"Or at least one blade," Smythe said. "Master Leonardo may have been unarmed for all we know."
"Quite so," said Shakespeare. "We must find that out, as well. If he was unarmed, then 'twas clearly murder. If not, then Corwin could have merely been trying to defend himself. Either way, if the two men fought, then it seems unlikely that there would have been no noise. How could the servants have failed to hear the sounds of such a struggle?"
" 'Tis a question we must try to answer," Smythe replied, "for unless we can find someone who was there to witness it or even hear what happened, the only one who knows the truth of it is Corwin. And I do not know if we shall be permitted to put the question to him."
"Aye, and even if we could be allowed to speak with him, how would we know if what he told us were the truth?" asked Shakespeare. "Neither of us truly knows him well. If he is guilty of the crime, he could dissemble with us, and if he is a practiced liar, then we would never be the wiser."
"One thing is for certain," Smythe said, "we are not going to discover what occurred by questioning Hera any further. For the present, at least, the girl is much too grief-stricken to be of any use. We shall have to seek out Master Leonardo's servants to see what we can learn."
"I agree," said Shakespeare, nodding. "That is the very next thing we must do. And there is one more thing we must discover. Who told Corwin that Hera was not chaste?"
"Who in London could know her well enough to say such a thing and make Corwin believe it?" Smythe asked.
"We are proceeding, then, on the assumption that the tale is a lie?" said Shakespeare.
"Do you doubt it even for a moment?" Smythe asked, with surprise.
"Does it seem impossible there could be truth in it?" Shakespeare countered.
"How can you say such a thing? You have met the girl!"
"Aye, and I have had no words with her other than to give her greeting when we were introduced the other day. To all outward appearances, she seems modest and demure, as Henry Dar-cie said, but what do we truly know of her?"
"Will! I am surprised at you!" said Smythe.
"Why?" asked Shakespeare, puzzled. "Does the question not seem reasonable to you? And if not, then why not?"
"Oft' it seems to me that you have little love for women," Smythe replied. "Perhaps your own marriage was not everything you hoped 'twould be—"
"My marriage has naught to do with it," Shakespeare said, irritably. "If we are to pursue the truth, Tuck, then we must not presume. Regardless what we think, we must find things out for certain, so that we know them to be true beyond any shadow of a doubt. You are moved to sympathy for Hera, perhaps because of your own feelings for Elizabeth. You know that Henry Darcie only tolerates your friendship with her because he owes you a debt of gratitude, and because he trusts that you would do nothing to dishonor her, nor would she do aught to bring dishonor to herself or to her family. You look at Hera, and what I suspect you see is Elizabeth in a similar situation. You look at Corwin, and I suspect that in some ways, you see yourself. Tis a bad situation altogether, Tuck. You must divest yourself of prejudice and sympathy if you intend to find the truth. What do you truly know of Hera?"
"I know that when I look into her eyes, I see an innocent," said Smythe with conviction.
Shakespeare stopped and turned to face him. "When I look into your eyes, I see a bloody innocent," he said. "You, my lad, are a great, hulking, soft-hearted, and besotted fool and if you do not season your romantic notions about women with a pinch of caution and a dash of doubt, then someday some sweet and pretty face is going to ruin you and leave you gutted like a dressed-out stag."
"Oh, that was rather nicely put," Smythe said. "You must be a poet."
"You know, if you did not have that bandage on your head, I would slap you."
"Very well, then," Smythe replied. "You look for the worst in people and I shall seek the best. That way, betwixt the two of us, we should cover all the ground."
"You can be a wearisome bastard, you know that?" Shakespeare said. He clapped Smythe on the shoulder and they resumed walking. "Very well. Let us assume, for the sake of argument if naught else, that the fair Hera is as goodly and godly as her name implies. She was accused unjustly and maliciously. So… who is to profit from such an accusation?"
"I cannot see how there could be any profit in it," Smythe replied, with a frown.
"A child lies for attention or amusement," Shakespeare said. "A villain lies for profit, of one sort or another. There must be something in this to benefit someone."
"But who could benefit from the ruin of Hera's reputation?" Smythe asked. "She scarcely even knows anyone in London."
"I do not think that the ruin of Hera's reputation was in itself the object," Shakespeare said. "And whilst I may play the Devil's advocate in an attempt to keep us honest, like you, Tuck, I believe the girl to be an innocent. All this has the odious scent of malice hanging over it like a miasma. Hera has suffered very greatly from it, nevertheless, I do not think that she was the intended victim. We need to look elsewhere, I believe. Let us dissect this plot to make our augery. We must consider who else, save Hera, has been harmed by this."
"Well, most immediately, her father, of course," said Smythe. "And then, after him, Corwin. Assuming he is innocent."
"Let us proceed on that assumption, for if he is not, then the guilty party is already apprehended and justice shall be done. But if he is innocent, then we must act swiftly to prevent a miscarriage of that justice. So…'tis entirely possible that Master Leonardo had made enemies and that one of them had followed him to England and then done away with him. If so, then perhaps vengeance is the profit that we seek. We must find out if anyone had compelling reason to wish Master Leonardo dead."
"How would we discover that?" asked Smythe.
"At the moment, I have not the slightest clue," said Shakespeare. "Even if she were in any state to speak with us, Hera might not know aught of her father's business dealings and what enemies he might have made. Mayhap Ben could be of some assistance to us, since he knew Master Leonardo best."
"Or perhaps one of the household servants?" Smythe said. "Surely, he must have had at least one servant, if not more, who had accompanied his daughter and himself from Genoa. Hera did not seem comfortable speaking English, though she seemed to speak it well. She must have had a maidservant, a governess, perhaps, who came to England with her."
"Of course," said Shakespeare. "That only stands to reason. So, once more then, we came back to the servants. Let us consider Corwin."
"He could have enemies, I suppose," said Smythe. "His rise from apprentice to successful journeyman was swift. He had already made something of a reputation for himself among the fashionable nobility. There may be someone who felt envious, another apprentice, perhaps, who believed that Corwin's place was rightly his."
"You are thinking of your friends, the Steady Boys, perhaps?" asked Shakespeare.
"I did not have to think too hard," said Smythe, touching his bandage. "They have impressed themselves upon my memory."
"Indeed," Shakespeare replied. "And I do not for one moment think that murder would be beyond them. They very nearly murdered you. And that aside, there seemed to be little love betwixt Corwin and that Darnley fellow and his sneering friend."
"Bruce McEnery," said Smythe. "I'll not forget either of those names anytime soon."
"I did not expect you would. Nor shall I, for that matter. I do not have so many friends that I can afford to lose any of them. We both have a score to settle with those two and their misbegotten Steady Boys. But let us not allow our outrage to blind us to our course. They may not have been the culprits."
"And yet, I could easily see them spreading vile rumors about Hera," Smythe replied.
"As could I. But then, why would Corwin give any credence to them, considering their source?"
Smythe grimaced. "I am still not ready to dismiss them from our consideration."
"Very well then, we shall not. But for the m
oment, let us put the Steady Boys aside, as well. Where does that leave us? Who else is affected by Master Leonardo's death?"
"We are," Smythe replied.
"We are?"
"I mean, the Queen's Men," Smythe said. "Master Burbage and his son, all of the shareholders and the hired men, even Henry Darcie, for that matter. He is a partner in the Theatre, in which Master Leonardo was going to invest."
"Very true," said Shakespeare, nodding. " 'Twould seem our list of suspects grows and grows."
"Oh, you cannot suspect any of the Queen's Men, surely!" Smythe said. "Or Henry Darcie, for that matter. He may be an insufferable old goat, but he is certainly no murderer."
"Methinks I am in agreement with you there," said Shakespeare, "else he would have had you murdered long since for making cow eyes at his daughter."
"Very funny," Smythe replied dryly, "but that still does not refute my point. Henry Darcie, for all that he is more full of himself than a baker's dozen of courtiers and finds me utterly unsuitable to pay court to Elizabeth, is nevertheless a good and decent man, and only stood to lose from Master Leonardo's death."
"Did he?" Shakespeare asked.
Smythe frowned. "What do you mean? Of course he did! Had Master Leonardo lived, he would have invested in the Theatre, and necessary refurbishments would have been made with his money. As things stand, those refurbishments must still be made, but now, instead of being paid for out of Master Leonardo's investment, the cost will fall upon Henry Darcie and the Burbages. His death was a great disadvantage to them."
"Ah, but was it?" Shakespeare said. "Consider this, Tuck: thus far, we have only Henry Darcie's word that Master Leonardo was eager to invest. 'Tis quite possible that after seeing the Theatre and then meeting with the company and considering all his options, Master Leonardo had some reservations, or else changed his mind entirely."
"But Burbage would have known that," Smythe said.
"Perhaps," Shakespeare replied. "Or perhaps not. Elizabeth had already taken Hera under her wing, as it were, and thus Henry Darcie had somewhat more to do with Leonardo than Burbage did. Most likely, they were spending more time together, especially since Leonardo had aspirations of advancing himself in London and Darcie would have been more helpful to him in that regard than the Burbages would be. So, if the late, lamented Master Leonardo had reservations about investing in the Theatre, or else had set his mind against it, 'tis possible that he might only have told Darcie. If so, then Henry Darcie would have been the only one to know that Leonardo was not going to invest."
"And so what then?" asked Smythe. "He killed him? Or else had him killed? How could he profit by that? Either way, there would be no investment money."
"Nay, not necessarily so," Shakespeare replied. "Leonardo had no male heirs, apparently. Hera was his only child. As such, she stands to inherit her father's wealth. Alone in a strange country, to whom would she turn for guidance if not to the father of her only friend in London?"
"God's mercy, Will! You cannot believe that, surely! Tis absolutely diabolical!"
"Aye, murder is diabolical, Tuck. I am not saying that I believe it came to pass that way, but I am saying that if we wish to find the truth, we must consider every possible alternative, else the truth, and the real murderer, may easily elude us. We must not allow our sympathies to blind us to any possibility. We must be crafty, canny hunters, you and I, carefully following each spoor that we find, else we shall lose the trail entirely."
Smythe nodded. "Aye, your argument is sound. And much as I dislike to say so, Henry Darcie did seem somewhat callous in regard to both Master Leonardo's death and Hera's grief. His main concern, now that I think of it, was for us to convince her that we were her friends and to make her understand that her fortune was now tied to ours and ours to hers."
"I thought you would remember that," said Shakespeare.
"Aye, but still, that merely shows that he is selfish," Smythe replied. "It does not mean he is a murderer."
"True," said Shakespeare, "it does not. Nor do I think he is. Yet I do see where he may nevertheless profit by the death. And that is the sort of thing that we must look for. So… who else profits by it?"
Smythe shook his head, puzzled. "I cannot imagine, unless he had unknown enemies in London and, if so, I do not now see how we may discover them. 'Tis easier by far to see who stands to lose by his death rather than who stands to profit."
"Very well. Let us try to view the situation from that vantage point," said Shakespeare. "Who stands to lose?"
"Most obviously, Hera," Smythe replied. "But I cannot believe that she had aught to do with it. Her misery is deep and clearly genuine."
"I am inclined to agree," Shakespeare said. "Who else?"
"Well… we stand to lose, that is, the company does if the investment is not made and the refurbishments cannot be done," said Smythe. "Without Master Leonardo's money, Darcie and the Burbages may find the cost too dear and the work may not be done."
"And the result of that will be?" asked Shakespeare.
Smythe shrugged. "Audiences may well decide to attend productions at the Rose, instead. 'Tis a much newer playhouse and they boast Chris Marlowe and Ned Alleyn. So I suppose that could make Henslowe a suspect, but that would mean he would have to have known about the planned investment. How likely would that be?"
"At this point, we cannot say," Shakespeare replied. "My thought is that 'twould be somewhat unlikely, but not impossible. Leonardo was interested in making an investment in a playhouse. For all we know, he could have approached Philip Henslowe first."
"I suppose 'tis possible," said Smythe.
"Or else someone in our own company who plans to defect to the Lord Admiral's Men, as Alleyn did, could have told Henslowe about it."
"A long shot, even for an accomplished bowman, I would say," Smythe replied. "We have at present far more to fear from Henslowe than Henslowe has to fear from us. He has already taken our best actor. He has a better playhouse and he has—"
"If you say he has a better poet, I shall kick your arse," Shakespeare said.
"I was going to say he has more money" Smythe replied, with a grimace. "The Lord Admiral's Men are in the ascendancy whilst we are in decline. Thus, I do not think 'twould stand to reason that Henslowe would have aught to do with it. After all, why bother to lack a dying dog?"
"Well, we may be down, but we are not dead yet," said Shakespeare. "But do you know who very nearly is? Young Corwin. Whether he is innocent or guilty of the crime, he now stands to lose his life in either case."
"Aye, he does, indeed," said Smythe. "There is no question that he was obsessed with Hera. But was he obsessed enough to kill?" He shook his head. "Those who knew him best do not believe it, nor do I."
"Why not?" asked Shakespeare.
"I cannot give you a sound reason, Will," Smythe replied, with a helpless shrug. "I simply feel that he could not have done it. He did not strike me as the sort. He struck me as the sort who might stand on his affronted dignity and break off his engagement if he felt that he would be dishonored by the marriage, but he did not strike me as the sort to fly into a rage and cut a man to ribbons. That phrase sticks in my mind, Will. 'He was cut to ribbons.' Master Leonardo was the captain of a merchant ship. That is not a life for a soft, indolent, and doughy shopkeeper. Seamen are a hardy lot and it takes a hardy man to lead them. He was lean and weathered, erect in his carriage, and with a spring in his step. He carried a fine sword and had the look of a man who knew how to use it. Italians are well known for their schools of fencing. And Corwin was no duelist. He was an apprentice who but recently became a journeyman. A sword was never a tool of his trade. I cannot recall that he even wore one, can you?"
Shakespeare thought a moment. "I do not think so."
Smythe shook his head. "I do not believe he did. And even if he did, I find it hard to credit that he could prevail over a man like Master Leonardo, who must have had to deal with men a great deal rougher than Corwin in his time."
"Then we are in complete agreement," Smythe said, emphatically. "We must find someone else who had good reason to see Master Leonardo murdered."
"Or else see Corwin blamed for it," said Shakespeare, thoughtfully. "Methinks that is another possibility we should consider. Master Leonardo's death may not have been in itself the end, but just the means."
"You mean that he could have been killed merely so that Corwin would be accused of his murder and thus destroyed?" said Smythe. "Odds blood! 'Tis a cold heart that could conceive of such a deed!"
"Aye, a cold heart," repeated Shakespeare, "with cold blood coursing through it, as opposed to hot. Mayhap 'twas not a crime of passion, after all, but of opportunity."
"We have much to do," said Smythe, grimly. "And little time in which to do it. The noose for Corwin's neck is being plaited even as we speak."
Chapter 9
THE TOWNHOUSE WHERE MASTER LEONARDO had all too briefly lived was not nearly as ostentatious or as large as Henry Darcie's. Situated in a tidy row of houses near the Devil Tavern and the Thames, it was a modest-looking residence built of lathe and plaster, with nothing to set it apart from any of the other row houses on the street. It certainly did not look like the home of a wealthy man. Perhaps, thought Smythe, it might have been intended merely as a temporary residence, meant for use only until such time as Master Leonardo had established himself and found a better home or else had built one just outside the city, as some successful tradesmen were now doing. But on the other hand, he may have been a man of relatively simple tastes who did not require much out of a home that was not functional, comfortable, and practical, rather than elegant, ostentatious, and luxurious.
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