Free An Ensuing Evil and Others by Peter Tremayne Page A

was claimed that many of Essex’s supporters had, after dining together, crossed the Thames to the Globe to witness this portentous performance.
    In the middle of such alarums and excursions, young Master Hardy Drew had arrived to take up his apprenticeship in maintaining the Queen’s Peace with the aging constable. Drew was an ambitious young man who wanted to create a good impression with his superior. The son of a clerk, he had entered the Inns of Court under the patronage of a kindly barrister, but the man had died, and Hardy Drew had been dismissed because of his lowly birth and lack of social and financial support. So it was, he found himself turning from one aspect of law to another.
    Old Master Topcliff rubbed his nose speculatively as he examined his new assistant. The young man’s features were flushed with passionate indignation. “I would not take offense at the songs you hear nor the people’s sympathies, young man. Times are in a flux. It is a time of ebb and flow in affairs. I know this from reading the Almanacs. What is regarded as seditious today may not be so tomorrow.”
    Master Drew sniffed disparagingly. He was about to make a rejoinder when there came a banging at the door, and before he or Master Topcliff could respond, it burst open and a young man, with flushed features, his chest heaving from the exertion of running, burst into the room.
    “How now? What rude disturbance is this?” demanded Master Topcliff, sitting back in his chair and examining the newcomer with annoyance.
    The youth was an angular young man of foppish appearance, the clothes bright but without taste. Topcliff had the impression of one of modest origins trying to imitate the dignity of a gentleman without success.
    “I am from the Globe Theatre, masters,” gasped the young man, straining to recover his breath. “I am sent to fetch you thither.”
    “By whose authority and for what purpose?”
    The young man paused a moment or two for further breaths before continuing. He was genuinely agitated. “I am sent by Richard Burbage, the master of our group of players. The count has been found murdered, sirs. Master Burbage implores you, through me, to come thither to the crime.”
    Topcliff rose to his feet at once. “A count, you say?”
    “The Count of Rousillon, master.”
    Topcliff exchanged an anxious glance with his deputy. “A foreign nobleman murdered at a London theater,” he sighed. “This does not augur well in the present travails. There is anxiety enough in this city without involving the enmity of the embassy of France.”
    He reached for his hat and cloak and signaled Master Drew to follow, saying to the youth: “Lead on, boy. Show us where this Count of Rousillon s body lies.”
    The Globe Theatre was a half a mile from the rooms of the Constable of the Bankside Watch, and they made the journey in quick time. There were several people in small groups around the door of the theater. People attracted by the news of disaster like flies to a honey pot.
    A middle-aged man stood at the door, awaiting them. His face bore a distracted, anxious gaze, and he was wringing his hands in a helpless, almost theatrical gesture. Hardy Drew tried to hide a smile, for the action was so preposterous that the humor caught him. It was as if the man were playing at the expression of agitated despair.
    “Give you good day, sir,” Master Topcliff greeted breezily.
    “Lackaday, sir,” replied the other. “For I do fear that any good in the day has long vanished. My name is Burbage, and I am the director of this company of players.”
    “I hear from your boy that a foreign nobleman lies dead in your theater. This is serious.”
    Burbage’s eyes widened in surprise. “A foreign nobleman?” He sounded bewildered.
    “Indeed, sir, what name was it? The Count of Rousillon. Have I been informed incorrectly?”
    A grimace crossed Master Burbage’s woebegone face. “He was no foreign nobleman, sir.”
    “How now?” demanded