"What happened? Where were you?" Hemings asked.
"Are you all right?" asked Fleming, with concern. "Where have you been?"
"You three had best have a good excuse for missing the rehearsal," Burbage said crossly, though it was clear that he, too, had been worried.
"I am so sorry, lad," said Liam Bailey, pushing his way through. "I only just heard about what happened. When ye did not come to the smithy yesterday, I had assumed the company had need of ye… I never knew that you were injured." He shook his head in self-recrimination.
"Stay your questions for a moment, everyone!" said Smythe, holding up his hands. "All shall be explained."
"Aye, just as soon as we have had ourselves a touch o' grog," said Shakespeare, as they made their way to a table.
Dickens stared at him. "Where the devil do you put it all?"
"Writing is thirsty work," the poet replied.
"But you have not been writing," Dickens said.
"That is because I have been thirsty," Shakespeare said. "Molly, my dear, a pitcher of your best Dragon's Blood stout, if you please."
The others all gathered around their table as Molly went off to bring the ale.
"What happened, Will?" asked Burbage, pulling up a stool. "We have all been terribly worried, thinking perhaps you had been set upon and left bleeding in some alleyway somewhere!"
"We have been making inquiries," Shakespeare replied, "first at Henry Darcie's home, then at Master Leonardo's house, and finally, we paid a visit to the Devil Tavern."
"The Devil Tavern!" Stackpole said, coming out from behind the bar. "Well, then, if this place does not seem good enough for the likes of you, then you can all three go to the Devil, for all I care!"
"Peace, my good Stackpole," Smythe said. "We went there out of necessity, to make inquiries, not out of any disloyalty to you, my friend. And thanks to Ben's charming a serving wench, we learned some things that may, with any luck, help to free young Corwin."
"Aye, well, Ben is an old, accomplished hand at charming serving wenches," Molly said laconically, as she set down their ale.
"Molly, let me explain…" Dickens began, but she did not allow him to continue.
"Nay, do not explain, Ben," she said, airily, "for there is no need. I know just how it went. You smiled at her with that special way you have, cocking your head over to one side and looking up at her…" she mimicked the gesture as she spoke, precisely capturing the way he did it, "… called her your 'lovely' and told her what a charming voice she had and how pretty her hands were and how you would simply have to have another drink, just to watch her bring it, and then you sat her down upon your knee and gave her a drink or two or three from your tankard—"
"Molly, 'twas not like that at all," Dickens protested.
"In truth, 'twas just like that, precisely," Shakespeare said. "I say, Molly, were you there?"
"Will!" Dickens exclaimed.
"Nay, Will, I was not, but I have seen that performance so many times before that I could play the role myself. What disappoints me is that in all this time, he has not changed it in the least. Any good player knows to make a few changes in his performance here and there, to keep it fresh."
"He did promise her that she could attend the next performance as his guest," said Smythe.
"Tuck!" Dickens said, turning toward him with a wounded expression.
"I am merely trying to be helpful," Smythe said.
"Well, I do not require your help, thank you very much!"
"Ah. Indeed," said Smythe, nodding. "You had said that before. I recall now that you prefer to fight against superior odds. Well, then, have at it. I shall not interfere."
"I thought you two were my friends!" said Dickens.
"Why, we are, Ben," Shakespeare replied, "but you know, it strikes me that 'tis a dangerous thing to be your friend. John Fleming here was your friend, and you left him and his good wife after they had grown as fond of you as if you were their own son. Molly was your friend, and you went off and broke her heart. Corwin was your friend, and now he languishes in prison, awaiting execution. Master Leonardo was your friend, and now he is in his grave. Tuck here became your friend, and was very nearly beaten to death for his trouble. I shudder to think what fate may lie in wait for me."
Dickens stared at him with openmouthed astonishment. The others all fell silent, completely taken aback by his remarks. Only Smythe remained unsurprised. He had caught a certain look from Will that he had seen before, and his thoughts had already been running in a somewhat similar vein.
"Why, you scoundrel," Dickens said, quietly. "How dare you?"
"Truly, Will," said Fleming, "that was unconscionable! Wit is one thing, but this time you have stepped over the line!"
"Have I, John?" Shakespeare replied. He poured himself a tankard of ale. "A touch o' grog," he said, raising the tankard and looking at it contemplatively, then taking a drink from it. He smacked his lips. "Indeed. The very thing for a thirsty man. Was that not what our young Kate said back at the Devil Tavern, Tuck? Did she not tell us that Master Leonardo often came by for a 'touch o' grog'?"
"Aye," said Smythe, "she did say that."
"One drink and off to home he went, like a good abstemious soul. A touch o' grog,' he called it." Shakespeare furrowed his brow. "A most peculiar expression for a Genoan to use, would you not say?"
"Now that you mention it," said Smythe, "it does seem a bit peculiar."
"Of course, I suppose he might have heard it somewhere," Shakespeare continued. "Still… 'tis not the sort of thing that simply trips off an Italian tongue, eh? And now that I think on it, that serving wench never did refer to him as Master Leonardo. Cap'n Leonardo was what she said."
"What of it?" Dickens asked. "So she called him Cap'n Leonardo. What is the significance of that?"
"By itself, it has no great significance, perhaps," Shakespeare replied. "But when taken together with a few other things, a sort of significance does seem to emerge."
"What the devil are you talking about?" asked Dickens. "What other things?"
"Well, a gentleman who owns his own merchant ship would doubtless call himself 'Master' of that ship," said Shakespeare, "and so use it as his title, so to speak, as in 'Master Leonardo.' But a man who was not a proper gentleman of rank would call himself 'Captain' as opposed to 'Master,' I should think. He might shorten that somewhat as 'Cap'n' if he were English, but if he were a Genoan, I should think he would say 'Capitan.' Of course, Kate might have head 'Capitan' and rendered it as 'Cap'n.' That could be. But then I also wonder at how we found no money anywhere in Leonardo's house.
"And again, 'twas not really the sort of house that one might expect a wealthy merchant from Genoa to buy," Shakespeare continued, taking another sip from his tankard. "We had discussed that, as you will recall. We had thought, perhaps, it may have been only a temporary residence, meant to serve until such time as he could build himself a better one, or mayhap 'twas only that he was a simple man who did not require much more than a simple house. That could be, as well. But why no coach or carriage? Why no Genoan governess for his lovely and eminently marriageable young daughter? Why only three servants? And why only engage those servants for one week at a time? Good servants are not that difficult to come by, and 'tis customary for the better classes to engage them for a month or more, at least. Should they not prove suitable, they can always be dismissed. There is no need to tell them that their initial period of employment is probationary; that sort of thing is taken as a matter of course. On the other hand, if a man does not have very much money, but wishes to appear as if he does, then he might well conceal his poverty 'neath the cloak of practical frugality. And he would drink beer or ale in the local tavern, as opposed to wine."
"None of this makes any sense to me," said Molly, looking confused. "What does Ben have to do with any of this?"
"Ben created Master Leonardo," Shakespeare said. "Or at least, he created him in the sense in which we knew him, as a wealthy merchant trader
from Genoa who desired to retire from the sea and settle down in London with his riches. But 'twas all an elaborate scheme of cony-catching, a very clever and ambitious scheme, indeed. And it very nearly worked, save for one small problem. Along the way, somewhere a mistake was made. A mistake that, sadly, cost a man his life and may yet cost Corwin his, unless we are able to move swiftly. Ben, the time for dissembling is past. We need the truth, and we need it now if we are ever to help your friend, Corwin."
Dickens sighed and nodded. "Very well. There is no point in trying to hide it any longer. Leonardo was a Genoan only on his mother's side. His father was an Englishman and he was born in Bristol. I met him in the Netherlands, when I booked passage on his ship. As we grew to know each other, I discovered that he had grown tired of his life at sea. His ship was old and badly in need of repair and refitting, but he could not afford to have the work done. For several years, his luck had run poorly and he was nearly destitute. He had already decided to sell the ship for whatever he could get for it when we arrived in London and try to find some other trade with which to earn his living. And 'twas then the scheme occurred to me.
"I had made some money of my own while fighting in the foreign wars," Dickens continued, as the others all hung on every word, "but not nearly as much as I had hoped, not nearly enough to serve my purposes. I desperately needed more. And so I proposed a scheme to Leonardo whereby we both might profit if we played our cards well and wind up wealthy men. All he needed to do when we arrived in England was to sell his ship, just as he had planned. We would then combine our resources and our efforts in an attempt to make our fortunes. The money from the sale of the ship would go to buy a house. Even if 'twere just a modest house, 'twould be enough, for he could always claim 'twas merely a temporary residence until his business interests in London were established and he could build a larger home. But 'twas here that Leonardo took the risk, for if he spent most of the proceeds from the sale of the ship upon a home, then he would have next to nothing left with which to set himself up in some trade. And indeed, thanks to the poor condition of his ship, that was just what happened.
"He had enough to buy the house," Dickens went on, "and hire a few servants and stock his larder for a week or so, but beyond that, his money would soon run out. And here was where I would share the risk. My money would go to help maintain the illusion of Master Leonardo. I purchased several suits of clothing for him, tailored in the height of fashion, bought him a new sword, a fine plumed hat, and paid for the carriages he hired. 'Twas my money he carried in his purse, to make himself look prosperous, and 'twas my money he had spent in entertaining the conys that we hoped to catch."
"You mean us?" asked Burgage. " 'Twas us you planned to fleece?"
"Nay, Dick, I never meant to cheat the Queen's Men. I hoped, instead, to become a shareholder in the company. And I had hoped to gain enough money from our scheme to set Corwin up in his own shop, with myself as an investor, for I knew how talented and skilled he was and had no doubt that he would be successful. Leonardo, too, would need to have more money to begin his life anew, and he would need to secure the future for his lovely daughter, Hera, for whom he did not even have a proper dowry. There, I had the answer, for if I knew my friend, then he would see Hera and quickly fall in love with her. And Corwin would not care much about a dowry. I would provide a token one for her, for appearances' sake, but I knew that I would quickly make it back in partnership with Corwin once his shop was thriving."
"But for all of this to work, you still needed more money," Smythe said. "And that was where Henry Darcie came in, was it not?"
"And Master Peters, of course," said Shakespeare.
"Aye," Dickens admitted. "Master Peters was to be our first cony, and as for Darcie, he practically begged to be spitted and placed over the fire. With Master Leonardo's 'shipping interests' and connections, there were great opportunities for them both to invest in trading voyages to the colonies and such, which money would, of course, be used by us to forward our own plans. And then, as happens on occasion when men invest in varied projects, things do not always turn out for the best. There are such things as storms at sea, and pirates. Ships are sometimes lost, and with them, all the capital that had financed their voyages. 'Twould be a shame, really, but nothing could be done. Any such investment carries certain risks."
"Did Corwin know about any of this?" Smythe asked.
Dickens shook his head. "Of course not. He is as honest as the day is long, God bless him. He never could have countenanced such a scheme. And quite aside from that, his loyalty to Master Peters would never have allowed him to go through with it."
"Oh, Ben, how could you?" Molly asked. "Why in the name of Heaven would you do such a thing? What could you have been thinking?"
"He was thinking that he needed the money so that he could marry you," said Shakespeare.
Molly was struck speechless.
" 'Twas why he left, you know," Shakespeare told her, gently. "He never ran away from you; he went off to find his fortune so that he could return to England, become a gentleman, and provide a better life for you. He had even asked Corwin to watch out for you whilst he was gone."
Molly shook her head in dismay. "Oh, Ben! Whatever made you think that money mattered to me?"
"I knew that I was not your only suitor, Molly," he replied. "Corwin wrote and told me of the gentleman you met sometimes, the one who often walked you home at night. Corwin was never able to discover who he was, because he noticed that the man had servants always follow at a distance, armed with clubs and such, and he was afraid to get too close."
"Oh, good Lord!" said Smythe, as he suddenly realized to whom Dickens must have been referring. "That was no gendeman, Ben! And those were no servants who followed to provide an escort! 'Twas Moll Cutpurse and her crew of thieves!"
"Moll Cutpurse!" Burbage exclaimed. "Odd's blood! Why in the world would our Molly have aught to do with the likes of Moll Cutpurse?"
"Because she is my sister," Molly replied.
"Your sister!" Dickens said.
"Aye, my sister, Mary," Molly said, sighing and shaking her head in exasperation. "She did not wish anyone to know, for fear that someone might try to get at her through me. Oh, Ben, what a horrid mess you have made of things! I would have told you the truth if only you had come to me!"
Dickens gave a snort of bitter amusement. "Her sister. Fancy that."
"Well, now at least we know the truth about Master Leonardo," Shakespeare said. "We may not know for certain how the poor fellow died, though I believe that I can hazard a good guess. 'Twas a wicked scheme that Ben devised with Leonardo, and I daresay it very nearly worked just as they had planned, save for but one thing. They did not anticipate the involvement of the Steady Boys, in particular Jack Darnley and Bruce McEnery, who wanted to draw Ben back into the fold. When they were rebuffed, however, they became angry and vengeful. And because Tuck refused them also, and had the temerity to stand up to them, he needed to be taught a lesson."
"And 'twas a lesson that I shall not soon forget," Smythe interjected, touching his bandaged head. "I do not know which was worse, getting knocked upon the head or having it itch so damnably. Either way, I hope to return the courtesy very soon."
"Methinks that you shall have that opportunity before too long," said Shakespeare. "But bear with me a while longer whilst I proceed to the next act. Our friends, the Steady Boys, were angry with Ben in part for refusing to rejoin them and in part for taking Tuck's part in the brawl. He now needed to be taught a lesson, as well. To this purpose, they put a watch on Ben and his close friend, Corwin, whom they had little cause to love in any case, as he was becoming a rival to their master and thus to themselves, as well. They found out about 'Master Leonardo,' the wealthy Genoan merchant, and discovered that Corwin had become engaged to his daughter. Gossip is a scurrilous thing, my friends, and its source is often difficult, if not impossible to track, but I shall wager that the tale of Hera's sullied virtue originated with Darnle
y and McEnery. Corwin would doubtless never have believed it had the tale come from them directly, but they arranged for him to hear of it elsewhere. His own jealousy and passion did the rest. And so they followed him, to see their handiwork come to fruition when he confronted Master Leonardo. And suddenly, a new and unexpected opportunity presented itself.
"I cannot say for certain what transpired between Corwin and Leonardo," Shakespeare continued, "but I daresay that Leonardo was alarmed at this turn of events, vehemently protested Hera's innocence, and doubtless let it go at that. There was no danger of them fighting any duel, as Ben knew perfectly well. Leonardo was, in all likelihood, no duelist nor did he wish to see their plans or his daughter's future jeopardized. He needed to confer with Ben, so that Ben could repair the breach with Corwin. And for that very reason, when I told Ben what had happened, he needed an excuse not to follow Corwin on the instant, for he needed first to go see Leonardo and find out precisely what occurred. 'Twould be best in any event to let Corwin's temper cool and speak with him upon the morrow. Thus, he went straight from the rehearsal to Leonardo's house, only he arrived too late and found him dead. Was that not how it happened, Ben?"
Dickens nodded, his lips compressed into a tight grimace. "Aye," he said. "It all went just as you said. I found Leonardo dead and I believed that in his rage, Corwin must have taken leave of his senses and killed him." He shook his head. "I did not know what to do. I nearly lost my mind. I could not think. I could not reason it out. No one was at home, so no one saw me come there. In a panic, I fled. I needed time to think, time to decide what I should do."
"You still felt loyalty to your best friend," said Shakespeare, "but you also believed him to be a murderer, and at least in part, you believed yourself to be responsible. But once you had some time to think, you realized that with Leonardo dead, your cony-catching scheme was finished. The only thing to do was get back whatever money there was left. And that was what you were doing at the house when Tuck and I came there. In truth, Ben, when Tuck and I found you there that night, I had suspected you of being the murderer. But I soon realized you were not. You were not searching for something to exonerate your friend; you were desperately searching for the money. Your money, that you had given Leonardo to help carry off the scheme. Only it was nowhere to be found, because someone else had been there first."
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 03] Much Ado About Murder(v2) Page 19
