Much Ado About Murder (23 page)

"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."

Shakespeare sighed and shook his head. "Ah, Ben," he said, shaking his head. "Why is it that we men never learn? 'Tis not a better life that a good woman wants a man to give her; she only wants to share the life he has. A woman like Molly does not want your money. Faith, she only wants your heart."

"If you are so full of wisdom about women, Will, then where is the woman who shares your life and has your heart?" asked Dickens, irritably.

For a moment, Shakespeare looked stung, but he recovered quickly. "Alas, the one who had my heart was not, as it turned out, the one who shared my life, and shares it still, if only at a distance," he replied. "Had I not been such a fool… well, never mind, what's done is done. There is little to be served in dwelling in the past. 'Tis what lies ahead that matters."

The wooden sign that hung above the door of the Devil Tavern at a right angle to the street was painted with an image of St. Dunstan tweaking the Devil's nose, in homage to St. Dun-stan's Church, which stood nearby. They opened the heavy, wood-planked door and went inside. The interior was not unlike that of the Toad and Badger in general appearance, but the place had a very different sort of atmosphere.

There were rushes strewn upon the wood-planked floor, but they were not fresh, which lent the place a stale sort of smell that Courtney Stackpole never would have tolerated. The furnishings, like those at the Toad and Badger, were much the same—heavy, wood-planked trestle tables, benches, and stools — but they were rough and cracked and stained with spills, not kept oiled and clean, as Stackpole always insisted at his place. The patrons were mainly working-class locals, with perhaps a few merchants and a craftsman or two here and there. The chief difference, however, was that the mood within the place was not nearly as lively as at the Toad and Badger.

The smell of tobacco smoke was heavy in the air as patrons sat and smoked their clay churchwardens while they drank their beer and ale out of pewter tankards or hard leather "black jacks" sealed with pitch. Some played hazard with their dice cups, others played primero, betting noisily on every hand. A few people glanced up at them as they came in, looking them over, but otherwise, no one paid them any particular attention.

They sat down at an empty table and a moment later one of the serving wenches came by to take their order. After conferring with her as to what she recommended, they decided upon a double-strength ale known as "Devil Dog," apparently a house specialty. It was brought to them in a large jug and they poured it themselves into heavy pewter tankards, discovering that it had a rich, strong, and heady, spicy flavor. They smacked their lips and nodded their approval.

"An excellent ale, my dear," said Shakespeare, "aye, excellent, indeed." He nodded to Smythe and Dickens, prompting them.

" 'Tis just the thing for a thirsty man at the end of a long day," said Smythe, thinking that he would actually prefer one of his herbal infusions brewed from rainwater to this thick and heady brew, for although there was no denying it was tasty, strong ale always left him feeling bloated and gassy. He noticed once again that he had never drank ale or beer until he came to London, where the water was undrinkable, and he had lately noticed that his midsection had started getting thicker from this recent addition to his diet.

"So tell me, my lovely, what is your name?" asked Dickens, flashing her a dazzling smile. It nearly undid the poor girl, who was not lovely by any stretch of the imagination, and was cursed with bad skin and a harelip that gave her a thick and pronounced lisp.

"Kate, m'lud," she replied, blushing and looking down while carefully avoiding the sibilance of "good sir" in her reply.

"Well, Kate," Dickens went on, charmingly, " 'tis a fine, rich brew that you have recommended, and we may have ourselves another jug or two just to see you bring it."

She gave him an awkward curtsy and a cautious underlook to see if he was making fun of her. Smythe began to worry that he was overdoing it, for what was the likelihood that any young man as handsome and dashing as Ben Dickens had ever paid attention to so homely and scrawny a girl? Surely, he thought, she could never believe he was in earnest. But in addition to his good looks, Dickens had apparently been gifted with a faery glamour, for within moments, he had completely captivated her with compliments that struck Smythe as rather heavy-handed and transparently insincere. Before long, he had her sitting on his knee and giggling as he laughed and joked with her.

"So do you work here every night, Kate?" Shakespeare asked.

"Well, if she does, then I may have to come back more often," Dickens said, with a wink. It brought forth another giggle from the girl as Smythe winced inwardly. It was almost embarrassing to watch.

"Aye, m'lud, I work here each day an' every night."

"Well, then you must know old Budge, who comes to have his suppers here, along with Mary and Elaine," said Shakespeare.

"Oh, aye, m'lud, I know them. Very kind, they are, never make fun o' me like what others often do. The way I talk, y'know." Her hand went to her mouth self-consciously and she looked away from Ben, as if suddenly remembering her deformity for the first time since they began their conversation.

"What of it?" Dickens said. "Methinks you have a charming voice."

"Aw, now, go on…" she said, giving him a poke, but at the same time, she beamed at him with childlike pleasure.

"They must have been here that night then, when that terrible thing happened at their master's house," Shakespeare said. "You have heard about that?"

Her eyes grew very wide. "Oooh, aye! What an awful thing! Poor Cap'n Leonardo!"

"You knew him, then?" asked Smythe.

"Aye, m'lud, he came in now and again," said Kate. "Nice gentleman, he was. Never had but one drink, an' off to home. 'A touch o' grog,' he called it. Poor man, to be murdered like that! What a terrible thing!"

"They stayed late that night, did they?" Shakespeare asked. "I mean, his servants?"

"Aye, they did," replied Kate. "I remember because they drank so much and got all tipply." She giggled again. "That old Budge! Who'd have thought it, the way he carried on with them two women! A man his age! And them laughing and encouraging him! Aye, they had a right grand old time, they did. An' they kept right at it, til I said 'twas time for them to leave."

"
You
said 'twas time for them to leave?" asked Smythe. "Were they so drunk and rowdy, then?"

"Oh, 'twasn't like that at all," she replied. "Old Budge asked me to tell him when it got near nine o'the clock, for 'twas when the mistress come back home in her carriage and they had to be back by then. He promised me a farthing if I would remind him. I mean, they was all tipply, but not no trouble, mind. Not like them roaring boys what come by being all mean an' horrible."

"Roaring boys?" said Shakespeare.

"Aye, all loud and full o'themselves," she said. "Puttin' on airs like they was young lords instead o' 'prentices. I didn't like them. Made fun o' me, they did. Not nice at all, like you good gentlemen."

"How many of these boys were there, Kate?" asked Dickens, casually, though Smythe noticed that his eyes had narrowed slightly as he watched her reply.

"Four or five, methinks. Nay, 'twas five. I remember now. One o' them tripped me an' made me fall an' drop two jugs! He had a mean laugh, he did, an' a cruel way o'mockin' me lip, makin' a face like a cony…" She demonstrated, twitching her lip like a rabbit. "An' him with his pockmarked face and his own lip all droopy and twisted like. Nasty, evil bugger."

Smythe and Dickens exchanged glances. "Bruce McEnery," said Smythe.

"Aye! 'Twas his name, all right! One o' the others called 'im Bruce!" In her agitation as she lisped the name, she doused both Smythe and Shakespeare with a spray of spittle.

"What was his name again?" asked Dickens, innocently.

"Bruce! Bruce!"
She repeated, even more wetly and emphatically, making Smythe and Shakespeare recoil from the shower.

"Methinks the roof is leaking," Shakespeare said, wryly, wiping his face with his handkerchief.

Smythe leaned forward, took hold of Ben's hand, fixed him with a glare, and squeezed hard enough to make Dickens catch his breath. "We
got
the name, all right?" he said.

"Right," said Dickens, gritting his teeth against the pain. When Smythe released him, he took a deep breath and flexed his fingers experimentally, to see if any of them were broken.

"Ooh, you don't mean to tell me them horrible boys was friends o' yours!" said Kate, alarmed at possibly having said the wrong thing.

"Not by a long shot, Kate," Smythe replied. He removed his cap and touched the bandage on his head. "I have them to thank for this. I have a score to settle with that lot."

"Ooh, they did that?" Kate said, wide-eyed. "I knew they was no good!"

"And was one of them a handsome looking sort," asked Smythe, "tall, lean, with black hair and dark eyes, with a scar and a sort of smug, amused expression?"

"Aye, I remember him. I thought the others looked to him as if he was the leader," Kate said.

"Jack Darnley," Shakespeare said. "Stoats travel in pairs."

"And rats travel in packs," said Smythe, with a grimace of distaste. "It seems the Steady Boys were here that night."

"Let's have us another jug, my dear," said Dickens, bouncing her on his knee. "And hurry back, mind, so we can have more of your pleasant company!"

When she left to get another jug of ale, Dickens turned to Smythe and said, "Faith, Tuck, you have the strength of an ox! You damn near broke my hand!"

"You get her saying 'Bruce' again, and I shall," replied Smythe.

"Oh, I was just having a bit o' fun," said Dickens, with a grin.

"The same sort of fun those Steady Boys were having at her expense, no doubt," Smythe replied. "And if you ask me, 'tisn't very kind of you to lead her on so."

"Perhaps not," said Dickens, "but it did get us what we wanted, did it not?"

"Indeed," said Shakespeare. "And thanks to Ben's winsome ways, we now know not only that Budge and the two women never saw Corwin leave the house, but that they were gone for several hours, during which time a great deal could have happened."

"Aye," said Dickens, "and what I was thinking is that this tavern is a bit off the beaten track for the Steady Boys. Not their stalking ground at all. You shall find them on any given night down at the Broom and Garter, where the mood tends to be a bit more boistrous. This here is not their sort of place at all. Tis much too tame and quiet."

"So then what brought them here?" asked Smythe.

"I was thinking about that very thing," said Shakespeare. "Does it not seem interesting to you that they just happened to be here on the very night of Master Leonardo's murder?"

"I wonder how long they stayed?" asked Smythe, glancing at him and raising his eyebrows.