“But he shall surely know it as soon as he becomes aware of your presence here, milord,” Elizabeth said.
“Which is precisely why he shall not become aware of it,” said Worley. “Save for the three of you, no one else knows I have returned. Therefore, let us keep it that way. Do not mention my return to anyone, and if anyone should ask, feign ignorance.”
“But… where shall you be, milord?” Elizabeth asked. “Even if you intend to conceal yourself in the upstairs rooms, the servants will become aware of you and they will surely spread the word.”
Worley smiled. “Never fear. Not even Godfrey Middleton will know I have returned. I have already made preparations in anticipation of this.”
“But… where will you be, milord?” asked Shakespeare.
“Hiding in plain sight,” said Worley, with a smile. But before he could continue, a sharp cry echoed suddenly across the grounds.
“Goodness! What was that?” Elizabeth said, clutching at Smythe instinctively.
“I think it came from over there,” said Shakespeare, pointing. “The maze!” said Worley. He started running towards the entrance.
“ Elizabeth, get back to the house,” said Smythe. “No, I am going with you.” “ Elizabeth, for God’s sake!”
“I feel much safer with you,” she insisted. “Do not bother to argue, for I am not going back!”
“What if I go back?” said Shakespeare.
“Oh, Hell’s bells! Come on, both of you! We must catch up with Sir William!”
Smythe quickly realized that was more easily said than done, for Sir William’s long legs had given him a considerable head start and he was running very quickly. If Smythe had not known about his secret life as the outlaw, Black Billy, he might have been surprised at how fit Sir William was for a supposedly indolent aristocrat, but he knew that Worley was in truth anything but that. By the time they reached the entrance to the maze, Sir William had already gone inside.
Their eyes were well accustomed to the night by now, but it was nearly pitch dark inside the maze. Smythe still had his sword, and he now drew it, holding it before him as they proceeded, for although it was difficult to see, what they heard gave them due cause for caution.
Somewhere within the labyrinthine hedges of the maze, a furious fight was taking place. They could hear the rapid clanging of blades ringing out in the darkness somewhere nearby, and judging by the sounds of the combat, it was in deadly earnest. Smythe knew enough of swordsmanship to tell, just by the sounds of blade on blade, that the men engaged were both skilled swordsmen.
“ Elizabeth, which way?” he said, tensely.
“To the right,” she said, keeping close behind him.
“Odd’s blood, I do not like this one bit,” said Shakespeare, glancing around uneasily. “I can scarcely see in this infernal shrubbery!”
“Now to the left,” Elizabeth said, directing them from memory as they proceeded. “Oh, I do hope Sir William is all right!”
“Sir William can take care of himself, never fear,” said Smythe. “He is an accomplished swordsman.”
“Well, he may be, but I am not,” said Shakespeare, “so if there is any fighting to be done, it is my devout wish that he shall be the one to do it, for I lack not only swordmanship, I lack a sword, as well!”
“You should have worn one,” Smythe said.
“And this from the man who forgets to wear one half the time himself,” Shakespeare replied. “For all the use a sword would be to me, I might just as well wear a farthingale.”
“And very fetching you would look in one, methinks,” said Smythe. He paused. “I do not hear anything now. Do you?”
“Not a thing,” Shakespeare replied.
“Should we call out?” Elizabeth asked, softly.
“And give away Sir William’s presence?” Smythe said. “He is somewhere ahead of us. If he needs help-”
“Will! Tuck! Come quickly!” Worley called out. He sounded very close.
A moment later, as they made another turn, they came upon him, standing stooped over what appeared to be a pile of leaves upon the ground. He dropped to one knee as they approached, stretching out his hand, and Smythe abruptly realized that it was not a pile of leaves at all, but a body lying on the ground.
“Good Lord!” said Shakespeare. “Is that…?”
“ ‘Tis Holland,” Worley replied. “Or ‘twas Holland, I should say. He has been run through, clean through the heart. There is also a wound here, high in the left shoulder.”
“Oh, God!” Elizabeth said, drawing back. “And what of Blanche?”
“Not a sign of her,” said Worley.
“You do not think…” Elizabeth ’s voice trailed off as she brought her knuckle up to her mouth and bit down on it, as if to stifle a cry.
“I do not yet know what to drink, milady,” he said, frowning.
“Well, I suppose this definitely removes young Holland from our list of suspects,” Shakespeare said.
“Here, Smythe,” said Worley, tossing him a gauntlet. “Strike him for me, will you?”
Smythe caught the glove and smacked Shakespeare on the shoulder with it.
“Sorry,” Shakespeare said, lamely.
“You ought to be.”
“I know ‘twas rather bad form, but I could not help myself. This whole thing is beginning to take on the aspect of a Greek tragedy.”
“ Elizabeth, there is more than one way out of this maze, is there not?” asked Worley.
“There are three,” she replied, “counting the way we came in.”
“As I thought,” he said. “That explains why we did not encounter anyone as we came in. Blanche and the killer must have left by another way.”
“So then he has her?” Smythe said.
“Not necessarily,” Worley replied. “We did not hear her cry out. And Holland here was fully dressed and on his way out from the center of the maze, heading back the way he came. Blanche must have left by another way.”
“Aye, that would make sense,” said Smythe. “ Twould ensure they were not seen together. So whoever killed Holland caught him as he was on his way out. He struck, and Holland cried out in alarm, then drew his blade.”
“That is what I think,” Worley agreed. “This wound here, in the shoulder, must have been the first touch, before Holland had time to draw steel. He must have twisted away at the last moment, else this would have been the fatal touch. The combat was fast and furious, but very brief. The killer had already fled when I arrived and found Holland slain. The question is, why?”
“Good question,” Shakespeare said. “What say we go back to the house, have a drink and mull it over within the safety of four walls and a well lit room?”
“He is eliminating his rivals,” Smythe said.
Worley glanced at him as he stood up from the body. “Aye, a sensible deduction,” he said, nodding. “Our man must feel very secure in his deception.”