Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 02] The Slaying of the Shrew(v2)

by The Slaying of the Shrew (v2. 0) (mobi)

  "And so you seek to have me confirm what you believe," Granny Meg said.

  "Aye, 'twould prove that murder had been done," said Shakespeare, grimly. "And perhaps, if we knew the nature of the poison and where it might have been obtained, then 'tis possible we might learn who had obtained it. Sir William will see to it, of course, that your efforts in this matter are rewarded."

  Granny Meg nodded. "Let me see the flask."

  Shakespeare passed it to her across the table, but the moment her hand came in contact with the flask, Granny Meg stiffened and a frown crossed her features. Her grasp tightened on the flask. She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if to dispel whatever perception or sensation she had just experienced, or else deny it, then she unstoppered the flask and brought it up close to her lips, as if she were about to drink, only instead her nostrils flared delicately as she sniffed its contents once, and once only, whereupon she set the flask down and abruptly got up from the table.

  Shakespeare could no longer contain himself. She knew what it was, that much seemed certain from her reaction. She had turned away from him and was staring intently into the flames upon the hearth. Clearly, she was greatly troubled.

  "I can see that you recognized the odor," he said, softly. "I was right, was I not?"

  Granny Meg kept staring into the flames as she slowly shook her head. "No. You were not."

  He was completely taken aback by her reply. It did not seem possible. He had been so certain. " 'Tis not poison?" he said. "Are you certain?"

  "I should think I ought to know," Granny Meg replied. "I had prepared it myself."

  "What?" He stared at her, eyes wide with astonishment. "You prepared this flask?"

  "Not the flask," she replied, "but 'twas I who mixed the potion that went into it. 'Tis an ancient blend of certain rare herbs and distillations, comingled with some common plants that can be found simply growing wild by the roadside. But the effect that it produces is not common at all."

  "But… you just said 'twas not a poison," Shakespeare said. "And yet Catherine Middleton is dead!"

  Granny Meg turned back towards him and shook her head. " 'Twas not the name she gave me, though I had a feeling that the name she gave was false. That alone might have dissuaded me from helping her, yet she came well recommended. If she was the bride of whom you speak, the one who drank this potion, then most assuredly it did not kill her."

  Shakespeare pushed back his chair and stood. "Granny Meg, I was there! With my own eyes, I saw her lifeless body! She neither moved nor took a breath! Tuck listened at her chest and said her heart had ceased to beat! Odd's blood, if she came to you for some sort of tonic and by mishap you had made some dreadful error in the concoction that resulted in her death, why then… this terrible tragedy is your responsibility!"

  "There has been no error, Master Shakespeare, I assure you," Granny Meg said calmly. "Hear me out before you rush to judgement of me. The potion I had mixed at the woman's own request has, by your own report, produced precisely the result that was desired."

  "Good God!" he said. "Are you saying that Catherine Middleton wanted to kill herself?"

  "No. Far from it. She had the best reason in the world to want to live. But she wanted to produce the illusion that she did not. She asked me if I could prepare a potion that could, for a certain length of time, produce the appearance of death, and yet not bring it about. I hesitated to perform the task she asked of me, and warned her that such a ruse was not without its dangers, but she and your friend who brought her to me both beseeched me, and said it was the only chance she had to avoid a life of hopeless misery."

  "You said that a friend of mine had brought her to you?" Shakespeare said. "What do you mean? Which friend?"

  "Why, the one you brought to see me once before," Granny Meg replied. "Young Mistress Darcie."

  "Elizabeth?"

  "Aye, she is the one who brought her to me."

  "Then you mean to say that Catherine Middleton is not truly dead, but merely in a sort of morbid slumber?"

  "Her heart still beats, but so weakly that one may not easily discern it," Granny Meg replied. "And she still breathes, but only barely, and to all outward appearances seems not to breathe at all. She will lie thus for at least a day or more, and then she will awake as if from an ordinary slumber, and should be no worse for wear."

  "But… the funeral…" Shakespeare said.

  "I was assured that there would be no burial," said Granny Meg, "but that she would be laid to rest within her family vault, where she could sleep in safety until the effects of the potion had worn off."

  "Of course!" said Shakespeare. He remembered then Elizabeth's insistence that the funeral should take place as soon as possible, while the guests were still assembled, so that Catherine could be laid to rest inside the family vault, the better to ease her father's grief… and aid in the deception. "So there has been no murder after all!"

  "And yet," said Granny Meg, as she reached out slowly and picked up the flask, "I have a strong presentiment of death." Her brow was deeply furrowed and her eyes had an unfocused, distant look. "Something is very wrong. I see death where there should be no death." She looked at him. "Go back," she said. "And ride with all due haste. Death comes; there is no time to waste."

  Chapter 7

  THE NEWS OF THE BRIDE'S death had cast a pall over the festivities, but not quite to the extent that Smythe might have expected. For one thing, rather to his surprise, it had not brought the festivities to an end. Quite the contrary, it seemed to add a morbid stimulation to them. Instead of offering their condolences to their host, or at least sending them through servants and then leaving quietly, as Smythe had expected most of them to do, the guests had all, without exception, chosen to remain, no doubt out of curiosity to see what would develop and because there was still a fair they could attend, with the added spice of new rumors and gossip to exchange.

  None of the merchants had packed up and left, mainly because no one had told them to go and the fair was still on so far as they were concerned. There were still good profits to be made and they continued to do a brisk business as the day wore on. When Godfrey Middleton's steward came out to announce formally that Catherine's funeral would be held that very afternoon, and that banqueting would follow for the guests, then anyone who might have considered leaving chose instead to stay. As Shakespeare had remarked wryly just before he left for London, " 'Tis thrift, Tuck, thrift. The baked meats of the wedding feast shall now coldly furnish forth the tables for the wake."

  Smythe thought that was rather cold of his friend to make the observation in such bitter terms, yet he had to admit that it was accurate. His eldest daughter had just apparently been murdered on the very day of her wedding, and Godfrey Middleton, however distraught he might have felt, was nevertheless allowing the fair to continue. Was it because he had already made a commitment to the merchants, who had indeed gone to some trouble and expense to come out to Middleton Manor from London, or did he have more mercenary motives because he would, as owner of the grounds on which the fair was held, pocket a percentage of the merchants' profits?

  "If 'twere my daughter," Smythe said to Sir William, "I would have shut down the fair and asked everyone to leave, albeit kindly, so that I could be left alone with my grief. Instead, the fair proceeds as planned, even with Catherine lying dead upstairs in the house." He shook his head. "I simply cannot see how Middleton can continue with it."

  " ‘Tis said the rich are different, Tuck," Sir William replied, "and having started out in life quite poor, I have seen both sides of fortune, good and ill. There is, indeed, a lot of truth to what they say. A poor man may not have a rich man's luxuries, but then neither does he have his obligations. And while 'tis true that money may beget more money, 'tis also true that it takes money to maintain money. Godfrey Middleton is a rich man, but his estate is frightfully expensive to keep up, as is his business and his home in London, too. All must be staffed, provisioned and supplied, and otherwise maintain
ed. There are many people who depend upon him for their livelihoods. Just because a man is rich, Tuck, does not mean that he is without care or duty."

  "I can see your point, Sir William," Smythe replied. "And yet, I still cannot help but think that there are times when a man can simply be past caring, and when duty can just be damned."

  Worley nodded. "I can see your point, as well, lad. And 'tis well taken, too. For my own part, I have no children, so I cannot say for certain that I know how I would feel were I in Godfrey's place.

  But I have known what it is to love, and then to lose that love, and if such pain can in any measure be akin to the pain of a lost child, then I believe that I would feel much the same as you."

  Smythe glanced at Sir William briefly, but Worley seemed to be looking off into the distance somewhere. Smythe had never before heard Sir William speak of any romances in his past. Indeed, there was much about Sir William Worley's life he did not know— although in some respects, he knew a great deal more than most— and it would have been much too presumptuous of him to ask.

  "Howsoever that may be," Worley continued, "it serves our purpose that the fair has not closed down and the guests have not been asked to leave, for we can now proceed to run our murderer to ground."

  "Or murderers, if there be more than one," said Smythe, mindful of the two men whose plotting he had overheard.

  "Indeed," said Worley. "And the first order of business shall be to inform Godfrey Middleton of how things stand. That, I fear, must be my sad duty to perform, as he is my friend and neighbor."

  "And yet, he is your rival," Smythe observed.

  "That, too. However, truth be told, 'tis a rivalry more keenly felt by him than me. I am aware of it, of course, but I do not pay it any mind. I know he envies me my privilege of playing host to Her Royal Majesty each year when she sets out for her progress through the country, but I shall tell you frankly—and in strict confidence, mind you—that 'tis a privilege I would gladly cede to him. Her Majesty alone can be a handful at the best of times, but together with her sycophantic pilot fish at court, she becomes much more of a vexation than a privilege. Each year, I play the gracious host to them and spend a small fortune on their entertainment. And each year after they have gone, it takes yet another small fortune to clean up the mess they leave behind. If Godfrey wishes to contend with that, believe me, he is more than welcome."

  "Well, after what has happened, I should think there would be little chance that the queen would ever wish to lodge here."

  Worley gave a snort. "After what has happened here, you could not beat the old girl off with a stick," he replied, in a manner rather more befitting his rough demeanor as Black Billy than the elegant Sir William. "There is no dish quite as piquant to the nobility as a good serving of scandal, and murder makes for the most savory morsel of them all. The queen is no exception. I love the old girl, and 'tis my honor and my duty both to serve her, but at heart she is as bloodthirsty as her father was before her. Godfrey wanted this to be a memorable occasion that all of London would talk about for months or even years to come. Well, he has paid a very high price for it, I fear, but he has gotten precisely what he wanted. Come on, then. Let us go and pay our respects to him."

  "You wish me to go with you to see him?" Smythe said, with surprise.

  "Of course," Worley replied. "He shall want to hear from you, in your own words, what you overheard those two men say out in the garden."

  "But do you really think, that at such a time… that is, with his daughter's death as yet so fresh…"

  "Godfrey Middleton is not a man who is ruled by sentiment, believe me," said Worley. "However grief-stricken he may be, he shall still want justice, rest assured. So let us go and speak with him."

  They found Middleton alone in his own chambers, standing and staring impassively out the window at the river. They were admitted by his steward, Humphrey, who quietly withdrew, leaving them alone with him.

  "Godfrey… I am so very sorry for your loss," said Worley.

  Middleton slowly turned to face them. He nodded. "Thank you, Sir William. And my thanks to you for coming. I only wish that it were for my daughter's wedding rather than her funeral." His gaze settled upon Smythe. "You are the young man who brought my daughter up from the barge. Forgive me, but I do not believe I know your name."

  "Tuck Smythe is one of the players, Godfrey," Worley said. "He is also my friend and protege."

  Middleton's eyebrows went up. "Indeed?" He looked at Smythe with new interest. "That is not a claim that many men can make. It speaks very highly of you, young man."

  "Thank you, sir."

  " 'Tis I who should be thanking you for the service you performed," said Middleton, his voice flat and unemotional. "But forgive me, I am being rude. Please, be seated."

  "I think that we should rather stand, for the bitter news that we have to impart," Worley told him.

  Middleton stiffened. " 'Tis true, then, about the poison?"

  "You knew?" asked Worley, frowning.

  "My steward, Humphrey, told me that there was talk of poison among the guests, but he did not know if there was any truth to it." Middleton hesitated. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Is there?"

  "We do not yet know for certain," Worley replied, "but I have good reason to believe there is. She appeared to have been drinking from a flask to help keep warm upon the river. The flask was found and brought to me by William Shakespeare, another of the players, a young poet who is well known to me. I am nearly certain that the flask contained some sort of poison. I have sent Shakespeare to London with it, to have an apothecary analyze its contents so that we may know for certain. He will notify me of what was found as soon as he returns."

  Middleton swallowed hard. "So then 'tis true. My daughter killed herself to spite me, rather than go through with a marriage that she did not want."

  Worley frowned. "Good Lord, Godfrey! Is that what you thought?"

  "What else should I think, damn you?" Middleton shot back, and then he suddenly caught his breath and paled as comprehension dawned. "Dear God in Heaven! Do you mean to tell me she was murdered?"

  "I fear she was, Godfrey," Worley said. "Smythe, here, overheard two men last night, plotting in the garden, and it very nearly cost him his life. I thought it best if he were to tell you what he heard in his own words."

  Quickly, Smythe recounted the details of what had transpired in the maze the previous night. Middleton listened without saying a word, his features strained, his lips compressed into a tight grimace. When Smythe had finished, Middleton simply stood there, motionless and silent, as if he could find no words to say.

  At length, Sir William broke the awkward silence. "Godfrey… are you well? Perhaps you should sit down?"

  Middleton blinked several times and looked at him. "My God," he said, hoarsely. He made a weak, waving sort of gesture towards the sideboard. "There is wine… in the decanter there. Help yourselves, please. I insist."

  Smythe went to pour them all a drink. He handed a goblet to Middleton, one to Sir William, and then took one for himself.

  "How is the groom taking it?" asked Worley.

  Middleton snorted. "Sir Percival? He is out there somewhere, dithering and acting very put upon. One would think that Catherine died just to inconvenience him." He grimaced, then raised his goblet in a toast. "To my daughter, Catherine," he said, somberly. "May merciful Almighty God rest and protect her poor, unhappy and un-shriven soul."

  "Amen," said Worley, softly.

  They drank.

  Middleton simply tossed the goblet aside onto the floor. "Now then," he said, grimly, "what are we going to do about this?"

  "We are going to find the guilty parties, Godfrey," Worley said, "and then they shall hang."

  "Not nearly punishment enough," said Middleton, with a hard edge to his voice, "but as we are not Spaniards, I suppose that it shall have to do. What do you want from me?"

  "Proceed with the funeral and hold the fair, as planned,"
said Worley. "Let it be known that it shall be held in Catherine's memory. In the meantime, we shall begin to ferret out our plotters by paying particular attention to your younger daughter's present suitors, especially those whose families we do not know. In this regard, Tuck Smythe here will assist us, as will young Shakespeare when he returns. They have assisted me before in a matter of great import and they have my fullest confidence."

  Middleton nodded. "Then that is good enough for me. I shall see to it that they have whatever they require."

  "Do so, but pray, do so with discretion," Worley cautioned him. "Our quarry shall be brought to ground more swiftly if they do not suspect that they are being hunted."

  "It shall be done as you wish, Sir William," said Middleton. "I am in your debt."

  "He who strikes out at my neighbor strikes at me," said Worley. "I am certain that you would do no less if you were in my place. Smythe and Shakespeare shall be our hounds in this regard. For the present, I fear that I must leave and rejoin Her Majesty, who shall be awaiting my return. However, I shall inform her of what has happened here and beg her leave to absent myself from court in order to pursue this matter to its swift conclusion. I feel confident that she shall not refuse me."