by Simon Hawke
“May I assist you, milady?” Smythe said, offering his hand to Blanche, trying not to be distracted by the fetching sight of all that leg.
“Thank you, good sir,” she said, taking his hand. He gently helped her to her feet and she quickly readjusted her clothing, brushing herself off. “I am really not sure what came over me,” she said. “I suddenly felt so faint, I must indeed have swooned.”
“It must have been a very trying day for you, milady. You should get some rest.”
“I think you are right,” she replied. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your arm and escort me up the stairs? I fear that I might swoon again and lose my footing.”
“Of course,” said Smythe. He offered her his arm. “Tuck Smythe, milady, at your service.”
She took his arm, her fingertips resting lightly on the back of his hand. She smiled at him as they left the library and headed towards the stairs. The hall was deserted now and quiet.
“What news was your friend speaking of just now?” she asked, as they approached the stairway.
“Oh, uh… well, perhaps now is not the time,” said Smythe. “You are unwell and perhaps tomorrow would be better.”
“I want to know,” she said, as they began to climb the stairs.
“Milady, truly, I would not wish to disturb you.”
“Is it disturbing news then?” she asked, her eyes wide. “You have to tell me now. I insist. I could not sleep without knowing. I would stay awake all night and wonder.”
They had reached the landing. “There has been another murder,” Smythe said.
She stopped and gasped. “No! Who?”
Smythe moistened his lips. “Daniel Holland.”
She almost fell. Smythe grabbed her around the waist, thinking she was really going to swoon this time. “Milady!”
She clutched at him. This time, not surprisingly, perhaps, her distress seemed quite genuine. She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath, which made her breasts swell very visibly in her low-cut bodice. Smythe caught himself and quickly looked away. He felt his face flushing.
“Daniel is dead? But…” she hesitated. “When? How did it happen?”
“Milady, perhaps we should not discuss this now-” “I shall be all right. Now tell me!”
Smythe felt her closeness acutely and released her, but she retained a hold on his arm as they continued up the stairs. “He was murdered in the garden maze tonight. Run through with a rapier.” He paused a moment, then added, “ ‘Tis not entirely clear what he was doing there, but it seems that someone must have followed him who meant to do him harm. I do not suppose you would have any idea who might have wished him ill?”
She shook her head. “No. No, not at all. Goodness, to think that…” She caught herself. “To think that he is dead! First my sister, and now this! Poor Daniel!”
“It must have happened very quickly,” Smythe said. “He could not have suffered.”
“Well, that is some small consolation, perhaps. But just the same…” He felt her trembling. He could well understand why, though she, of course, had no idea that he knew. “How very frightening,” she said. “To think that there is a vicious murderer amongst us… I feel so very vulnerable all of a sudden. This corridor is so empty… would you please escort me to my rooms?”
“Certainly, milady.”
She put a finger to her lips. “We must be quiet, though,” she said. “My sister’s friend is in this room just ahead and to our right. I think that she is still awake and packing, preparing to depart first thing in the morning. I would not wish her to get the wrong idea, you understand.”
“Of course, milady. Nor would I,” Smythe said, with some alarm, wondering how Elizabeth would react if she came out and saw them together, walking arm-in-arm towards Blanche’s bedroom. He was not sure she would believe his explanation. They walked past her door in silence.
“You are most understanding,” Blanche said, after a moment, smiling at him. “You are a true gentleman.”
“Alas, milady, I fear you have the wrong impression of me,” he replied. “I am not a gentleman, merely a poor and lowly player.”
“Oh, of course! Now I remember where I saw you! We met down by the river gate, when I arrived.”
“Quite so, milady. I was among the Roman senators who were assigned to greet the guests.”
“I remember. You looked much better in your toga than did any of the others.”
“That is kind of you to say, milady.”
Her face clouded over. “ ‘Twas when we all thought Catherine was dead,” she said. “And then she turned out not to have been dead at all, only to be killed in her own tomb… how horrible! Oh, no, I must not think of it! I must think of something else, or I shall be quite undone. Tell me how it is to be a player.”
“How it is to be a player?” Smythe repeated, not quite prepared for the question. “Ah. Well…’tis not that I possess a great deal of experience, milady. I am still quite new at it. But I am fortunate, indeed, to have found a position with the Queen’s Men, who are the finest players in the land. ‘Tis something I have dreamed of doing since I was but a boy.”
“I thought that young boys were permitted to apprentice with the players,” she said, “so that they might play the female roles before their voices change. Did you not do that?”
“Regretably, milady, my father did not approve of my becoming a player. He thought ‘twas no fit occupation for a gentleman.”
“Oh! So then you are a gentleman!”
“My father was a gentleman, milady. But he aspired to rise higher and become a knight, and in his efforts to pursue that lofty goal, he bankrupted himself and left me with nothing to inherit. Thus, I cannot claim to be a gentleman. I am but a simple farrier, a smith, an ostler, and now a player, though not, I fear, a very good one, though I do my humble best.”
“Humility in any man is a most becoming trait,” she said, with a smile. “And I can understand your story perhaps better than you know.” They had reached her bedroom and she opened up the door as she spoke and went inside, but without releasing his arm, so that he was forced to enter with her. “Your father sounds very much like mine,” she said, letting go his arm and closing the door behind them. “He is a most ambitious man. Appearances mean everything to him.” She sounded bitter. “He gives more credence to what other people think than he does to the concerns of his own family. He drove my mother to an early grave with his obsessions. A proper lady does this, and a proper lady does that, and a proper lady would never do this, that, and the other. Tis enough to drive one mad.”
As she spoke, as if without thinking, she slipped off her shoes and began unfastening her laces. For a moment, Smythe was too startled to speak, and then he could not quite find a way in which to get a word in edgewise.
“I can imagine how very frustrating it must have been for you, wanting so to be a player and never being allowed to pursue your heart’s desire!” Blanche continued. “Always being told what a proper gentleman must or must not do! There are times, I am quite sure, when you thought that you might scream! Oh, how well I know that feeling. I understand, you see. I do. The two of us are very much alike.”
She had now loosened her bodice and unlaced and removed the first of her petticoats, stepping out of it and letting it drop onto the floor. He was speechless, riveted to the spot. He could not believe that she was actually undressing in front of him. He looked around to see if there were any servants, but the two of them were quite alone. As she removed her second petticoat, Smythe saw that she was not wearing a farthingale, but a padded roll instead, which gave her skirts a softer drape and was probably more comfortable, especially when lying in a garden or upon a floor.
He swallowed hard. Blanche Middleton was a very beautiful young woman and she was exposing more of her beauty by the moment. It occurred to him that she fully intended to bed him, and it also occurred to him that he very much wanted to let her. But he could not go through with it.
“Milady
, please, forgive me…” He said, interrupting her and holding out his hand in a staying motion. “This must stop now. Truly. I… I really must leave now. Please.” He began to back away, toward the door.
She stopped and gazed at him, eyes wide. “Must you?” she said, softly.
His throat suddenly felt very dry. “In truth, I do not wish to,” he replied, “but I must. Your beauty makes my heart race, but the truth is that I love another and could not bear to be unfaithful to her.”
He reached the door and reached out behind him to open it. “Tuck, wait,” she said, coming toward him. “Milady, please…” He opened the door and stepped back into the corridor.
She followed him, and came up close, and put her hands upon his chest. “You are a gentleman,” she whispered. “The first true gentleman that I have met. And whoever she may be, I envy her.” She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him softy and lingeringly on the lips. “Good night, sweet Tuck.” She smiled, stepped back inside, and shut the door.
For a moment, Tuck just stood there, his heart pounding, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of another door being shut behind him. He turned, quickly, but the corridor was empty now. He felt a knot form in his stomach as Blanche’s words came back to him… “My sister’s friend is in this room just ahead and to our right. I think that she is still awake and packing, preparing to depart first thing in the morning. I would not wish her to get the wrong idea…”
Elizabeth! Oh, God, he thought. What could she have seen? He had been coming out of Blanche’s bedroom and she had followed him out into the corridor, barefoot and dressed in nothing but her undergarments, and she had kissed him on the lips and said good night…
He closed his eyes. She would never believe him if he told her what had truly happened. And for that matter, why should she? Guiltily, he realized that it had taken every ounce of willpower he had possessed to leave that room. He felt ashamed to admit it to himself, but he had wanted Blanche. And he could easily have had her. However, unlike every other male who came near her, he had managed to resist his baser urges. But would Elizabeth believe him?
He started to head down the corridor, toward her room, intent upon doing everything he could to convince her that he had not bedded Blanche, but suddenly he stopped.
What if it had not been Elizabeth, after all? What if the sound he had heard had merely been one of the other guests, going in to sleep after a late night? Whoever it was might not even have seen anything. It had only been an instant, after all. A mere moment. If he went to Elizabeth now, and protested his innocence, and it turned out that it had not been her, and she had not seen anything at all, then it would only make things worse.
Better to wait, he thought. After all, he had nothing to feel guilty for. He had not actually done anything wrong. He had merely escorted a lady back up to her room, and then had watched her strip down to her undergarments, said good night, and left. Well, she kissed him, but that was all, only a kiss, and a chaste one, at that. Hell, he thought, if she had seen only that much, Elizabeth would be furious. And he would know soon enough if she had seen him. It would be best to wait until he knew for certain. He took a deep breath, exhaled heavily, and headed for the stairs.
As Shakespeare followed Hughe Camden back downstairs, he had a feeling that he had left Smythe with his hands full. But then the lad was certainly old enough to be able to take care of himself. And if he couldn’t, well, then Blanche Middleton was doubtless fully capable of taking care of him. What Shakespeare wanted to find out, if he could, was how long Camden had been in the library with Blanche. With any luck, Smythe would be asking Blanche exactly the same thing, so long as he was not distracted by her rather obvious attributes.
It would be nice to know if they both told the same story, and if the details coincided. But at the same time, Shakespeare thought, even if Smythe was distracted by the apparently perpetually randy Blanche Middleton, it might not necessarily prove to be a bad thing. It might get his mind off Elizabeth, if only for a little while. But even a little while could be enough, with any luck, to help effect a cure.
He did not really have anything against Elizabeth, personally. It was just that women were trouble. He knew that only too well. He thought of his Anne, back home in Stratford with the children, doubtless berating him soundly to anyone who would listen, and doubtless considering other likely prospects even as she did so. Not for the first time, he sighed with regret over his foolishness.
He would not forget his obligations. He would continue to send money, though at times, it placed a hardship on him he could ill endure. He did not really need fine clothes or lavish entertainments, and he could always eat a little less if it would allow him to drink a little more. And it was not as if things were not improving. He was certainly doing much better now than when he had first arrived in London. Having Smythe to help share the expenses eased some of the burden for them both, though at least Smythe did not have to support a family that he had never wanted. Although if Tuck did not watch out, he might easily get himself in trouble with young Blanche. But then, given Blanche’s predilections and general lack of discretion, it would doubtless be impossible to fix the blame with any certainty. And from her father’s point of view, any other candidate-except, perhaps, the neighbor’s stableboy-would be a far more suitable scapegoat. No, Smythe was safe enough, thought Shakespeare.
Hughe Camden, on the other hand, would probably like nothing better than to place a bun inside that ready little oven. And even if a loaf was baked from someone else’s dough, he might not object to claim it, for it would ensure a marriage, which in turn would ensure a fortune for him when Blanche’s father died. There were no other heirs, and even if Godfrey Middleton decided to remarry in his dotage and sired a son with a new wife, Blanche’s husband would still find himself in a very comfortable position. Aside from which, a man who had no compunction about killing would certainly not hesitate to dispose of any new young heirs. But what were the chances that Hughe Camden was that man?
They seemed rather remote, thought Shakespeare, as he followed Camden outside to the fairgrounds. Sir William seemed inclined to dismiss Camden as a suspect on the grounds of his pedigree, and on that basis alone, Camden could not be the man Smythe had overheard. That left Andrew Braithwaite and the Frenchman. One of them had to be the killer. But which one?
12
SHAKESPEARE FOLLOWED HUGHE CAMDEN OUTSIDE and caught up to him as he was crossing the courtyard, heading towards the fairgrounds. By the time the poet fell in step beside him, the barrister had recovered much of his self-possession and gazed at Shakespeare with a look that conveyed both smug superiority and just the right amount of upper-class contempt.
Shakespeare did not find his snooty attitude even remotely unexpected. Camden was, after all, the son of a wealthy knight and he was given enough money that probably his greatest worry was how many times a month he could afford another suit of clothes or a fancy beaver hat, like those worn rakishly by all his colleagues at the Inns of Court. Then, too, as an inner barrister, he doubtless considered himself something of a connoisseur of theatrical productions, for the young gentlemen at the Inns of Court were well known for staging amateur theatricals in their halls for the better class of people, and the poets whose works they would perform were all university men such as Marlowe, Greene and Nashe. The Queen’s Men and their ilk, who performed for the crass groundlings of the public theaters and often staged the very same plays, were looked upon by them as vulgar second-raters.
Camden raised a disdainful eyebrow at the poet, but did not deign to start a conversation. Presumably, thought Shakespeare, one did not speak first to one’s inferiors. Fine, he thought, so be it. He simply smiled at Camden in a warm, comradely sort of way, and kept right on walking beside him, saying nothing. Camden cleared his throat after a moment, as if to prompt him, but Shakespeare merely smiled at him once more. This seemed to infuriate the barrister. His face flushed, the corners of his mouth turned down with scorn, and his ari
stocratic nostrils flared.
“If you suppose that there was any hint of impropriety in what you have just seen,” said Camden, haughtily, “and that what you believe you may have witnessed has somehow placed you in some position of particular advantage over me, then I can assure you, sir, that you are very much mistaken on both counts.”
“Oh, upon my word, that was well spoken!” Shakespeare said. “You flatter me, sir, to suppose such great complexity of thought to my most ordinary brain. Indeed, I can but scarcely apprehend your meaning. I can but hazard that your remarks just now were in some way concerned with your lying atop the lady in the library… or was it laying? S’trewth, lying, laying, I need my old schoolboy’s hornbook, for I can never keep them straight.”
“Now, see here…”
“Nay, milord, I was not seeking instruction, for doubtless you would know the difference, as you are a fine and educated gentleman of the Inns of Court. Eloquence, indeed, would be your proper province, whereas mine is but some foolish capering and posturing upon the stage. Odd’s blood, what would I know, indeed?”
“Aye, well, not a very great deal, I should think,” said Camden, stuffily.
“Not a great deal at all, I quite agree, I quite agree,” said Shakespeare. “Which is why, of course, I make every effort to learn more and better myself at every opportunity, you see. And I could see, indeed, that back in yonder library, you were but doing what you could to comfort the young lady, who was doubtless overcome in her bereavement, what with the twin tragedies of the deaths of both her sister and her lover.”
“Her lover, did you say?” Camden stopped abruptly, startled, but Shakespeare purposely kept right on walking, as if he had not noticed, forcing the barrister to run several steps in order to catch up.
“Aye, her lover, too, slain so tragically on the very same day that her poor, dear sister was murdered, and not once, it seems, but twice! So in effect, I suppose one might say that there were three murders, save for the fact that there were but two victims.”
