by Simon Hawke
"No need to be afraid," Shakespeare told him once more. "No one shall harm you. All you need do is answer a few questions. "What was your relationship with Thomas Locke?"
Leffingwell looked terrified, but he managed to compose himself enough to answer. "He… he worked for me. He was my apprentice."
"And you had known him for the entire seven years of his apprenticeship, of course, is that not so?"
Leffingwell nodded. "Aye, I did."
"You were generally satisfied with his work, were you not?"
"I was, indeed, aye."
"So much so that when he completed his apprenticeship, you offered him a position as a journeyman tailor in your shop, is that not so?"
"Indeed, 'twas so, indeed. He was an excellent tailor. I was pleased to have him in my shop."
"And in all the time you knew him, did you know him to have any enemies who may have wished him dead?" asked Shakespeare.
"Nay, not Thomas!" Leffingwell replied emphatically, shaking his head. "He was a fine lad, a fine lad, indeed, well loved by everyone!"
"Would it be fair to say that you never knew him to have any enemies at all?"
"Nay, none at all. None at all. He was an excellent young man.
He got on well with everyone."
"So then you were surprised when you learned that he was murdered?"
"Oh, I was astonished! 'Twas a horrible thing, a horrible thing, indeed! I could not imagine who would have done such a ching!"
"You knew he was betrothed?"
"I knew that, aye. He often spoke of it."
"And did you know the young woman to whom he was betrothed?"
Leffingwell shook his head. "Nay, I cannot say I did. He had mentioned her name a munber of times, and I… I think. she may have come to the shop once, but in truth, I cannot say I recall, other than the day she came with those two other women, seeking him. And that must have been the very day he…"
"The day he was killed," said Shakespeare. Leffingwell looked down and nodded.
"You told the young ladies on that day that Thomas had not come in to work and was not at home," said Shakespeare. "Just as you told us the very same thing. How did you know that he was not at home?"
"I had sent one of my apprentices over to his room to see if perhaps he had fallen ill, and the lad returned and said he was not at home."
"But in fact, he was there," Shakespeare said. "The boy you sent merely knocked upon the door, did he not, and when there was no answer, he returned to say that Thomas was not at home. But had he actually tried the door, as we did when we went there ourselves shortly thereafter, he would have found it open, and he would have found that Thomas was already dead. Thank you, Master Leffingwell. I am sorry to have disturbed your rest and troubled you. You may go home now."
A a much relieved Leffingwell was escorted out of the chamber, Shakespeare went over to where Smythe sat and whispered in his ear. Smythe glanced up at him sharply, then nodded and left the room, accompanied by one of Moll's men.
"You have not made much of an argument for the innocence of the accused," said Locke. "Have you any other witnesses to call?"
"I have, if it please the court," said Shakespeare.
"Get on with it, then."
"I call Mistress Antonia Morrison," Shakespeare said. Elizabeth's eyes grew wide, and she spun around in her seat as Antonia was escorted in. Until that moment, she had not known that Antonia had been brought here, as well. Like Leffingwell, she looked frightened as they brought her in, but unlike him, she was fully dressed. When she saw Elizabeth, she looked a bit relieved, though still apprehensive.
"Please tell this court your name," said Shakespeare.
"My name is Antonia Morrison," she replied.
"Do you know where you are?" asked Shakespeare. "I do not mean exacty where, for I know that you were brought here blindfolded. I mean do you know what this place is?"
She nodded, gravely. "The meeting hall of the Thieves Guild."
"And you have been told why you have been brought here?"
"To testify at the trial of Henry Mayhew for the murder of Thomas Locke," she replied.
"So then you understand the import of all this, and that you must, above all, tell the truth?"
She nodded. "Aye, I do."
Shakespeare looked up and saw that Smythe had returned, together with the man he had left with, as well as several others. He nodded.
"Very well, then. What is your relationship with Portia Mayhew?"
"She is my friend."
"A close friend?"
"Well, she is more Elizabeth Darcie's friend than mine. 'Tis through Elizabeth that we had met."
"Did you know her father?"
"Nay, I did not."
"So then would it be correct co say that you have not known Portia Mayhew for very long?"
"Aye, 'twould be correct."
"And did you know Thomas Locke?"
"Nay, I did not. I knew of him, for Portia had spoken of him often, but we had never met. And now, I fear, we never will."
"Indeed," said Shakespeare, nodding sympathetically. "Where were you when you first learned that Portia's father had withdrawn his consent for her marriage?"
"I was with Elizabeth Darcie at her home."
"And Portia was there with you?"
"She arrived afterwards."
"After you did?"
"Aye, that is so."
"She was upset when she arrived?"
"Very much so," said Antonia. "She was in tears and most distraught."
"Because her father had withdrawn his consent for her to marry Thomas?"
Anconia nodded. "Aye, that is so."
"And did she say why?"
Antonia nodded again. "Because Thomas's mother was a Jewess."
Mayhew shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Why did she come to Elizabeth Darcie's house?"
"Because Elizabeth was her friend, and she was distressed and in great need of a friend."
"Whose idea was it in the first place that Porcia should elope with Thomas?"
"'Twas Elizabeth who had suggested it," Antonia replied. "And what did you think of this idea?"
"Well… I thought 'twas rather ill advised, to be honest."
"Indeed? You did not find it… romantic?"
"I found it rather foolish, if you must know," said Antonia.
"Of course, I did not say so at the time."
"Why not?"
"Well, I did not wish to seem lacking in sympathy. Portia was very much upset, and I did not wish to make matters any worse for her."
"I see," said Shakespeare. "'Twas most considerate of you. Why did you believe that the elopement would be ill advised?"
"Because if she and Thomas were to have run away together, they would afterwards have been penniless," Anconia said. "How would they have lived? What would have become of her? Would she have been forced to find work as a laundress or a serving wench? What sort of life would that have been for the daughter of a gentleman?" .
"A life with the man she loved, perhaps," said Shakespeare.
"Some may find contentment in such a life. Others may have greater needs. Your husband is a very wealthy man, I undersrand, is that not so?"
"Harry has been very successful in his life," Antonia replied.
'We are very comfortable."
"He is also a good many years older than you, is that not so?"
"Aye. But why do you ask? 'Tis not unusual for men to marry women younger than themselves."
"Nay, 'tis not, indeed," said Shakespeare. He glanced back toward where Smythe stood together with the men who had come back with him. Smythe gave him an emphatic nod. "Especially wealthy gentlemen," he added. "An older man, well settled in his life and in his habits, can certainly provide a secure and comfortable life for a beautiful young woman. But if he is much older, he may not be able to provide everything that a beautiful young woman may desire, is that not so?"
Antonia frowned. "I am not sure wh
at you mean."
"I mean that a beautiful young woman like yourself, married to a man many years her senior, may not be able to have all of her desires met. She may have certain needs that he cannot, by virtue of his age, fulfill, is that not so?"
Antonia stiffened. "Your comments are impertinent, sir."
"Ah, well, I would suggest to you that my comments are most pertinent, indeed," said Shakespeare. "Have you ever had a lover, Mistress Morrison?"
"You are a bounder, a lout, and a scoundrel, sir," she replied.
"How dare you?"
Elizabeth held her breath.
"What if I were to tell you, Mistress Morrison, that I happen to know that you are an adulteress?"
She rose to her feet, her hands clenched into fists. "Then I would call you an impudent rascal and a villainous liar!"
"So then you deny that you were having an affair with Thomas Locke?"
Elizabeth gasped. Winifred stared, open-mouthed. And Portia sat stiffly, her gaze fixed upon Antonia unwaveringly.
"Of course, I deny it, you worm! I told you that I did not even know him!"
"You had never met him?"
"Never!"
"I would ask you to look upon these two men," said Shakespeare, beckoning to Smythe, who came forward with two burly fellows. "Have you ever seen either of these two men before?"
Antonia glanced toward them contemptuously and looked away. "I have never laid eyes upon them."
"Ah, but they have laid eyes upon you," said Shakespeare.
"Gentlemen, would you be so kind as to tell this court your names?"
"My name is Evan Drury," said one of the two men, stepping forward.
"And mine is Ian Davies," said the other.
"And what is your occupation?" Shakespeare asked.
"We are paid to act as guards in the street where Master Leffingwell, the tailor, Master Jefferies, the mercer, and Masters Hollowell and Jennings, the silk merchants, have their shops," said Drury.
Antonia turned pale.
"Have you ever seen this woman before" asked Shakespeare. "Aye, many times," said Davies.
"Where did you see her?"
"In the street where we are paid to sit and guard the shops," said Drury.
"Specifically, in what circumstances did you see her?"
"She often went to visit the young gentleman who lived above Master Jefferies's shop," said Drury.
"This would be Thomas Locke?" asked Shakespeare.
"Aye, sir. We saw them together upon more than one occasion," Davies said.
"And did they seem as if they knew one another?"
"Oh, I would say they knew one another very well, indeed, sir," Davies replied with a smirk.
"So you would also say that they most likely knew one another often?" Shakespeare asked.
"I would venture to say they did, sir," Davies replied, grinning.
"I would venture to say so, indeed."
The reaction of the audience was instantaneous and tumultuous. Locke hammered away upon the table repeatedly, trying to restore order. Antonia stood absolutely motionless, white as a ghost. Elizabeth simply sat there, numbly shaking her head with disbelief. Winifred was speechless.
"Lies!" screamed Antonia, her voice rising above the din. "Lies.!
Lies.! Foul lies! These men have been paid to lie about me!"
"Silence.!" Locke shouted, hammering upon the table again and again. "Silence I say.!"
"I call Portia Mayhew!" said Shakespeare.
Slowly, Portia stood. For a moment, she and Antonia simply stared at one another. The room became very still. Shakespeare turned his back upon Antonia and came over toward Portia.
"When did you learn that Thomas and Antonia were lovers?" he asked her gently.
She kept her gaze firmly fixed upon Antonia. 'The day he told me that she was pregnant with his child," she replied. She winced and brought her hand up to touch her ear.
"And what day was that?" asked Shakespeare.
"The day I killed him," she replied softly. She winced once more and shook her head several times.
There was a collective gasp in the room.
"Oh, my God," Elizabeth murmured.
Mayhew turned to face his daughter with astonished disbelief.
"Nay, it cannot be!" he said.
"Tell us what happened, Portia," Shakespeare said. "Please."
"He confessed to me that he and Antonia had been lovers," she replied in a flat tone. "He said that she had seduced him, and that he had not been able to resist. He begged for my forgiveness and said that he was weak."
Once more, she winced, as if with pain, and touched her ears. "He said that a man had needs… and then he told me that Antonia was pregnant with his child, and had threatened to tell my father unless he helped her to be rid of it. So he took her to see a cunning woman, and obtained for her a brew of pennyroyal and mugwort that would banish the child before it quickened…
She bit her lower lip and shook her head once more, wincing as if with pain.
"And then he told me that it was finished with Antonia and that it did not matter, but that all the trouble he had gone to would be in vain if I did not run away with him at once, because my father had discovered that his mother was a Jew and had forbidden us to marry."
There was not a sound within the room. No one spoke. Nobody moved.
"And what happened then?" asked Shakespeare softly.
"I felt as if my world had crumbled all around me," she said wearily. "I turned away from him… my head was spinning… and then I saw his dagger where he had laid it down upon the table… there was a roaring in my ears, a terrible roaring, like the wind… a sound so loud… so very, very loud… oh, I hear it still… I hear it still… It will not go away!" She brought her hands up to her ears to block out a sound that only she could hear.
"Make it go away! Please, make it go away!"
She sank to her knees upon the floor, rocking back and forth, her hands covering her ears.
"Make it go away!" she whimpered. "Please, make it go away!"
"Oh, Portia!" Mayhew cried, crouching at her side and putting his arms around her. "My poor Portia!"
Charles Locke rose to his feet, staring down at her, holding the hammer clutched tightly in his fist. Then he looked down at it, dropped it on the table, and walked out of the room without a word.
Antonia still stood there, as if rooted to the spot, staring at Portia with horror and dismay. Mayhew sobbed quietly as he held his daughter, who seemed no longer able to hear him. Or anything else.
Smythe came up to Shakespeare and took him by the arm.
"However did you guess that she had done it?" he asked.
Shakespeare shook his head. "I had no idea," he said.
"'Strewth, I thought Antonia had killed him."
Epilogue
"And so we were all blindfolded once again, and then taken back to where they found us," Shakespeare said. "Tuck and I were dropped off on London Bridge. Elizabeth and Winifred were taken to their homes, as were all the others, I would assume."
"And what became of Portia Mayhew and her father" asked John Hemings.
"Well, Portia will likely live out the remainder of her days in Bedlam," Shakespeare said. "And as for Mayhew… Shy Locke could not truly blame him for the death of his son. He knew that what happened to Henry Mayhew's daughter shall haunt him evermore. Rachel Locke had lost her son. And now, in a different way, Mayhew has lost his daughter. Mayhap Winifred shall be of some comfort to him."
"'Tis a tragedy worthy of the Greeks," Gus Phillips said, shaking his head.
"Indeed," said Shakespeare. "No one was truly blameless in this sad affair. 'Tis one of those tales where in the end, the stage is littered with victims."
"Truly, not even Marlowe could have penned a more dramatic tale," said Tom Pope.
"I am beginning to grow rather tired of hearing about Marlowe," Shakespeare replied testily.
"Indeed, he does seem to vex you. It does not see
m as if the Rose Theatre is big enough for both of you," said Smythe with a smile.
"It does rather make one miss the good old days at our old theatre with the Burbages," said Shakespeare.
"Hark! Did I hear someone mention my name?" a ringing voice called out from behind them.
"Dick!" said Smythe.
They all turned as Richard Burbage came up to their table, grinning from ear to ear. "Well met, my friends! Well met!"
"Well met, Dick!" Hemings exclaimed, jumping up and clapping him upon the back. "'Tis good to see you once again, old friend! How goes it at the Theatre?"
"Well, 'tis funny you should ask," said Burbage. "I shall tell you how goes it at the Theatre. The Theatre goes, is how it goes!"
'The Theatre goes?" said Pope, raising his eyebrows. "What do you mean it goes?"
"It goes is precisely what I mean," said Burbage with a big grin.
He winked at them. "It goes straight across the river!"
"What goes across the river" Smythe asked with a frown.
"The Theatre does!" said Burbage, slapping him on the back with a laugh. "Listen well, my friends. Are you all up for a bit of mischief?"
"Always," Speed replied. "What did you have in mind?"
"Just this: You will recall, no doubt, our old adversary, our money-grubbing landlord? Well, after all of his repeated threats, the rascal has finally decided not to renew our lease. And so, since he owns the land upon which the Theatre sits, he thinks in this way to seize the Theatre for himself, the bounder! But whilst he may own the land, my father and lawn the building. And so, my friends… we are going to move it!"
"What?" said Shakespeare. "Move the entire theatre, do you mean?"
"Precisely!" Burbage said.
"But… how the devil do you plan on doing that?"
"We are going to tear it down completely, and then move the timbers by boat across the river to Southwark, where we shall use them to build a brand-new theatre, even better than the first!"
"You mean the one you told us you had planned?" asked Smythe.
"The very one," Burbage replied. "I had told you that the day would come when we would all play upon the same stage once again, did I not? Well, that day is here! And that very stage is now going to be built! We are going to construct the Globe, my friends!"
"When?" asked Shakespeare.