by Simon Hawke
Smythe nodded. “Aye, your argument is sound. And much as I dislike to say so, Henry Darcie did seem somewhat callous in regard to both Master Leonardo’s death and Hera’s grief. His main concern, now that I think of it, was for us to convince her that we were her friends and to make her understand that her fortune was now tied to ours and ours to hers.”
“I thought you would remember that,” said Shakespeare.
“Aye, but still, that merely shows that he is selfish,” Smythe replied. “It does not mean he is a murderer.”
“True,” said Shakespeare, “it does not. Nor do I think he is. Yet I do see where he may nevertheless profit by the death. And that is the sort of thing that we must look for. So… who else profits by it?”
Smythe shook his head, puzzled. “I cannot imagine, unless he had unknown enemies in London and, if so, I do not now see how we may discover them. ‘Tis easier by far to see who stands to lose by his death rather than who stands to profit.”
“Very well. Let us try to view the situation from that vantage point,” said Shakespeare. “Who stands to lose?”
“Most obviously, Hera,” Smythe replied. “But I cannot believe that she had aught to do with it. Her misery is deep and clearly genuine.”
“I am inclined to agree,” Shakespeare said. “Who else?”
“Well… we stand to lose, that is, the company does if the investment is not made and the refurbishments cannot be done,” said Smythe. “Without Master Leonardo’s money, Darcie and the Burbages may find the cost too dear and the work may not be done.”
“And the result of that will be?” asked Shakespeare.
Smythe shrugged. “Audiences may well decide to attend productions at the Rose, instead. ‘Tis a much newer playhouse and they boast Chris Marlowe and Ned Alleyn. So I suppose that could make Henslowe a suspect, but that would mean he would have to have known about the planned investment. How likely would that be?”
“At this point, we cannot say,” Shakespeare replied. “My thought is that ‘twould be somewhat unlikely, but not impossible. Leonardo was interested in making an investment in a playhouse. For all we know, he could have approached Philip Henslowe first.”
“I suppose ‘tis possible,” said Smythe.
“Or else someone in our own company who plans to defect to the Lord Admiral’s Men, as Alleyn did, could have told Henslowe about it.”
“A long shot, even for an accomplished bowman, I would say,” Smythe replied. “We have at present far more to fear from Henslowe than Henslowe has to fear from us. He has already taken our best actor. He has a better playhouse and he has-”
“If you say he has a better poet, I shall kick your arse,” Shakespeare said.
“I was going to say he has more money” Smythe replied, with a grimace. “The Lord Admiral’s Men are in the ascendancy whilst we are in decline. Thus, I do not think ‘twould stand to reason that Henslowe would have aught to do with it. After all, why bother to lack a dying dog?”
“Well, we may be down, but we are not dead yet,” said Shakespeare. “But do you know who very nearly is? Young Corwin. Whether he is innocent or guilty of the crime, he now stands to lose his life in either case.”
“Aye, he does, indeed,” said Smythe. “There is no question that he was obsessed with Hera. But was he obsessed enough to kill?” He shook his head. “Those who knew him best do not believe it, nor do I.”
“Why not?” asked Shakespeare.
“I cannot give you a sound reason, Will,” Smythe replied, with a helpless shrug. “I simply feel that he could not have done it. He did not strike me as the sort. He struck me as the sort who might stand on his affronted dignity and break off his engagement if he felt that he would be dishonored by the marriage, but he did not strike me as the sort to fly into a rage and cut a man to ribbons. That phrase sticks in my mind, Will. ‘He was cut to ribbons.’ Master Leonardo was the captain of a merchant ship. That is not a life for a soft, indolent, and doughy shopkeeper. Seamen are a hardy lot and it takes a hardy man to lead them. He was lean and weathered, erect in his carriage, and with a spring in his step. He carried a fine sword and had the look of a man who knew how to use it. Italians are well known for their schools of fencing. And Corwin was no duelist. He was an apprentice who but recently became a journeyman. A sword was never a tool of his trade. I cannot recall that he even wore one, can you?”
Shakespeare thought a moment. “I do not think so.”
Smythe shook his head. “I do not believe he did. And even if he did, I find it hard to credit that he could prevail over a man like Master Leonardo, who must have had to deal with men a great deal rougher than Corwin in his time.”
“He may have gained the advantage of surprise and so prevailed,” said Shakespeare, “but I do not believe it, either. Betimes, a man must act upon his instinct, even if it seems to go against his reason. And whilst my reason tells me that Corwin may be guilty, my instinct tells me he is not.”
“Then we are in complete agreement,” Smythe said, emphatically. “We must find someone else who had good reason to see Master Leonardo murdered.”
“Or else see Corwin blamed for it,” said Shakespeare, thoughtfully. “Methinks that is another possibility we should consider. Master Leonardo’s death may not have been in itself the end, but just the means.”
“You mean that he could have been killed merely so that Corwin would be accused of his murder and thus destroyed?” said Smythe. “Odds blood! ‘Tis a cold heart that could conceive of such a deed!”
“Aye, a cold heart,” repeated Shakespeare, “with cold blood coursing through it, as opposed to hot. Mayhap ‘twas not a crime of passion, after all, but of opportunity.”
“We have much to do,” said Smythe, grimly. “And little time in which to do it. The noose for Corwin’s neck is being plaited even as we speak.”
9
THE TOWNHOUSE WHERE MASTER LEONARDO had all too briefly lived was not nearly as ostentatious or as large as Henry Darcie’s. Situated in a tidy row of houses near the Devil Tavern and the Thames, it was a modest-looking residence built of lathe and plaster, with nothing to set it apart from any of the other row houses on the street. It certainly did not look like the home of a wealthy man. Perhaps, thought Smythe, it might have been intended merely as a temporary residence, meant for use only until such time as Master Leonardo had established himself and found a better home or else had built one just outside the city, as some successful tradesmen were now doing. But on the other hand, he may have been a man of relatively simple tastes who did not require much out of a home that was not functional, comfortable, and practical, rather than elegant, ostentatious, and luxurious.
In a city where the members of the new, rising middle class were constantly competing to show off whose rise was faster, and where the nobles were always trying to outdo one another in elaborate displays of wealth and fashion, a frugal man who spent his money wisely on his business interests rather than on expensive homes or carriages or suits of clothes that he could change as many as three times a day could quietly build up his wealth and become a rich man without fanfare. And that seemed like just the sort of thing an unassuming, former seafaring man would do.
“This seems like the kind of place where a retired ship’s captain would drop anchor,” Shakespeare said, echoing Smythe’s thoughts. “A nice, solid, comfortable place to live on dry land, within walking distance of the river, where he could stroll on the bankside and observe the wherrymen and the ships beyond the bridge. A man could do much worse.”
“And many do,” said Smythe.
“Someday, I shall have a fine house of my own in town,” said Shakespeare. “You know, I could be well satisfied with something similar to this. I need no cut stone or brick to look like some archbishop’s residence. A good, solid, English home of lathe and plaster will do me nicely, the sort of place befitting a gentleman, rather than a marquis or a viscount.”
“ Tis good to know that your ambitions are merely modest
ones,” said Smythe, with a straight face. “ ‘Twouldn’t do at all for a humble poet to overreach himself.”
“You think?” said Shakespeare.
“Aye. How many poems or plays, do you suppose, would one have to write in order to be able to afford a modest place like this?” asked Smythe, giving him a sidelong look.
“Do you mock me, you pernicious rascal?”
“What, I?” Smythe said, feigning surprise. “Nay, ‘twas merely an idle question. Three or four score, do you think? Well, perhaps less, if you are made a shareholder. Aye, two score or so should do it. So long as they are all as popular as Marlowe’s. That should not present too great a difficulty, not to a fellow as industrious and talented as yourself. How many have you written thus far?”
Shakespeare glowered at him.
Smythe blithely went on. “Well, let us see… there is that one about the drunken lout who falls asleep and is then found by a noble and taken to his house… oh, no, wait, you never finished that one, did you? Ah, but then there is the one about the war… no, you still have not got past the first act, have you? Oh, hold on, there was that idea you had about the twins, from the time we helped Elizabeth and encountered that fiendish foreign plot… did you ever actually do anything with that?”
“You cankerous, flea-infested, mocking dog! See who nurses you the next time you are brought home with a broken head, you ungrateful, prating wretch!”
“Ah, well, thus am I justly chastised,” Smythe replied, hanging his head in mock shame. “Ungrateful wretch I am, indeed. I am a rude fellow. You may beat me. Here, let me find a stick…”
“Oh, cease your foolishness,” Shakespeare said, with a snort. “Come along, let us go and question Master Leonardo’s servants.”
The household servant who opened the door to them had the look of a man whose future was uncertain. Tall, thin, and balding, with wisps of white hair sticking out in all directions, as if he habitually ran his hands through what little of it was left, he reminded Smythe of a horse that had been spooked.
“Dear me, more visitors and more inquiries,” he said, anxiously. “I really do not know what I should do. The master of the house is cruelly slain, the mistress is not present and is grieving in seclusion, and it simply is not right to have people coming to the house and asking questions, searching through everything…”
“Your concern for your master’s house and goods is very commendable,” said Shakespeare. “We are here merely to ask some questions of you and the other servants on behalf of your mistress and your master’s business associate, Henry Darcie. But tell us, first, who else has spoken with you? Someone has been here to search the house?”
“Aye, and he, too, claims to have had business dealings with poor Master Leonardo.”
Smythe frowned. “Who was he? Did he give you his name? Can you describe him?”
“You may see him for yourself,” the servant said. “He is within.”
Shakespeare and Smythe exchanged glances, then quickly pushed past the distraught servant and entered the house. They saw two female servants in their aprons standing near the stairs, huddled together like frightened chickens in a corner of the coop, and at once they could hear the sounds of someone rummaging about upstairs. As they exchanged glances once again, they heard a loud crash, as if something heavy had been overturned.
“This time, I have brought my sword,” said Smythe, drawing it from its scabbard.
“I shall be right behind you,” Shakespeare said.
“With what, your quill?”
In response, Shakespeare pulled out a knife from inside his boot, a bone-handled stiletto with a six-inch blade.
“Good Lord!” said Smythe. “Where did you get that?”
“I brought it from the Theatre,” Shakespeare said.
“Do you know how to use that thing?”
“I understand one pokes at people with it,” Shakespeare replied, wryly. “I have done some fencing on the stage, you know.”
“On the stage,” repeated Smythe, rolling his eyes. “God help us. Just keep behind me.”
“Precisely where I had intended to remain,” Shakespeare replied.
They went up the steps cautiously, with Smythe leading the way. The rummaging noises grew louder as they drew closer. Someone was ransacking the house, and from the sound of it, being none too gentle about it.
“Be careful, Will,” said Smythe, when they reached the top of the stairs.
“You be careful,” Shakespeare replied. “If anything should happen to you, I would be next.”
“Your concern for my safety is touching,” Smythe said with a grimace. He reached out and placed his hand on a door that stood slightly ajar. The noise was coming from within. “Get ready…”
He shoved the door open hard, slamming it against the wall, and came into the room fast, his sword held out before him. The man ransacking the room spun around, immediately drawing his own blade.
“Tuck!”
Smythe’s eyes grew wide. “Ben! What the devil are you doing here?”
Dickens lowered his sword, then sheathed it as he spoke. “I might well ask you the same thing,” he replied. He glanced over Smythe’s shoulder. “Is that you, Will?”
“ ‘Allo, Ben,” said Shakespeare, coming into the room sheepishly after having peeked around the corner.
Smythe sheathed his blade, as well. “We came to question Master Leonardo’s servants, to see what we could learn about what had transpired here the night that he was killed.” He looked around. “God’s body, Ben! You have bloody well torn the place apart! What in Heaven’s name are you searching for?”
Dickens shook his head, looking around helplessly. “ ‘Twas not me, Tuck. I came to look for something… anything… that could help Corwin prove his innocence, but the house had already been ransacked when I got here.”
“Did you find anything?” asked Shakespeare.
Dickens shook his head in frustration. “Nothing. Save only that there seems to be no money left anywhere in the house.”
“He may have had it all cubbyholed away somewhere,” said Smythe.
“If he did, then I cannot find it,” Dickens replied. “And I have looked everywhere. But I tell you, there is not a tuppence nor a halfpenny in this house. Not anywhere. It must have all been stolen.”
“Did you question the servants?” Smythe asked.
“Aye, I have already spoken with them. They swear that they did not ransack the house. They have no idea where Leonardo kept his money. They are worried. They say that they have not received their wages, but despite their claim that they have not even ventured upstairs since the crime, I suspect they have already looked through everything.”
“You think they might have taken it?” asked Shakespeare.
Dickens shook his head. “I cannot say. I would have thought that if there was money in the house for them to take, they would have found it and absconded with it. Then they would be far away by now. Instead, they are still here; there is little in the larder, and they do not even seem to know where their next meal is going to come from.” He shook his head again. “Methinks that there was nothing here for them to find.”
“Perhaps he had his money deposited with some merchant banker,” suggested Shakespeare.
Dickens shook his head again. “I had thought the same, but then there would have been letters of credit, or else bills of exchange, and I have discovered none. I thought perhaps that he might have devised some clever hiding place in which to store such things, but if so, then I have failed to nose it out.” He sighed with exasperation as he looked around at the mess. “ ‘Tis a mystery to me, I tell you. Leonardo was a wealthy man, and yet, there is not one coin to be found in this entire house. If his money was not stolen, then where is it?”
Shakespeare scratched his chin. “A thought occurs to me,” he said, “and yet, I hesitate to speak it for fear that it might give offense.”
Dickens glanced at him. “Go on, Will. Be forthright. Say what is
on your mind.”
Shakespeare cleared his throat. “Well… if there were such documents as letters of credit or bills of exchange, do you suppose that Corwin could have taken them?”
For a moment, Dickens did not speak. The corners of his mouth drew tight. “After he murdered Leonardo, do you mean to say?”
Shakespeare cleared his throat once more. “To find the truth, must not one consider all the possibilities?”
Dickens stared him down.
“Ben,” said Smythe, placatingly, “we know that Corwin is your friend and that you are loyal to him. But if we do not ask these questions, others shall. Corwin has already been arrested. Soon he shall be tried. He is in dire straits and your loyalty, however honorable or well-intentioned, cannot help him now. Only our diligence and perseverence in searching out the truth can be of any aid to him. And if he is truly innocent, then the truth shall set him free.”
“Or else condemn him,” Dickens said, tightly.
Smythe stared at him as comprehension suddenly dawned. “Odd’s blood. You think he might have done it,” he said, softly.
Dickens looked down at the floor and then savagely kicked out at a chest that had been overturned. “Aye, damn it, I think he may have done it. Beshrew me, a fine friend I have turned out to be to suspect him guilty of so vile a deed!” He kicked the chest again, splintering it. “Bloody hell! What keeps going through my mind again and then again is the thought that had I only followed him that night, then I may have arrived in time to prevent…” His voice trailed off.
“There may have been nothing to prevent, Ben,” said Smythe, “at least insofar as Corwin is concerned. Had you followed him, then you may or may not have arrived in time to prevent him from breaking off his engagement, but if that was all he did that night, then you would doubtless have left the house together, and the murderer would have arrived after you had gone.”
