Much Ado About Murder

by Simon Hawke

  “I had made some money of my own while fighting in the foreign wars,” Dickens continued, as the others all hung on every word, “but not nearly as much as I had hoped, not nearly enough to serve my purposes. I desperately needed more. And so I proposed a scheme to Leonardo whereby we both might profit if we played our cards well and wind up wealthy men. All he needed to do when we arrived in England was to sell his ship, just as he had planned. We would then combine our resources and our efforts in an attempt to make our fortunes. The money from the sale of the ship would go to buy a house. Even if ‘twere just a modest house, ‘twould be enough, for he could always claim ‘twas merely a temporary residence until his business interests in London were established and he could build a larger home. But ‘twas here that Leonardo took the risk, for if he spent most of the proceeds from the sale of the ship upon a home, then he would have next to nothing left with which to set himself up in some trade. And indeed, thanks to the poor condition of his ship, that was just what happened.

  “He had enough to buy the house,” Dickens went on, “and hire a few servants and stock his larder for a week or so, but beyond that, his money would soon run out. And here was where I would share the risk. My money would go to help maintain the illusion of Master Leonardo. I purchased several suits of clothing for him, tailored in the height of fashion, bought him a new sword, a fine plumed hat, and paid for the carriages he hired. ‘Twas my money he carried in his purse, to make himself look prosperous, and ‘twas my money he had spent in entertaining the conys that we hoped to catch.”

  “You mean us?” asked Burgage. “ ‘Twas us you planned to fleece?”

  “Nay, Dick, I never meant to cheat the Queen’s Men. I hoped, instead, to become a shareholder in the company. And I had hoped to gain enough money from our scheme to set Corwin up in his own shop, with myself as an investor, for I knew how talented and skilled he was and had no doubt that he would be successful. Leonardo, too, would need to have more money to begin his life anew, and he would need to secure the future for his lovely daughter, Hera, for whom he did not even have a proper dowry. There, I had the answer, for if I knew my friend, then he would see Hera and quickly fall in love with her. And Corwin would not care much about a dowry. I would provide a token one for her, for appearances’ sake, but I knew that I would quickly make it back in partnership with Corwin once his shop was thriving.”

  “But for all of this to work, you still needed more money,” Smythe said. “And that was where Henry Darcie came in, was it not?”

  “And Master Peters, of course,” said Shakespeare.

  “Aye,” Dickens admitted. “Master Peters was to be our first cony, and as for Darcie, he practically begged to be spitted and placed over the fire. With Master Leonardo’s ‘shipping interests’ and connections, there were great opportunities for them both to invest in trading voyages to the colonies and such, which money would, of course, be used by us to forward our own plans. And then, as happens on occasion when men invest in varied projects, things do not always turn out for the best. There are such things as storms at sea, and pirates. Ships are sometimes lost, and with them, all the capital that had financed their voyages. ‘Twould be a shame, really, but nothing could be done. Any such investment carries certain risks.”

  “Did Corwin know about any of this?” Smythe asked.

  Dickens shook his head. “Of course not. He is as honest as the day is long, God bless him. He never could have countenanced such a scheme. And quite aside from that, his loyalty to Master Peters would never have allowed him to go through with it.”

  “Oh, Ben, how could you?” Molly asked. “Why in the name of Heaven would you do such a thing? What could you have been thinking?”

  “He was thinking that he needed the money so that he could marry you,” said Shakespeare.

  Molly was struck speechless.

  “ ‘Twas why he left, you know,” Shakespeare told her, gently. “He never ran away from you; he went off to find his fortune so that he could return to England, become a gentleman, and provide a better life for you. He had even asked Corwin to watch out for you whilst he was gone.”

  Molly shook her head in dismay. “Oh, Ben! Whatever made you think that money mattered to me?”

  “I knew that I was not your only suitor, Molly,” he replied. “Corwin wrote and told me of the gentleman you met sometimes, the one who often walked you home at night. Corwin was never able to discover who he was, because he noticed that the man had servants always follow at a distance, armed with clubs and such, and he was afraid to get too close.”

  “Oh, good Lord!” said Smythe, as he suddenly realized to whom Dickens must have been referring. “That was no gendeman, Ben! And those were no servants who followed to provide an escort! ‘Twas Moll Cutpurse and her crew of thieves!”

  “Moll Cutpurse!” Burbage exclaimed. “Odd’s blood! Why in the world would our Molly have aught to do with the likes of Moll Cutpurse?”

  “Because she is my sister,” Molly replied.

  “Your sister!” Dickens said.

  “Aye, my sister, Mary,” Molly said, sighing and shaking her head in exasperation. “She did not wish anyone to know, for fear that someone might try to get at her through me. Oh, Ben, what a horrid mess you have made of things! I would have told you the truth if only you had come to me!”

  Dickens gave a snort of bitter amusement. “Her sister. Fancy that.”

  “Well, now at least we know the truth about Master Leonardo,” Shakespeare said. “We may not know for certain how the poor fellow died, though I believe that I can hazard a good guess. ‘Twas a wicked scheme that Ben devised with Leonardo, and I daresay it very nearly worked just as they had planned, save for but one thing. They did not anticipate the involvement of the Steady Boys, in particular Jack Darnley and Bruce McEnery, who wanted to draw Ben back into the fold. When they were rebuffed, however, they became angry and vengeful. And because Tuck refused them also, and had the temerity to stand up to them, he needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “And ‘twas a lesson that I shall not soon forget,” Smythe interjected, touching his bandaged head. “I do not know which was worse, getting knocked upon the head or having it itch so damnably. Either way, I hope to return the courtesy very soon.”

  “Methinks that you shall have that opportunity before too long,” said Shakespeare. “But bear with me a while longer whilst I proceed to the next act. Our friends, the Steady Boys, were angry with Ben in part for refusing to rejoin them and in part for taking Tuck’s part in the brawl. He now needed to be taught a lesson, as well. To this purpose, they put a watch on Ben and his close friend, Corwin, whom they had little cause to love in any case, as he was becoming a rival to their master and thus to themselves, as well. They found out about ‘Master Leonardo,’ the wealthy Genoan merchant, and discovered that Corwin had become engaged to his daughter. Gossip is a scurrilous thing, my friends, and its source is often difficult, if not impossible to track, but I shall wager that the tale of Hera’s sullied virtue originated with Darnley and McEnery. Corwin would doubtless never have believed it had the tale come from them directly, but they arranged for him to hear of it elsewhere. His own jealousy and passion did the rest. And so they followed him, to see their handiwork come to fruition when he confronted Master Leonardo. And suddenly, a new and unexpected opportunity presented itself.

  “I cannot say for certain what transpired between Corwin and Leonardo,” Shakespeare continued, “but I daresay that Leonardo was alarmed at this turn of events, vehemently protested Hera’s innocence, and doubtless let it go at that. There was no danger of them fighting any duel, as Ben knew perfectly well. Leonardo was, in all likelihood, no duelist nor did he wish to see their plans or his daughter’s future jeopardized. He needed to confer with Ben, so that Ben could repair the breach with Corwin. And for that very reason, when I told Ben what had happened, he needed an excuse not to follow Corwin on the instant, for he needed first to go see Leonardo and find out precisely what oc
curred. ‘Twould be best in any event to let Corwin’s temper cool and speak with him upon the morrow. Thus, he went straight from the rehearsal to Leonardo’s house, only he arrived too late and found him dead. Was that not how it happened, Ben?”

  Dickens nodded, his lips compressed into a tight grimace. “Aye,” he said. “It all went just as you said. I found Leonardo dead and I believed that in his rage, Corwin must have taken leave of his senses and killed him.” He shook his head. “I did not know what to do. I nearly lost my mind. I could not think. I could not reason it out. No one was at home, so no one saw me come there. In a panic, I fled. I needed time to think, time to decide what I should do.”

  “You still felt loyalty to your best friend,” said Shakespeare, “but you also believed him to be a murderer, and at least in part, you believed yourself to be responsible. But once you had some time to think, you realized that with Leonardo dead, your cony-catching scheme was finished. The only thing to do was get back whatever money there was left. And that was what you were doing at the house when Tuck and I came there. In truth, Ben, when Tuck and I found you there that night, I had suspected you of being the murderer. But I soon realized you were not. You were not searching for something to exonerate your friend; you were desperately searching for the money. Your money, that you had given Leonardo to help carry off the scheme. Only it was nowhere to be found, because someone else had been there first.”

  Dickens nodded, grimly. “Aye. And I know who now.”

  “Indeed, you do,” said Shakespeare. “Oh, the comings and the goings at that house that night! The first to leave was Hera, off to visit her friend, Elizabeth Darcie. Then the servants left to have their supper and their celebration at the Devil Tavern. As they were leaving, Corwin had arrived, doubtless in a state of temper. Soon thereafter, Corwin left, after confronting Leonardo and breaking off his engagement. Leonardo was thus left at home alone, wondering what to do. Doubtless, he hoped that Ben would soon arrive. Perhaps Corwin had mentioned to him that he had left word for Ben at the theatre. Only sadly, Ben was not the next to arrive. The killers were.”

  “Poor Leonardo!” Dickens said. “If only I had not tarried at the Theatre!”

  “The Steady Boys must have followed Corwin from the moment he was told of Hera’s infidelity,” Shakespeare continued, “for surely ‘twas they who had arranged it all. They must have followed him to the Theatre and from there to Leonardo’s house. They saw the servants leave and Corwin go inside. Most likely, Corwin did not stay very long, merely long enough to vent his outrage and announce that he was breaking off the engagement for having been deceived. Perhaps the Steady Boys listened at the window, laughing at how easily Corwin had been duped. Then, when he left, they went off to the nearby tavern to have a drink and celebrate. And there they found Leonardo’s servants, having a celebration of their own. Now a devilish new idea dawned upon them.

  “Darnley must have formed the plan right there in the tavern. Or perhaps they had already conceived of it and merely awaited the proper opportunity. Two of them stayed to keep watch on Leonardo’s servants in the tavern. The other three went back to Leonardo’s house. The plan was to rob and murder the wealthy Genoan merchant and have the blame fall upon Corwin, for he was the last one seen coming to the house, and the word had already been spread about how he had been deceived. Thus would two birds be killed neatly with one stone. Corwin, a rival to their master and themselves, would be eliminated, and Ben would suffer as his closest friend went to the gallows, the very same friend who had once persuaded him to quit the Steady Boys. And so the deed was done. They lolled Leonardo, ransacked the house, stole whatever they could find, and made good their escape before the servants could return. Then Ben arrived, found Leonardo dead, and assumed that Corwin must have flown into a rage and killed him. Frantic with despair and guilt, he fled the house.”

  “And then the servants returned,” said Smythe.

  “Aye,” said Shakespeare, “but they had been drinking, and so they failed to realize that their master had been slain. They never ventured upstairs, never saw the body, never realized the house had been ransacked. They knew that Hera would be coming home soon and most likely awaited her return in the kitchen. And when she came home, she doubtless went straight upstairs to say good night to her father and found him slain. Her cries brought the servants running, then in a madness of grief, she fled the house, running out into the night. Budge, fearing for her safety, gave chase as best he could, growing more sober by the moment, until he saw that Hera had reached the safety of the Darcie house, whereupon he reported to Henry Darcie what had happened. Or, more to the point, what he believed had happened. And the very next day, poor Corwin was arrested for the murder of Master Leonardo.”

  “One moment, I could not believe that he had done it,” Dickens said, “but the next moment, it seemed certain that he had. What other explanation could there be?”

  “And so you gave up on him and went looking for your money?” Molly asked, bitterly.

  “I went looking for the money, aye, but I never gave up on Corwin,” Dickens said. “Without the money, I would be able to do nothing for him. With it, I could hire a lawyer to plead on his behalf, find witnesses to swear he had been elsewhere in their company that night.” He sighed. “But whatever money had been left was gone. Those miserable, murdering bastards took it all.”

  “Which brings us to this sorry pass,” said Shakespeare. “We know what must have happened, and how it must have happened, for we have used reason to deduce it. The trouble is, we cannot prove any of it. And without proof, poor Corwin swings.”

  “Surely, there must be something we can do!” said Molly.

  “Methinks there is,” said Smythe, thoughtfully. “Ben is not the only one who knows something of the art of cony-catching. As it happens, I have been reading up on it myself, of late. And I believe a trap set for a cony may catch a rat, as well. I have in mind a new production, Will, one eminently suited to your craft. And yours, too, Ben, and yours, my friends,” he added, glancing round at all the players. “That is, if you are game for it?”

  “We are!” said Burbage.

  “Tell us, Tuck!” said Fleming.

  “Aye, tell us!” Speed said. “What have you in mind?”

  “If I, too, may help, I shall,” said Liam Bailey.

  “You may, indeed, Liam,” Smythe replied. “But most of all, we shall have need of Molly.”

  “Me?” she said. “What can I do?”

  “Once before we met,” said Smythe. “Now you may reacquaint me with your sister.”

  12

  THE BROOM AND GARTER WAS the sort of tavern that attracted a rough and tumble crowd and notable among them were the Steady Boys, a congregation of apprentices from various crafts and trades who all had in common the aggressive unruliness of youth and a desire to cause mischief. Here, among the wherrymen and dockworkers and drovers, they held court like young lords of the streets and presiding over them were Jack Darnley and his chief factotum, Bruce McEnery.

  On this occasion, the Steady Boys were spread out among several tables in one section of the tavern, shouting and drinking and carousing, playing cards or games of mumble-de-peg with their daggers or bouncing young wenches on their knees and pawing at them greedily. Most of them worked hard during the day, from before sunup to nearly sundown, and this was their time to play. When they played, they liked to play hard and often, and the games they played were at other people’s expense.

  “Cheer up, Jacko,” Bruce McEnery said, punching his comrade in the shoulder. “You have been glum for nigh on several days now. What troubles you, mate?”

  “The money,” Darnley said, with a scowl. “There should have been more bloody money.”

  “Are you on that again? Let it go, for God’s sake. We got what we got. ‘Twasn’t all that bad a haul now, was it?”

  “ ‘Twas pathetic,” Darnley said bitterly, clutching his tankard with both hands as it sat upon the well-strained wooden tab
le into which most of the Steady Boys had, at one time or another, carved their initials – those of them who knew how to write their initials, at any rate. “There should have been much more.”

  “Well, we tossed the place right proper, we did. If ‘twas any more there, we would have found it, eh?”

  “The man was bleedin’ rich, Bruce,” said Darnley, with a scowl. “Everybody said so. He was going into business. He was in the bloody Merchant Adventurers Guild, trade voyages to the colonies and the Far East and all that. He was going to invest in Burbage’s damned playhouse and who knows what else? He had bought a house and was going to build himself a mansion right outside o’ London. You don’t do none o’ that on your good name, Bruce. All that takes money. Lots o’ money. Gobs o’ money. So where in the bloody hell was it?” He slammed his fist down on the table so hard that all the pitchers and the tankards jumped and everyone looked toward him.

  “Steady on, mate,” McEnery said, placatingly. “If there was more, well then, we never found it, eh? Like as not some merchant banker kept it for him.”

  “There would have been papers there if that were so,” Darnley replied. He took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There were no papers. We looked everywhere. We tore that bloody place apart.”

  “We did get some money, Jack,” McEnery said. “We did not come away empty-handed.”

  “Bollocks! What we got was no more than a good journeyman makes in about a week,” said Darnley, savagely. “Not even what a rich man would keep around the house for spending money.”

  “Well, so he had it stashed away, then,” said McEnery. “Where?” Darnley practically screamed, so that everyone turned toward him once again. “We cut that man to ribbons,” he said softly, through gritted teeth, “and he kept saying over and over that there was no more money. A pox on his lying soul! He had it hid somewhere, I tell you. We must have missed something. We must have!”