Free The Scottish Play Murder by Anne Rutherford Page B

thought away. She wagged a finger at Daniel to drive home her point. “I will not tolerate any talk of that Gordon fellow from the Highlands, and none about that Spanish pirate.” She was deeply sorry she’d mentioned Arturo’s theory to Daniel and Piers.
    “Very well, Suzanne,” said Daniel. “And what was that nonsense that you don’t order people about?”
    She made an exasperated noise, then waved them both off as if shooing a sheep. “Go. Leave me in peace.” They turned to leave, and she said, “Has either of you seen Arturo?”
    Piers gestured in the general direction of the stage. “I’m sure he’s in rehearsal somewhere about the place. He’s rarely absent.” He and Daniel left, muttering to each other about keeping an eye on Ramsay themselves if she wouldn’t.
    It was nearly time to eat, and Suzanne could smell her dinner cooking downstairs. The savory smells made her mouth water, and she headed in that direction. She went down the spiral stairs to her quarters, to find Ramsay waiting for her outside the door. A shiver of alarm skittered through her, and she glanced up the stairs to know whether he could have overheard the conversation in the green room. Perhaps not, but she regarded Ramsay’s expression by the candlelight in the windowless room and was only satisfied when she saw no hint of emotion other than good cheer. “Good day, Diarmid,” she said. “What brings you here?”
    “Naught but your beauty,
mo banacharaid
.”
    “That’s Gaelic, yes? What does it mean?”
    “My dear female friend. Or slightly better than friend, as in a cousin.”
    She laughed, and it was a laugh that loosened the habitual tension in her heart. He was joking, but she was willing to play along because it amused her. “Rather like the way Horatio calls me ‘niece,’ though I’m not.”
    “Rather,” said Ramsay.
    “Come,” she said. “Have dinner with me. It appears my usual company has forsaken me.”
    “’Tis my pleasure to amuse the woman who has taken me in and given me gainful employment.” He followed her into the apartment of rooms tucked into the basement of the ’tiring house, directly behind the stage. One side of each room had a window that opened onto the cellarage below the slanted stage, and on the other side near the ceiling were slightly larger windows paned in thick, diamond-shaped glass, which looked out over the street behind the theatre. An iron fence outside stood a few feet from those windows, in order to protect them from damage by the residents of Southwark. Though the glass was heavily rippled, colored shapes of the legs and skirts of passersby could be discerned moving past them, and there was much light on this sunny day. The sitting room, with its white walls and pale stone floor, was nearly as bright as the stage outside. No fire burned in the hearth today, and though there was a bit of a nip in the air the room was comfortable enough.
    “Sheila, please bring dinner,” Suzanne called to the back. “I’ve one guest today; we’ll eat at this table.” More often than not, when Daniel was present for a meal they ate there; Sheila would have been surprised to have been asked to set any other table. Then to Ramsay, Suzanne said, “Please, have a seat.” She gestured to Daniel’s customary chair.
    Ramsay sat, and she joined him. Dinner was ham left from the night before, warmed in a pan with gravy, served with baked garlic, and fresh bread baked that morning. Suzanne welcomed the substantial repast, for she was hungry from her trip to the constable’s office. Breakfast had been light, only a slice of buttered bread from yesterday and a cup of ale, and that had been hours ago.
    Ramsay’s appetite was also good, and he tucked away a hefty portion of the ham and bread. As he ate, he spoke to her in a tone of utmost sincerity. Strange, for his topic seemed to her a tall tale and perhaps the product of wishful thinking.
    “I thank you for inviting me to share your dinner