Much Ado About Murder

by Simon Hawke

  Pope dashed the beer into Kemp’s face, neatly rinsing off the porridge Kemp had not fully succeeded in wiping away.

  Smythe rolled his eyes and gave up on them. He turned to Phillips. “The devil with those two. Tell me, what happened after Hera found her father?”

  “Well, from what I hear, she very nearly lost her mind,” Gus Phillips replied, as Kemp grabbed his ladle and launched himself at Pope, knocking him off his bench. They both fell backwards in a tangled, flailing heap. “I mean,” continued Phillips, “can you imagine, walking into your own home and finding your own father sliced up like an Easter ham and lying on the floor in a spreading pool of his own blood?”

  “You need not be quite so lurid,” Smythe replied dryly, as Kemp shrieked and hammered away at Pope with his wooden ladle, while the latter desperately tried to dislodge the smaller man, who had clamped his legs around him like an octopus and hung on like grim death. “What about the servants?” Smythe continued.

  “What about them?” Speed asked. “You do not think they did it, do you? You think they did the foreigner in for all his gold?”

  “I honestly do not know,” Smythe said, as Pope finally succeeded in dislodging Kemp, throwing him off, and then rolling over on top of him with his not inconsiderable bulk, squeezing the wind right out of him. “But I very much doubt that a canny merchant would have been careless enough to keep all of his gold inside his house,” Smythe went on, ignoring the combatants. “ ‘Twas not what I intended to suggest, though I suppose ‘tis possible. I meant to ask if Master Leonardo’s servents had not heard anything amiss? After all, does it not seem odd to have a man killed in his own house, and in so violent a manner as you describe, and yet none of the servents knew of it, so that the body was not even found until the daughter arrived home that night?”

  Phillips frowned. “Hmm. I must admit that thought never even occurred to me. An excellent question, Tuck. However, I must confess ‘tis one I cannot answer.”

  “There were servants in the house, surely?” Smythe said.

  “I assume so,” Phillips replied, with a shrug, as Kemp tried in vain to escape from underneath Pope’s bulk. He squirmed and yelped as the larger man took hold of his nose and began twisting it painfully.

  “You mean you do not know for certain?” Smythe asked.

  “How am I know a thing like that for certain?” Phillips asked. “I have never been in the man’s house, now have I?”

  “And yet you know that he was found all cut to ribbons, with blood spilled everywhere?” Smythe asked.

  “Well, that was how I heard it,” Phillips said.

  “From whom did you hear this?”

  “S’trewth, I cannot say for certain,” replied Phillips, with a shrug. “Everyone has been talking about it, it seems.”

  “Amazing,” Smythe said. “The man was only killed last night, and this morning, everyone in London seems to know all the details of the crime. If Sir Francis Walsingham had intelligence this good, then the Armada would have been destroyed before it ever even sailed from Spain.”

  “What are you picking on me for?” Phillips asked, with an aggrieved air. “I was merely telling you what I had heard. You asked me, after all!”

  “Aamaahhhhh! Let me go, you stinking pile of offal!” Kemp wailed.

  “ ‘Allo, ‘allo, what’s all this then?” Stackpole demanded, as he came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “Get off him, you great, slobbering dungheap!” He gave Pope a kick that sent him sprawling with a yelp.

  “Thank heavens, Stackpole!” Kemp said, clutching at his chest. “The big oaf nearly crushed me! You are a godsend!”

  “You’ll not think so when I start mopping up all this mess with your face,” said Stackpole, grabbing him by the shirtfront and glowering at him as he pulled him to his feet. “Who is going to clean this up then?”

  “He started it!” cried Kemp, pointing an accusatory finger at Pope.

  “I never did, you lying pustule!” protested Pope. “You berated me!”

  “Enough!” Stackpole thundered. “I have had my fill of you both! Now clean up this mess or so help me I shall hang you both from the rafters and have Molly beat you with a stick!”

  “Have a care now, Stackpole, Kemp might like that,” Bryan said.

  “And you be quiet, else I shall have you helping them!” said Stackpole, glaring at him. “I shall have peace in my own house or I shall have you all in pieces! Players! I would have done better to open up my inn to a gang of wandering gypsies!”

  The door opened at that moment and Shakespeare came bustling in. “They have taken Corwin!” he announced. “He has been arrested for the murder of Master Leonardo!”

  “What?” said Smythe.

  Immediately, everyone surrounded Shakespeare and began peppering him with questions. “Patience! Patience!” Will cried out, holding up his hands. “I shall answer one and all, to the fullest extent of my knowledge, but I pray you, my friends, give me room to breathe!”

  They backed off and Stackpole pulled out a bench for him. Molly came out, too, along with the cook and the scullery maid, as everyone gathered around Shakespeare to hear the latest news. But before he spoke to that, Shakespeare turned to Smythe.

  “ Tis good to see you up and about, Tuck. How does your head feel?” he asked with concern.

  “A bit sore, still, and the poultice itches, but otherwise, I am feeling better,” Smythe replied. “Never mind about me, however. Tell us what happened, Will, and begin at the beginning. But first of all, does Ben know about what has transpired?”

  “Aye,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “I have just left him with Master Peters, where I had gone upon an errand. The gentleman who has been good enough to buy my sonnets and then have them bound for distribution to his friends has been a boon not only to me, but his generosity has helped us all in these difficult times, and so I had thought, what with Ben now being one of us and Corwin being his friend and ours, perhaps I might presume on that acquaintaince to have Corwin craft some small piece of jewelry at a price I could afford, as a token of my appreciation to our patron, as it were. I had arranged with Ben to meet at Master Peters’s shop and Ben was to ask him the favor for me, but even as we arrived, the sheriffs men were talking Corwin away.”

  “Do you mean to say ‘twas Corwin who killed Master Leon-ado?” Molly asked, wide-eyed.

  “He was crying out, protesting his innocence as they took him away,” Shakespeare replied, “but then ‘tis said that killers oft’ protest their innocence, even to the gallows.”

  “But why would he kill the father of the girl he wished to marry?” Molly asked.

  “Perhaps because the father would not give his consent,” ventured Gus Phillips. “Think you ‘twas the reason for the crime, Will?”

  “Nay, the consent to wed was given freely,” Shakespeare said. “Stay your questions for a while, my friends, and I shall tell you all the tale as I know it. As most of you must surely know by now, Cupid’s arrow did strike Corwin from the moment that he first laid eyes on Hera, Master Leonardo’s daughter, whereupon he had resolved to end his bachelor days and marry. To this end, he asked his friend and ours, Ben Dickens, to speak on his behalf to Master Leonardo, whom Ben knew well from having traveled aboard ship with him to England. Ben did speak with Master Leonardo, and the latter did readily consent to the proposed match, as Ben’s word bore weight with him and, quite aside from that, he perceived the advantages to both his daughter and himself in Hera’s marriage to a successful young journeyman well on his way to becoming a prosperous master goldsmith.”

  “I wonder if anyone troubled to ask Hera what she thought of the idea,” Molly said.

  “One assumes that in Genoa, dutiful daughters obey their fathers’ wishes in such things,” Shakespeare replied. “However, as to what Hera herself thought of this, ‘twould seem that she was not averse to Corwin, for he had started paying court to her and it appeared she was receptive to him. Yesterday afternoon, howe
ver, whilst you Tuck, slept, and recovered from your injuries, Corwin came to the Theatre, seeking Ben. And he was in a most agitated state.”

  “Aye, he seemed very troubled,” Bryan said. “And he did not long remain. He left before Ben arrived, as I recall.”

  “Indeed,” said Kemp, his contretemps with Pope forgotten for the moment as he became caught up in the news. “He rushed off right after he spoke with you, Will. But you would not tell us what the matter was.”

  Shakespeare shook his head. “I saw no need to dwell upon it,” he replied. “ ‘Twas the sort of matter that could bring an innocent young girl to grief if it became bruited about and was made the subject of malicious gossip. Already, trouble was afoot, and I had no wish to add to it.”

  “What was this troubling matter, Will?” Smythe asked with a frown. “Whatever it may be, a greater trouble has now befallen Corwin, and it may have a bearing on his fate.”

  “I fear it shall,” said Shakespeare. “As I have told you, Corwin was in a most perturbed state, and so I did not have all the details of the matter from him, but ‘twould seem he had somehow discovered that Hera had deceived him and was not, in fact, a virtuous young woman.”

  “How does he know this?” Molly asked. “Does he have proof?”

  “I do not know,” Shakespeare replied. “As I have told you, he was hot and very agitated. He could not or else would not wait for Ben. He left word with me to tell Ben when he arrived that he was going to Master Leonardo’s house to break off the engagement.”

  “Without even giving her a chance to speak in her own defense?” said Molly.

  “Again,” said Shakespeare, shaking his head, “you are asking questions of me that I simply cannot answer. I do not know whether or not he intended to accuse her and hear her answer to the charge. Nor do I know what sort of proof he had, if any. In any event, he certainly seemed convinced. He was in quite a state, I tell you, and his words were tumbling over one another. Aside from that, ‘tis not as if the woman were my daughter, thus I did not truly feel entitled to press him on the matter.”

  “What happened then?” asked Smythe.

  “Well, Corwin departed, and then you all started to arrive, and there was talk of Tuck and how he fared after the cowardly attack upon him, and then Ben came and also asked after you, Tuck-”

  “Never mind about me,” said Smythe, impatiently. “Go on. What about Corwin?”

  “Well, I gave Ben my report, relaying to him Corwin’s words as best I could, and as I spoke, his eyes grew wide and he appeared most disconcerted. He bade me tell him how much time had passed since Corwin left for Master Leonardo’s house and, in truth, I was not certain.” Shakespeare spread his hands out. “I told him ‘twas scarce an hour or so, perhaps less, perhaps more… I could not be more precise. At this, he seemed somewhat torn and confessed to me that he felt his duty was to remain and rehearse with the company, for his was the key role in the play, and yet, he was moved to rush straight off to Master Leonardo’s home, but knew ‘twas already too late to prevent Corwin from speaking to him. The damage, he decided, had doubtless already been done. If Corwin had gone to Master Leonardo in a fit of temper and denounced his daughter as a whore, then there would be no possibility of any intercession. An Englishman, he said, would never forgive a man who so besmirched his daughter’s honor; a Genoan would very likely kill him.”

  “Prophetic words,” said Phillips, “save only ‘twas the Genoan who was killed.”

  “Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “I said to him then, ‘Ben, if blood is likely to be spilt, then to the devil with the play! You must go and try to stop it!’ And he considered, then replied that knowing Master Leonardo as he did, ‘twas little chance that he would drink hot blood and allow rage to drive him into violence. Without a doubt, he thought, Master Leonardo would insist upon satisfaction and seek it in the honorable, formal manner of the code duello.”

  “What did they do? Fight a duel right there in his home?” asked Pope.

  “Of course not, you cretin!” Kemp said. “One fights a duel at sunrise, according to the code, with seconds and all the forms properly observed!”

  “Don’t you go calling me a cretin, you sheeptupper!” Pope replied, rounding on Kemp, but a low growl from Stackpole silenced them both.

  “Never mind them,” said Smythe, with a grimace. “Go on, Will. Then what happened? I cannot believe I slept through all of this!”

  “You would have slept through the flood,” said Shakespeare. “You awoke every now and then, but only for a moment or two, and never quite completely. I began to grow concerned, but Granny Meg assured me that-”

  “Aye, never mind him, either; he survived, get on with it!” said Kemp.

  “Thank you, Kemp, your concern touches me deeply,” Smythe said, dryly.

  “Stuff it!” Kemp replied. “Go on, Will.”

  “Where was I?” Shakespeare asked with a frown.

  “They were going to fight a duel,” Molly prompted him. “Or at least Ben thought they would.”

  “Aye, just so,” said Shakespeare. “Say, Stackpole, this is thirsty work. A man could use a drink.”

  Stackpole scowled. “Right. Just one, mind! And then you pay”.

  “You are a prince among men, Courtney,” Shakespeare said expansively.

  “And you are a bloody sot among lushes,” Stackpole retorted, irately. “Get on with your story, then!”

  “And so I shall. Ben decided that the thing to do would be to let both men have their air, and then speak to each of them the following day, for there could be no opportunity for them to fight a duel the very next morning. Seconds would have to be found first, and then second, those seconds would need to meet and appoint a time and place, and thirdly, weapons would need to be chosen, and so forth.”

  “They would need to choose weapons fourth?” said Pope. “Why not chose weapons first?”

  Shakespeare shook his head. “Nay, they would need to chose weapons and so forth… I suppose there is no reason why they could not choose weapons first.”

  “Well, if they chose weapons first, then what would they choose fourth?” persisted Pope.

  “He said that they would choose weapons thirdly,” said Phillips.

  “He just said that they would choose them first!”

  “Nay, he said they would choose them fourth,” said Bryan.

  “I said they needed to choose weapons and… so… forth,” said Shakespeare.

  “So fourth what?” asked Pope. “They would meet?”

  “Nay, they needed to meet first,” replied Phillips.

  “I thought they needed to meet second,” Pope said, frowning.

  “First, the seconds need to be appointed,” Shakespeare explained, patiently. “Second, the seconds have to meet.”

  “Aye, ‘tis why they call them seconds, you buffoon,” said Phillips, tossing a lump of bread at Pope.

  “Oh, for heavens sake!” said Shakespeare, getting exasperated. “They do not call them seconds because they must meet second; they call them seconds because they are seconds!”

  “So then who is called first?” asked Pope.

  “No one is called first!” said Shakespeare, clenching both hands into fists.

  “Well, that makes no bloody sense!” said Pope, irritably. “Why would you call someone second if there is no first?”

  “Right!” said Shakespeare, leaning forward and fixing him with a direct gaze. “The duelists are called firsts, and the seconds are called seconds. Got it?”

  “Second at what?” asked Pope.

  Shakespeare rolled his eyes. “At dueling. They shall be second at dueling.”

  “The seconds duel?”

  “The seconds duel.”

  “What for?”

  Shakespeare took a deep breath. “Because that is how the thing is done,” he said, struggling to maintain a level tone.

  “So the seconds duel second, and the duelists duel first?”

  Shakespeare nodded with final
ity. “Aye, that is it, exactly.”

  “So then who comes third?”

  Shakespeare’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Nobody comes third,” he said, softly.

  “And so nobody is fourth, then?”

  “Right. You have it, Pope. Nobody is fourth.”

  “So then when do they choose the weapons?”

  “Whenever they bloody well want to.”

  “Are you quite finished?” Smythe asked.

  Shakespeare turned and pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you start with me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Smythe. “But if you write your plays the way you tell your stories, then ‘tis no wonder you never get any of them finished.”

  “Zounds! Where is my sword?” said Shakespeare, looking around. “I am going to kill him.”

  “You do not have a sword,” said Smythe.

  “A sword!” cried Shakespeare, leaping to his feet and stabbing his forefinger into the air. “A sword! My kingdom for a sword!”

  “Oh, here we go…” sighed Smythe, rolling his eyes.

  “Friends! Colleagues! Countrymen! Who shall lend me a weapon with which to run this rascal through?”

  “Sit down, you silly goose,” said Smythe, reaching out and taking hold of him by the hips, then yanking him abruptly back down to the bench. Shakespeare sat down so hard his teeth clicked together.

  “Sweet merciful God!” he said. “You’ve broken my arse!”

  “I shall break a good deal more than that if you do not cease this skylarking at once and get back to the point,” said Smythe, impatiently. “What happened next? What did Ben do after the rehearsal?”

  “Why, he went home, I should imagine,” Shakespeare replied.

  “What do you mean, he went home?”

  “I mean… he went home,” Shakespeare repeated, with a shrug. “What other meaning can there be to that?”

  “His closest friend went to confront his intended’s father so that he could break off his engagement and so doubtless be challenged to a duel, and Ben stayed at the Theatre to rehearse and then went home?” Smythe asked, frowning.

  “Aye,” said Shakespeare. “He had decided ‘twould be best to let Corwin sleep off his distemper, then go and see him in the morning and find out what had transpired. We had agreed to go together, although, as Ben had told me, if Master Leonardo had already challenged Corwin, then ‘twas doubtful that there was aught that he could do to stop it.”