by Simon Hawke
“I feel much safer with you,” she insisted. “Do not bother to argue, for I am not going back!”
“What if I go back?” said Shakespeare.
“Oh, Hell’s bells! Come on, both of you! We must catch up with Sir William!”
Smythe quickly realized that was more easily said than done, for Sir William’s long legs had given him a considerable head start and he was running very quickly. If Smythe had not known about his secret life as the outlaw, Black Billy, he might have been surprised at how fit Sir William was for a supposedly indolent aristocrat, but he knew that Worley was in truth anything but that. By the time they reached the entrance to the maze, Sir William had already gone inside.
Their eyes were well accustomed to the night by now, but it was nearly pitch dark inside the maze. Smythe still had his sword, and he now drew it, holding it before him as they proceeded, for although it was difficult to see, what they heard gave them due cause for caution.
Somewhere within the labyrinthine hedges of the maze, a furious fight was taking place. They could hear the rapid clanging of blades ringing out in the darkness somewhere nearby, and judging by the sounds of the combat, it was in deadly earnest. Smythe knew enough of swordsmanship to tell, just by the sounds of blade on blade, that the men engaged were both skilled swordsmen.
“ Elizabeth, which way?” he said, tensely.
“To the right,” she said, keeping close behind him.
“Odd’s blood, I do not like this one bit,” said Shakespeare, glancing around uneasily. “I can scarcely see in this infernal shrubbery!”
“Now to the left,” Elizabeth said, directing them from memory as they proceeded. “Oh, I do hope Sir William is all right!”
“Sir William can take care of himself, never fear,” said Smythe. “He is an accomplished swordsman.”
“Well, he may be, but I am not,” said Shakespeare, “so if there is any fighting to be done, it is my devout wish that he shall be the one to do it, for I lack not only swordmanship, I lack a sword, as well!”
“You should have worn one,” Smythe said.
“And this from the man who forgets to wear one half the time himself,” Shakespeare replied. “For all the use a sword would be to me, I might just as well wear a farthingale.”
“And very fetching you would look in one, methinks,” said Smythe. He paused. “I do not hear anything now. Do you?”
“Not a thing,” Shakespeare replied.
“Should we call out?” Elizabeth asked, softly.
“And give away Sir William’s presence?” Smythe said. “He is somewhere ahead of us. If he needs help-”
“Will! Tuck! Come quickly!” Worley called out. He sounded very close.
A moment later, as they made another turn, they came upon him, standing stooped over what appeared to be a pile of leaves upon the ground. He dropped to one knee as they approached, stretching out his hand, and Smythe abruptly realized that it was not a pile of leaves at all, but a body lying on the ground.
“Good Lord!” said Shakespeare. “Is that…?”
“ ‘Tis Holland,” Worley replied. “Or ‘twas Holland, I should say. He has been run through, clean through the heart. There is also a wound here, high in the left shoulder.”
“Oh, God!” Elizabeth said, drawing back. “And what of Blanche?”
“Not a sign of her,” said Worley.
“You do not think…” Elizabeth ’s voice trailed off as she brought her knuckle up to her mouth and bit down on it, as if to stifle a cry.
“I do not yet know what to drink, milady,” he said, frowning.
“Well, I suppose this definitely removes young Holland from our list of suspects,” Shakespeare said.
“Here, Smythe,” said Worley, tossing him a gauntlet. “Strike him for me, will you?”
Smythe caught the glove and smacked Shakespeare on the shoulder with it.
“Sorry,” Shakespeare said, lamely.
“You ought to be.”
“I know ‘twas rather bad form, but I could not help myself. This whole thing is beginning to take on the aspect of a Greek tragedy.”
“ Elizabeth, there is more than one way out of this maze, is there not?” asked Worley.
“There are three,” she replied, “counting the way we came in.”
“As I thought,” he said. “That explains why we did not encounter anyone as we came in. Blanche and the killer must have left by another way.”
“So then he has her?” Smythe said.
“Not necessarily,” Worley replied. “We did not hear her cry out. And Holland here was fully dressed and on his way out from the center of the maze, heading back the way he came. Blanche must have left by another way.”
“Aye, that would make sense,” said Smythe. “ Twould ensure they were not seen together. So whoever killed Holland caught him as he was on his way out. He struck, and Holland cried out in alarm, then drew his blade.”
“That is what I think,” Worley agreed. “This wound here, in the shoulder, must have been the first touch, before Holland had time to draw steel. He must have twisted away at the last moment, else this would have been the fatal touch. The combat was fast and furious, but very brief. The killer had already fled when I arrived and found Holland slain. The question is, why?”
“Good question,” Shakespeare said. “What say we go back to the house, have a drink and mull it over within the safety of four walls and a well lit room?”
“He is eliminating his rivals,” Smythe said.
Worley glanced at him as he stood up from the body. “Aye, a sensible deduction,” he said, nodding. “Our man must feel very secure in his deception.”
“Then why his attempts to kill Tuck?” asked Elizabeth.
“The same reason he has just killed Holland, I should think,” Smythe replied. “He wishes to improve his chances.”
“But does he not place himself even more at risk by this?” asked Elizabeth.
“Perhaps,” said Smythe, “but if he is the sort of man we judge him to be, one who thrives upon the thrill of risk-a gambler, in other words-then this second slaying is nothing more than a playing of the odds.”
“Nothing more?” Elizabeth said, shocked.
“Well, to his mind, Elizabeth, not ours,” Smythe hastened to explain. “Clearly, he has no scruples about the taking of life. It does not trouble his conscience, if he even has one. He must have observed Blanche and Holland together earlier and seen some evidence of a mutual attraction, then followed Holland to their rendezvous and killed him.”
“Wait,” said Worley, “your reasoning is sound, save for one thing. If the killer had followed Holland, then why would he not have encountered me? Or any of you?”
“Indeed, he likely would have,” Smythe corrected himself, “which means he must have followed Blanche, instead. We have already deduced that she must have left the maze by another way, so then it follows that she came by that way, also. That would explain why none of us had seen them.”
“Of course,” said Shakespeare, somewhat mollified now that he felt reasonably sure the murderer had fled the scene and was not lurking somewhere nearby. “And now that Holland has been eliminated, the competition has been reduced by one, but we should keep in mind that ‘tis the field of suitors that has been reduced, and not the list of suspects.”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Worley, with a puzzled frown. “How can the list of suspects not have been reduced?” He indicated Holland ’s body. “Yonder is one less!”
“Aye, milord,” said Shakespeare. “But only to us. For us, ‘tis one less suspect, from a list we have already narrowed down to two likely candidates. However, the killer does not know that, as you have already pointed out. We must think like the killer if we are to comprehend the motives for his actions. From the killer’s point of view, he has merely reduced the field of suitors by one, that one being an individual who clearly had a leg up… so to speak… on the others. Since the killer does not know that you are h
ere, milord, he therefore cannot know that through your knowledge of the nobility and court society, as well as through inquires, you have already eliminated most of Blanche’s suitors from our list of suspects. Consequently, he believes that he stands well hidden in a forest, when in truth, unbeknownst to him, most of the trees have already been cut down around him. Thus, he does not realize the extent of his exposure, and so this killing, from his point of view, does not seem so great a risk.”
“You have a most interesting faculty, Shakespeare,” said Worley. “You have the ability to put yourself into another’s shoes, assume his character, and then reason not only from his point of view, but with his emotions and morality, as well. ‘Tis a talent that should serve you well upon the stage, but if you are not careful, it could bring you to grief in the real world.”
“If this be the real world, methinks that I shall take the stage, milord,” said Shakespeare, wryly. “At least when one dies upon the stage, one generally revives in time for the next performance.”
“ Elizabeth,” said Smythe, “are you all right?”
She was staring at the body with a strange expression on her face, a look somewhere between alarm and desolation. “ ‘Tis the third time now that I have seen somebody slain. First Anthony Gresham, struck in the back by a thrown knife before my very eyes. Then within the span of but a few months, Catherine is stabbed to death, and now poor Daniel Holland is run through with a sword.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “I gaze down on his body and I feel sadness and regret that his young life should have been snuffed out so suddenly and cruelly, and yet… I do not scream with terror. I am not horrified into near insensibility by the sight. I do not feel my gorge rising at the sight, nor do tears come coursing down my cheeks. I wonder what has become of me that I can look so calmly upon death?”
“Familiarity doth breed contempt, milady,” Worley replied. “With repeated exposure, one can grow accustomed to almost anything. Else one would go mad. ‘Tis a lesson learned by each and every soldier on the battlefield, and each and every sailor on the sea. I am saddened that a young lady like yourself should learn it, also. Would that it were not so.” He turned to Smythe and Shakespeare. “You two should take up Holland ’s body and bring it to the house. When you are asked what happened, tell the truth… just take care that you do not tell it all. Say no more than what you know and what you yourselves have witnessed. Say nothing of Holland ’s tryst with Blanche. You were out walking in the garden and you heard a cry. You responded, and you found him slain. Say nothing of my presence. ‘Twould be best were I not seen. Remember… I am not here.”
“But how shall we find you if we need you, milord?” asked Smythe.
“Never fear, I shall find you. Now go on. Take Holland back. Let us stir up a hornet’s nest and watch what happens next.”
As Shakespeare said when they returned to the house, “The specter of death appears to have brought new life to the festivities.” Indeed, thought Smythe, it was strangely and unsettlingly all too true. The house was ablaze with lights when they returned, and even the fairgrounds were weirdly illuminated with flickering torchlight and campfires. Having earlier closed up their stalls and colorful pavil-lions, the merchants had opened them up once again to take advantage of the situation as the guests stayed up and wandered through the house and fairgrounds. It seemed that no one slept, as they were all eager to hear or else impart the latest bit of gossip.
Catherine’s dramatic resurrection and murder already had everyone abuzz, and anyone who had retired for the night had been awakened by the uproar of people running through the halls and calling out the news or else banging upon doors to awaken their friends. When Shakespeare and Smythe, accompanied by Elizabeth, returned to the house, bearing between them the limp body of Daniel Holland, the news exploded through the estate like a petard.
The stricken Sir Roger was desolated by the news of his son’s death, but his grief was mixed with righteous fury as he announced to one and all that he would pay a thousand crowns to whoever brought his son’s murderer before him. Not to be outdone, Godfrey Middleton immediately doubled the amount.
“This outrage against justice and all humanity shall not be tolerated!” he cried out to the assembled guests. “We shall never submit to it! We shall not suffer damned, bloodthirsty assassins to walk amongst us unmolested! I hereby swear before Almighty God that our children’s foul murders shall be avenged!”
“Oh, damn, where did I leave my pen?” muttered Shakespeare, as he listened raptly to Middleton’s address. “This is great stuff!”
“Really, Will!” said Elizabeth, taken aback by his response.
“Forget it, Elizabeth,” Smythe said to her, shaking his head.
“ ‘Tis hopeless. He cannot help himself. He is a poet, and to a poet, all the world’s a stage and all the people in it merely players.”
Shakespeare cocked an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.
They were questioned at length by everyone, it seemed, until both Smythe and Shakespeare had grown nearly hoarse from telling the story over and over again. To escape all the attention, Elizabeth finally retired to her room to pack her things. Middleton had said nothing about rescinding his order for her departure, and though she was not eager to leave now that things had reached a fever pitch of excitement, she did not seem to have much choice.
“What a perverse creature I have become,” she said to Smythe, before she went back upstairs. “All sensibility and logic dictates that I should make all haste to leave this place, and yet, I find myself longing to remain and see how it all turns out. I cannot reconcile my feelings. I am both repelled and fascinated.”
“I know just how you feel,” Smythe told her. “I felt much the same when first I set foot on London Bridge and beheld the severed heads of criminals set upon the spikes there. I had never seen anything like that at home, in my small village, and when I first beheld the birds feasting on the rotting flesh of those gruesome, severed heads, I was nearly sickened by the sight. I was appalled by it, and yet, I could not look away. Now, when I pass by them on the bridge or by the law courts, I scarcely even notice them.”
“Have we become so callous then,” she asked, “that the sight of violent death touches us so little, or even not at all?”
“It does, indeed, touch us,” Shakespeare said, “else we would not be speaking of it so. ‘Tis when we stop speaking of it that we must feel concern about our very souls. Ask yourself, Tuck, about those very heads of which you speak. Is it truly that you scarcely notice them because you do not find them remarkable in any way at all, or because despite having become accustomed to their presence, you nevertheless prefer to look away and not dwell upon the sight? If we see a beggar on the street, scrofulous and ragged, do we gaze at him directly, with honest curiosity, or do we not look away? And if we look away, is it because we are not touched by his sad plight, or because we fear we may be touched too much? Those severed heads are not placed there on the spikes in order to inure us to the sight, but quite the opposite. They are put there to horrify, as an object lesson, intended to touch us with its violence.”
“And yet there are those who are not touched at all,” said Smythe.
“Aye,” said Shakespeare. “And ‘tis their heads that are placed upon the spikes to remind us of the consequences.”
“Well, I, for one, shall pray that whosoever murdered Catherine and Daniel shall suffer those selfsame consequences,” said Elizabeth. She looked around. “This celebration has become a festival of death and we are all specters at this wedding. ‘Tis meet that I should leave, lest I begin to enjoy myself too much.”
“Methinks the lady thinks too much,” said Shakespeare, as he watched her walk away. “ Twill make her life most cumbersome.”
“Hmm,” said Smythe. “And then again, some men have found life cumbersome because they thought too little.”
Shakespeare smiled a bit ruefully. “I do believe the lad has scored a touch. Methinks you lik
e her more than just a little. You are a caring soul, Tuck. Take care you do not care too much.”
“We have had this conversation.”
“Indeed, we have. Point made and taken. Let us proceed then to another matter close at hand. Namely, our two remaining suspects. What shall we do about them, do you think?”
Smythe shook his head. “I am not sure. Sir William was not very clear in his instructions.”
“Well, he did say we should stir up a hornet’s nest,” said Shakespeare. “Yonder comes the Frenchman, making straight for us. Let us poke him just a bit and see how he responds.”
11
“MON DIEU, I HAVE ONLY just heard the terrible news!” Dubois said, as he came rushing up to them. He looked as if he just got out of bed and had dressed hastily. He seemed quite agitated and his French accent was a bit more pronounced. Smythe noticed that although his command of English was excellent, as before, he seemed to hesitate slightly, as if in his excitement he was flustered in his attempt to choose the precise words. “Monsieur Holland is slain? How… how did this happen?”
Smythe sighed wearily as he prepared to tell the story yet again, but Shakespeare spoke before he could begin.
“One of Blanche Middleton’s suitors, it seems, was intent on removing a rival… permanently,” he said.
Dubois frowned. “That is a most serious accusation, monsieur” he said. “But unless you were present, how can you know this to be true?”
“ ‘Tis obvious to anyone who is capable of reason,” Shakespeare replied. “One need only ask, what was a respectable young gentle-man like Daniel Holland doing in the maze at such a time of night, alone? What possible reason could he have had for going there? Why, the only reason any respectable young gentleman could have in such a circumstance, no doubt… a romantic rendezvous with a young lady.”
Dubois’ nostrils flared slightly. “Indeed, monsieur, what you suggest does not seem entirely implausible, and yet it is also quite possible there was some other explanation, n’est ce pas?”
