The Merchant of Vengeance

by Simon Hawke

  She stared at Mayhew with a look to freeze the soul, her voice trembling with emotion. "If we are like you in the rest, then we will resemble you in that," she said. She stood and raised her hand, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "The villainy you teach me I will execute," she cried. "Thou stick'st a dagger in me! I shall never see my son again!"

  Mayhew's face was white. He sat stiffly, facing her, and yet he did nor look away. And Shakespeare wondered, could a guilty man have faced such a gaze unflinchingly?

  She closed her cyes and turned away, struggling to keep from breaking down. There was not a sound within the chamber. She won her struggle and managed to compose herself. Then she straightened, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and slowly left the room. For a moment that seemed to stretch on and on, no one spoke. Then Shylocke looked at Shakespeare and said, "And now 'tis your turn to speak for the accused."

  Shakespeare stood, thinking it would be impossible to follow on the heels of such a speech. He cleared his throat and faced the dais. "With respect to this court, I would like to request a pause in the proceedings to see if my friend has arrived with all of our witnesses, so that we may plead our cause."

  Locke stared at him, clearly not wanting to grant the request, but at the same time not seeing any compelling reason to deny him. He could easily have done so anyway, thought Shakespeare. It was his guild and his court, after all. The fact that he was hesitating was encouraging, indeed. It showed that for all that he might be a thief, he was a fair one.

  "Granted," Locke said after a moment's consideration. "Fifteen minutes. And then you must proceed." He slammed the hammer on the table.

  Shakespeare glanced around, not certain where to go. After all, he had been brought to this place blindfolded. Fortunately, someone came to his rescue.

  "This way," a young man said, coming up beside him. "Moll has just returned with your friend and the last of the people that you sent them for."

  "They are all here?" Shakespeare asked as he followed the man down a narrow corridor, scarcely able to believe it. "However did you manage it?"

  The man simply shrugged. "We persuaded them all to come."

  "Indeed," said Shakespeare, partly to himself. "I do hope that you did not persuade too strenuously."

  The man shrugged once more. "Well, some required a bit more persuasion than others. But they were all agreeable in the end."

  "I am quite sure they were," muttered Shakespeare as they entered a small room. As he came in, he saw Tuck and Moll Cutpurse, together with Elizabeth Darcie, a distraught-looking young woman who had to be Portia Mayhew, and an older woman whom he did not know. He frowned.

  "And who is this lady?" he asked.

  "Madame Winifred Fitzwalter," Smyrhe replied. "Henry Mayhews intended."

  "But I did not ask you to bring her," said Shakespeare, turning with a puzzled look from Smythe to Moll Cutpurse.

  "They were all together," Moll replied with a shrug. "And after all, if Mayhew is the man that she intends to marry, then why should she not be present at his trial? I shall leave you to make your preparations. I should be getting back out to the hall."

  "Trial?" asked Winifred, after Moll left the room. "What do you mean? What trial? What has Henry done?"

  "He is being tried for the murder of Thomas Locke," said Shakespeare.

  Winifred gasped.

  "Tried by whom?" Elizabeth asked. "And by whose authority?

  Where are we? What is this place?"

  "As to where we are," Shakespeare replied, "I cannot say, for we were brought here blindfolded, as I surmise were you. As to what this place is, I would venture to say 'tis an inn, either within the city walls or perhaps across the river, in the Liberties. In either case, we are certainly close by the city, if no longer within its boundaries. As to by whose authority the trial is conducted, 'tis not so much a matter of authority as of main force, though I suppose that one could argue they are much the same. Wherever this place may be, 'tis the meeting hall of the Thieves Guild, and the trial is being held by them, under the direction of Charles Locke, Thomas's father, also known as Shy Locke."

  "Dear God," Winifred said, bringing her hands up to her mouth. "They are going to kill him!"

  "I would say that there seems to be an excellent chance of that, unless somehow I can do something to dissuade them," Shake speare replied.

  "What is your role in this?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Tuck and I were brought here to give testimony, it seems, to lend an air of credence to this trial. Wc were the ones who had brought Shy Locke the news that his son was planning to elope, and 'tis for that reason, Locke believes, his son was killed."

  "And now Will is defending Mayhew," Smyrhe said, "because he does not believe him to be guilty of the crime."

  "But this is madness!" said Elizabeth, glancing from Smythe to Shakespeare. "This is not a real trial or a real court! There is no legal authority here! These people are criminals!"

  "Be that as it may," said Shakespeare, "they are very serious in their intent. And 'twould also appear, strange as it may seem, that they are seeking justice and, in so doing, are actually striving to be fair."

  "Fair!" said Elizabeth.

  "Aye, believe it or not," Shakespeare replied. "'Tis curious. They are a rough and raucous bunch, and yet, for all that, this is a serious matter to them and, in their own way, they are approaching it as seriously as they know how. And 'twould appear that they are striving to be fair, perhaps because fairness has so often been denied them. And therein lies Henry Mayhew's only hope."

  "What do you intend to do?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I must do my best to find the truth," said Shakespeare. Elizabeth frowned. "How?"

  Shakespeare sighed. "By seeking to discover lies, perhaps. I do not yet know for certain. But I must do it now, tonight." He turned to Smythe. "I am told the others are all here, as well?"

  Smythe nodded. "They are being kept waiting in separate rooms."

  "What others?" asked Elizabeth.

  "You shall find out in due course," said Shakespeare. He turned to Portia, who had been listening to it all without saying a word. "Mistress Mayhew, you shall shortly be brought out into a hall that is filled with people, people of a rather rough sort that may frighten you, but you must not be frightened. I shall have to put some questions to you, questions that you may not find very pleasant, but you shall have to answer them. I have every confidence chat you can do that."

  "Oh, for Heaven's sake, Will! She has been out of her wits with grief!" Elizabeth exclaimed.

  "You shall not be able to speak for her out there, Elizabeth," said Shakespeare. "So I suggest you do not try to do so here." He turned back to Portia, who simply stared back at him. "All I am asking is that you speak the truth," he said to her. "And if you will not do it for me, or even for your father, do it for Thomas. You shall honor his memory in doing so."

  The door was flung open. "Right," said the man who had brought Shakespeare from the hall. "Time to go."

  They were led back to the hall.

  The masters of the guild were all at their places on the dais.

  Moll Cutpurse had rejoined them. Mayhew sat where Shakespeare had left him, at the table. He looked a little haggard, but someone had brought him a pitcher of ale and some bread and cheese. He had not touched the bread and cheese, but he had partaken liberally of the ale. His tankard was half full and the pitcher was half empty.

  "Do not go getting yourself drunk," Shakespeare told him. "Why the hell not?" asked Mayhew with a grimace. Shakespeare opened his mouth, then shut it once again.

  "'Strewth, you have a point. I cannot think of a single reason."

  "Nor could I," said Mayhew. He quaffed the remainder of the ale in his tankard and poured himself another.

  Locke struck his hammer on the table several times. "Master Shakespeare, are you prepared to begin?"

  "I am," Shakespeare replied, rising to his feet.

  "Proceed, then."

  "I sh
ould like to call for my first witness my good friend Tuck Smythe," he said.

  Tuck got up and walked over to the seat placed before the dais. "Do you swear before God, upon pain of your immortal soul, that what you say before this court shall be the truth?" asked Locke.

  "I do," said Smythe.

  "Be seated."

  "Would you please give your full name to this assemblage?" Shakespeare asked him.

  "Symington Smythe II," said Tuck.

  Winifred caught her breath and stared at him with astonishment.

  "And what is your occupation?"

  "I am a player with Lord Strange's Men, and a sometime smith and farrier."

  "Could you explain to this court how it happened that you met Thomas Locke and what was the nature of your acquaintance?"

  "You and I had gone together to the shop of Ben Dickens, the armorer," said Smythe, "who is a friend of ours. "Whilst there, we met Thomas Locke, another friend of Ben's, who had arrived in a state of great agitation because the father of his betrothed, Portia Mayhew, had just withdrawn his consent to the marriage and forbidden him from seeing her again."

  "Did he say why this consent had been withdrawn?" asked Shakespeare.

  "Because his mother was a Jew," said Smythe.

  "And how did Thomas respond to this?"

  "He was most distressed. He said he loved this girl with all his heart and soul and could not live without her. He could not bear the thought of never seeing her again."

  "And what was your response to this?" asked Shakespeare. Smythe hesitated slightly. "I advised him to elope with her."

  "Indeed?" said Shakespeare. "And did you know him well?" Smythe hesitated yet again. "Nay, we had never before met."

  "And yet you took it upon yourself to advise him to elope?"

  "Aye."

  "Were you acquainted at all with his intended, Mistress Mayhew?"

  "I was not."

  "You had never met her nor even laid eyes upon her, as it hap pens, is that not so?"

  "'Tis so."

  "And yet you still advised Thomas Locke, whom you had only just met, to elope with this girl whom you had never met?"

  Smythe spoke under his breath. "Will, what the devil are you doing?"

  "Answer the question, please."

  "I did so advise him, aye," said Smythe with a grimace.

  "Are you ordinarily in the habit of advising strangers to elope?"

  "Not ordinarily."

  "So then why in this case?"

  "Because .. because I understood how he must have felt, I suppose," said Smythe.

  Elizabeth sat up a little straighter in her seat.

  "Because something of a somewhat similar nature, so to speak, had occurred in your own life?"

  Smythe gave him a hard look. "Aye," he said after a moment. Elizabeth looked down.

  "And what happened then?" asked Shakespeare.

  "Thomas said that he would follow my advice and left."

  Smythe replied. "And then Ben took me to task for not minding my own business. As did you."

  "I did, indeed," said Shakespeare. "And what happened then?"

  "Upon listening to you and Ben, I decided that perhaps I had spoken rashly, and we—that is, you and I, not Ben—went together to seek out Thomas's parents and inform them of what their son intended."

  "The rest you know," said Shakespeare, turning to face Locke upon the dais. "But for the benefit of this assemblage, we came to you and told you what had happened, whereupon you requested us to deliver a message to your son, asking him to come and see you. When we tried to do so, we found, much to our profound regret, that young Thomas had been slain." He turned back to Smythe. "Thank you, Tuck. If it please the court, I am finished with this witness."

  "You may step down," said Locke to Smythe.

  "I would now like to call forth Mistress Elizabeth Darcie."

  Shakespeare said.

  Elizabeth stepped up to take the stand and was sworn. "Elizabeth," said Shakespeare, "would you please tell this court your connection with this sad situation?"

  "Portia Mayhew is a friend of mine," Elizabeth replied. "Our fathers know one another."

  "Would you say that you are very dose friends?" Shakespeare asked.

  "I would not say that we were very close," Elizabech replied, "which is to say, I like Portia, but I have not known her very long."

  "You knew she was betrothed to Thomas Locke?"

  "I did."

  "And how did you discover that her father had withdrawn his consent for her to marry?"

  "When she came to my home, very upset, and delivered the news to Antonia and myself."

  "And who is Antonia?"

  "She is a friend of mine, and the wife of Harry Morrison, one of my father's business acquaintances. She was visiting with me at the time."

  "And how did you respond to this news?" asked Shakespeare. "Well, we sought to comfort her, of course," Elizabeth replied. "And was that all!"

  "Not entirely."

  "As it happens, 'twas your suggestion to her that she should elope with Thomas, was it not?"

  "It was."

  This brought a reaction from the assemblage, and Locke hammered for silence, or at least some reasonable semblance of it.

  "Curious," said Shakespeare. "'Twould seem that everyone wanted this young couple to elope, save for their parents. And what did you do then?"

  "We took a coach and went in search of Thomas," Elizabeth replied.

  "And by 'we,' you mean yourself, Antonia, and Portia, is that not so?"

  "'Tis so."

  "Where did you go?"

  "To the shop of Master Leffingwell, where Thomas was employed," Elizabeth replied.

  "And what did you discover when you went there?"

  "We discovered that Thomas was not there," Elizabeth replied.

  "Master Leffingwell told us that he had not come in to work that day."

  "And was that all he told you?"

  Elizabeth frowned. "I believe so."

  "Allow me to refresh your memory. Did you not know that Thomas had a room just across the street in the cul-de-sac, above the mercer's shop?"

  "Oh. Aye, we did. That is to say, I did not know it, Portia did. But we did not go there, because Master Leffingwell also told us that he had sent one of his apprentices there earlier to see if Thomas was at home, and he was not."

  "And so, not seeing any reason to do otherwise, you took him at his word and returned home, thinking to find Thomas later, perhaps the following day. At what point did you discover he ,was dead?"

  "The very next day," Elizabeth replied, "when the sheriff's men came to my house to question us."

  "And why did they wish to question you?"

  "Because Master Leffingwell had told them we were at his shop, seeking Thomas."

  "Portia was with you at the time the sheriff's men arrived?"

  "Aye, she was. She had spent the night with me at my home."

  "And how did she respond to this tragic news?"

  "As you may well imagine, she was horrified and struck with grief. She fled the room, sobbing."

  "And the sheriff's men, of course, did not pursue her to press her any further."

  "I should say not!"

  "After they left, however, I should imagine that you went to her at once, out of concern?"

  "I did, indeed."

  "And did she say anything to you about Thomas's murder?" Elizabeth moistened her lips and nodded.

  "She told you, did she not, that she believed her father was responsible?" .

  "She did."

  "And did you believe her?"

  Elizabeth hesitated.

  "Elizabeth… did you believe her when she said she thought her father was the one responsible?"

  "I did," Elizabeth replied.

  "You are doing a bloody marvelous job," said Mayhew, with a disgusted look at Shakespeare. "Keep it up!"

  Locke slammed down his hammer. "Silence!"

  "Did you have any know
ledge, other than what Portia told you, that led you to believe that Henry Mayhew murdered Thomas Locke, or else paid to have it done?" asked Shakespeare.

  Elizabeth moistened her lips again. "Nay, I did not."

  "But you believed it just the same?"

  Elizabeth nodded. "Aye. I did believe it."

  "Might I ask why?"

  Elizabeth frowned. "Well… who else could have done it?"

  "The fact is, anyone in London could have done it," Shakespeare replied. "What you mean to ask is 'Who would have done it?'

  Is that not so?"

  "Aye. What is the difference?"

  "Oh, there is a very great difference," Shakespeare said. "A very great difference, indeed. There could have been any number of people who could have killed him. The question is, who would have had a reason to do so? Aside from Henry Mayhew, that is."

  Elizabeth shook her head. "I am sure I do not know."

  "Well, that is what we must endeavor to find out," said Shakespeare. "I am finished with this witness. I would next like to call Master Leffingwell, the tailor."

  Elizabeth stepped down, and Master Leffingwell was brought out, dressed in his nightclothes. He looked very frightened and disheveled. As soon as he was sworn, Shakespeare tried to reassure him. '

  "Do not be afraid," he said. "All you need to do is tell the truth, and you should be home in bed within the hour. Now, please tell the court your name and occupation."

  "M-M-Master William Leffingwell," he stammered. "I am a't-tailor."