“Aye,” said Smythe. “And in so doing, he has saved my life.”
“Dubois?” said Shakespeare.
“Aye, for Godfrey Middleton was about to slay me,” Smythe said. He pointed at Middleton’s body as the hall became crowded with Dubois’s pursuers. “He killed Catherine, for disgracing him with a stable boy, just as he had killed his wife for some like offense, whether real or imagined. He confessed it all to me. I fear that he has also murdered Blanche. That is doubtless her blood on his sword there. He was going to kill me, and then blame me for the deed.”
“What?” said Worley, with astonishment.
“After we spoke in the library, and I told her about Daniel Holland’s murder, Blanche was quite understandably distressed,” Smythe explained. “I had escorted her back to her room, and when Middleton saw me leaving, he thought the worst of it. He followed me back downstairs and accused me of despoiling his daughter. He was enraged. He said… he said vile things that are best not repeated. There was a madness upon him. He told me how he had gone back to the tomb and saw Catherine awake as the effects of the potion wore off. He thought she was a demon or a spirit risen from the dead and so he fell upon his knees and confessed her mother’s murder to her. She was horrified, and screamed at him, and in a rage told him how she had planned to stage her death and run off with young Mason. He struck her and then she produced the dagger Mason left there for her. He got it away from her and killed her with it. And he was about to kill me when Dubois came upon the scene and shot him down.”
There was the sound of galloping hoofbeats outside on the cobbles and someone shouted out, “Stop him! He is getting away!” “After him!” shouted someone else.
“Nay, let him go!” commanded Worley. “I’ll not have men breaking their necks out there in the darkness, chasing after phantoms. ‘Tis not worth the risk. I, for one, have seen quite enough corpses for one day. We shall deal with him another time… whoever he may be.” He glanced at Smythe. “I do not suppose he told you that, did he?”
“No, Sir William, he did not,” Smythe said, shaking his head. “ ‘Tis a mystery. But whoever he was, he was most certainly not French. He spoke to me with a most definite Irish accent.”
“Irish!” Shakespeare said. “He was an Irishman?”
“Aye,” said Smythe. “And he murdered Holland, I’m afraid.”
“He arranged for Camden ’s murder, too,” said Worley, “then shot down the man who did it, so that he could not reveal his name or bear witness against him. So while he may have saved your life, there are at least three murders for which we cannot forgive him.”
“Indeed,” said Smythe, dryly, “and there is one thing more which I cannot forgive him.”
“But I thought you said the Irishman had saved your life?” said Shakespeare.
“Aye, he did at that,” said Smythe, with a grimace. “But in the end, he turned out to be a much better actor than I could ever hope to be!”
EPILOGUE
THE STAGE HAD BEEN TAKEN down and packed away, as had all of the tents and stalls that had stood upon the fairgrounds. Save for the players and a few merchants who were still putting away their wares, nearly everyone had left. The grounds were quite torn up, and it would apparently be some time before anyone thought about putting them right again. And given the way things had turned out, the festival at Middleton Manor would, indeed, be an event that people in London would talk about for a long, long time to come.
“Do you suppose that seeing his daughter apparently rising from the dead had unhinged his mind?” asked Shakespeare.
They stood together beneath some trees outside the house, not far from where the players’ wagons waited. Worley sat in his light carriage, getting ready to drive back to Green Oaks, and from there, to rejoin the queen on her progress through the countryside.
“I suspect his madness came upon him long before.” said Worley, “if, indeed, ‘twas madness, for if it were, then he concealed it well. I think Tuck was closer to the truth when he said that it was rage. Godfrey Middleton was an ambitious, vain and selfish man. He wanted more than anything to be someone important, a gentleman, a courtier. Money alone was not enough. What he desired above all else was position. And it seemed that he would stop at nothing to achieve it. That was a sort of madness in itself, I suppose.”
“And it seemed that all his daughters had desired was love,” said Smythe. “Catherine had found it with a stable boy, and was willing to die for it. And poor Blanche kept looking for it everywhere, in vain.”
“What will become of young Mason now?” asked Shakespeare.
“I shall take him back to work for me,” said Worley. “Poor lad. He is quite undone with grief. I believe he shall get over it in time, but he is entirely blameless in the matter. I hold nothing against him. After all, all he did was fall in love above his station. He would not be the first to do that.”
“Nor the last,” said Smythe, softy, thinking of Elizabeth, who had left earlier with her father. She had never liked Blanche Middleton, but she had been deeply saddened by her death. For her, too, it would take time to recover from the tragic events that had occurred at Middleton Manor.
“Has there been any word about the Irishman?” asked Shakespeare.
Worley shook his head. “ ‘Twould appear that he has made good his escape. I have men out searching for him, but I suspect that coney will be quite difficult to catch. ‘Tis quite a shame, really, such talent and resourcefulness, put to such base use. I could use a man like that in the queen’s service.”
“Perhaps Black Billy would have better luck in finding him than any of the queen’s men,” Smythe suggested.
Worley smiled. “Perhaps. We shall see.”
“Will! Tuck!” called Burbage from the wagons. “Come on! We are ready to depart!”
“Well, your tour awaits,” said Worley.
Shakespeare grimaced. “ ‘Twill seem quite tame after all this.” Smythe sighed. “I could do with something tame, methinks. I have had quite enough excitement for a while.”
“ ‘Twas good of you to pay the players, Sir William,” Shakespeare said.
Worley shrugged. “ ‘Twas not their fault they never had a chance to act their play. Besides, I shall make it back and then some from handling Her Majesty’s disposal of the estate. There have already been several offers. Percival seems quite taken with the place. He said it has now attained a notorious reputation and no doubt the queen shall wish to come and see it.”
“Well, the estate shall survive,” said Shakespeare, dryly, “but I do not think I can say the same about my play. I do not regret not seeing it performed. ‘Twas never any good, I fear.”
“Oh, I would not say that, Will,” Smythe replied. “Now, the beginning was quite promising, I thought. Perhaps you can keep that and use it somewhere else.”
“Perhaps you can write a play about what happened here,” said Worley, with a smile. “ Twould be a tragedy, of course. Quite worthy of the Greeks, I should think. Murder, greed, imposture, lust and madness, dead bodies strewn everywhere about…”
“Been done,” said Smythe.
“Still,” said Shakespeare, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “ ‘tis an idea…”
SIMON HAWKE
SIMON HAWKE has been the author of two successful SF/F series (Time Wars and The Wizard of 4th Street), a New York Times bestselling Star Trek novel, and several books for TSR in the Dark Sun and Birthright settings. He currently lives in Greensboro, North Carolina. The Slaying of the Shrew is his second Shakespeare and Smythe mystery.
