by Simon Hawke
“You seem to have had quite a time of it,” said Smythe. “You look a sight. What happened?”
“That fool of a driver wrecked the carriage,” Shakespeare replied.
“And some of your best clothes, it seems.”
“Aye, but that is of no consequence. What plagues me beyond all measure is that if Braithwaite was right, then if the wheel had not come off the carriage and delayed me, I could have returned in time to save Catherine’s life.”
“Oh, no, Will! Do not blame yourself for that!” Elizabeth said.
“ Elizabeth is right, Will,” said Smythe. “You are no more at fault than she is for helping Catherine, despite what Middleton has said. ‘Twas Catherine’s own choice to do what she did, as ‘twas the killer’s choice to murder her. We should not hold ourselves responsible for what others choose to do of their own free will. We can but be responsible for our own actions. Each of us must suffer the slings and arrows of his own outrageous fortune.”
“Gad, Tuck, that was well put! I wish I had said that.”
“Never fear, I am sure you will.”
“Zounds! You dare unpack your wit at my expense? I have half a mind to pay you back in kind!”
“That would make you a halfwit, then.”
“Villain!”
“Clod!”
“Scurvy knave!” “Steaming turd!” “Rustic mountebank!” “Bad poet!”
“Oh, that was base! Where is my rapier?” “You do not own one.”
“Right. I must make amends at once and buy one at the fair so that I can call you out.”
“You might buy some clothes first, so that you are fit to go out.”
Elizabeth laughed, and then brought her hands up to her head. “Oh, Heaven, that I should find myself able to laugh at such a time as this! How vile must I be?”
“Without laughter, Elizabeth, we have no saving grace at all and must perforce go mad,” said Shakespeare.
“Thank you, Will. You are a kind soul.”
“I am a damned weary soul. This has been a very long and very trying day.”
“And I have been sent packing, to leave upon the morrow,” said Elizabeth. “ ‘Tis a sad thing to be no longer welcome in this house, and yet, ‘tis a house that no longer holds any pleasant memories for me. What do you suppose will happen now?”
Smythe shook his head. “I am not sure, Elizabeth. A great deal will depend on Middleton and what he chooses to do. And then do not forget that we still have not heard from Sir William, who does not yet know the full story of all that has transpired.”
“The fair was to last three days,” said Shakespeare. “Under the circumstances, however, I do not think that anyone would blame our host if he were to cancel the remainder of it.”
“True,” Smythe said, “but at the same time, in a peculiar sort of way, nothing has really changed since we first spoke with Master Middleton, has it? I mean that at the time, we had all, except Elizabeth, of course, believed Catherine to be dead. Well, she was not, but now, she is. We also believed her to have been murdered. She was not, but now, she has been. Middleton was grieving for his daughter, yet wanted to see justice done. And now, he is still grieving for his daugher, so… what has changed?”
“Hmm, I see what you mean,” said Shakespeare. “ Tis a curious situation, indeed. Our expectations of the situation were unfounded, yet now, we have found them to be true. Most strange. I cannot imagine how I would respond in Middleton’s place. Would I wish to continue with my original plan to find the murderer and get justice, or would I fold under the weight of this new blow and wish to banish everybody from my sight?”
“Well, only Middleton can answer that,” said Smythe. “ Elizabeth, you know him best. What do you think he will do now?”
She shook her head. “Godfrey Middelton, for all his stout and doughy looks, is a strong-minded and most ambitious man. In many respects, Catherine took after him. Their similarity of character was the source of many of their clashes. They were both strong-willed and stubborn. Once she had made up her mind, Catherine would not easily be dissuaded. Her father is no different. He is not the sort of man who would forgive a slight. I cannot imagine that he could forgive the murder of his own daughter.”
“So you believe that he shall stay the course, then, and do everything possible to find the killer?” Smythe said.
“I cannot think he would do otherwise.”
They were approaching the house now. They glanced behind them and saw torches on the path not far away. The others were returning.
“There are still things we need to speak of before you must leave in the morning,” Smythe said to Elizabeth. “The rain has stopped. Will you walk with us awhile in the garden?”
“Of course. I am far from eager to retire. I do not think that I shall sleep at all tonight. And I do not really want to be alone right now.”
They reached the courtyard and turned to go around the house, to the opposite side where the garden was, with the maze, thought Smythe, where it all began for him.
“What of Blanche?” Smythe asked. “What can you tell us about her?”
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 manners 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?”
