"Well… they would, in a month's time," said Edward. "Once we had proved our suitability."
Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances. "So then you did not sleep here?" Smythe asked.
"Why… no, milord."
"Neither did you eat here?" Shakespeare asked.
"No, milord," Edward replied, a bit more tentatively. He suddenly looked uncomfortable.
Shakespeare immediately followed up, watching the man carefully. "Where did you dine?"
"Why… we all dined together at the nearby tavern," Edward said, glancing at them nervously, his eyes darting back and forth. "The ordinaries are very reasonable there."
"And the ale too, no doubt," said Smythe.
Before the man could reply, Shakespeare quickly asked, "How long were you gone to supper the night Master Leonardo was killed?"
They noticed that the women had gone very still. They both looked pale and Mary's lower lip had started trembling. They both looked frightened as they clutched each other's hands tightly. Edward did not look much better.
"Why… why, not long at all," stammered Edward. "No longer than usual, I am quite certain…"
"You were out drinking and carousing," said Smythe, fixing him with a hard look.
"Nay, milord, we were not!" protested Edward, blinking. "We only went to supper! Honest!"
"You are lying, Edward," Smythe said, stepping up close and looming over him. "You were out drinking."
"Nay, 'tisn't true! We only went to supper!" Edward protested, but he swallowed hard and retreated back against the wall, looking panicked.
"You were in the tavern, drinking and carousing," Shakespeare said, "all three of you." He turned to the women, who were now both trembling and crying. "We shall go to the Devil Tavern and inquire of the tavernkeeper. I am quite certain that he will recall what transpired that night, as everyone has heard of it by now. No doubt he will remember you. And then you three shall all be going to the devil!"
"We didn't kill him! We swear!" wailed Mary, sinking to her knees and clutching at Shakespeare's doublet. Elaine simply started blubbering.
"Shut up, you fools!" shouted Edward.
Smythe grabbed him by the front of his doubtlet and slammed him back against the wall, hard enough to stun him momentarily and silence him.
"We didn't do it! I swear we didn't!" Mary sobbed. "I swear, so help me God!"
"Please, sir! Please!" was all that Elaine was able to manage.
"Bloody hell!" said Dickens. " 'Twas the servants murdered him! They murdered him to get his money!"
"We never did! I swear we never did!" cried Mary, desperately.
"Nay," said Shakespeare, shaking his head as he looked down
at Mary, "they did not kill him. He was already dead when they returned."
She looked up at him with disbelief and awe, as if he were her guardian angel suddenly descended from on high. "Oh, God be praised, sir, 'tis true! 'Tis true! God bless you, sir, 'tis true, I swear it on my life!"
"You are swearing it on your life, you slattern," Dickens told her. "And 'tis a life that will be forfeit!" He looked at Shakespeare. "Surely, you do not believe this lying wench?"
"Aye, I do believe her," Shakespeare said, quietly, looking down at her with pity. "Think you that they would have remained within this house until Hera had returned, all the while knowing that their master was lying dead upstairs?"
Edward glanced from Smythe to Shakespeare and then back again. He had the look of a drowning man who had just been thrown a rope. " 'Twas just how it happened, milords, 'tis true! Honest! We never knew that he was dead! We never did!"
"And you became convinced you would be blamed," said Shakespeare, "unless you all swore to it that you were here when Corwin left the house."
"What strange mystery is this?" demanded Dickens. He glanced at Smythe. "What the devil is he talking about?"
"I see it now," said Smythe. "They have all lied out of fear to save themselves."
"You believe that they have lied before and yet they are not lying now?" asked Dickens. "What, am I the only one here who has not taken leave of his senses? I understand none of this!"
"Season your admiration for a while with an attentive ear, Ben," Shakespeare said, "and I shall deliver unto you the tale of what they did that night, and they shall stay my story and redirect me if I wander from the truth. Is that not right, Mary?"
She nodded several times as he gently helped her to her feet.
"Listen well and correct me if I stray," he told her, and then he looked at Ben. "A week's wages was what Master Leonardo paid them, by their own account," he said. "And week by week, they would be paid thus until they had proved their suitability, at which point, arrangements more to their advantage would be made. Such was the promise."
He glanced at Mary for confirmation and she nodded several times, emphatically. "Well," he continued, "for the first few days, they did endeavor to be most suitable, indeed. 'Tis not easy, after all, to get good work in London nowadays. But as the week drew near a close, and more wages looked to be forthcoming, they felt the need to celebrate. Their positions seemed secure and excellent. Their master did not seem to demand too much of them; likewise their mistress, who was land to them and asked nothing of them that she would not do herself. A servant could certainly do a great deal worse.
"So then," he went on, "with the week drawing to a close, they decided, as was their custom of an evening, to go to their suppers in the tavern, where they lingered for a while to drink a toast or two or three to their good fortune. By now, after nearly a week, they had learned the regular habits of their master, who as a seafaring man for many years was no doubt an early riser so went early off to bed. They had also learned that Hera had found herself a friend, Elizabeth Darcie, with whom she often spent her evenings, and that these evenings went so pleasantly that Hera often stayed quite late, returning in a carriage that Henry Darcie had most likely provided for her use. Thus, there was no harm in staying out a little late to have their celebration. They had intended to be back before their mistress had returned."
All three of the servants were now staring at Shakespeare, speechless with disbelief, as if he were some sort of sorcerer, divining precisely what had happened on that night.
"They left the house just as Corwin was arriving," Shakespeare continued. "Thus did they know that he had been there.
They had, of course, seen him before, and so knew who he was, for he was courting Hera. They admitted him to see Master Leonardo, and told him that they were going off to supper. Doubtless, he told them that he would be letting himself out. Likely, he was glad that they were leaving, for he doubtless wished to speak privately with Leonardo, and thus avoid making a scene before the servants. And so, off they went to supper, and then stayed to celebrate a while. When they returned, the house was quiet, and so they naturally assumed their master had retired for the night. Before long, they knew, Hera would return, and then they would be able to go home. And so it was. Hera returned, then went upstairs to say good night to her father, as was her custom, and they heard her screams when she discovered him dead. The rest you know. She went running through the streets in a panic to the Darcie house, the carriage having already returned. Edward, fearful that some greater misfortune might befall her, followed.
"Thereafter," Shakespeare concluded, "it did not take him very long to realize how things stood. Clearly, he thought, after Corwin had arrived, he and Leonardo must have quarreled and then Corwin killed him. But they had not seen him depart, for they had not been present. When Hera came home later that night, they were there, having returned, unaware that Leonardo already lay dead upstairs. Corwin must have done it. Who else could it have been? Edward realized that they had to swear they saw Corwin leave the house, and that Leonardo had been alive when he arrived, else they themselves might be suspected of the murder. And therein lies the rub. They all swore that they saw Corwin leave the house, when they were never there to see it. And that means Master Leonardo
could still have been alive when Corwin left, and that someone else came here to do the deed and leave unwitnessed."
"Oh, great merciful Heaven protect my soul, can this be true?" said Edward, going deathly pale. "Have I borne false witness against an innocent man?"
"You have borne false witness, Edward, one way or the other," Shakespeare replied, "and there are penalties for that in both this life and the next which all three of you may now incur. Your only hope now to extricate yourselves from this terrible predicament is to tell us the entire truth."
"We shall do just as you say, milord," said Edward, meekly.
"We need to know everything that occurred that night," said Shakespeare, his gaze encompassing all three servants. "You must recount to us each thing you saw and did and heard, down to the most minute detail, from the time that you last saw your poor master alive to the time Hera came back and found him dead. And do not leave out anything, no matter how unimportant or insignificant it may seem to you, for somewhere in betwixt those times, the foul deed of murder was done, and we have much to do in order to ferret out the truth, and precious little time in which to do it."
Chapter 10
THEY WALKED TOGETHER DOWN THE rain-slicked, cobbled street, heading toward the Devil Tavern. It had started to drizzle and the damp, chilly breeze coming in off the river made them draw their cloaks around themselves and pull their hats down low to avoid having them blown off. It was a gray and gloomy sort of day, an early herald of autumn's approach. However, despite the dismal weather, their spirits were unclouded. For the first time there was now a faint, tentative ray of hope beaming in on Corwin's fate.
"I was hoping to hear his version of what happened on that night," Dickens was saying, "but the prison warders would not allow me in to see him at the Marshalsea, where he is held, awaiting trial. And no one has said how soon that trial may be. For all we know, it could be on the morrow, or a month or more away. 'Twould seem that once a man's been thrown in prison, his fate is as chaff upon the wind. No one much cares what may become of him, save for his family and friends, and unless they have some influence, there is nothing much that they can do."
"Well, we may not be without some influence," said Smythe, "though I am loathe to use it prematurely. I would prefer to wait until it can truly do some good."
"You mean Sir William?" Shakespeare said.
Smythe nodded. "Aye. A word from him to his friend, Sir Francis Walsingham, would open nearly any door."
"Do you mean Sir William Worley?" Dickens asked, with surprise. "But he is one of the richest and most powerful men in England!"
"Indeed, he is," said Smythe. "For which reason I would hesitate to ask him any favors unless we were absolutely certain of our ground."
"Odd's blood! The master of the Sea Hawks, and an intimate of the queen, no less!" Dickens was taken aback. "Do you mean to say that you actually know him?"
"We found ourselves in a position to do him some small service a while ago," said Smythe, downplaying the relationship. "Since then, he has been kind enough to give me work at his estate upon occasion. He has a passion for well-crafted blades, and has a fine forge of his own at Green Oaks. As you know, I have some small skill in that regard. However, I would not wish to presume on Sir William's good graces unless we knew for certain that we could prove Corwin's innocence beyond any shadow of a doubt. I am sorry, Ben."
"Sorry?" Dickens said. "But this is wonderful news, my friends! It means that Corwin's fate is not nearly as bleak as it had appeared only this morning!"
"Well, I am very glad you see it that way," Smythe replied, "but I remind you that we are still a long way from our goal of finding out just what happened on that night."
"Aye, I know that," Dickens said, "nevertheless, this still means that there is hope. S'trewth, I had been half convinced myself that he had done it, shamed as I am by it. Now that I know the servants were not in the house that night, their testimony of what happened becomes absolutely meaningless. Why, they never even saw him leave! I wanted to seize that rascal Budge right by his throat and throttle him for his base and cowardly lie!"
"He was afraid," said Shakespeare. "And he was absolutely convinced that Corwin was the murderer. It had never even occurred to him that anyone else could have come to the house after Corwin had left."
"That still does not excuse the foulness of his lie!" said Dickens, savagely.
"Indeed, it does not," Shakespeare agreed, "although it may at least explain it. The poor man was stricken with remorse when it dawned upon him that he may have condemned an innocent man. And that is very fortunate, for it means he has a conscience. We should be thankful for that, otherwise he would be packing his things even as we speak and preparing to flee London."
"He may still do just that," said Smythe, "if he grows frightened enough. They may all run off once they have had time to think about it."
Shakespeare shook his head. "I do not think so, Tuck. I think you convinced them that 'twould look very bad for them indeed if they fled London now, for with our testimony, they would then become the chief suspects in the crime. Never fear, they shall not be going anywhere. Guilt, remorse, and misery shall surely root them to the spot as firmly as if we had put chains upon them."
"All the more so now that they know we shall be making inquiries at the tavern to gather further proof of how long they were there that night," said Dickens. "I am growing ever more hopeful by the moment, my friends. Once we free Corwin from prison, I shall be ever in your debt."
"Well, we have not freed him yet," said Shakespeare. "And once again, Ben, I do not mean to cast gloom upon your spirits, but simply knowing that Corwin had departed without the servants seeing him and that Leonardo was alone inside the house for some period of time does not tell us that someone else came there and killed him. It only means that someone else could have done it."
"By Heaven, why do you persist in wanting to see only the worst, Will?" Dickens asked, irritably.
"Because I do not think 'tis wise to hold out any false hope," Shakespeare replied. "Nor do I think it prudent for us to assume things that we do not yet know. Also, in all fairness, I feel bound to remind you that while Corwin seemed to me an amiable young man of excellent character, you know him better than either of us do. You may well know in your heart that he could not have done this deed, but Tuck and I do not, for our acquantance with him is but slight."
"So then you do believe he did it!" Dickens said.
"Nay, I do not believe he did," Shakespeare replied, patiently. "But what I believe and what I know are not the same. I shall endeavor to find out the truth, Ben, but I may not find it if I only look in some places and turn a blind eye to others."
"And you did suspect yourself that Corwin may have done it," Smythe reminded Dickens gently. "You were so distraught at the possibility that he may truly have been guilty that now you have seized upon the mere possibility that he may be innocent. And 'tis only a possibility at this point, Ben. We do not yet know it for a certainty, although things do look brighter for him than they did this morning."
"The two of you seem very close," said Shakespeare.
"Aye, Corwin is, indeed, my very closest friend," said Dickens. "If he were my own brother, Will, we could not be closer. We have known each other since we were children. I had only just begun my apprenticeship with the Queen's Men and was living with the Flemings, as you know. Corwin was then apprenticed to Master Peters, who lived nearby. We often played together when we were not busy with our duties. In time, when my voice began to change and I could no longer play the female roles convincingly, 'twas Corwin who helped arrange my new apprenticeship by asking Master Peters to speak with Master Moryson the armorer on my behalf. I then asked to be released from my apprenticeship to the company and John Fleming let me go, although he said that he was loathe to do so, but he understood that I was young and chafed for something more, another sort of life, some manner of adventure similar to that which we portrayed upon the stage. Afterwards, for
a while, I thought that I had found that sort of adventure with the Steady Boys, but once again, 'twas Corwin who came and convinced me of the folly of running with a bunch of wild, roaring boys who were just as likely to wind up in prison as they were to break one another's heads. I saw that he was right, but without the Steady Boys, I still felt a need for some adventure. I had met some soldiers of fortune through my work at Master Moryson's shop and they seemed to live the sort of life I yearned for. Once more, 'twas Corwin who tried to dissuade me, but my hunger for adventure was too strong. Afterwards, when I was gone, 'twas Corwin once again who…" And then his voice trailed off abruptly as he caught himself. He gave them a quick, sidelong glance. For a moment, he looked like a guilty boy caught stealing a steaming, fresh-baked pie from a windowsill where it was cooling.
"He kept an eye on Molly for you," Smythe said, "did he not?"
Dickens looked at him with astonishment. "However did you know?"
" 'Twas not very difficult to guess, Ben," Smythe told him, with a chuckle. "If the love you have for one another is a secret, then 'tis very poorly kept, indeed, for anyone can see how you two feel about each other. For all the verbal fencing the two of you engage in, for all the barbed remarks, the biting comments, and retorts, 'tis clear to one and all you are in love. What is not clear is why you ever left her. I do believe you broke the poor girl's heart."
"Is that what she believes?" asked Dickens. "That I had left her?"
"Have you ever given her any reason to believe aught else?" asked Shakespeare.
" 'Twas never so," protested Dickens. "I did not leave Molly. Instead, I left one life to make another. I had heard tales of mercenaries who had made their fortunes fighting in foreign wars, and how some had even gained rank and titles from grateful sovereigns. I had hopes that I, too, could make my fortune as a soldier and come back as a gentleman. Then I would have had the means to offer Molly a better life, the sort of life that she deserved. Alas, 'twas not to be. The glamour of a mercenary soldier's tale is only in the telling. The truth is that he does well if he loses neither life nor limb. I did well, I suppose, in that I did not come back a cripple. But I came back with nothing I could offer Molly."
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 03] Much Ado About Murder(v2) Page 17
