“Or else condemn him,” Dickens said, tightly.
Smythe stared at him as comprehension suddenly dawned. “Odd’s blood. You think he might have done it,” he said, softly.
Dickens looked down at the floor and then savagely kicked out at a chest that had been overturned. “Aye, damn it, I think he may have done it. Beshrew me, a fine friend I have turned out to be to suspect him guilty of so vile a deed!” He kicked the chest again, splintering it. “Bloody hell! What keeps going through my mind again and then again is the thought that had I only followed him that night, then I may have arrived in time to prevent…” His voice trailed off.
“There may have been nothing to prevent, Ben,” said Smythe, “at least insofar as Corwin is concerned. Had you followed him, then you may or may not have arrived in time to prevent him from breaking off his engagement, but if that was all he did that night, then you would doubtless have left the house together, and the murderer would have arrived after you had gone.”
“Aye, but then at least I would have been able to swear to Corwin’s innocence,” said Dickens. “And as matters stand, I cannot say that I know in my heart that he could not have done it. Fie upon me for a false friend! Never would he have doubted me!”
“Perhaps not, but you cannot truly know that, Ben,” said Smythe. “Were your roles reversed, Corwin might well be blaming himself even now for suspecting that you could be a murderer. Can any man truly know what another man may do when the blood runs hot and overwhelms his reason? Perhaps no man even knows what he may do himself in such a circumstance. Either way, it makes no difference. Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that you had followed him that night, and that when the two of you left here together, Master Leonardo was still alive. Then you could swear to that at Corwin’s trial, of course. But everybody knows that for the price of only a few crowns, men can be bribed to bear false witness. They can be found in Paul’s Walk every day, waiting to sell their honor for the price of a meal and a few drinks. And ‘tis well known that you are Corwin’s friend, and a mercenary, to boot. I mean you no offense, Ben, but ‘tis doubtful that your word would bear much weight in his defense.”
“The only thing that matters is that we find out what truly happened here that night,” said Shakespeare. “You said that you have spoken with the servants?”
“Aye, and they could tell me nothing.”
“But they were here that night?” said Shakespeare.
“They say so.”
“And they saw nothing? They heard nothing?”
Dickens merely shrugged and shook his head.
“How is that possible?” asked Shakespeare, frowning. “Servants commonly know everything that goes on inside the house wherein they work. I would like to speak with them myself.”
“Do as you wish,” said Dickens. “If you discover aught, then I shall stand a ready listener.”
They went back downstairs, where the servents waited anxiously, as if not knowing what else to do.
“Where are the other servants of the house?” asked Shakespeare, speaking to the wispy-haired man who’d let them in.
“We are all here, milord,” the man said, glancing around nervously.
“What, just the three of you?” asked Shakespeare, frowning again. The two women stood close together, clutching their aprons anxiously.
“Aye, milord,” the man replied. “We are all the servants in this house.”
“What is your name?” Shakespeare asked him.
“I am called Edward Budge, milord.”
“And the women?”
“This here is Mary Alastair, milord,” he replied, indicating each with a gesture, “and this is Elaine Howard.”
“You are both English,” Shakespeare said.
“Aye, milord,” they both replied nervously, almost but not quite in unison. They bobbed in a slight curtsy.
“Was there not a Genoan lady in this house?” asked Shakespeare. “A governess or maidservant for Master Leonardo’s daughter?”
“Nay, milord, we was all there is,” replied the one called Mary. “The mistress did for herself, she did.”
“Aye, very good to us, she was, milord,” added Elaine. “A kind soul with a good heart is our Mistress Hera; never spoke a cross word to any of us. Never struck us, neither.”
“Aye, she wouldn’t ask us to do anything she wouldn’t do herself,” added Mary. As they spoke, they both kept glancing at Edward, as if for reassurance. He nodded in agreement.
“How very strange,” said Shakespeare, puzzled. He looked at Ben. “You came to England aboard ship with Master Leonardo and his daughter, did you not?”
“Aye, I did,” said Dickens.
“And did they bring no servants with them from Genoa at all?”
Dickens looked blank for a moment. “Now that you mention it, I do not recall there being any servants attending them aboard ship, although for most of the voyage Hera had remained below, struck with the sea sickness. I may have assumed that there was someone taking care of her, but in truth, I do not believe I ever gave the matter any thought, one way or the other.”
“It never struck you as peculiar that a wealthy man such as Master Leonardo would be traveling without servants?” Shakespeare asked.
Dickens shook his head. “I suppose not. ‘Twas his ship we sailed upon. Doubtless, with his crew, he had no need of servants on the voyage.”
“That could be,” admitted Shakespeare. “But it does strike me as peculiar that he would bring no one along to attend upon his daughter. And that he would maintain only three servants here in London.”
“Perhaps, with a modest house like this, he did not require more,” said Dickens.
“Aye, ‘tis a modest enough house for a wealthy man,” Shakespeare agreed. “We had been discussing that before. I suppose that I understand a man of means choosing to live in a home such as this if his needs were few and simple, or else if he had planned to purchase or build a better house at some point in the near future. Nevertheless, I still find it passing strange that he should choose to live so simply. After all, he had retired from his life at sea to live a more comfortable, settled life on land. And yet, observe these furnishings. Boarded stools and chests, likewise a cupboard, all pegged with wood or nailed… not a single piece of jointed furniture, not one carved or upholstered chair. That chest upstairs, which you had splintered with your boot…’tis the sort of simple, inexpensive, boarded chest that you or I might own. The one good, solid piece here was that old sea chest that was upended in the bedroom, with the clothes all tumbled out of it and strewn about. Everything else here is poor-man’s furniture… made of common boarded oak, left plain, and stained with linseed oil.”
“So what then?” asked Ben. “That only goes to show that Leonardo was a frugal man.”
“Methinks I would say more than frugal,” Shakespeare replied. “I would say he pinched his pennies so tightly that the queen winced.”
“That is often how a man of modest means becomes a wealthy man,” said Dickens. “And old habits die hard.”
“Perhaps,” said Smythe, as a new idea occurred to him. “Or else that is how a man of very little means makes himself out to seem a wealthy man.”
“What, are you suggesting that Leonardo had no money?” Dickens said. “Nonsense! He was the master of his own merchant ship, which he had sold for a handsome profit upon coming to England!”
“Aye, and we may be standing in the midst of those profits,” said Smythe, looking around at their surroundings. “And ‘tis possible that they were not nearly so handsome as you think.”
Shakespeare turned back to the servants. “Edward, tell us, when you hired on with Master Leonardo, did he pay your wages in advance?”