasn’t shy of saying so.

Then I said what I’d resisted saying a moment earlier. Even if not delayed, I doubt that getting one play produced will allow me the luxury of foregoing a good steady source of income.

Surely there’s other things you can do. Even other news pamphlets you could write for. Or, why not start one yourself?

That’s not as easy as it sounds. I didn’t tell her that I enjoyed writing for Simone and the Red Pepper. Simone and I made a good team. And I was in her debt for initially giving me the chance to write. That was after I returned from Flanders, discharged from the Queen’s army, without any prospects, except to plead with Fleetwood to take me back.

I tried to change the subject. That reminds me. I have to go see the Coroner about a body.

Mary didn’t seem surprised. Another body. Where did they find this one?

Floating in the Thames. Probably murdered. No way to identify him. He was nearly naked.

Mary nodded several times. That French woman, of course, wants you to write a scurrilous article, claiming all kinds of deranged things to get her news pamphlet to sell.

I write the kind of articles that people like to read.

Wouldn’t it be better to write what they ought to read, about news that would be beneficial and informative, instead of inflammatory?

We’d sell about seven copies. People are getting what they want, and if they want something else, they can quit buying the Red Pepper.

Mary resisted saying anything more. This wasn’t the first time that Mary and I had argued the responsibilities of a news pamphlet editor. We would never agree, though deep down, I wished that Mary’s point of view could prevail. But it never would.

The rain had stopped. We walked along Bankside to reach a street that would take us back to The Rose, ignoring vendors near the Bull Baiting Ring trying to sell us carved pieces of bull’s horn. It was too early in the day for bull-baiting, but people were already gathering around the ring to get good spots to watch, and gamble on the fate of the bull when the dogs were released.

How did you find out about the body? Mary asked, when we were nearly back to The Rose.

Simone came by Hattie’s this morning. She discovered it herself.

She would. Probably spends all of her free time trying to find victims of foul play. I didn’t respond to this. Was it a man or woman?

A man. Very tall fellow, Simone said. With a rope wrapped around his neck.

God’s breath! How awful.

We had just arrived at the alley door to the theater when Mary gasped and stopped in her tracks. She turned around quickly, her face pale, her hand covering her mouth.

You said the dead man was tall.

That’s what Simone said.

Oh, Connolly! I’m afraid. You know that Richard Ramsey is missing.

Nicholas said something—

He hasn’t shown up for a couple of days. Without any word of explanation. And you know how tall he is. Over six feet.

You’re not suggesting—?

That could be Richard lying on a slab in the morgue.

Mary…there’s no reason to think that. You’re letting your imagination get away from you.

I wish that were the case. I have a horrible feeling that it is Richard. She wiped tears away from both eyes with a kind of fury. She hated to show any weakness.

I’m going to the morgue. I’ll find out.

He was happy and excited the last time I saw him, a couple of days ago, Mary said. We talked briefly, before he left for the day. I think it was probably the last time any of us saw him.

What did he say?

He said he expected to come into a lot of money. That it was money owed him.

I wonder what he meant by that.

Mary shook her head. He didn’t say, except that just before he left he said that if everything went well, The Rose would have to find a new stage manager.

So, maybe that’s why no one has seen him since.

He wouldn’t leave without saying anything to anyone. Connolly…you must come back and tell us right away if…it is Richard.

I assured her I would.

Chapter 4

At the Rose

I left Mary at the alley door and walked around to the front of the theater, intending to stick my head in and have a quick word with Nicholas or Kenny about our concerns for Richard. Instead I discovered Martha waiting outside the Rose, pressed up against the stonework, where she was partially sheltered from the rain, a shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders. I didn’t see her at first, much less recognize Ma’s aged servant and companion. I had rarely seen her outside the house.

Master Connolly! Martha called in a surprisingly deep voice for such a small woman. She barely reached four and a half feet. Master Connolly she called again, louder.

Martha! What are you doing here? Is Ma inside, looking for me? If she were, it would be the first time in years that she had ventured from London into what she called ‘the squalor of Southwark.’

Master Connolly, you must come right away.

What’s happened? Is Ma alright?

They all want you, Martha said.

Who? What are you talking about?

Your mother, Hayley, your uncle…

Jackson? I groaned.

Uncle Jackson was my father’s eldest brother, who had taken it upon himself to try to run our family after Pa died at an untimely young age. As part of that goal, he had schemed every way he could to get Ma to marry him. She accepted his help, but wisely resisted marriage. Uncle Jackson and my father were as different as brothers could possibly be. And Jackson, by the way, was instrumental in getting me tied to William Fleetwood in that hated goldsmith apprenticeship.

Martha nodded vigorously, now clutching my sleeve as if to prevent me from running away. They’re in a fierce argument. Hayley is threatening to run away again.

I looked away, sighing. Hayley was always threatening to run away. Of course she had once, when she was just twelve years old. She didn’t get far. I had found her wandering on London Bridge, having a good time talking to vendors.

I guess I can go there now—on my way to… I almost mentioned the Coroner, but thought better of it. Ma would worry when Martha told her, as she was certain to do. By the time I get there, it’ll probably be resolved one way or the other.

Martha shook her head vigorously. No it won’t. Not this time.

What are they arguing about?

Oh, Jackson has this idea…which Hayley doesn’t like. Just get on your way, Master Connolly and find out for yourself.

It was useless to argue with Martha. I’m leaving right now, I said, with resignation, thinking of what a disaster my supposed day of triumph had become.

Chapter 5

On the Thames

On her insistence, I left Martha to find her own way back to Ma’s house. I took New Rents street, a block east of The Rose, past the Clink Prison to