Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 03] Much Ado About Murder(v2)

by Much Ado About Murder (v2. 0) (mobi)

  "Are they gone?"

  "Aye, they ran off, the bloody bastards. But not before I drew some blood. I ran one through and slashed another pretty badly. After that, the rest all ran."

  "Well done. I am much obliged to you."

  "Do not try to speak, Tuck. Save your strength. I will—"

  But that was the last thing Smythe heard as he lost consciousness and collapsed to the street.

  He awoke to the worst headache he had ever experienced. He groaned, involuntarily, and brought his hands up to his head, only to find that it was bandaged.

  "Lie still," Will said, bending over him, his face full of concern. "Do not try to sit up."

  "Where am I?"

  "You are back at home, in our room at the Toad and Badger," Shakespeare replied. "Ben brought you here. Do you recall what happened?"

  Smythe touched his bandaged head gingerly. "I was attacked…"

  "You remember?"

  "Aye."

  "Good. Ben was afraid that you might not. He says that is often a sign of severe injury."

  "God, my head…"

  "You took quite a drubbing, my friend. When we saw all the blood, we were afraid that they had split your skull, but 'twould seem your head is a good deal harder than we had thought. 'Twas only a flesh wound that bled a great deal, thank God. But aside from that, you are a symphony of bruises, though there do not appear to be any broken bones, thanks to your large frame. A lesser man would have been positively splintered. Doubtless, you shall be sore for quite a while."

  "Well, if this is anything akin to those hangovers you have from time to time, then I want no part of them, believe me. Lord! It feels as if my head is being squeezed between two millstones."

  "Is he awake?" asked Stackpole, from the doorway.

  "Aye, after a fashion," Shakespeare replied. "He is a bit confused and says his head hurts."

  "I shouldn't wonder," Stackpole said. "Poor lad was very nearly clubbed to death. I brought some chicken broth for him."

  "Good of you, Courtney, thank you," Shakespeare said.

  "Aye, thank you," Smythe added. " 'Tis good of you, indeed."

  "Thank Molly," Stackpole said. "She made it. She said 'twas her mother's recipe for when someone in the family fell ill. She asked if she could come up and look in on you when you felt up to it."

  "Of course," said Smythe. "Anytime she likes." He tried to sit up, winced with pain, and fell back into bed again.

  "I told you not to sit up," said Shakespeare. "You never listen to me. When you are fetched such a mighty clout upon the head, you truly need to rest awhile. If you move too quickly, then you will grow faint and dizzy and you may fall and do yourself an injury."

  "I have already had my share of injuries," said Smythe, dryly. "I doubt that falling on the floor would make matters much worse."

  "Suit yourself," said Shakespeare, with a shrug. "But if you should fall and break your nose or else knock out a few teeth, do not come crying to me. You are a fine looking young man, Tuck, but you would not look quite so handsome were you toothless. And considering your lack of talent as an actor, you might want to hold onto being handsome for as long as possible."

  "Right. I shall stay in bed, then."

  "And while we are on the subject of your various shortcomings," Shakespeare continued, "this may not be the best time to bring it up, but you might recall that both Sir William and I, as well as others I could mention, have advised you on more than one occasion to start carrying a sword. Sir William even gave you one of his." He glanced pointedly over to the corner of the room, where the sword Sir William gave to Smythe leaned against the wall in its scabbard and belt. "Of course, it does not do you a great deal of good over there, although I must admit that ever since you put it there, no one has yet attacked that corner of the room."

  Smythe sighed and winced again. He touched his bandaged head gingerly. "Point well taken," he said. "Methinks from now on, I shall not only wear it everywhere I go, except to bed, but I shall resume my long-neglected fencing practice, also."

  "Considering how often people try to kill you, that does seem an excellent idea," Shakespeare said. "You do seem to attract more than your share of peril. One might almost think that you were cursed."

  "What o'clock is it?" asked Smythe, noticing the shutters closed. There did not seem to be any daylight seeping through the cracks.

  "Past ten of the clock, according to the bellman who went by outside a little while ago," Shakespeare replied. "You have been senseless for nearly two hours since Ben brought you back. We feared that you might not reawaken."

  "Where is Ben?"

  "He has gone to escort Granny Meg back home," Shakespeare replied.

  "Granny Meg was here?"

  "Aye. Ben and I went to fetch her while Molly stayed here to look after you. Granny Meg removed the bandage Ben tore from his shirt and replaced it with one of her own that she brought with her. She placed a poultice underneath it to draw out the bad humors and left very strict instructions that 'twas not to be removed until she herself removed it and once more looked at your wound. She assured us that your head was more or less intact, although she did caution us that you might not remember things if the blow was strong enough." Shakespeare shrugged. "I asked her how we might possibly be able to tell the difference, since you could not seem to remember things before the blow was struck."

  "Very amusing."

  "She seemed to think so. In any event, she said that if you could not recall your name, then it could be a bad sign."

  "But you did not ask me my name when I awoke."

  "I was going to see if your remembered. If not, then I was going to tell you 'twas Ned Alleyn, just to see if 'twould have any improvement upon your acting abilities. But… you remembered who you were, worse luck."

  Despite the pain, Smythe smiled. " Twould seem that I owe Ben a debt of gratitude," he said. "Not to mention a new shirt." He frowned. "Wait a moment. You said that Molly stayed with me while you and Ben went for Granny Meg?"

  "Aye, she did. And she was most concerned about you."

  "And she is here still?"

  "Aye. She would not go home until she knew that you were going to be all right. As Courtney said, she awaits downstairs, to see you and satisfy herself that you are in no grave danger."

  Smythe felt a pang of guilt at her concern. "Please send her up, Will."

  "I shall."

  "Oh, and Will?"

  "Aye?"

  "Thanks."

  Shakespeare smiled. "No need. You would have done no less for me. In fact, as I recall, you did save my life once."

  "Then consider the score even."

  Shakespeare held up his index finger. "Not quite yet. But I shall be sure to let you know."

  A few moments later, Molly knocked and then looked in anxiously. "Will said that you were awake and feeling better."

  "Well, I am not so sure that I feel better, but at least I am awake. Please come in, Molly."

  "I am so very sorry, Tuck," she said, as she came in and sat down on a stool beside the bed. "Does it hurt very much?"

  "Like the very Devil. But your broth helped. Thank you."

  "You are most welcome. Did you see who did it?"

  Smythe shook his head and at once regretted it. The room spun and he closed his eyes a moment, hoping that he would not retch. "Nay, I did not," he said, after a moment. "But Ben did. He said 'twas the Steady Boys. It appears that I shall have a score to settle with Jack Darnley and his lot."

  "Granny Meg said 'twas likely that you would recover fully before long."

  "I believe I shall," said Smythe. "For the most part, 'tis just my head that aches as if 'twill burst. From now on, methinks I shall be more careful about walking through the streets alone after it grows dark. Which reminds me, Molly… I have a confession I must make to you. And I fear that it may make you angry with me."

  "You are going to say you followed me?"

  Smythe grimaced. "You already knew. She told you."


  Molly nodded. "I am not angry with you, Tuck. I know you thought 'twas a man that I was with and you only followed me out of concern for my safety and welfare."

  "She told you that?"

  Molly smiled. "She did not need to. I know you, Tuck. You are not a scoundrel. There is no meanness in you. You have always been land to me. You and all the other players have always treated me as if I were part of the family, and I have always been very grateful for that. You are all very nearly the only family I know."

  "Well, I am relieved to hear you are not angry with me," Smythe told her. "And you have repaid my kindness with kindness of your own. But I still cannot help but wonder… What in the world have you to do with the likes of Moll Cutpurse?"

  Molly glanced down at the floor. " 'Tis a private matter, Tuck, and I wish you would not ask me."

  "Well, I know 'tis no concern of mine, but—"

  "Just so, Tuck. 'Tis no concern of yours. And I would be grateful if you did not press me on the matter."

  "But you do know who she is, Molly?"

  "I know," she replied. "And I know you ask from motives that are good and well intended. But I promise you that I am in no danger, Tuck. I have nothing to fear from Moll Cutpurse. Truly. What we have between us is a private matter, as I said. And I do not wish to discuss it further. As you are my friend, I ask your word that you shall not pursue it or discuss it with any of the others."

  "Molly, I merely-"

  "Your word, Tuck."

  He sighed. "Very well. You have my word."

  She smiled. "Thank you. And now you should try and get some sleep. Granny Meg said that you would need your rest to heal. And for that matter, I should get some sleep, myself. Master Stackpole has been kind enough to let me have a bed for the night. If you feel poorly and need anything tonight, call out. I am a light sleeper and shall hear." She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "You can barely keep your eyes open. Go to sleep now. I shall look in on you tomorrow."

  It was true. It was all that he could do to keep his eyes open. His head ached terribly, he felt dizzy and queasy, but most of all, he felt so tired that all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep. It seemed like a most excellent suggestion. He could not recall for certain later if he even said good night to her. He could not even recall seeing her leave. He seemed to recall hearing the door to his room close softly and that was the last thing he remembered. He slept a long, deep, and dreamless sleep. In fact, he slept all through the next day and the next night. And when he finally awoke, it was to discover that while he had slept, Master Leonardo had been murdered.

  Chapter 7

  TUCK FOUND OUT WHAT HAD happened over breakfast downstairs in the tavern. Or at least, once he got past all the speculation, he found out as much as anybody knew, which was not a very great deal. When he came down in the morning, after sleeping fitfully through most of an entire day, everyone solicitously asked him how he felt. He replied with gratitude that he still hurt in at least a dozen places, yet in the main, he was very much improved. But despite their genuine concern about his welfare, it was nevertheless obvious that what had happened to him was no longer the primary topic of interest. Everyone seemed anxious to move on quickly past the question of how he felt in order to discuss the news of Master Leonardo's murder.

  It did not take Smythe very long to piece together the details. From the general conversation in the tavern, he learned that sometime during the previous afternoon or evening, Master Leonardo, the wealthy Genoan merchant whom they had all met briefly only a day earlier, had been viciously murdered at his residence. His young and beautiful daughter, Hera, had not been at home, fortunately, but was away visiting her new friend, Elizabeth Darcie, who had taken the shy foreign girl under her wing and was helping her become acclimated to her new life in London. Regrettably, it had been Hera who had discovered her own father's body when she arrived back home that night.

  "Dear God! The poor girl!" Smythe said. "How terrible for her!"

  "Terrible is not the word," George Bryan replied. "Horrible would be more like. They say the man was sliced to ribbons. Slashed more deeply than a fop's silk shirt."

  "Aye, there was blood everywhere," added Tom Pope, one of the newest members of their company, as he busily ladled porridge into his mouth.

  "There is going to be porridge everywhere if you persist in trying to speak and gorge at the same time, you odiferous hog," said Kemp with contempt. "S'trewth, watching you eat is enough to put a starving beggar off his food. I know it puts me off mine."

  "Well then, since I have put you off your food, 'tis only meet that I should put some food on you," retorted Pope, and with that, he flipped a generous ladleful of hot porridge right into Will Kemp's face.

  "Aaarghh! You misbegotten Philistine!" roared Kemp, leaping to his feet as he wiped the porridge from his eyes. "How dare you!"

  "Never say I gave you naught, Kemp," Pope replied with a grin, "for I daresay you have just had breakfast on me."

  "Well then, allow me to return the kindness!" Kemp said through gritted teeth, and with that, he picked up his own bowl of steaming porridge and upended it over Pope's head.

  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! We were speaking of murder, for God's sake!" said Smythe.

  "Aye, and that is just what I am going to do to that miserable, mincing old goat!" snarled Pope, wiping the dripping gobs of porridge from his face and shaking his hands off. The flung-off gobs of porridge made wet, smacking sounds as they landed on the wood-planked floor. Pope reached for the clay pitcher in the center of the table.

  "Oh, no, Tom!" Speed cried out. "Not the beer!"

  Too late.

  Pope dashed the beer into Kemp's face, neatly rinsing off the porridge Kemp had not fully succeeded in wiping away.

  Smythe rolled his eyes and gave up on them. He turned to Phillips. "The devil with those two. Tell me, what happened after Hera found her father?"

  "Well, from what I hear, she very nearly lost her mind," Gus Phillips replied, as Kemp grabbed his ladle and launched himself at Pope, knocking him off his bench. They both fell backwards in a tangled, flailing heap. "I mean," continued Phillips, "can you imagine, walking into your own home and finding your own father sliced up like an Easter ham and lying on the floor in a spreading pool of his own blood?"

  "You need not be quite so lurid," Smythe replied dryly, as Kemp shrieked and hammered away at Pope with his wooden ladle, while the latter desperately tried to dislodge the smaller man, who had clamped his legs around him like an octopus and hung on like grim death. "What about the servants?" Smythe continued.

  "What about them?" Speed asked. "You do not think they did it, do you? You think they did the foreigner in for all his gold?"

  "I honestly do not know," Smythe said, as Pope finally succeeded in dislodging Kemp, throwing him off, and then rolling over on top of him with his not inconsiderable bulk, squeezing the wind right out of him. "But I very much doubt that a canny merchant would have been careless enough to keep all of his gold inside his house," Smythe went on, ignoring the combatants. " 'Twas not what I intended to suggest, though I suppose 'tis possible. I meant to ask if Master Leonardo's servents had not heard anything amiss? After all, does it not seem odd to have a man killed in his own house, and in so violent a manner as you describe, and yet none of the servents knew of it, so that the body was not even found until the daughter arrived home that night?"

  Phillips frowned. "Hmm. I must admit that thought never even occurred to me. An excellent question, Tuck. However, I must confess 'tis one I cannot answer."

  "There were servants in the house, surely?" Smythe said.

  "I assume so," Phillips replied, with a shrug, as Kemp tried in vain to escape from underneath Pope's bulk. He squirmed and yelped as the larger man took hold of his nose and began twisting it painfully.

  "You mean you do not know for certain?" Smythe asked.

  "How am I know a thing like that for certain?" Phillips asked. "I have never been in the ma
n's house, now have I?"

  "And yet you know that he was found all cut to ribbons, with blood spilled everywhere?" Smythe asked.

  "Well, that was how I heard it," Phillips said.

  "From whom did you hear this?"

  "S'trewth, I cannot say for certain," replied Phillips, with a shrug. "Everyone has been talking about it, it seems."

  "Amazing," Smythe said. "The man was only killed last night, and this morning, everyone in London seems to know all the details of the crime. If Sir Francis Walsingham had intelligence this good, then the Armada would have been destroyed before it ever even sailed from Spain."

  "What are you picking on me for?" Phillips asked, with an aggrieved air. "I was merely telling you what I had heard. You asked me, after all!"

  "Aamaahhhhh! Let me go, you stinking pile of offal!" Kemp wailed.

  " 'Allo, 'allo, what's all this then?" Stackpole demanded, as he came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. "Get off him, you great, slobbering dungheap!" He gave Pope a kick that sent him sprawling with a yelp.

  "Thank heavens, Stackpole!" Kemp said, clutching at his chest. "The big oaf nearly crushed me! You are a godsend!"

  "You'll not think so when I start mopping up all this mess with your face," said Stackpole, grabbing him by the shirtfront and glowering at him as he pulled him to his feet. "Who is going to clean this up then?"

  "He started it!" cried Kemp, pointing an accusatory finger at Pope.

  "I never did, you lying pustule!" protested Pope. "You berated me!"

  "Enough!" Stackpole thundered. "I have had my fill of you both! Now clean up this mess or so help me I shall hang you both from the rafters and have Molly beat you with a stick!"

  "Have a care now, Stackpole, Kemp might like that," Bryan said.

  "And you be quiet, else I shall have you helping them!" said Stackpole, glaring at him. "I shall have peace in my own house or I shall have you all in pieces! Players! I would have done better to open up my inn to a gang of wandering gypsies!"

  The door opened at that moment and Shakespeare came bustling in. "They have taken Corwin!" he announced. "He has been arrested for the murder of Master Leonardo!"