Much Ado About Murder

by Simon Hawke

  “Well, ‘tis possible that a challenge could be withdrawn, is it not?” asked Smythe.

  “I suppose so,” Shakespeare replied. “But then Ben told me that once Master Leonardo had made up his mind, heaven and earth could not dissuade him. In any event, the point is certainly now moot. Master Leonardo has been killed, and Corwin has been arrested for the murder.”

  “Aye, I can well see how it must have gone,” said Kemp. “Corwin went to see the Genoan and doubtless in his anger at having been deceived, he said things to him that could not be borne by any gentleman, whether English or foreign. And so the Genoan then and there flung down his gage and, in a fury, Corwin slayed him, right there in his own home.”

  “Do you suppose that was how it happened?” George Bryan asked of no one in particular.

  “It could well be,” said Gus Phillips. “Do you recall how Corwin acted on the day that we first met him, right here in this very tavern, when he came in company with Ben? All he could seem to think of was that Italian girl, the merchant’s daughter, Hera. He seemed obsessed with her.”

  “I can see how any man would be,” Bryan replied.

  “Aye, but to the point of wanting to take her to wife? After seeing her only once?” countered Phillips. “That bespeaks a certain hotness of the blood, do you not think?”

  “A man so quick to love would likely be as quick to kill, is that your meaning then?” Smythe asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Does it not follow that hot blood would beget hot blood?” asked Phillips.

  Shakespeare smiled. “Methinks what Tuck means, Augustine,” he said, “is that he himself was smitten with a girl upon first sight, and thus far at least, he has not yet murdered anyone.”

  “Ah. Well…” Phillips cleared his throat uncomfortably. “No offense there, Tuck, old boy.”

  “None taken, Gus,” Smythe replied. “But ‘twould do us all well to remember that if being quick to love also meant that one was just as quick to kill, then most of us would probably be murderers.”

  “You know, that was not too bad,” said Shakespeare. “Not bad at all. ‘Twas a decent line, Tuck. Perhaps if I fiddled round with it a bit…”

  “For instance, if Pope were to suddenly turn up dead,” continued Smythe, “then we would all think you had done it, Kemp, for every one of us saw you flinging porridge at him and trying to beat his brains out with the ladle. Well, after all… what more proof do you need?”

  Kemp folded his arms and harrumphed.

  “In all of this debate, there is one thing you all seem to have forgotten,” Molly said. “The unfortunate Master Leonardo’s murder has now left his daughter orphaned in a strange land, friendless, and with her reputation sullied. What about poor Hera? Whatever shall become of her?”

  They all fell silent for a moment, thinking of the shy, beautiful young Genoan girl.

  “ ‘Tis a hard thing to be left without a family to care for you,” said Molly, quietly. “Harder still when one is in a foreign land.”

  “Well, orphaned she may be,” said Smythe, “but neither alone nor friendless, not if I know Elizabeth. She had given the girl her friendship, and Elizabeth is not one to abandon a friend in need.”

  “But what about Corwin’s need?” asked Shakespeare. “Surely, his situation is more dire. Neither Ben nor Master Peters can believe that he is guilty of the murder. They both insist that he would not be capable of such a thing.”

  “Any man is capable of murder,” Smythe said. “Any man can lose his head and give in to his baser impulses.”

  “You, for instance?” Shakespeare asked.

  “I am no different, Will,” Smythe replied. “Under the right circumstances, or given enough provocation, I believe that any man could kill. Even you.”

  “Perhaps,” said Shakespeare, “but that still does not mean Corwin did the deed.”

  “But if not him, who else?” said Kemp. “He came to the theatre in an agitated state, as you said yourself, Will. ‘He was hot,’ you said. Those were your very words. And he was so incensed that he could not wait for Ben; he had to leave at once for Master Leonardo’s house. And sometime between then and the time the Genoan girl came home that night to find her father slain, the deed was done. Who else could have done it? Who else had the opportunity? And the motive?”

  Shakespeare grimaced. “Aye. Who else, indeed?”

  “Perhaps we should find that out, Will,” Smythe said. “For if Corwin did not do it, then an innocent man shall be taken to the gallows, and a murderer shall go free.”

  8

  HENRY DARCIE’S FOUR-STORY, LEAD-ROOFED TOWNHOUSE built of rough-cut gray stone bore stately testimony to his success in business. As with many homes built so close together in the crowded environment of London, the upper floors jutted out over the cobblestoned street, so as to take the maximum advantage of space, and expensive glass windows not only afforded plenty of light to the upper floors, but also showed all passersby that the owner of the house was wealthy enough to afford such luxuries. The servant who opened the door glanced at them as if they were curious insects, heard their names without a word, and closed the door again while he went to announce them to the master of the house. Moments later, Henry Darcie came to the door himself to greet them.

  “Ah, Shakespeare, Smythe,” he said, nodding to them curtly. “Come in. I assume that you have come about the news of Leonardo.”

  “Indeed, we have, sir,” Smythe replied. “We had hoped to speak with Hera, unless, that is, she is too grief-stricken to entertain a visit at this time.”

  “Aye, ‘tis a terrible thing, terrible,” Darcie replied, shaking his head. “Here we were, on the verge of acquiring a prosperous new investor for the Theatre. ‘Twould have neatly taken care of all of the needed refurbishing at once, too. Ah, well. Such a pity. Still, one learns to accept these sort of reverses if one is to survive in business. Such is the nature of things. Life goes on.” And then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Poor Hera is upstairs with Elizabeth.”

  As they went through the entry hall and toward the stairs, Shakespeare gawked at their surroundings. The planked floors were covered not with rushes, but with rush mats woven in intricate patterns and handsomely colored. The walls were panelled with wood and hung with tapestries, not the cheaper painted cloths that were used by all except the very rich. The furnishings were carved and inlaid with ivory or pearl, many pieces draped with patterned carpets, and some of the chairs were actually upholstered. There was not a boarded stool or chest in sight.

  “Actually, sir, with your permission, before speaking with Elizabeth and Master Leonardo’s daughter, I should like to ask you a question or two, if I may,” said Smythe.

  Darcie turned toward him and raised his eyebrows. “Concerning what?”

  “Concerning the very matter that you just now mentioned, sir,” Smythe replied. “I merely wanted to make certain that my understanding was correct. Had Master Leonardo already made a firm commitment to you and Master Burbage concerning an investment in the Theatre?”

  “Indeed, he had,” Darcie replied, nodding emphatically. “And he was most anxious to proceed. Unlike most people, he did not hesitate to make decisions. I saw that quality in him and was encouraged by it. He would weigh an opportunity, assess the potential advantages and risks, and then proceed without wasting any time. As I have said, ‘tis a great pity that things turned out the way they did. We had discussed the possibility of partnership in several ventures.” He shook his head again, in resignation. “He was excited to be making a new start in London, anxious to take advantage of the opportunity to be a partner in the Theatre, and to explore other avenues, as well. Now, all his hopes and dreams have been snuffed out, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “Do you know if Master Leonardo had planned any other business ventures, that is to say, other than those he had discussed as possibilities of partnership with you?” Smythe asked.

  “I suppose ‘tis entirely possible he may have had s
uch plans, but if so, he did not mention them to me,” said Darcie. “He did not strike me as the sort of man to limit himself. His interests seemed varied and diverse.” He frowned. “Why, what the devil are you getting at, Smythe?”

  “Well, sir, I was merely wondering if he might have been involved with anyone in some venture that might have gone amiss in some way,” Smythe replied. “Something of that sort could possibly have been a motive in his murder.”

  “Whatever do you mean? I was under the impression that the murderer had already been placed under arrest,” said Darcie, frowning. “ ‘Twas that young goldsmith who had desired to marry Hera, was it not?”

  “Corwin was, indeed, arrested this morning, as you have already heard,” Shakespeare said, “but he did protest his innocence most strenuously. And he has friends who believe firmly in his innocence, as well, among them Master Peters, whom you know.”

  Darcie grunted. “Aye, well, the lad was his apprentice, after all, and a valued journeyman in his shop. A skilled artisan, by all accounts, whose work was in considerable demand.”

  “Are you suggesting that Master Peters may have a selfish motive for his stated belief in Corwin’s innocence?” asked Shakespeare.

  “Why, does that not seem possible to you?” asked Darcie.

  “Well, I suppose ‘tis possible,” Shakespeare replied. “Master Peters does seem quite fond of Corwin.”

  “Well, there you have it, then,” Darcie said, with a shrug. “The young man wanted the daughter; the father disapproved; tempers ran hot-these Italians often get that way, I understand-and the next thing you know, blades are drawn and blood is spilt.”

  “You say the father disapproved of him?” asked Smythe, with some surprise.

  “Fathers do not always approve of the young men their daughters choose,” said Darcie, wryly, with a glance at Smythe.

  Smythe ignored both the well-placed barb and the pointed look. “How very curious,” he said. “I was under the impression that Master Leonardo had not only approved of Corwin, but had already given his consent to the match,” he said.

  Darcie raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Where did you hear that?”

  Smythe turned to Shakespeare. “Where did we hear that?”

  “We have it on the word of Master Peters,” Shakespeare said.

  “Is that so?” said Darcie. “Hmm. I had not known that.”

  “Betimes, fathers do approve their daughters’ choices,” Smythe said with a straight face, unable to resist.

  “Well, then I cannot imagine why the young fool would have killed him.”

  “ ‘Twould seem that there was some sort of accusation concerning the young lady’s virtue,” Shakespeare said. “When he came to the theatre, looking for Ben Dickens, Corwin had informed me that he was going to Master Leonardo’s house to break off the engagement.”

  “Odd’s blood!” said Darcie. “I had heard none of this at all! I had not even known that there was a formal engagement, much less any question concerning Hera’s virtue!”

  “Had she said nothing to you about the matter?” Smythe asked, frowning.

  “I should say not!” Darcie said. “S’trewth, the girl scarcely speaks at all. She speaks only to Elizabeth and keeps her eyes so downcast, ‘tis a wonder she can see where she is going. Not that I can fault her for her modesty. ‘Tis a manner most demure and most becoming in a woman. I would not find it amiss if some of it should rub off on Elizabeth. Why, the very thought of such a girl having her virtue brought into question…” He snorted with derision. “ ‘Tis an absurdity! I simply cannot credit it.”

  “Yet ‘twould seem that Corwin could,” said Shakespeare.

  “If so, then his love for her was fickle,” Darcie said.

  “Perhaps. Or else so overwhelming that it overcame his reason,” Smythe said.

  “Aye, friendship is constant in all other things save in the office and affairs of love,” mused Shakespeare.

  “Yet one more argument in favor of marriages being arranged, as by tradition,” Darcie said with a sniff, as he led the way up the stairs, past portraits of the queen and her most celebrated courtiers. The portraits all looked fairly new, and among them were no relatives, thought Smythe. The mark of the new man was that he had no illustrious antecedents with which to grace his walls. “This peculiar notion of allowing young people to make their own choices in marriage, as if they were no better than working class,” continued Darcie, “is arrant nonsense, if you ask me. Such foolish, bardic sentiments are best left to romantic balladeers and poets. Marriage is much too serious a matter to be cluttered up with feelings.”

  “I do not know that I could argue with you there,” said Shakespeare, wryly. Smythe gave him a look.

  “And how is poor Hera bearing up under this woeful tragedy?” asked Smythe. Thus far, Darcie had said nothing whatever of her state.

  “As well as could be expected, one supposes,” Darcie replied, with a shrug. “She is a quiet girl, and does not seem given to any loud displays of lamentations. Her comportment has been the very model of decorum and restraint. Elizabeth seems more upset about it all than she does.”

  “How very strange,” said Shakespeare. “I should think that if my own father were killed, I would be a very torrent of emotions… grief, rage, melancholy, the desire for vengeance, each feeling battling with the other for supremacy.”

  “Not all children have so strong an attachment to their parents,” Smythe replied. “And not all parents engender such affection.”

  They reached the third floor and proceeded down a short corridor to an open sitting room where they found Elizabeth keeping company with Hera. Both women sat quietly near the windows. Elizabeth was doing some embroidery, while Hera simply sat staring out the window.

  “ Elizabeth, we have visitors,” her father said, as she looked up when they entered. To Smythe and Shakespeare, he added in a low tone, “Mark you, do not over-tax the girl with questions, especially concerning the conduct of her father’s business. Make the appropriate expressions of sympathy and so forth, offer condolences and whatever help she may require. Alow her to know that the company shall stand behind her in her hour of need, so that she will know that her fortune is tied to yours and yours to hers. But do not overstate the case. She will need some time, no doubt, to recover from her grief, and then she shall remember who her friends were when she had need of them. I’ll leave you now. Elizabeth can show you out when you are done.”

  Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances of disbelief at Darcie’s callousness, but there was no opportunity to discuss it, as Elizabeth was already approaching them.

  “Will! Tuck! So good of you to come!” she said, holding out her hands to them both. Her eyes widened at the sight of the bandage on Smythe’s head. “Goodness, Tuck! Were you injured? What happened?”

  “Nothing truly worth discussing,” he replied, dismissively, “certainly not in comparison with what happened yesterday.”

  “What a dreadful thing,” Elizabeth replied. “And just when things had looked so promising for everyone!”

  “You know they have arrested Corwin?” Smythe said.

  She nodded. “Aye, like an ill wind, bad news travels quickly,” she replied. “They were crying the news out in the streets before, and thus Hera heard it, whilst sitting at the window and dwelling upon her father’s tragic fate.” She glanced toward the dark-haired girl, who still sat looking out the window. She had not even glanced around when they came in.

  “How long has she been thus?” asked Smythe, glancing from Hera to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “Ever since this morning,” she replied. “She simply sits there, saying naught and doing naught in her melancholy humor. I have tried to draw her out, but now she will not even speak to me. ‘Tis as if a veil has been drawn betwixt her and the world. I cannot even tell if she knows that we are here.”

  “Has the poor girl lost her reason?” Shakespeare asked with concern.

  Elizabeth bit
her lower lip. “I pray not,” she replied. “I fear for her. Father says that ‘tis a melancholy that will pass. I wanted to send for Granny Meg, but he does not wish to hear of it. He says there is no need for witches, and that God shall heal her in time.” She sighed and gazed at Hera anxiously. “I do so want to believe that, but I cannot help feeling afraid for her.”

  “How did she come here?” Smythe asked.

  “She came last night, on foot,” Elizabeth replied.

  “On foot?” said Smythe. “At night? Alone?”

  “One of the servants came after her,” Elizabeth said. “ ‘Twas not that he came with her to escort her so much as he followed her, out of concern for her safety. After she had found her father, she cried out and then went running from the house, he said. She came straight here.” Elizabeth sighed. “Indeed, where else would she go? I am her only friend in London.”

  “She had been with you earlier that day?” asked Smythe.

  Elizabeth nodded. “And what a happy time we had.” She smiled at the memory. “We spoke of English weddings. She wanted to know all about our marriage customs. She was so full of happy expectation… Such a marked contrast to her present, mournful humor.”

  “She was happy about the engagement, then?” said Smythe. “Her father had approved?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “ ‘Twas all settled save for the setting of the date and the arrangements for the wedding,” she said.

  “Were they not Catholic?” Shakespeare asked. “Would that not have posed some impediment to the marriage?”

  “I had thought the same,” Elizabeth replied, “but it seems not to have presented any difficulty. Hera had told me that her father said to her, ‘We are in England now, and we shall do things as the English do.’ He was, I believe, content to provide the dowry and leave all the arrangements for the wedding to Corwin and Master Peters.”