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

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

  "Wait," said Worley, "your reasoning is sound, save for one thing. If the killer had followed Holland, then why would he not have encountered me? Or any of you?"

  "Indeed, he likely would have," Smythe corrected himself, "which means he must have followed Blanche, instead. We have already deduced that she must have left the maze by another way, so then it follows that she came by that way, also. That would explain why none of us had seen them."

  "Of course," said Shakespeare, somewhat mollified now that he felt reasonably sure the murderer had fled the scene and was not lurking somewhere nearby. "And now that Holland has been eliminated, the competition has been reduced by one, but we should keep in mind that 'tis the field of suitors that has been reduced, and not the list of suspects."

  "Whatever do you mean?" asked Worley, with a puzzled frown. "How can the list of suspects not have been reduced?" He indicated Holland's body. "Yonder is one less!"

  "Aye, milord," said Shakespeare. "But only to us. For us, 'tis one less suspect, from a list we have already narrowed down to two likely candidates. However, the killer does not know that, as you have already pointed out. We must think like the killer if we are to comprehend the motives for his actions. From the killer's point of view, he has merely reduced the field of suitors by one, that one being an individual who clearly had a leg up… so to speak… on the others. Since the killer does not know that you are here, milord, he therefore cannot know that through your knowledge of the nobility and court society, as well as through inquires, you have already eliminated most of Blanche's suitors from our list of suspects. Consequently, he believes that he stands well hidden in a forest, when in truth, unbeknownst to him, most of the trees have already been cut down around him. Thus, he does not realize the extent of his exposure, and so this killing, from his point of view, does not seem so great a risk."

  "You have a most interesting faculty, Shakespeare," said Worley. "You have the ability to put yourself into another's shoes, assume his character, and then reason not only from his point of view, but with his emotions and morality, as well. 'Tis a talent that should serve you well upon the stage, but if you are not careful, it could bring you to grief in the real world."

  "If this be the real world, methinks that I shall take the stage, milord," said Shakespeare, wryly. "At least when one dies upon the stage, one generally revives in time for the next performance."

  "Elizabeth," said Smythe, "are you all right?"

  She was staring at the body with a strange expression on her face, a look somewhere between alarm and desolation. " 'Tis the third time now that I have seen somebody slain. First Anthony Gresham, struck in the back by a thrown knife before my very eyes. Then within the span of but a few months, Catherine is stabbed to death, and now poor Daniel Holland is run through with a sword." She took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. "I gaze down on his body and I feel sadness and regret that his young life should have been snuffed out so suddenly and cruelly, and yet… I do not scream with terror. I am not horrified into near insensibility by the sight. I do not feel my gorge rising at the sight, nor do tears come coursing down my cheeks. I wonder what has become of me that I can look so calmly upon death?"

  "Familiarity doth breed contempt, milady," Worley replied. "With repeated exposure, one can grow accustomed to almost anything. Else one would go mad. 'Tis a lesson learned by each and every soldier on the battlefield, and each and every sailor on the sea. I am saddened that a young lady like yourself should learn it, also. Would that it were not so." He turned to Smythe and Shakespeare. "You two should take up Holland's body and bring it to the house. When you are asked what happened, tell the truth… just take care that you do not tell it all. Say no more than what you know and what you yourselves have witnessed. Say nothing of Holland's tryst with Blanche. You were out walking in the garden and you heard a cry. You responded, and you found him slain. Say nothing of my presence. 'Twould be best were I not seen. Remember… I am not here."

  "But how shall we find you if we need you, milord?" asked Smythe.

  "Never fear, I shall find you. Now go on. Take Holland back. Let us stir up a hornet's nest and watch what happens next."

  As Shakespeare said when they returned to the house, "The specter of death appears to have brought new life to the festivities." Indeed, thought Smythe, it was strangely and unsettlingly all too true. The house was ablaze with lights when they returned, and even the fairgrounds were weirdly illuminated with flickering torchlight and campfires. Having earlier closed up their stalls and colorful pavil-lions, the merchants had opened them up once again to take advantage of the situation as the guests stayed up and wandered through the house and fairgrounds. It seemed that no one slept, as they were all eager to hear or else impart the latest bit of gossip.

  Catherine's dramatic resurrection and murder already had everyone abuzz, and anyone who had retired for the night had been awakened by the uproar of people running through the halls and calling out the news or else banging upon doors to awaken their friends. When Shakespeare and Smythe, accompanied by Elizabeth, returned to the house, bearing between them the limp body of Daniel Holland, the news exploded through the estate like a petard.

  The stricken Sir Roger was desolated by the news of his son's death, but his grief was mixed with righteous fury as he announced to one and all that he would pay a thousand crowns to whoever brought his son's murderer before him. Not to be outdone, Godfrey Middleton immediately doubled the amount.

  "This outrage against justice and all humanity shall not be tolerated!" he cried out to the assembled guests. "We shall never submit to it! We shall not suffer damned, bloodthirsty assassins to walk amongst us unmolested! I hereby swear before Almighty God that our children's foul murders shall be avenged!"

  "Oh, damn, where did I leave my pen?" muttered Shakespeare, as he listened raptly to Middleton's address. "This is great stuff!"

  "Really, Will!" said Elizabeth, taken aback by his response.

  "Forget it, Elizabeth," Smythe said to her, shaking his head.

  " ‘Tis hopeless. He cannot help himself. He is a poet, and to a poet, all the world's a stage and all the people in it merely players."

  Shakespeare cocked an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

  They were questioned at length by everyone, it seemed, until both Smythe and Shakespeare had grown nearly hoarse from telling the story over and over again. To escape all the attention, Elizabeth finally retired to her room to pack her things. Middleton had said nothing about rescinding his order for her departure, and though she was not eager to leave now that things had reached a fever pitch of excitement, she did not seem to have much choice.

  "What a perverse creature I have become," she said to Smythe, before she went back upstairs. "All sensibility and logic dictates that I should make all haste to leave this place, and yet, I find myself longing to remain and see how it all turns out. I cannot reconcile my feelings. I am both repelled and fascinated."

  "I know just how you feel," Smythe told her. "I felt much the same when first I set foot on London Bridge and beheld the severed heads of criminals set upon the spikes there. I had never seen anything like that at home, in my small village, and when I first beheld the birds feasting on the rotting flesh of those gruesome, severed heads, I was nearly sickened by the sight. I was appalled by it, and yet, I could not look away. Now, when I pass by them on the bridge or by the law courts, I scarcely even notice them."

  "Have we become so callous then," she asked, "that the sight of violent death touches us so little, or even not at all?"

  "It does, indeed, touch us," Shakespeare said, "else we would not be speaking of it so. ‘Tis when we stop speaking of it that we must feel concern about our very souls. Ask yourself, Tuck, about those very heads of which you speak. Is it truly that you scarcely notice them because you do not find them remarkable in any way at all, or because despite having become accustomed to their presence, you nevertheless prefer to look away and not dwell upon the sight? If we
see a beggar on the street, scrofulous and ragged, do we gaze at him directly, with honest curiosity, or do we not look away? And if we look away, is it because we are not touched by his sad plight, or because we fear we may be touched too much? Those severed heads are not placed there on the spikes in order to inure us to the sight, but quite the opposite. They are put there to horrify, as an object lesson, intended to touch us with its violence."

  "And yet there are those who are not touched at all," said Smythe.

  "Aye," said Shakespeare. "And 'tis their heads that are placed upon the spikes to remind us of the consequences."

  "Well, I, for one, shall pray that whosoever murdered Catherine and Daniel shall suffer those selfsame consequences," said Elizabeth. She looked around. "This celebration has become a festival of death and we are all specters at this wedding. 'Tis meet that I should leave, lest I begin to enjoy myself too much."

  "Methinks the lady thinks too much," said Shakespeare, as he watched her walk away. " Twill make her life most cumbersome."

  "Hmm," said Smythe. "And then again, some men have found life cumbersome because they thought too little."

  Shakespeare smiled a bit ruefully. "I do believe the lad has scored a touch. Methinks you like her more than just a little. You are a caring soul, Tuck. Take care you do not care too much."

  "We have had this conversation."

  "Indeed, we have. Point made and taken. Let us proceed then to another matter close at hand. Namely, our two remaining suspects. What shall we do about them, do you think?"

  Smythe shook his head. "I am not sure. Sir William was not very clear in his instructions."

  "Well, he did say we should stir up a hornet's nest," said Shakespeare. "Yonder comes the Frenchman, making straight for us. Let us poke him just a bit and see how he responds."

  Chapter 11

  MON DIEU, I HAVE ONLY just heard the terrible news!" Dubois said, as he came rushing up to them. He looked as if he just got out of bed and had dressed hastily. He seemed quite agitated and his French accent was a bit more pronounced. Smythe noticed that although his command of English was excellent, as before, he seemed to hesitate slightly, as if in his excitement he was flustered in his attempt to choose the precise words. "Monsieur Holland is slain? How… how did this happen?"

  Smythe sighed wearily as he prepared to tell the story yet again, but Shakespeare spoke before he could begin.

  "One of Blanche Middleton's suitors, it seems, was intent on removing a rival… permanently," he said.

  Dubois frowned. "That is a most serious accusation, monsieur" he said. "But unless you were present, how can you know this to be true?"

  " ‘Tis obvious to anyone who is capable of reason," Shakespeare replied. "One need only ask, what was a respectable young gentle-man like Daniel Holland doing in the maze at such a time of night, alone? What possible reason could he have had for going there? Why, the only reason any respectable young gentleman could have in such a circumstance, no doubt… a romantic rendezvous with a young lady."

  Dubois' nostrils flared slightly. "Indeed, monsieur, what you suggest does not seem entirely implausible, and yet it is also quite possible there was some other explanation, n'est ce pas?"

  "Well, I suppose that many things are possible," Shakespeare replied, with a shrug. "He might have been seized with a sudden impulse to trim some hedges in the middle of the night, perhaps. Or else he may have simply been out walking when he saw a stag go into the maze and followed, so that he might do a bit of hunting on the spur of the moment, as it were. Or else, perhaps —"

  "You have made your point, monsieur" Dubois said, tightly. "It is not needful… nor is it very wise… to resort to mockery."

  "Mockery?" Shakespeare exclaimed, as if shocked by the suggestion. "God save me, would I do such a thing? Twould be sheer folly, Chevalier Dubois. Never would I risk offending a gentleman of your stature, sir, under any circumstances! You wear the handsome rapier of a true swordsman, while I…" he spread out his arms to show he was unarmed. "… I would not know how to use a blade even if I had one!"

  Dubois pursed his lips tightly while his fingers toyed absently with the pommel of his sword. "So," he said, after a moment, "perhaps I had misunderstood, monsieur. There are subtleties of language one cannot always follow, as a foreigner. I perceive now that you meant no offense."

  "Oh, good heavens, no!" said Shakespeare, stepping back. "Forgive me, 'twas all my fault, I am quite certain. To be sure, I am an abject fool. I misspoke, or else expressed myself quite badly. I… I am not an educated man, I say the wrong thing often, very often…"

  "La!" Dubois said. "Enough, monsieur. It was a minor misunderstanding, nothing more. I assure you, the matter is entirely forgotten. You have clearly had a very trying night, what with discovering the body of that most unfortunate young gentleman."

  "Indeed," said Smythe, "that maze seems to be bad luck for anyone who goes there, if you ask me. From now on, I intend to avoid it at all costs! The last thing I would wish was to be run through in there!"

  "It would seem that it was, indeed, a most unlucky place for Monsieur Holland," said Dubois. "A man would be wise to avoid any place where such unfortunate things happened. It was a terrible thing, terrible. Poor Sir Roger. I must go and express my condolences. Bonsoir."

  "Hmm," said Shakespeare, as they watched him walk away. "For a moment there, he was positively threatening."

  "Bluff and bluster, nothing more," Smythe said, with a grimace.

  'You think so? Well, I am not so sure. He did seem to take umbrage quite readily when I tweaked him. The way he looked at me and placed his hand upon his sword, I almost thought that he was going to run me through."

  Smythe snorted. "If that fop ever ran through anything more substantial than an hors d'oeuvre, I shall eat my hat. It takes no bravery to play the bravo when your opponent is unarmed. 'Twas the superiority of his class that he was counting on to intimidate you, not his skill with a sword, you may be sure."

  "You are unquestionably the expert when it comes to judging blades," said Shakespeare, "but that sword of his looked like a quality piece of work to me."

  "Would you expect someone in his position to purchase something second rate?" asked Smythe. He shrugged. "I could not give it a close inspection, of course, but it seemed quite the showy piece, all bejeweled flash and dazzle. To my mind, 'tis not the sort of weapon a serious swordsman would wear."

  "So you do not see him as the killer, then?"

  "He hardly seems the lethal sort, Will."

  "Then that leaves us with Braithwaite."

  "I suppose it does," said Smythe.

  Shakespeare shook his head. " 'Tis only that he seems so unlike a killer. He seems so… amiable."

  "Where is it writ that a murderer cannot be amiable?"

  "Would that villainy were clearly written on the countenance," said Shakespeare, sourly. " ‘Twould make our task ever so much simpler."

  "You like the fellow."

  "I suppose I do. He is not without his charm. He has wit and is the sort that grows upon you."

  "The sort that makes for the most dangerous kind of cozener and scoundrel," Smythe said. "The sort who may smile and smile and yet still be a villain."

  "Well put. You argue well and soundly. I can say but little in the way of dispute."

  "I find I do not share your favorable opinion of him," Smythe replied, dryly. "He strikes me as a cocky sort, like the roaring boys who often cause mischief at the theatre. He swaggers when he walks and I suppose he thinks himself a young Apollo. Where is Braithwaite, anyway? I have not seen him."

  "I do not know," Shakespeare responded. "I have not seen him since we all left the tomb."

  "And what of Camden?"

  "I have not seen him, either."

  "Well, let us hope for his sake that Blanche does not next choose to favor him with her attentions," Smythe said. "That could bode ill for his chances of living to a ripe old age."

  "Two of our original suspects le
ft," Shakespeare said. "One of whom Sir William vouches for, at least in terms of being who he says he is, the other still an unknown quantity. And both seem unaccounted for as of this time. Do you want to see if we can find them?"

  "Aye," Smythe replied. "Let us see how they respond to the news of Holland's murder. And let us also see if either of them have any witnesses who can vouch for where they were when Holland died."

  They decided to make a quick tour of the lower floor, but saw no sign of either Braithwaite or Camden, which suggested that either both had retired to their rooms for the night and had heard nothing of Holland's murder or else had gone out to the fairgrounds, as had many of the guests—in which case, they would undoubtedly soon learn what had transpired as word spread.

  Rather alarmingly, many of the guests had obtained torches and gone out to the garden to visit the maze, presumably to see if they could find the spot where the murder had taken place. Smythe thought it quite macabre, imagining them wandering about in there, looking down at the ground and holding their torches low to see if they could spy any traces of spilled blood, but Shakespeare did not find it at all surprising or unusual.

  "We are bloodthirsty creatures, Tuck," he said, as they walked down the great hall of the mansion, past portraits of Godfrey Middleton's ancestors and illustrious figures from England's history, including, of course, the queen. It would not do at all for her to visit at some point and not see a portrait of herself in a place of honor in the great hall. "We think of ourselves as being a civilized people, and yet, in truth, we are still little more than savages. We all flock to a good hanging or a drawing and quartering, and the more the unfortunate victim screams and blubbers, the more we seem to like it."

  "I thought you said before that such sights were meant to horrify and caution us," Smythe replied.

  "Oh, indeed they are," said Shakespeare. "But even so, there is some savage part of us that hearkens back to those ancient times when we painted our bums blue and smashed one another's heads in with stone axes, and 'tis that part which finds the horror curiously stimulating. We discover that it thrills the blood and invigorates the humors. If we should see a carriage wrecked up by the roadside as we ride by, what do we do? Why, we slow down to a walk, thus the better to observe the carnage. And if we happen by when two men are fighting in the street, pummeling each other into bloody pulp, why then we stop and watch, we pick a favorite and cheer him on, perhaps even lay wagers. Our own mortality is sport to us and we play it with a vengeance. Thus, the ground upon which a murder victim falls becomes a sort of playing field."