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“You will like Blackfriars,” Lucinda said, abruptly changing the subject. “It is a beautiful theatre. They light it with candles and have two breaks in the performance to replace the candles, and during the intervals there is music and singing. I have a friend who is one of the actors.”
“That reminds me,” Rosalind said with a small frown, “speaking of the theatre. That man, that...animal, he took one of Robbie’s folios from the bookshelf. Robbie buys play scripts whenever he can afford to from the booksellers at Saint Paul’s.”
“That is odd. Did you mention it to your brother?”
“No. Should I?”
“Do you know which one it was?”
“I know which plays he owned. We read them together. I should know what is missing.” For the first time she stood up from the chair, walking with a cautious gait the few yards to the bookshelf. Taking down the folios of plays she perused each title one by one. Then repeated the process to be certain, placing them back in the exact order on the shelf. “Robbie places his pamphlets in the order of the alphabet by the poet. Shakespeare down this end, Dekker up this end, though I am not supposed to know he has that one. Apparently, it is not for ladies’ eyes. Jonson is here in the middle, and the missing one is the one just preceding Jonson. I am not certain, but I do believe the missing pamphlet is a play by Thomas Kydd. The Spanish Tragedy. Do you know of it? What a curious thing to take.”
It was curious indeed. A play about revenge, deception and murder.
“You are right about the tonic. I am feeling somewhat drowsy.”
“Come and lie down. My grandmother would normally examine you, for injuries or damage. If you are asleep when she comes shall I have her wake you?”
“Best to be done with it, I think. I am sore but it does not feel as if anything is broken. I tried to pretend it was not happening to me but to someone else, to another person’s body. Will you leave when Robbie returns? I would like you to stay with me. He really should eat some supper.”
“I shall stay if you like and make him eat.”
“Thank you,” Rosalind said, climbing under the covers of her brother’s bed. “You have been most kind, and I do not have any friends here in London.”
“I shall be your friend if you would like.”
“I would like that.” Once she was tucked up in bed, Rosalind’s eyelids succumbed to the valerian. She looked peaceful with her hair splayed out across the pillow, her skin creamy, her cheeks rosy, the very picture of health. It was hard to believe what had happened to her in the small confines of this room. The fear she must have felt, the shame, the horror. How sad not to have any friends to confide in. Though to be honest, making friends was not Lucinda’s strength either. Pretending to be a boy for so long she had missed out on the company of other girls. The Sisters of the Sword were the closest thing she had to a group of female friends.
Casting her gaze about the room reminded her, she forgot to ask Rosalind where the rope had gone. When McCrae returned, he might be able to tell her. He might also be able to shed some light on why his sister’s attacker would take his copy of The Spanish Tragedy. Was it some hidden message? Some warning directed at him? If so, what was the link between Rosalind and the other girls? Her head hurt trying to puzzle it out. Too much thinking, not enough action.
She got up and lit the fire, setting Rosalind’s pot of food in the hearth to reheat, simply because she had promised she would. How could you eat a meal that was now so tainted? How could you sleep here at night in the same room where your sister was violated? Unless McCrae changed lodgings, he was forever condemned to imagining it over and over again, always torturing himself for his failure to save her. Was that the whole point of the attack? Was it directed at Rosalind alone, or was it a way to get at McCrae or Sir Colin Cavendish? Who knew what warped conceits drove the actions of deranged men? Whatever the truth, the rape of Rosalind McCrae had the smack of spite and revenge and she was determined to find the answers, no matter what. But how to find a spider without getting stuck in its web? A cold shiver, a dark premonition, marched its way from her shoulders to her toes. Whoever this man was, he was ruthless and cunning. She had better watch her back and where she might tread.
