“Well… we stand to lose, that is, the company does if the investment is not made and the refurbishments cannot be done,” said Smythe. “Without Master Leonardo’s money, Darcie and the Burbages may find the cost too dear and the work may not be done.”
“And the result of that will be?” asked Shakespeare.
Smythe shrugged. “Audiences may well decide to attend productions at the Rose, instead. ‘Tis a much newer playhouse and they boast Chris Marlowe and Ned Alleyn. So I suppose that could make Henslowe a suspect, but that would mean he would have to have known about the planned investment. How likely would that be?”
“At this point, we cannot say,” Shakespeare replied. “My thought is that ‘twould be somewhat unlikely, but not impossible. Leonardo was interested in making an investment in a playhouse. For all we know, he could have approached Philip Henslowe first.”
“I suppose ‘tis possible,” said Smythe.
“Or else someone in our own company who plans to defect to the Lord Admiral’s Men, as Alleyn did, could have told Henslowe about it.”
“A long shot, even for an accomplished bowman, I would say,” Smythe replied. “We have at present far more to fear from Henslowe than Henslowe has to fear from us. He has already taken our best actor. He has a better playhouse and he has-”
“If you say he has a better poet, I shall kick your arse,” Shakespeare said.
“I was going to say he has more money” Smythe replied, with a grimace. “The Lord Admiral’s Men are in the ascendancy whilst we are in decline. Thus, I do not think ‘twould stand to reason that Henslowe would have aught to do with it. After all, why bother to lack a dying dog?”
“Well, we may be down, but we are not dead yet,” said Shakespeare. “But do you know who very nearly is? Young Corwin. Whether he is innocent or guilty of the crime, he now stands to lose his life in either case.”
“Aye, he does, indeed,” said Smythe. “There is no question that he was obsessed with Hera. But was he obsessed enough to kill?” He shook his head. “Those who knew him best do not believe it, nor do I.”
“Why not?” asked Shakespeare.
“I cannot give you a sound reason, Will,” Smythe replied, with a helpless shrug. “I simply feel that he could not have done it. He did not strike me as the sort. He struck me as the sort who might stand on his affronted dignity and break off his engagement if he felt that he would be dishonored by the marriage, but he did not strike me as the sort to fly into a rage and cut a man to ribbons. That phrase sticks in my mind, Will. ‘He was cut to ribbons.’ Master Leonardo was the captain of a merchant ship. That is not a life for a soft, indolent, and doughy shopkeeper. Seamen are a hardy lot and it takes a hardy man to lead them. He was lean and weathered, erect in his carriage, and with a spring in his step. He carried a fine sword and had the look of a man who knew how to use it. Italians are well known for their schools of fencing. And Corwin was no duelist. He was an apprentice who but recently became a journeyman. A sword was never a tool of his trade. I cannot recall that he even wore one, can you?”
Shakespeare thought a moment. “I do not think so.”
Smythe shook his head. “I do not believe he did. And even if he did, I find it hard to credit that he could prevail over a man like Master Leonardo, who must have had to deal with men a great deal rougher than Corwin in his time.”
“He may have gained the advantage of surprise and so prevailed,” said Shakespeare, “but I do not believe it, either. Betimes, a man must act upon his instinct, even if it seems to go against his reason. And whilst my reason tells me that Corwin may be guilty, my instinct tells me he is not.”
“Then we are in complete agreement,” Smythe said, emphatically. “We must find someone else who had good reason to see Master Leonardo murdered.”
“Or else see Corwin blamed for it,” said Shakespeare, thoughtfully. “Methinks that is another possibility we should consider. Master Leonardo’s death may not have been in itself the end, but just the means.”
“You mean that he could have been killed merely so that Corwin would be accused of his murder and thus destroyed?” said Smythe. “Odds blood! ‘Tis a cold heart that could conceive of such a deed!”
“Aye, a cold heart,” repeated Shakespeare, “with cold blood coursing through it, as opposed to hot. Mayhap ‘twas not a crime of passion, after all, but of opportunity.”
“We have much to do,” said Smythe, grimly. “And little time in which to do it. The noose for Corwin’s neck is being plaited even as we speak.”
9
THE TOWNHOUSE WHERE MASTER LEONARDO had all too briefly lived was not nearly as ostentatious or as large as Henry Darcie’s. Situated in a tidy row of houses near the Devil Tavern and the Thames, it was a modest-looking residence built of lathe and plaster, with nothing to set it apart from any of the other row houses on the street. It certainly did not look like the home of a wealthy man. Perhaps, thought Smythe, it might have been intended merely as a temporary residence, meant for use only until such time as Master Leonardo had established himself and found a better home or else had built one just outside the city, as some successful tradesmen were now doing. But on the other hand, he may have been a man of relatively simple tastes who did not require much out of a home that was not functional, comfortable, and practical, rather than elegant, ostentatious, and luxurious.
In a city where the members of the new, rising middle class were constantly competing to show off whose rise was faster, and where the nobles were always trying to outdo one another in elaborate displays of wealth and fashion, a frugal man who spent his money wisely on his business interests rather than on expensive homes or carriages or suits of clothes that he could change as many as three times a day could quietly build up his wealth and become a rich man without fanfare. And that seemed like just the sort of thing an unassuming, former seafaring man would do.
“This seems like the kind of place where a retired ship’s captain would drop anchor,” Shakespeare said, echoing Smythe’s thoughts. “A nice, solid, comfortable place to live on dry land, within walking distance of the river, where he could stroll on the bankside and observe the wherrymen and the ships beyond the bridge. A man could do much worse.”
“And many do,” said Smythe.
“Someday, I shall have a fine house of my own in town,” said Shakespeare. “You know, I could be well satisfied with something similar to this. I need no cut stone or brick to look like some archbishop’s residence. A good, solid, English home of lathe and plaster will do me nicely, the sort of place befitting a gentleman, rather than a marquis or a viscount.”
“ Tis good to know that your ambitions are merely modest ones,” said Smythe, with a straight face. “ ‘Twouldn’t do at all for a humble poet to overreach himself.”
“You think?” said Shakespeare.
“Aye. How many poems or plays, do you suppose, would one have to write in order to be able to afford a modest place like this?” asked Smythe, giving him a sidelong look.
“Do you mock me, you pernicious rascal?”
“What, I?” Smythe said, feigning surprise. “Nay, ‘twas merely an idle question. Three or four score, do you think? Well, perhaps less, if you are made a shareholder. Aye, two score or so should do it. So long as they are all as popular as Marlowe’s. That should not present too great a difficulty, not to a fellow as industrious and talented as yourself. How many have you written thus far?”
Shakespeare glowered at him.
Smythe blithely went on. “Well, let us see… there is that one about the drunken lout who falls asleep and is then found by a noble and taken to his house… oh, no, wait, you never finished that one, did you? Ah, but then there is the one about the war… no, you still have not got past the first act, have you? Oh, hold on, there was that idea you had about the twins, from the time we helped Elizabeth and encountered that fiendish foreign plot… did you ever actually do anything with that?”