“Well now, the first time, they all come in together,” she said, and Smythe noticed that except when she became excited, she had a way of avoiding the “th” and “s” sounds whenever possible, replacing them with “v’s” and “z’s” in order to minimize her lisp, so that the word ‘first’ came out ‘furz’ and ‘together’ came out ‘togevver.’ It was somehow endearing.
“The first time?” Shakespeare repeated. “You mean to say they left and then came back again, the very same night?”
“Aye. Well, all ‘cept two o’ them.”
“You told us there were five of them in all,” said Shakespeare. “Do you mean that three of them left the tavern and two stayed behind?”
“Aye, you got it,” she said, nodding. “An’ then a bit later, the other three come back and they all left together.”
“Were Budge and the two women in here all during that time?” asked Smythe.
“Aye, they was,” she replied, nodding as Dickens offered her another sip of ale. “I remember ‘cause I kept bringing them more beer.”
“So they drank small beer, then, and not ale?” Shakespeare said. Then he nodded to himself. “ ‘Twould make sense, of course. ‘Tis a cheaper brew, and so they could drink more. And it sounds as if they drank rather a lot. So then while they were drinking and having themselves a fine old time, three of the Steady Boys left, while two remained behind.”
“To act as lookouts, perhaps, and keep an eye on the servants?” asked Smythe.
Shakespeare nodded. “It could be. That way, if Budge and the women started back before the other three returned, then one of the two remaining would run to give his comrades warning, while the other lingered to delay them.”
“The devil gnaw their bones!” Dickens exclaimed. “So they killed Leonardo!”
Kate gasped and her hand went to her mouth.
“We cannot yet say for certain,” Shakespeare said, “but methinks something is rotten here.”
The others frowned and sniffed at their clothing.
“I meant something smells fishy,” Shakespeare said.
Smythe, Kate, and Dickens smelled their armpits.
“Oh, for God’s sake! I meant it seems suspicious, too much of a coincidence!” exclaimed Shakespeare, in exasperation. “Odd’s blood! I know that I am speaking English! Why is it so difficult to understand my meaning?”
“Not a word of this, Kate, you understand?” said Smythe. “Especially if you should see any of those boys again, although I rather doubt you will. Methinks they shall go out of their way to avoid this place for a good long while.”
Her eyes were wide with fear as she nodded mutely and clung to Ben’s arm for support, glancing around at all of them with alarm.
“Hola! You! Wench! Get yer skinny body over here!” called out one of the patrons at a table across the room.
Kate started to get up, but Dickens held her back. “Wait,” he said.
“But, m’lud…”
“Wait, I said. You need not respond to such rudeness.”
“Hola! Wench! You deaf? We need more ale, girl!”
She glanced at Dickens with consternation. “Stay,” he said, calmly.
Shakespeare glanced over at the table where the shouting was coming from. “There are three of them,” he said.
“And there are three of us,” said Smythe.
“One of us with a bandage on his nearly broken head and another with but a dagger for his weapon,” Shakespeare replied, dryly, “while all three of those gentlemen are wearing swords, in the event you have not noticed.”
“You there!” one of the men called angrily to Dickens. “Stop mucking about with that skinny, harelipped wench and send her over here! She’s here to work, not be your bloody doxy!”
“My friends,” said Dickens, easing Kate gently off his knee, “allow me. I shall be but a moment.”
“Right,” said Smythe, with a sigh, as he started to get up, but Dickens stayed him with a hand upon his shoulder.
“Nay, Tuck, I beg you, keep your seat. This dance is mine.”
With a scraping of stools, the three men got to their feet, reaching for their blades.
“Ben, do not be foolish,” Smythe said. “There are three of them, for God’s sake. And they have the look of men who know their business.”
“Then that should make the odds just about even,” Dickens replied, as he stepped forward and drew his sword.
“Why is it that this happens every time I go to some strange tavern?” Shakespeare asked, throwing up his hands. “And where are you going?” he asked Smythe as he started to get up.
“To help Ben, of course,” Smythe said, putting his hand on his sword hilt.
“You were very nearly killed the other day,” Shakespeare replied. “Have you not had enough? He said he did not need your help!”
Smythe opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly shut it and raised his eyebrows in surprise as Dickens engaged the first man with a quick circular parry to his lunge that sent his opponent’s sword flying across the room. As patrons ducked their heads beneath their tables to avoid the flying blade, Dickens smashed the basket hilt of his rapier into his suddenly disarmed opponent’s face, then pivoted to strike down the second’s man blade, following that up with a brutal kick to the man’s groin that made Smythe wince.
“Apparently,” said Smythe, “he does not require any help.”
The third man glanced at his two fallen comrades, swallowed hard, then turned and ran straight out the door.
“Well,” said Dickens, turning around and shrugging. “That was rather disappointing.”
Kate’s eyes were shining with hero worship as she gazed at him, awestruck.
“If you gentlemen are finished with your drinks, then I would very much appreciate it if you left,” the tavernkeeper told them.
Dickens turned toward him, still holding his sword at his side.
“However, I shall not insist,” the tavernkeeper added, holding up his hands, palms out.
“Never mind,” said Dickens. “We are leaving. Kate, my dear, when the Queen’s Men stage their next production at the Burbage Theatre, you shall be my guest. Just tell them that Ben Dickens said so.” He bowed to her with a flourish and then sheathed his blade. “My friends, shall we take our leave?”
“By all means,” said Shakespeare, paying the awestruck girl for their ale. “Where to now?”
“Back to the Toad and Badger, I believe,” said Smythe. “We must put our heads together and devise a plan to trap some rats.”
11
WHEN THEY RETURNED TO THE Toad and Badger, everyone was waiting for them. They had missed rehearsal, an offense which usually resulted in a fine among any company of players, for if one actor missed rehearsal, it placed a burden on the others that was directly proportional to the importance of that actor’s role-or roles, since it was not uncommon for a player to have more than one. But for three of the company to have missed rehearsal was unheard of. As a result, the other members of the company were quite concerned, especially in light of the attack on Smythe. And they were not alone. Liam Bailey was also at the tavern, awaiting news. When they came in, they were at once surrounded and peppered with anxious questions.
“What happened? Where were you?” Hemings asked.
“Are you all right?” asked Fleming, with concern. “Where have you been?”
“You three had best have a good excuse for missing the rehearsal,” Burbage said crossly, though it was clear that he, too, had been worried.
“I am so sorry, lad,” said Liam Bailey, pushing his way through. “I only just heard about what happened. When ye did not come to the smithy yesterday, I had assumed the company had need of ye… I never knew that you were injured.” He shook his head in self-recrimination.
“Stay your questions for a moment, everyone!” said Smythe, holding up his hands. “All shall be explained.”