“Then why his attempts to kill Tuck?” asked Elizabeth.
“The same reason he has just killed Holland, I should think,” Smythe replied. “He wishes to improve his chances.”
“But does he not place himself even more at risk by this?” asked Elizabeth.
“Perhaps,” said Smythe, “but if he is the sort of man we judge him to be, one who thrives upon the thrill of risk-a gambler, in other words-then this second slaying is nothing more than a playing of the odds.”
“Nothing more?” Elizabeth said, shocked.
“Well, to his mind, Elizabeth, not ours,” Smythe hastened to explain. “Clearly, he has no scruples about the taking of life. It does not trouble his conscience, if he even has one. He must have observed Blanche and Holland together earlier and seen some evidence of a mutual attraction, then followed Holland to their rendezvous and killed him.”
“Wait,” said Worley, “your reasoning is sound, save for one thing. If the killer had followed Holland, then why would he not have encountered me? Or any of you?”
“Indeed, he likely would have,” Smythe corrected himself, “which means he must have followed Blanche, instead. We have already deduced that she must have left the maze by another way, so then it follows that she came by that way, also. That would explain why none of us had seen them.”
“Of course,” said Shakespeare, somewhat mollified now that he felt reasonably sure the murderer had fled the scene and was not lurking somewhere nearby. “And now that Holland has been eliminated, the competition has been reduced by one, but we should keep in mind that ‘tis the field of suitors that has been reduced, and not the list of suspects.”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Worley, with a puzzled frown. “How can the list of suspects not have been reduced?” He indicated Holland ’s body. “Yonder is one less!”
“Aye, milord,” said Shakespeare. “But only to us. For us, ‘tis one less suspect, from a list we have already narrowed down to two likely candidates. However, the killer does not know that, as you have already pointed out. We must think like the killer if we are to comprehend the motives for his actions. From the killer’s point of view, he has merely reduced the field of suitors by one, that one being an individual who clearly had a leg up… so to speak… on the others. Since the killer does not know that you are here, milord, he therefore cannot know that through your knowledge of the nobility and court society, as well as through inquires, you have already eliminated most of Blanche’s suitors from our list of suspects. Consequently, he believes that he stands well hidden in a forest, when in truth, unbeknownst to him, most of the trees have already been cut down around him. Thus, he does not realize the extent of his exposure, and so this killing, from his point of view, does not seem so great a risk.”
“You have a most interesting faculty, Shakespeare,” said Worley. “You have the ability to put yourself into another’s shoes, assume his character, and then reason not only from his point of view, but with his emotions and morality, as well. ‘Tis a talent that should serve you well upon the stage, but if you are not careful, it could bring you to grief in the real world.”
“If this be the real world, methinks that I shall take the stage, milord,” said Shakespeare, wryly. “At least when one dies upon the stage, one generally revives in time for the next performance.”
“ Elizabeth,” said Smythe, “are you all right?”
She was staring at the body with a strange expression on her face, a look somewhere between alarm and desolation. “ ‘Tis the third time now that I have seen somebody slain. First Anthony Gresham, struck in the back by a thrown knife before my very eyes. Then within the span of but a few months, Catherine is stabbed to death, and now poor Daniel Holland is run through with a sword.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “I gaze down on his body and I feel sadness and regret that his young life should have been snuffed out so suddenly and cruelly, and yet… I do not scream with terror. I am not horrified into near insensibility by the sight. I do not feel my gorge rising at the sight, nor do tears come coursing down my cheeks. I wonder what has become of me that I can look so calmly upon death?”
“Familiarity doth breed contempt, milady,” Worley replied. “With repeated exposure, one can grow accustomed to almost anything. Else one would go mad. ‘Tis a lesson learned by each and every soldier on the battlefield, and each and every sailor on the sea. I am saddened that a young lady like yourself should learn it, also. Would that it were not so.” He turned to Smythe and Shakespeare. “You two should take up Holland ’s body and bring it to the house. When you are asked what happened, tell the truth… just take care that you do not tell it all. Say no more than what you know and what you yourselves have witnessed. Say nothing of Holland ’s tryst with Blanche. You were out walking in the garden and you heard a cry. You responded, and you found him slain. Say nothing of my presence. ‘Twould be best were I not seen. Remember… I am not here.”
“But how shall we find you if we need you, milord?” asked Smythe.
“Never fear, I shall find you. Now go on. Take Holland back. Let us stir up a hornet’s nest and watch what happens next.”
As Shakespeare said when they returned to the house, “The specter of death appears to have brought new life to the festivities.” Indeed, thought Smythe, it was strangely and unsettlingly all too true. The house was ablaze with lights when they returned, and even the fairgrounds were weirdly illuminated with flickering torchlight and campfires. Having earlier closed up their stalls and colorful pavil-lions, the merchants had opened them up once again to take advantage of the situation as the guests stayed up and wandered through the house and fairgrounds. It seemed that no one slept, as they were all eager to hear or else impart the latest bit of gossip.
Catherine’s dramatic resurrection and murder already had everyone abuzz, and anyone who had retired for the night had been awakened by the uproar of people running through the halls and calling out the news or else banging upon doors to awaken their friends. When Shakespeare and Smythe, accompanied by Elizabeth, returned to the house, bearing between them the limp body of Daniel Holland, the news exploded through the estate like a petard.
The stricken Sir Roger was desolated by the news of his son’s death, but his grief was mixed with righteous fury as he announced to one and all that he would pay a thousand crowns to whoever brought his son’s murderer before him. Not to be outdone, Godfrey Middleton immediately doubled the amount.
“This outrage against justice and all humanity shall not be tolerated!” he cried out to the assembled guests. “We shall never submit to it! We shall not suffer damned, bloodthirsty assassins to walk amongst us unmolested! I hereby swear before Almighty God that our children’s foul murders shall be avenged!”
“Oh, damn, where did I leave my pen?” muttered Shakespeare, as he listened raptly to Middleton’s address. “This is great stuff!”
“Really, Will!” said Elizabeth, taken aback by his response.
“Forget it, Elizabeth,” Smythe said to her, shaking his head.
“ ‘Tis hopeless. He cannot help himself. He is a poet, and to a poet, all the world’s a stage and all the people in it merely players.”
Shakespeare cocked an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.
They were questioned at length by everyone, it seemed, until both Smythe and Shakespeare had grown nearly hoarse from telling the story over and over again. To escape all the attention, Elizabeth finally retired to her room to pack her things. Middleton had said nothing about rescinding his order for her departure, and though she was not eager to leave now that things had reached a fever pitch of excitement, she did not seem to have much choice.