Elizabeth sniffed with disapproval. "She is as strong-willed as Catherine, in her way. A very different way."
"What sort of way?" asked Shakespeare.
"Well, Blanche wants what she desires, and desires what she wants. And one way or another, she always contrives somehow to get it."
"Spoiled, in other words," said Shakespeare. "Her father indulges her?"
"Very much so," Elizabeth replied. "And she plays upon him like the virginals. She is much more subtle than Catherine. At least, with him."
"And not with other men?" asked Smythe, remembering his first impression of her.
"Not with any other men, so far as I have seen."
"You disapprove of her?" said Shakespeare.
" 'Tis not for me to approve nor disapprove," Elizabeth replied. "I simply do not like her."
"She does not seem to want for suitors," Smythe said.
"No. She is very beautiful, as I am sure you have remarked," she added dryly.
"Aye, beautiful… and rather bold, I thought."
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Oh? I was not aware that you had spoken with her."
"Only briefly, when she arrived together with the wedding party," Smythe replied.
"Indeed? And pray tell, what did she say to you?"
"I do not recall precisely. Nothing of substance, I am sure."
"And yet you do recall that she was bold."
"Well, doubtless, 'twas more in the nature of her manner than anything she said."
"Do tell. And what was her manner towards you?"
Shakespeare chuckled. "You have found, Tuck, both the greatest fault and greatest virtue of all women. They listen."
"Bestill yourself, you clever quillmaster," Elizabeth said, sharply. " 'Twas not you that I was asking!"
"Mum's the word, ma'am. I shall take my cue from womankind and be all ears."
"And I shall box those ears for you if you do not have a care!"
Smythe laughed.
"Laugh all you like," Elizabeth said, "but when you are done, I shall still be waiting for my answer. I am not distracted."
"Well… she said…" Smythe shrugged with exasperation. "In all truth, Elizabeth, I cannot recall now what she said, only that what she said seemed very bold. If I had not known better, I might have thought that she had set her cap at me."
"Blanche has set her cap at men so many times that it has grown quite threadbare," Elizabeth replied, dryly.
"A woman's wit is never quite so sharp as when it pricks another woman," Shakespeare said.
"Provoke me more and you shall find that it can prick a poet, too! Besides, I speak naught but the truth. And there are others, I am sure, who can bear witness to it. Her flaws are plain for all but men to see, who see them not for being blinded by her beauty."
"And yet 'twas Catherine who had the worse reputation of the two," said Smythe.
"Aye, for being a shrew," Elizabeth replied. "For that is what men call a woman who dares to speak her mind. But if she should speak with other parts of her anatomy, then men will think with other parts of theirs, as well."
"Which part would that be, pray tell?" Shakespeare asked, in-nocentiy.
"In your case, I have no doubt 'twould be the smallest."
Smythe laughed. " Twould seem she can box a poet's ears!"
" 'Twere not my ears that she defamed," Shakespeare replied, with a grimace. And then his expression softened. "Why, Elizabeth, you are crying."
" Tis for Catherine," she replied, her voice quavering. "Oh, I do not know how I can stand it! My heart is breaking!"
"There now," Shakespeare said. "No shame in tears for a departed friend."
He offered her his handkerchief. Unfortunately, the kindly intention of the gesture was overwhelmed by the sheer filthiness of the grimey handkerchief, which he had earlier used to wipe away some of the mud with which his face was still besmirched. Elizabeth simply stared at the muddy rag for a moment, then started to laugh, despite herself. Smythe and Shakespeare both joined in, and she put her arms around their waists as they staggered together around the house, toward the other side, helpless with laughter.
"Thank you," Elizabeth said, as the wave of laughter subsided. "Thank you both for being such good friends."
"Well, in truth, Elizabeth," Shakespeare replied, "I fear I cannot claim that I was always a good friend to you."
"How so? And why not?"
"I must admit that upon more than one occasion, I had told Tuck here that you would only bring him trouble."
"And so I have," Elizabeth replied.
"Do not say that, Elizabeth," Smythe protested.
" Tis naught but the truth, Tuck," she replied, with a sigh. "From the day we first met at the theatre, I have only brought you trouble. And Will, too. I cannot forget that he was nearly killed on my account."
" Tis true that I was very nearly killed," said Shakespeare, "but 'twas not on your account, Elizabeth."
"I know," she said, "but neither you nor Tuck would ever have found yourselves placed in harm's way had you not chosen to befriend and aid me. And now it has happened once again. You might have been killed or badly injured in that wreck, and twice now Tuck was nearly killed. And all on my account!"
"Well… when you put it that way, it does seem as if all the fault is yours," said Shakespeare.
"Will! For God's sake, she feels badly enough as things stand!"
"I spoke in jest," Shakespeare replied. "So far as I can see, Elizabeth, if you were at fault in anything, 'twas in going along with Catherine in this hare-brained scheme, but then you were only trying to help a friend and I cannot fault you in that. I would do no less for Tuck, nor Tuck for me. That misfortune has befallen is in some part, doubtless, due to Fate, but in part due also to the intervention of others. ‘Tis there the true blame lies, and 'tis there that we must seek to place it."
"I agree," said Tuck, emphatically. "We know that two of the guests here are impostors, and that those two are likely to be found among Blanche's suitors. Some we have already managed to eliminate from our consideration, but that still leaves Braithwaite, Camden, Holland, and Dubois, and their respective 'fathers,' if fathers they truly be."
"Aye," said Shakespeare. "And I am somewhat disposed towards eliminating Braithwaite from our list of suspects, too."
"Why?" asked Smythe.
"Well… he seems a very decent sort of fellow," Shakespeare said. "And I have a good feeling about him."
"I see. So you wish to eliminate him from consideration merely because you happen to like him?"
"Not entirely. He is the one suspect who does not have a father present, and we are looking for two men. Although I do admit I like him. He is a very likeable young man."
"That very quality makes for a good cozener," said Smythe.
"What, are you suggesting that I could be easily taken by some sharp cozener?"
"Will, anyone could be taken by a cozener, especially a sharp one," Smythe replied. "Do you think you are immune because, as a poet, you are a great observer of human nature and its foibles? Well, with all due respect, by comparison, you are but an apprentice at the art of observation. A good cozener is a master of observing human nature and its foibles. If I have learned nothing else since I have arrived in London, I have at the very least learned that!"
"I suppose you have a point," said Shakespeare, "although my instincts still tell me that he is no more and no less than what he represents himself to be. What do you know of him, Elizabeth?"
"No more than you," she replied. "He seems like a nice young man, and he has good manners. 'Twould seem that he has breeding. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing more. I have not had much to do with him."
"Well, what of Dubois?" asked Smythe. 'You seemed to have had rather more to do with him," he added, and immediately regretted it. Still, he could not prevent himself from going on. "You seemed quite taken with him when I saw the two of you out walking."
Elizabeth smiled. "Monsieur Dubois is very charming. His manner
s are exquiste and his sense of fashion is impeccable. He is capable of learned discourse on such things as poetry and history and philosophy. I cannot imagine that he could be some sort of criminal."
"I find it even more difficult to imagine that he could be searching for a wife," said Smythe.
"The ladies here all seem to find him very handsome," said Elizabeth.
"And how do you suppose he finds the ladies? Or does he even bother looking?"
"Such pettiness does not become you," said Elizabeth. "You could do well to emulate Monsieur Dubois."
"I do not think I could quite manage the walk," said Smythe, dryly.
"Oh, but I should like to see you try," said Shakespeare.
"I think that you are both being very rude," Elizabeth said. "Phillipe Dubois is a gentleman in every sense of the word."
"Well, be that as it may," said Smythe, "I think we can probably agree that Dubois is not a very likely suspect. Still, one never knows. I should like to see what Sir William makes of him, but regretably, he has not returned. What about Camden?"
"I do not like him," Shakespeare said.
"Excellent," said Smythe. "We shall hang him on the strength of that. The crime is solved. We may now get on with our tour."
"Spare me your sarcasm," Shakespeare said. "There seems to be no pleasing you tonight. You criticize me for liking one man and then mock me for disliking another. What would you have of me? We know next to nothing of these people. Well, we know enough of Dubois, at least, to know that he can at least impress a lady with his manners and his erudition. But then, he is French, and a Frenchman learns to impress women from the time he learns his hornbook. Do you have any opinion of young Camden, Elizabeth, that you would like to share?"
"The barrister? He seems amiable, but rather full of himself," she replied. "But then if that were a crime, they would doubtless have to arrest at least half the men in England. I know he was tutoring Blanche in poetry and literature. Beyond that, I have scarcely spoken with him. Blanche's suitors, for the most part, seem to have had eyes only for Blanche, which should not be surprising."
"That leaves Daniel Holland, then," Smythe said.
"Which one is he?" asked Shakespeare.
"Sir Roger's son, blond, bearded, stocky, handsome, but a bit of a dullard—talks of little else save breeding horses."
"I have not seen him tonight."
"Nor have I, come to think of it. I have not laid eyes upon him since the funeral," said Smythe.
"Did he attend the funeral?" asked Shakespeare.
"Aye, he did," said Smythe. "But he has been conspicuous by his absence since you have returned. I wonder why. It seemed as if almost everyone had gathered at the tomb tonight. And yet, I did not see him."
"Nor did I," Elizabeth said, shaking her head.
They had reached the stairs leading down to the garden and the maze. Elizabeth walked between them, holding onto their arms as they descended. Their torch had sputtered out by now and the stone steps were wet, so they went slowly in the darkness, watching where they walked.
"Are you thinking what I am thinking?" Smythe asked Shakespeare.
"He could have been the one who took a shot at you tonight," said Shakespeare.
"And whilst everyone else was at the wake up at the house," said Smythe, "he could easily have gone back to the tomb and murdered Catherine."
They felt Elizabeth tense between them.
"Forgive us, Elizabeth," Smythe said. "If this is upsetting to you, then we could escort you back to the house."
"No, I would rather stay with you," she said. "I wish to do anything I can to help."
"You are quite certain?" Shakespeare said. "I can see how this could be difficult and painful for you."
"Do not worry about me. Go on."
"Well, that is just the point," said Smythe. "Where do we go from here? The murderer could be any one of them."
"Aye, it could, indeed, but the more I think on it, the more I am troubled by the motivation," said Shakespeare.
Smythe frowned. "How so?"
"Well, 'twould seem to me to be taking a significantly greater risk in order to divert attention from a much smaller one. Our impostor and his confederate, whoever they may be, are thoroughly unscrupulous men. That much, we already know. What you had overheard them planning was a brazen bit of cozenage, indeed, one that would require fortitude, quick-thinking, and an appalling lack of shame and conscience. Men such as that would easily be capable of murder, I suppose."
"Indeed," Smythe said. "They have already tried to kill me twice in order to safeguard their plan. So why should they hesitate to kill another?"
"Why, indeed?" said Shakespeare. "Save only that it does not seem to have been truly necessary. Everyone already believed Catherine was dead. That her death had been intended as a ruse was known only to Catherine, Elizabeth, John Mason and Granny Meg, if I am not mistaken. There was not anyone else who knew about the planned deception, was there? At least, not until I had returned from London and revealed it?"
"No, there was not," Elizabeth said. "Catherine was most adamant that the secret be kept strictly between ourselves. John disliked the plan, but he loved Catherine and would never have told anyone about it. Indeed, if he had told anyone, he would have revealed the truth about their love, which he knew he could not do. And as for Granny Meg, I find it difficult to believe that she could have betrayed us."
"As do I," said Shakespeare. "She told me the truth of it only when she learned everyone believed that Catherine had been poisoned. And in so doing, she placed herself at considerable risk, I might add. Godfrey Middleton is a very wealthy and influential man. He could make things quite unpleasant for her if he wished to. She most certainly did not have to tell me that she was the one who had mixed the potion. She could easily have pretended to examine the contents of the flask and then revealed her findings to me without ever revealing the part that she had played in the deception. She could have kept the secret, save that she knew if everyone believed it to be murder, then a murderer would be sought. Tis one thing to concoct a potion that would enable a girl to escape a loveless marriage and run off with the man she truly loved, and 'tis yet another thing entirely to keep silent about a murder that was not a murder."
"I agree," said Smythe. "Granny Meg is not a woman without scruples, whatever anyone else may say of her. I know there are many who fear witches and believe them to be evil, but the truth is that a witch will not knowingly do harm, for she believes that 'twill return to her thricefold."
"Well, then, we are agreed upon that score," said Shakespeare. "Yet there is still something that gnaws at me about all this, some small detail, something that it seems we are overlooking…"
"The carpenter!" said Smythe, snapping his fingers.
"Odd's blood! Of course!" said Shakespeare. "Elizabeth, you had forgotten all about the carpenter!"
She bit her lower lip. "Indeed, I had. But then he was richly paid to keep his silence."
"Aye, which only goes to prove he could be bribed," said Shakespeare.
"An excellent point," said Smythe. "And if the man could be bribed once, then why not twice?"
"But then his own part in the deception would have been revealed," said Elizabeth. "He could not betray us without leaving himself vulnerable, too. 'Twas why Catherine and I felt certain that we had securely bought his silence."
"Ah, but suppose that he betrayed you to someone who did not care about his part in it and could profit from the information, thus posing no threat to him?" asked Shakespeare.
"Who?" Elizabeth asked, frowning.
"What say we go and ask him?" Smythe suggested.
"You mean… right now?" Elizabeth asked.
"Why not?" asked Shakespeare. " 'Tis a capital idea! We shall all three go and confront him and find out what he has to say for himself. I think we should go at once."
Suddenly, Smythe pulled them both off the garden path and back into the wet shrubbery. Elizabeth gasped and started to
cry out, but Smythe quickly clapped his hand over her mouth.
"What in-"
"Hush, Will! Be still!" said Smythe, softly, but with urgency. "Look over there, by the maze!"
Their eyes, by now, had grown accustomed to the darkness, but at a distance, it was still difficult to make anything out. However, after a moment, they could perceive some movement near the entrance to the maze. A dark figure became evident as it moved away from the hedges and came out into the open, on the path, moving quickly and furtively.
"Do you think he saw us?" Shakespeare whispered, as they watched from their hiding place in the shrubs.
Smythe shook his head. "I do not believe so," he replied, very softly.
"Who is it?" whispered Elizabeth.
"I cannot tell," said Smythe. "Be very still. We shall find out in a moment. He is coming this way…"
Chapter 10
AS THE DARK FIGURE CAME closer, they all crouched behind the shrubbery and kept very still. Clearly, whoever it was had not seen them, for he kept coming directly towards them on the path, moving briskly. As he came closer, they still could not see who it was, for the figure was wearing a dark cloak and a hat and his face was in shadow. As he drew even with them, and they still could not discern his features, Smythe surprised both Shakespeare and Elizabeth by suddenly lunging out from their hiding place and throwing himself upon the dark figure, seizing him around the waist and bringing him down upon the ground.
The man grunted as Smythe brought him down, but otherwise did not cry out. However, he fought back fiercely, struggling in Smythe's powerful grasp as they rolled around on the ground.
"Hold him, Tuck!" said Shakespeare, rushing to his aid.
At the same time, Smythe's antagonist brought up his knee sharply and Smythe wheezed with pain as the blow struck his groin. He let go and the stranger rolled away, but Shakespeare leaped upon him before he could rise back to his feet.
"Aha! I have you now!"
"Shakespeare, let go of me, you damned fool!"
"What… Good Lord! Sir William?"
Worley pushed him off and got to his feet. He was dressed all in dark clothing, a stark contrast to the resplendent suit he had worn earlier. He bent over Smythe, solicitously. "Tuck… are you injured?"
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 02] The Slaying of the Shrew(v2) Page 19
