“You do not have a sword,” said Smythe.
“A sword!” cried Shakespeare, leaping to his feet and stabbing his forefinger into the air. “A sword! My kingdom for a sword!”
“Oh, here we go…” sighed Smythe, rolling his eyes.
“Friends! Colleagues! Countrymen! Who shall lend me a weapon with which to run this rascal through?”
“Sit down, you silly goose,” said Smythe, reaching out and taking hold of him by the hips, then yanking him abruptly back down to the bench. Shakespeare sat down so hard his teeth clicked together.
“Sweet merciful God!” he said. “You’ve broken my arse!”
“I shall break a good deal more than that if you do not cease this skylarking at once and get back to the point,” said Smythe, impatiently. “What happened next? What did Ben do after the rehearsal?”
“Why, he went home, I should imagine,” Shakespeare replied.
“What do you mean, he went home?”
“I mean… he went home,” Shakespeare repeated, with a shrug. “What other meaning can there be to that?”
“His closest friend went to confront his intended’s father so that he could break off his engagement and so doubtless be challenged to a duel, and Ben stayed at the Theatre to rehearse and then went home?” Smythe asked, frowning.
“Aye,” said Shakespeare. “He had decided ‘twould be best to let Corwin sleep off his distemper, then go and see him in the morning and find out what had transpired. We had agreed to go together, although, as Ben had told me, if Master Leonardo had already challenged Corwin, then ‘twas doubtful that there was aught that he could do to stop it.”
“Well, ‘tis possible that a challenge could be withdrawn, is it not?” asked Smythe.
“I suppose so,” Shakespeare replied. “But then Ben told me that once Master Leonardo had made up his mind, heaven and earth could not dissuade him. In any event, the point is certainly now moot. Master Leonardo has been killed, and Corwin has been arrested for the murder.”
“Aye, I can well see how it must have gone,” said Kemp. “Corwin went to see the Genoan and doubtless in his anger at having been deceived, he said things to him that could not be borne by any gentleman, whether English or foreign. And so the Genoan then and there flung down his gage and, in a fury, Corwin slayed him, right there in his own home.”
“Do you suppose that was how it happened?” George Bryan asked of no one in particular.
“It could well be,” said Gus Phillips. “Do you recall how Corwin acted on the day that we first met him, right here in this very tavern, when he came in company with Ben? All he could seem to think of was that Italian girl, the merchant’s daughter, Hera. He seemed obsessed with her.”
“I can see how any man would be,” Bryan replied.
“Aye, but to the point of wanting to take her to wife? After seeing her only once?” countered Phillips. “That bespeaks a certain hotness of the blood, do you not think?”
“A man so quick to love would likely be as quick to kill, is that your meaning then?” Smythe asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Does it not follow that hot blood would beget hot blood?” asked Phillips.
Shakespeare smiled. “Methinks what Tuck means, Augustine,” he said, “is that he himself was smitten with a girl upon first sight, and thus far at least, he has not yet murdered anyone.”
“Ah. Well…” Phillips cleared his throat uncomfortably. “No offense there, Tuck, old boy.”
“None taken, Gus,” Smythe replied. “But ‘twould do us all well to remember that if being quick to love also meant that one was just as quick to kill, then most of us would probably be murderers.”
“You know, that was not too bad,” said Shakespeare. “Not bad at all. ‘Twas a decent line, Tuck. Perhaps if I fiddled round with it a bit…”
“For instance, if Pope were to suddenly turn up dead,” continued Smythe, “then we would all think you had done it, Kemp, for every one of us saw you flinging porridge at him and trying to beat his brains out with the ladle. Well, after all… what more proof do you need?”
Kemp folded his arms and harrumphed.
“In all of this debate, there is one thing you all seem to have forgotten,” Molly said. “The unfortunate Master Leonardo’s murder has now left his daughter orphaned in a strange land, friendless, and with her reputation sullied. What about poor Hera? Whatever shall become of her?”
They all fell silent for a moment, thinking of the shy, beautiful young Genoan girl.
“ ‘Tis a hard thing to be left without a family to care for you,” said Molly, quietly. “Harder still when one is in a foreign land.”
“Well, orphaned she may be,” said Smythe, “but neither alone nor friendless, not if I know Elizabeth. She had given the girl her friendship, and Elizabeth is not one to abandon a friend in need.”
“But what about Corwin’s need?” asked Shakespeare. “Surely, his situation is more dire. Neither Ben nor Master Peters can believe that he is guilty of the murder. They both insist that he would not be capable of such a thing.”
“Any man is capable of murder,” Smythe said. “Any man can lose his head and give in to his baser impulses.”
“You, for instance?” Shakespeare asked.
“I am no different, Will,” Smythe replied. “Under the right circumstances, or given enough provocation, I believe that any man could kill. Even you.”
“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare, “but that still does not mean Corwin did the deed.”
“But if not him, who else?” said Kemp. “He came to the theatre in an agitated state, as you said yourself, Will. ‘He was hot,’ you said. Those were your very words. And he was so incensed that he could not wait for Ben; he had to leave at once for Master Leonardo’s house. And sometime between then and the time the Genoan girl came home that night to find her father slain, the deed was done. Who else could have done it? Who else had the opportunity? And the motive?”
Shakespeare grimaced. “Aye. Who else, indeed?”
“Perhaps we should find that out, Will,” Smythe said. “For if Corwin did not do it, then an innocent man shall be taken to the gallows, and a murderer shall go free.”
8
HENRY DARCIE’S FOUR-STORY, LEAD-ROOFED TOWNHOUSE built of rough-cut gray stone bore stately testimony to his success in business. As with many homes built so close together in the crowded environment of London, the upper floors jutted out over the cobblestoned street, so as to take the maximum advantage of space, and expensive glass windows not only afforded plenty of light to the upper floors, but also showed all passersby that the owner of the house was wealthy enough to afford such luxuries. The servant who opened the door glanced at them as if they were curious insects, heard their names without a word, and closed the door again while he went to announce them to the master of the house. Moments later, Henry Darcie came to the door himself to greet them.
“Ah, Shakespeare, Smythe,” he said, nodding to them curtly. “Come in. I assume that you have come about the news of Leonardo.”
“Indeed, we have, sir,” Smythe replied. “We had hoped to speak with Hera, unless, that is, she is too grief-stricken to entertain a visit at this time.”
“Aye, ‘tis a terrible thing, terrible,” Darcie replied, shaking his head. “Here we were, on the verge of acquiring a prosperous new investor for the Theatre. ‘Twould have neatly taken care of all of the needed refurbishing at once, too. Ah, well. Such a pity. Still, one learns to accept these sort of reverses if one is to survive in business. Such is the nature of things. Life goes on.” And then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Poor Hera is upstairs with Elizabeth.”
As they went through the entry hall and toward the stairs, Shakespeare gawked at their surroundings. The planked floors were covered not with rushes, but with rush mats woven in intricate patterns and handsomely colored. The walls were panelled with wood and hung with tapestries, not the cheaper painted cloths that were used by all except the very rich. The furnishings were carved and inlaid with ivory or pearl, many pieces draped with patterned carpets, and some of the chairs were actually upholstered. There was not a boarded stool or chest in sight.