"Ah, Shakespeare, Smythe," he said, nodding to them curtly. "Come in. I assume that you have come about the news of Leonardo."
"Indeed, we have, sir," Smythe replied. "We had hoped to speak with Hera, unless, that is, she is too grief-stricken to entertain a visit at this time."
"Aye, 'tis a terrible thing, terrible," Darcie replied, shaking his head. "Here we were, on the verge of acquiring a prosperous new investor for the Theatre. 'Twould have neatly taken care of
all of the needed refurbishing at once, too. Ah, well. Such a pity. Still, one learns to accept these sort of reverses if one is to survive in business. Such is the nature of things. Life goes on." And then he added, almost as an afterthought, "Poor Hera is upstairs with Elizabeth."
As they went through the entry hall and toward the stairs, Shakespeare gawked at their surroundings. The planked floors were covered not with rushes, but with rush mats woven in intricate patterns and handsomely colored. The walls were panelled with wood and hung with tapestries, not the cheaper painted cloths that were used by all except the very rich. The furnishings were carved and inlaid with ivory or pearl, many pieces draped with patterned carpets, and some of the chairs were actually upholstered. There was not a boarded stool or chest in sight.
"Actually, sir, with your permission, before speaking with Elizabeth and Master Leonardo's daughter, I should like to ask you a question or two, if I may," said Smythe.
Darcie turned toward him and raised his eyebrows. "Concerning what?"
"Concerning the very matter that you just now mentioned, sir," Smythe replied. "I merely wanted to make certain that my understanding was correct. Had Master Leonardo already made a firm commitment to you and Master Burbage concerning an investment in the Theatre?"
"Indeed, he had," Darcie replied, nodding emphatically. "And he was most anxious to proceed. Unlike most people, he did not hesitate to make decisions. I saw that quality in him and was encouraged by it. He would weigh an opportunity, assess the potential advantages and risks, and then proceed without wasting any time. As I have said, 'tis a great pity that things turned out the way they did. We had discussed the possibility of partnership in several ventures." He shook his head again, in resignation. "He was excited to be making a new start in London, anxious to take advantage of the opportunity to be a partner in the Theatre, and to explore other avenues, as well. Now, all his hopes and dreams have been snuffed out, just like that." He snapped his fingers.
"Do you know if Master Leonardo had planned any other business ventures, that is to say, other than those he had discussed as possibilities of partnership with you?" Smythe asked.
"I suppose 'tis entirely possible he may have had such plans, but if so, he did not mention them to me," said Darcie. "He did not strike me as the sort of man to limit himself. His interests seemed varied and diverse." He frowned. "Why, what the devil are you getting at, Smythe?"
"Well, sir, I was merely wondering if he might have been involved with anyone in some venture that might have gone amiss in some way," Smythe replied. "Something of that sort could possibly have been a motive in his murder."
"Whatever do you mean? I was under the impression that the murderer had already been placed under arrest," said Darcie, frowning. " 'Twas that young goldsmith who had desired to marry Hera, was it not?"
"Corwin was, indeed, arrested this morning, as you have already heard," Shakespeare said, "but he did protest his innocence most strenuously. And he has friends who believe firmly in his innocence, as well, among them Master Peters, whom you know."
Darcie grunted. "Aye, well, the lad was his apprentice, after all, and a valued journeyman in his shop. A skilled artisan, by all accounts, whose work was in considerable demand."
"Are you suggesting that Master Peters may have a selfish motive for his stated belief in Corwin's innocence?" asked Shakespeare.
"Why, does that not seem possible to you?" asked Darcie.
"Well, I suppose 'tis possible," Shakespeare replied. "Master Peters does seem quite fond of Corwin."
"Well, there you have it, then," Darcie said, with a shrug. "The young man wanted the daughter; the father disapproved; tempers ran hot—these Italians often get that way, I understand—and the next thing you know, blades are drawn and blood is spilt."
"You say the father disapproved of him?" asked Smythe, with some surprise.
"Fathers do not always approve of the young men their daughters choose," said Darcie, wryly, with a glance at Smythe.
Smythe ignored both the well-placed barb and the pointed look. "How very curious," he said. "I was under the impression that Master Leonardo had not only approved of Corwin, but had already given his consent to the match," he said.
Darcie raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? Where did you hear that?"
Smythe turned to Shakespeare. "Where did we hear that?"
"We have it on the word of Master Peters," Shakespeare said.
"Is that so?" said Darcie. "Hmm. I had not known that."
"Betimes, fathers do approve their daughters' choices," Smythe said with a straight face, unable to resist.
"Well, then I cannot imagine why the young fool would have killed him."
' 'Twould seem that there was some sort of accusation concerning the young lady's virtue," Shakespeare said. "When he came to the theatre, looking for Ben Dickens, Corwin had informed me that he was going to Master Leonardo's house to break off the engagement."
"Odd's blood!" said Darcie. "I had heard none of this at all! I had not even known that there was a formal engagement, much less any question concerning Hera's virtue!"
"Had she said nothing to you about the matter?" Smythe asked, frowning.
"I should say not!" Darcie said. "S'trewth, the girl scarcely speaks at all. She speaks only to Elizabeth and keeps her eyes so downcast, 'tis a wonder she can see where she is going. Not that I can fault her for her modesty. 'Tis a manner most demure and most becoming in a woman. I would not find it amiss if some of it should rub off on Elizabeth. Why, the very thought of such a girl having her virtue brought into question…" He snorted with derision. " 'Tis an absurdity! I simply cannot credit it."
"Yet 'twould seem that Corwin could," said Shakespeare.
"If so, then his love for her was fickle," Darcie said.
"Perhaps. Or else so overwhelming that it overcame his reason," Smythe said.
"Aye, friendship is constant in all other things save in the office and affairs of love," mused Shakespeare.
"Yet one more argument in favor of marriages being arranged, as by tradition," Darcie said with a sniff, as he led the way up the stairs, past portraits of the queen and her most celebrated courtiers. The portraits all looked fairly new, and among them were no relatives, thought Smythe. The mark of the new man was that he had no illustrious antecedents with which to grace his walls. "This peculiar notion of allowing young people to make their own choices in marriage, as if they were no better than working class," continued Darcie, "is arrant nonsense, if you ask me. Such foolish, bardic sentiments are best left to romantic balladeers and poets. Marriage is much too serious a matter to be cluttered up with feelings."
"I do not know that I could argue with you there," said Shakespeare, wryly. Smythe gave him a look.
"And how is poor Hera bearing up under this woeful tragedy?" asked Smythe. Thus far, Darcie had said nothing whatever of her state.
"As well as could be expected, one supposes," Darcie replied, with a shrug. "She is a quiet girl, and does not seem given to any loud displays of lamentations. Her comportment has been the very model of decorum and restraint. Elizabeth seems more upset about it all than she does."
"How very strange," said Shakespeare. "I should think that if my own father were killed, I would be a very torrent of emotions… grief, rage, melancholy, the desire for vengeance, each feeling battling with the other for supremacy."
"Not all children have so strong an attachment to their parents," Smythe replied. "And not all parents engender such affection."<
br />
They reached the third floor and proceeded down a short corridor to an open sitting room where they found Elizabeth keeping company with Hera. Both women sat quietly near the windows. Elizabeth was doing some embroidery, while Hera simply sat staring out the window.
"Elizabeth, we have visitors," her father said, as she looked up when they entered. To Smythe and Shakespeare, he added in a low tone, "Mark you, do not over-tax the girl with questions, especially concerning the conduct of her father's business. Make the appropriate expressions of sympathy and so forth, offer condolences and whatever help she may require. Alow her to know that the company shall stand behind her in her hour of need, so that she will know that her fortune is tied to yours and yours to hers. But do not overstate the case. She will need some time, no doubt, to recover from her grief, and then she shall remember who her friends were when she had need of them. I'll leave you now. Elizabeth can show you out when you are done."
Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances of disbelief at Darcie's callousness, but there was no opportunity to discuss it, as Elizabeth was already approaching them.
"Will! Tuck! So good of you to come!" she said, holding out her hands to them both. Her eyes widened at the sight of the bandage on Smythe's head. "Goodness, Tuck! Were you injured? What happened?"
"Nothing truly worth discussing," he replied, dismissively, "certainly not in comparison with what happened yesterday."
"What a dreadful thing," Elizabeth replied. "And just when things had looked so promising for everyone!"
"You know they have arrested Corwin?" Smythe said.
She nodded. "Aye, like an ill wind, bad news travels quickly," she replied. "They were crying the news out in the streets before, and thus Hera heard it, whilst sitting at the window and dwelling upon her father's tragic fate." She glanced toward the dark-haired girl, who still sat looking out the window. She had not even glanced around when they came in.
"How long has she been thus?" asked Smythe, glancing from Hera to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth shook her head sadly. "Ever since this morning," she replied. "She simply sits there, saying naught and doing naught in her melancholy humor. I have tried to draw her out, but now she will not even speak to me. 'Tis as if a veil has been drawn betwixt her and the world. I cannot even tell if she knows that we are here."
"Has the poor girl lost her reason?" Shakespeare asked with concern.
Elizabeth bit her lower lip. "I pray not," she replied. "I fear for her. Father says that 'tis a melancholy that will pass. I wanted to send for Granny Meg, but he does not wish to hear of it. He says there is no need for witches, and that God shall heal her in time." She sighed and gazed at Hera anxiously. "I do so want to believe that, but I cannot help feeling afraid for her."
"How did she come here?" Smythe asked.
"She came last night, on foot," Elizabeth replied.
"On foot?" said Smythe. "At night? Alone?"
"One of the servants came after her," Elizabeth said. " 'Twas not that he came with her to escort her so much as he followed her, out of concern for her safety. After she had found her father, she cried out and then went running from the house, he said. She came straight here." Elizabeth sighed. "Indeed, where else would she go? I am her only friend in London."
"She had been with you earlier that day?" asked Smythe.
Elizabeth nodded. "And what a happy time we had." She smiled at the memory. "We spoke of English weddings. She wanted to know all about our marriage customs. She was so full of happy expectation… Such a marked contrast to her present, mournful humor."
"She was happy about the engagement, then?" said Smythe. "Her father had approved?"
Elizabeth nodded. " 'Twas all settled save for the setting of the date and the arrangements for the wedding," she said.
"Were they not Catholic?" Shakespeare asked. "Would that not have posed some impediment to the marriage?"
"I had thought the same," Elizabeth replied, "but it seems not to have presented any difficulty. Hera had told me that her father said to her, 'We are in England now, and we shall do things as the English do.' He was, I believe, content to provide the dowry and leave all the arrangements for the wedding to Corwin and Master Peters."
"I see," said Smythe, gazing at the Genoan girl. "But your father seemed to think that Master Leonardo may not have approved of Corwin."
Elizabeth glanced at Smythe with surprise. "Whatever gave him that idea?"
"Did he have reason to think otherwise?" Smythe asked.
Elizabeth frowned. "I do not know. I have no idea why he would have thought so. I know that he and Master Leonardo spoke at length that day when we came to the Theatre, but I think that they discussed matters of business. I do not recall if they spoke of anything else. I do not know that anything at all was said of Hera and Corwin, one way or the other."
"Corwin seemed smitten with her," said Shakespeare. "Was she in love with him?"
Elizabeth glanced at him. "She seemed excited at the prospect of the marriage," she replied.
"Aye, but was she in love with him?" Shakespeare asked again.
"Do you doubt that she was?"
Shakespeare shrugged. "I do not know. That is why I asked. She scarcely knew him."
"He knew her no better," Elizabeth replied. "Have you never heard of two people falling in love upon first sight?"
Smythe glanced at her sharply, but she did not look at him. Almost as if she were carefully avoiding it, he thought.
"I am a poet," Shakespeare replied. "Of course I know that people can fall in love upon first sight. The question is, was she one of those people?"
Elizabeth did not seem to have an answer.
Shakespeare tried another tack. "Did she know that Corwin had gone to her house to see her father and break off the engagement?" he asked, softly.
Elizabeth gasped and her eyes grew wide. "Is this true?" she asked with astonishment.
"He told me so himself," Shakespeare replied.
"But… why?"
"It seems he believed she had deceived him about her virtue," he replied.
"What!" Elizabeth said, with disbelief.
"I do not know precisely what Corwin had heard, or from whom," Shakespeare said, "for he was in a fever of outrage and indignation when he came to the Theatre, but it seems that someone had convinced him that Hera was not… chaste."
Elizabeth brought her hands up to her face. "Who would do such a vile thing?"
"We do not know," said Shakespeare. "But we intend to do our utmost to find out."
"She sits there as if she does not even hear us," Smythe said, staring at Hera where she sat by the window on the other side of the room. "I know that we are speaking softly, so perhaps she cannot tell what we are saying from over there, but just the same, you would think that she would respond to our presence in some way, at least."
Elizabeth's eyes were glistening with tears. "I have tried speaking to her," she said, "but she simply does not answer."
"Let me try," said Smythe.
"Be gentle with her," said Elizabeth.
He crossed the room and knelt on the floor by her side. She did not respond to his approach. "Hera…" he said, softy.
She did not respond.
"Hera?"
She kept on staring out the window, as if she hadn't heard him.
"Hem" he said, more firmly and emphatically, though without raising his voice. He reached out and gently placed two fingers on her cheek, carefully turning her face toward his.
He was not certain if she really saw him, although she seemed to. Her gaze met his and, for a moment, it was as if she were looking through him. Then her eyes focused on his. He wanted to say something to her, but suddenly, he could not seem to find the words. The look in her eyes was one of unbearable pain and sadness, a grief that ran so deep it went down to her very soul. She blinked, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.
* * *
"What did you see when you gazed into her eyes?" asked Shakespeare
, as they left the Darcie house.
"Unutterable sadness," Smythe replied. "A grief so deep and all-encompassing that there was no room within her for aught else. It filled her to the very brim."
They walked side-by-side along the cobblestoned street, keeping near the buildings so as to avoid all the muck that drained down into the declivity at the center. Traffic flowed by in a constant stream, horses and pedestrians, two-wheeled carts and four-wheeled open carriages, coaches and caroches with their curved roofs and ostentatious, plumed ornaments, all creating a cacophany of jingling and creaking, clopping and splashing, shouting and neighing that filled the air with constant noise during the daylight hours.
"Do you suppose she could have known that Corwin was going to break off the engagement?" Smythe asked.
Shakespeare shook his head. "I do not see how she could have known," he said. "I suppose the only possibility would be if perhaps one of the servants overhead whatever had transpired between Corwin and her father, and then mentioned it to her when she came home, but that seems very unlikely."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, for several reasons," Shakespeare replied. "Servants who eavesdrop on their masters and then gossip about what they had overheard are certainly not rare, but then they usually gossip amongst one another, certainly not with the daughter of the master of the house."
"Good point," said Smythe, nodding.
"And for another matter," continued Shakespeare, "if any of the servants had overheard whatever passed between Corwin and Master Leonardo, then one would think they surely would have
known that something was amiss. One would think they would at least have looked in on their master when Corwin left the house. However, we are told 'twas Hera who had found her father's body, and not any of the servants. Either the murder had occurred without any of the servants being alerted, or else they all turned a deaf ear and ignored it. Does that seem very likely to you?"
"It does not," said Smythe.
"Nor does it to me," said Shakespeare, emphatically. "What we know thus far about the murder only raises further questions. If Corwin had gone to Master Leonardo's house to kill him, then surely he would not have stopped first at the Theatre to tell us he was going there. 'Twould be absurd. So then if Corwin is truly guilty of the crime, then 'twould only seem reasonable to suppose that he did not go there with the intent of killing Master Leonardo, and that what happened came about in a spontaneous manner. They argued, perhaps a blow was struck, then blades were drawn—"
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 03] Much Ado About Murder(v2) Page 14
