“Aye, milord,” the servent replied. “A week’s wages for each of us.”
“Only a week?”
“Aye,” Edward replied. “ ‘Twas to be a trial period. We were to be paid a week’s wages at a time until the master had decided we were suitable, and then we were promised that arrangements more to our advantage would be made.”
“And your wages included room and board, of course?” asked Shakespeare.
“Well… they would, in a month’s time,” said Edward. “Once we had proved our suitability.”
Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances. “So then you did not sleep here?” Smythe asked.
“Why… no, milord.”
“Neither did you eat here?” Shakespeare asked.
“No, milord,” Edward replied, a bit more tentatively. He suddenly looked uncomfortable.
Shakespeare immediately followed up, watching the man carefully. “Where did you dine?”
“Why… we all dined together at the nearby tavern,” Edward said, glancing at them nervously, his eyes darting back and forth. “The ordinaries are very reasonable there.”
“And the ale too, no doubt,” said Smythe.
Before the man could reply, Shakespeare quickly asked, “How long were you gone to supper the night Master Leonardo was killed?”
They noticed that the women had gone very still. They both looked pale and Mary’s lower lip had started trembling. They both looked frightened as they clutched each other’s hands tightly. Edward did not look much better.
“Why… why, not long at all,” stammered Edward. “No longer than usual, I am quite certain…”
“You were out drinking and carousing,” said Smythe, fixing him with a hard look.
“Nay, milord, we were not!” protested Edward, blinking. “We only went to supper! Honest!”
“You are lying, Edward,” Smythe said, stepping up close and looming over him. “You were out drinking.”
“Nay, ‘tisn’t true! We only went to supper!” Edward protested, but he swallowed hard and retreated back against the wall, looking panicked.
“You were in the tavern, drinking and carousing,” Shakespeare said, “all three of you.” He turned to the women, who were now both trembling and crying. “We shall go to the Devil Tavern and inquire of the tavernkeeper. I am quite certain that he will recall what transpired that night, as everyone has heard of it by now. No doubt he will remember you. And then you three shall all be going to the devil!”
“We didn’t kill him! We swear!” wailed Mary, sinking to her knees and clutching at Shakespeare’s doublet. Elaine simply started blubbering.
“Shut up, you fools!” shouted Edward.
Smythe grabbed him by the front of his doubtlet and slammed him back against the wall, hard enough to stun him momentarily and silence him.
“We didn’t do it! I swear we didn’t!” Mary sobbed. “I swear, so help me God!”
“Please, sir! Please!” was all that Elaine was able to manage.
“Bloody hell!” said Dickens. “ ‘Twas the servants murdered him! They murdered him to get his money!”
“We never did! I swear we never did!” cried Mary, desperately.
“Nay,” said Shakespeare, shaking his head as he looked down at Mary, “they did not kill him. He was already dead when they returned.”
She looked up at him with disbelief and awe, as if he were her guardian angel suddenly descended from on high. “Oh, God be praised, sir, ‘tis true! ‘Tis true! God bless you, sir, ‘tis true, I swear it on my life!”
“You are swearing it on your life, you slattern,” Dickens told her. “And ‘tis a life that will be forfeit!” He looked at Shakespeare. “Surely, you do not believe this lying wench?”
“Aye, I do believe her,” Shakespeare said, quietly, looking down at her with pity. “Think you that they would have remained within this house until Hera had returned, all the while knowing that their master was lying dead upstairs?”
Edward glanced from Smythe to Shakespeare and then back again. He had the look of a drowning man who had just been thrown a rope. “ ‘Twas just how it happened, milords, ‘tis true! Honest! We never knew that he was dead! We never did!”
“And you became convinced you would be blamed,” said Shakespeare, “unless you all swore to it that you were here when Corwin left the house.”
“What strange mystery is this?” demanded Dickens. He glanced at Smythe. “What the devil is he talking about?”
“I see it now,” said Smythe. “They have all lied out of fear to save themselves.”
“You believe that they have lied before and yet they are not lying now?” asked Dickens. “What, am I the only one here who has not taken leave of his senses? I understand none of this!”
“Season your admiration for a while with an attentive ear, Ben,” Shakespeare said, “and I shall deliver unto you the tale of what they did that night, and they shall stay my story and redirect me if I wander from the truth. Is that not right, Mary?”
She nodded several times as he gently helped her to her feet.
“Listen well and correct me if I stray,” he told her, and then he looked at Ben. “A week’s wages was what Master Leonardo paid them, by their own account,” he said. “And week by week, they would be paid thus until they had proved their suitability, at which point, arrangements more to their advantage would be made. Such was the promise.”
He glanced at Mary for confirmation and she nodded several times, emphatically. “Well,” he continued, “for the first few days, they did endeavor to be most suitable, indeed. ‘Tis not easy, after all, to get good work in London nowadays. But as the week drew near a close, and more wages looked to be forthcoming, they felt the need to celebrate. Their positions seemed secure and excellent. Their master did not seem to demand too much of them; likewise their mistress, who was land to them and asked nothing of them that she would not do herself. A servant could certainly do a great deal worse.
“So then,” he went on, “with the week drawing to a close, they decided, as was their custom of an evening, to go to their suppers in the tavern, where they lingered for a while to drink a toast or two or three to their good fortune. By now, after nearly a week, they had learned the regular habits of their master, who as a seafaring man for many years was no doubt an early riser so went early off to bed. They had also learned that Hera had found herself a friend, Elizabeth Darcie, with whom she often spent her evenings, and that these evenings went so pleasantly that Hera often stayed quite late, returning in a carriage that Henry Darcie had most likely provided for her use. Thus, there was no harm in staying out a little late to have their celebration. They had intended to be back before their mistress had returned.”
All three of the servants were now staring at Shakespeare, speechless with disbelief, as if he were some sort of sorcerer, divining precisely what had happened on that night.
“They left the house just as Corwin was arriving,” Shakespeare continued. “Thus did they know that he had been there. They had, of course, seen him before, and so knew who he was, for he was courting Hera. They admitted him to see Master Leonardo, and told him that they were going off to supper. Doubtless, he told them that he would be letting himself out. Likely, he was glad that they were leaving, for he doubtless wished to speak privately with Leonardo, and thus avoid making a scene before the servants. And so, off they went to supper, and then stayed to celebrate a while. When they returned, the house was quiet, and so they naturally assumed their master had retired for the night. Before long, they knew, Hera would return, and then they would be able to go home. And so it was. Hera returned, then went upstairs to say good night to her father, as was her custom, and they heard her screams when she discovered him dead. The rest you know. She went running through the streets in a panic to the Darcie house, the carriage having already returned. Edward, fearful that some greater misfortune might befall her, followed.