Much Ado About Murder (17 page)

"I fear it shall," said Shakespeare. "As I have told you, Corwin was in a most perturbed state, and so I did not have all the details of the matter from him, but 'twould seem he had somehow discovered that Hera had deceived him and was not, in fact, a virtuous young woman."

"How does he know this?" Molly asked. "Does he have proof?"

"I do not know," Shakespeare replied. "As I have told you, he was hot and very agitated. He could not or else would not wait for Ben. He left word with me to tell Ben when he arrived that he was going to Master Leonardo's house to break off the engagement."

"Without even giving her a chance to speak in her own defense?" said Molly.

"Again," said Shakespeare, shaking his head, "you are asking questions of me that I simply cannot answer. I do not know whether or not he intended to accuse her and hear her answer to the charge. Nor do I know what sort of proof he had, if any. In any event, he certainly seemed convinced. He was in quite a state, I tell you, and his words were tumbling over one another. Aside from that, 'tis not as if the woman were
my
daughter, thus I did not truly feel entitled to press him on the matter."

"What happened then?" asked Smythe.

"Well, Corwin departed, and then you all started to arrive, and there was talk of Tuck and how he fared after the cowardly attack upon him, and then Ben came and also asked after you, Tuck-"

"Never mind about me," said Smythe, impatiently. "Go on. What about Corwin?"

"Well, I gave Ben my report, relaying to him Corwin's words as best I could, and as I spoke, his eyes grew wide and he appeared most disconcerted. He bade me tell him how much time had passed since Corwin left for Master Leonardo's house and, in truth, I was not certain." Shakespeare spread his hands out. "I told him 'twas scarce an hour or so, perhaps less, perhaps more… I could not be more precise. At this, he seemed somewhat torn and confessed to me that he felt his duty was to remain and rehearse with the company, for his was the key role in the play, and yet, he was moved to rush straight off to Master Leonardo's home, but knew 'twas already too late to prevent Corwin from speaking to him. The damage, he decided, had doubtless already been done. If Corwin had gone to Master Leonardo in a fit of temper and denounced his daughter as a whore, then there would be no possibility of any intercession. An Englishman, he said, would never forgive a man who so besmirched his daughter's honor; a Genoan would very likely kill him."

"Prophetic words," said Phillips, "save only 'twas the Genoan who was killed."

"Indeed," said Shakespeare. "I said to him then, 'Ben, if blood is likely to be spilt, then to the devil with the play! You must go and try to stop it!' And he considered, then replied that knowing Master Leonardo as he did, 'twas little chance that he would drink hot blood and allow rage to drive him into violence. Without a doubt, he thought, Master Leonardo would insist upon satisfaction and seek it in the honorable, formal manner of the
code duello."

"What did they do? Fight a duel right there in his home?" asked Pope.

"Of course not, you cretin!" Kemp said. "One fights a duel at sunrise, according to the code, with seconds and all the forms properly observed!"

"Don't you go calling me a cretin, you sheeptupper!" Pope replied, rounding on Kemp, but a low growl from Stackpole silenced them both.

"Never mind them," said Smythe, with a grimace. "Go on, Will. Then what happened? I cannot believe I slept through all of this!"

"You would have slept through the flood," said Shakespeare. "You awoke every now and then, but only for a moment or two, and never quite completely. I began to grow concerned, but Granny Meg assured me that—"

"Aye, never mind him, either; he survived, get
on
with it!" said Kemp.

"Thank you, Kemp, your concern touches me deeply," Smythe said, dryly.

"Stuff it!" Kemp replied. "Go on, Will."

"Where was I?" Shakespeare asked with a frown.

"They were going to fight a duel," Molly prompted him. "Or at least Ben thought they would."

"Aye, just so," said Shakespeare. "Say, Stackpole, this is thirsty work. A man could use a drink."

Stackpole scowled. "Right. Just one, mind! And then you pay".

"You are a prince among men, Courtney," Shakespeare said expansively.

"And you are a bloody sot among lushes," Stackpole retorted, irately. "Get on with your story, then!"

"And so I shall. Ben decided that the thing to do would be to let both men have their air, and then speak to each of them the following day, for there could be no opportunity for them to fight a duel the very next morning. Seconds would have to be found first, and then second, those seconds would need to meet and appoint a time and place, and thirdly, weapons would need to be chosen, and so forth."

"They would need to choose weapons fourth?" said Pope. "Why not chose weapons first?"

Shakespeare shook his head. "Nay, they would need to chose weapons
and so forth
… I suppose there is no reason why they could not choose weapons first."

"Well, if they chose weapons first, then what would they choose fourth?" persisted Pope.

"He said that they would choose weapons
thirdly,"
said Phillips.

"He just said that they would choose them first!"

"Nay, he said they would choose them
fourth
," said Bryan.

"I said they needed to choose weapons
and… so…
forth," said Shakespeare.

"So fourth what?" asked Pope. "They would meet?"

"Nay, they needed to
meet
first," replied Phillips.

"I thought they needed to meet second," Pope said, frowning.

"First,
the seconds need to be appointed," Shakespeare explained, patiently.
"Second,
the seconds have to meet."

"Aye, 'tis why they call them seconds, you buffoon," said Phillips, tossing a lump of bread at Pope.

"Oh, for heavens sake!" said Shakespeare, getting exasperated. "They do not call them seconds because they must
meet
second; they call them seconds because they
are
seconds!"

"So then who is called first?" asked Pope.

"No one
is called first!" said Shakespeare, clenching both hands into fists.

"Well, that makes no bloody sense!" said Pope, irritably. "Why would you call someone second if there is no first?"

"Right!"
said Shakespeare, leaning forward and fixing him with a direct gaze. "The
duelists
are called firsts, and the
seconds
are called seconds.
Got it?"

"Second at what?" asked Pope.

Shakespeare rolled his eyes. "At
dueling.
They shall be second at
dueling
."

"The seconds duel?"

"The seconds duel."

"What for?"

Shakespeare took a deep breath. "Because that is how the thing is done," he said, struggling to maintain a level tone.

"So the seconds duel second, and the duelists duel first?"

Shakespeare nodded with finality. "Aye, that is it, exactly."

"So then who comes third?"

Shakespeare's eyes narrowed into slits. "Nobody comes third," he said, softly.

"And so nobody is fourth, then?"

"Right. You have it, Pope. Nobody is fourth."

"So then when do they choose the weapons?"

"Whenever they bloody well want to."

"Are you quite finished?" Smythe asked.

Shakespeare turned and pointed a finger at him. "Don't
you
start with me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Smythe. "But if you write your plays the way you tell your stories, then 'tis no wonder you never get any of them finished."

"Zounds! Where is my sword?" said Shakespeare, looking around. "I am going to kill him."

"You do not have a sword," said Smythe.

"A sword!"
cried Shakespeare, leaping to his feet and stabbing his forefinger into the air. "A
sword! My kingdom for a sword!"

"Oh, here we go…" sighed Smythe, rolling his eyes.

"Friends! Colleagues! Countrymen! Who shall lend me a weapon with which to run this rascal through?"

"Sit down, you silly goose," said Smythe, reaching out and taking hold of him by the hips, then yanking him abruptly back down to the bench. Shakespeare sat down so hard his teeth clicked together.

"Sweet merciful God!" he said. "You've broken my arse!"

"I shall break a good deal more than that if you do not cease this skylarking at once and get back to the point," said Smythe, impatiently. "What happened next? What did Ben do after the rehearsal?"

"Why, he went home, I should imagine," Shakespeare replied.

"What do you mean, he went home?"

"I mean… he went home," Shakespeare repeated, with a shrug. "What other meaning can there be to that?"

"His closest friend went to confront his intended's father so that he could break off his engagement and so doubtless be challenged to a duel, and Ben stayed at the Theatre to rehearse and then went
home?"
Smythe asked, frowning.

"Aye," said Shakespeare. "He had decided 'twould be best to let Corwin sleep off his distemper, then go and see him in the morning and find out what had transpired. We had agreed to go together, although, as Ben had told me, if Master Leonardo had already challenged Corwin, then 'twas doubtful that there was aught that he could do to stop it."

"Well, 'tis possible that a challenge could be withdrawn, is it not?" asked Smythe.

"I suppose so," Shakespeare replied. "But then Ben told me that once Master Leonardo had made up his mind, heaven and earth could not dissuade him. In any event, the point is certainly now moot. Master Leonardo has been killed, and Corwin has been arrested for the murder."

"Aye, I can well see how it must have gone," said Kemp. "Corwin went to see the Genoan and doubtless in his anger at having been deceived, he said things to him that could not be borne by any gentleman, whether English or foreign. And so the Genoan then and there flung down his gage and, in a fury, Corwin slayed him, right there in his own home."

"Do you suppose that was how it happened?" George Bryan asked of no one in particular.

"It could well be," said Gus Phillips. "Do you recall how Corwin acted on the day that we first met him, right here in this very tavern, when he came in company with Ben? All he could seem to think of was that Italian girl, the merchant's daughter, Hera. He seemed obsessed with her."

"I can see how any man would be," Bryan replied.

"Aye, but to the point of wanting to take her to wife? After seeing her only once?" countered Phillips. "That bespeaks a certain hotness of the blood, do you not think?"

"A man so quick to love would likely be as quick to kill, is that your meaning then?" Smythe asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Does it not follow that hot blood would beget hot blood?" asked Phillips.

Shakespeare smiled. "Methinks what Tuck means, Augustine," he said, "is that he himself was smitten with a girl upon first sight, and thus far at least, he has not yet murdered anyone."

"Ah. Well…" Phillips cleared his throat uncomfortably. "No offense there, Tuck, old boy."

"None taken, Gus," Smythe replied. "But 'twould do us all well to remember that if being quick to love also meant that one was just as quick to kill, then most of us would probably be murderers."

"You know, that was not too bad," said Shakespeare. "Not bad at all. 'Twas a decent line, Tuck. Perhaps if I fiddled round with it a bit…"

"For instance, if Pope were to suddenly turn up dead," continued Smythe, "then we would all think you had done it, Kemp, for every one of us saw you flinging porridge at him and trying to beat his brains out with the ladle. Well, after all… what more proof do you need?"

Kemp folded his arms and harrumphed.

"In all of this debate, there is one thing you all seem to have forgotten," Molly said. "The unfortunate Master Leonardo's murder has now left his daughter orphaned in a strange land, friendless, and with her reputation sullied. What about poor Hera? Whatever shall become of her?"

They all fell silent for a moment, thinking of the shy, beautiful young Genoan girl.

" 'Tis a hard thing to be left without a family to care for you," said Molly, quietly. "Harder still when one is in a foreign land."

"Well, orphaned she may be," said Smythe, "but neither alone nor friendless, not if I know Elizabeth. She had given the girl her friendship, and Elizabeth is not one to abandon a friend in need."

"But what about Corwin's need?" asked Shakespeare. "Surely, his situation is more dire. Neither Ben nor Master Peters can believe that he is guilty of the murder. They both insist that he would not be capable of such a thing."

"Any man is capable of murder," Smythe said. "Any man can lose his head and give in to his baser impulses."

"You, for instance?" Shakespeare asked.

"I am no different, Will," Smythe replied. "Under the right circumstances, or given enough provocation, I believe that any man could kill. Even you."

"Perhaps," said Shakespeare, "but that still does not mean Corwin did the deed."

"But if not him, who else?" said Kemp. "He came to the theatre in an agitated state, as you said yourself, Will. 'He was hot,' you said. Those were your very words. And he was so incensed that he could not wait for Ben; he had to leave at once for Master Leonardo's house. And sometime between then and the time the Genoan girl came home that night to find her father slain, the deed was done. Who else could have done it? Who else had the opportunity? And the motive?"

Shakespeare grimaced. "Aye. Who else, indeed?"

"Perhaps we should find that out, Will," Smythe said. "For if Corwin did not do it, then an innocent man shall be taken to the gallows, and a murderer shall go free."

Chapter 8

HENRY DARCIE'S FOUR-STORY, LEAD-ROOFED TOWNHOUSE built of rough-cut gray stone bore stately testimony to his success in business. As with many homes built so close together in the crowded environment of London, the upper floors jutted out over the cobblestoned street, so as to take the maximum advantage of space, and expensive glass windows not only afforded plenty of light to the upper floors, but also showed all passersby that the owner of the house was wealthy enough to afford such luxuries. The servant who opened the door glanced at them as if they were curious insects, heard their names without a word, and closed the door again while he went to announce them to the master of the house. Moments later, Henry Darcie came to the door himself to greet them.