Much Ado About Murder

by Simon Hawke

  Smythe had learned to drink ale in order to be sociable, but he was careful not to drink too much, because he knew he had no head for it. Shakespeare, on the other hand, indulged heavily, sometimes to the point of near insensibility, though that point for him was reached long after most people had become utterly paralyzed with drink. There were few players in the Queen’s Men who could keep up with him and Smythe knew better than to try. He had learned that it was best to nurse his ale and drink sparingly, otherwise his head would pay the price.

  It was a lesson a lot of people never seemed to learn. At this hour, Smythe knew those players still remaining in the tavern would be three sheets to the wind, and there was nothing quite as uninteresting as being sober in the midst of drunken revelry. Besides, he was not much in the mood for company. He felt like going for a walk. And in all fairness, Will needed his time alone, as well. Smythe knew that Shakespeare could work best when left completely on his own, without any distractions, which was perhaps the main reason why he seemed to work best during the night.

  Will was still trying to work on several ideas for original plays, but much to his frustration, playwriting was not what was bringing in the money for him right now. Shakespeare’s sonnets were becoming rather popular among some of the fashionable young gentlemen at court and if he kept on his present course, there was a good chance that he would soon find a wealthy nobleman to be his patron. In fact, judging by what had happened earlier that day, he may already have found one, though he was being rather circumspect about it. Smythe could understand the reasons for that, but if Will had found himself a patron, then it could easily turn out to be a two-edged sword.

  The other players were all happy for his good fortune, and grateful that he chose to share the wealth, but at the same time, Smythe could see that they were somewhat apprehensive. Will had quickly become a valuable commodity to the Queen’s Men. He was industrious and capable of working quickly. He had already rewritten several of the plays in their repertoire, improving them significantly in the process, and the proof was in the pudding. Audiences had responded far more favorably to the rewritten versions than they had to the earlier ones, and Will had a knack of revising as they went along, making alterations from performance to performance by taking into account the reactions of the audiences and the contributions of the players.

  Unlike many of the university men, who often seemed to act as if their words had emananted from a burning bush and thus were sacrosanct, Shakespeare understood that plays were a collaborative effort, depending upon the contributions of everybody in the company for their success. As a result, within a fairly short time, he had risen in stature from ostler and hired man to book holder and stage manager for the company. Both Burbages, father and son, were anxious to see what he could do when it came to writing an original play.

  However, revising the current plays in their repertoire had taken precedence, for that was where the immediate improvements to their fortunes could be made. Now, with the playhouses closed, even that work was being put off while Shakespeare had to strike where the iron was hot. His writing of sonnets on commission was helping to support them all right now, so the other players could hardly begrudge him his efforts in that regard. Yet, if his “strumpet sonneteering,” as he called it, happened to secure a wealthy patron for him, which was the true heart’s desire of every poet in London, then perforce that patron would be the one who called the tune, and he might well choose to have his house poet spend all of his time creating sonnets for publication, rather than writing plays or acting with a company of players.

  On the other hand, it was also possible that a wealthy patron might enjoy having a poet in his service who wrote plays. Some of the university men, such as Kit Marlowe, had such patrons and were allowed considerable freedom in writing what they chose. Robert Greene, for instance, wrote not only plays and poetry, but also cautionary pamphlets on the art of “cony-catching.” To Smythe, coming from the country, cony-catching had always meant hunting rabbits, but in the underworld of London ’s criminals, it had another meaning altogether.

  To the cutpurses, foists, and alleymen of London, a “cony” was a victim, an innocent rabbit to be caught and skinned, whether by outright theft or trickery. And though Greene’s plays had not impressed Smythe particularly, his pamphlets had proved very educational. John Fleming had told him that they should be required reading for anyone coming to London from the country and on his recommendation, Smythe had purchased several and found them well worth the few pennies he had spent.

  They described how the criminals of London plied their trade, from the “lifters” who stole goods from shops by concealing them upon their persons, to “curbers” who used hooks on poles to steal things out of windows that had been left open, to the “jackmen” who forged licenses, to “divers” who used small boys to squeeze through windows or other narrow openings and steal for them, to “nips” and “foists” or cutpurses and their accomplices, Green’s pamphlets described all manner of thievery and “cozenage,” which was the art of gaining someone’s confidence so that the “cozener” or “con man” could then cheat or steal from the “gull” or the person being deceived. There was an entire language, called a “cant,” that was spoken by the members of the London underworld and doubtless, Smythe thought, Greene was not endearing himself to London ’s criminals by exposing so many of their tricks and secrets.

  As he went outside, the bellman came walking by, carrying his pike and bell and lantern. The city gates were closed at nightfall and now he made his rounds, calling out the hour in his singsong chant:

  “Remember the clocks, look well to your locks,

  fire and your light, an’ God give ye good night,

  for now the bell ringeth, eight of the clock!”

  As part of the watch, the bellman ostensibly patrolled the streets in order to protect the citizenry at night, but in truth, he provided little more protection than did the other constables of the watch, which was to say practically none at all. His primary value was in his ability to sound the call in case of fire, which aside from the plague was probably the single greatest danger to the city, especially with so much shoddy construction and the buildings piled up so closely against one another. And in the event of fire, there was usually not much that could be saved, for the only recourse was to fight it with hooks and buckets brigaded from the wells, and the buildings, for the most part, were so cheaply made that they went up like kindling.

  As he came out into the street, Smythe nodded to the bellman as he went by, then stood there for a few moments, enjoying the cool night air. The stench of the streets was somewhat tempered on this night by a good, strong breeze coming in off the river, for which Smythe was thankful. He did not know if he would ever become fully accustomed to the city’s smells. The little country village where he grew up was clean and fresh compared to London. Here, everyone simply threw their refuse out into the streets, so that the cobbles were almost perpetually covered with a coating of slime, which was rinsed away only by a hard rain, though not even a good downpour would wash away all of the refuse piled up and stinking in the streets. And the streets that were not cobbled were almost continually churned into a quagmire, so that navigating them became a challenge to man and horse alike. Here, where Smythe stood, the filth drained down into a depression that ran down the center of the street, and that in turn drained into Fleet Ditch, which stank so badly that it made the eyes water and sting.

  He hopped over the ditch as he crossed the street, thinking perhaps to wander down by the river for a while, but then he looked back and saw Molly coming out of the tavern, wrapped in her threadbare, brown woolen cloak, her cap upon her head. She did not see him where he stood. It looked as if she were going home for the night, and Smythe thought that perhaps he should offer to escort her, for being abroad alone in London’s streets at night was not safe for a woman. Especially a woman as young and pretty as Molly. However, before he could go across the street and make the offer, Smythe
saw her meet a man who had apparently been waiting for her outside.

  In the darkness, as the man came up to her, Smythe did not get a very good look at him, but he seemed to be a tall, long-legged fellow, dressed in high boots and dark breeches, a long dark cloak, and a wide-brimmed, rakish hat. From the way the cloak poked out at the bottom, Smythe could tell that the man also wore a sword.

  The dark stranger and Molly acted as if they knew each other as they walked off together down the muddy, refuse-strewn street. Out of curiosity, Smythe followed. He liked Molly, as did all the players, with whom she was quite popular for her vivacity, ready smile, and quick, sharp wit. They all felt rather protective of her. On more than one occasion, he had seen patrons of the Toad and Badger try their luck with her, but all to no avail. Molly’s heart was spoken for. He had heard it said that Molly had loved a soldier who had gone away some time ago to fight in foreign lands. Now, after the events of earlier that day, it was evident to him who that soldier must have been. Anyone could clearly see that Molly and Ben Dickens had a strong mutual attraction. Anyone, apparently, except for Molly and Ben themselves. For some reason, they seemed either unable or unwilling to admit it to themselves or to one another. And to a point, Smythe could sympathize.

  There were certain things that he and Elizabeth could not say or admit to one another, too. Of course, their situation was not really the same. Master Henry Darcie’s daughter could hardly be courted by a lowly player. Sometimes it seemed as if she might as well be one of the queen’s glories, for all the chance he had with her. Indeed, she often seemed as far above him as one of the queen’s ladies in waiting, though as a successful merchant guildsman’s daughter, Elizabeth was not quite as inaccessible. Pursuing one of the queen’s glories could get a gentleman at court accomodations in the Tower of London, for the queen preferred to keep her young ladies as virginal as herself. Paying court to Elizabeth Darcie was not going to land him in the Tower, but it could certainly bring him a great deal of trouble if her father’s permission were not secured. And the only thing that stood between Smythe and receiving that permission was his standing.

  Smythe had no doubt that if he were a gentleman, then he would be welcomed as a suitor in Henry Darcie’s home. And if he had a tide, why then, the match would have been assured… provided that Elizabeth agreed. For though it was certainly not common practice for a father to seek his daughter’s approval before arranging a match for her, Henry Darcie had learned the hard way that disregarding his daughter’s wishes in that regard could only bring disaster. Nothing would have made him happier than to have his daughter married to a nobleman, and he had done his best to put her on display before them, but Elizabeth was a very forthright and willful young woman, for which reason she was still unmarried. However, there was a limit to how much willfulness Henry Darcie would put up with. He owed Smythe a debt of gratitude, and so did not object to him too strenuously, but then neither did he grant him his approval.

  What Henry Darcie did not know, he could not object to, and so he was kept ignorant of their occasional meetings at the bookstalls in Paul’s Walk or at the Theatre while the players were rehearsing. Had he troubled to, Henry Darcie could have easily found out about their meetings. For a man of his means, having his daughter followed would have been a simple thing for Henry Darcie to arrange and after he had satisfied himself that she was having assignations with someone who was thoroughly unsuitable, it would have been equally as simple for him to have Smythe beaten senseless, whipped, or even killed. Smythe knew such things were known to happen to those who aspired to rise, so to speak, above their station. However, there was a curious sort of unspoken understanding between him and Henry Darcie.

  Darcie understood that he was a well-intentioned and honorable young man who would never do anything to bring dishonor to Elizabeth, just as he had faith that, for all her stubborn willfulness, his daughter would never do anything to bring dishonor to herself or to her family. Thus, he tolerated their relationship, if not openly, then at least by pretending not to know about it. Henry Darcie still had hopes of making a good marriage for Elizabeth, one that would help advance him socially, and he firmly believed that in time, the right aristocratic suitor would come along and Elizabeth would come to her senses and forget all about her girlish infatuation with a lowly player. In the meantime, he chose to look the other way, because he knew that neither of them would go so far as to take their relationship past the point of impropriety. And in that, Smythe found both solace and frustration.

  With Ben and Molly, on the other hand, there were no such impediments. There was nothing to prevent them from finding happiness with one another… if that was truly what they wanted. To Smythe, they seemed kindred spirits, an ideal couple, and he found it puzzling that they fenced the way they did. But if this dark stranger had replaced Dickens in Molly’s affections, then perhaps that would explain it.

  Without really thinking about why, he followed them for several blocks, at a discreet distance. If Molly had a paramour, then it was certainly none of his concern, but now that he found his curiosity aroused, he felt reluctant to stand off and let them go, as he knew he probably should. Especially since Molly’s companion was carrying a sword and he had not troubled to bring his.

  Smythe knew that sort of forgetfulness was bound to get him into trouble one of these days, but he still found it difficult to think about buckling on his sword each time he went out somewhere. It was second nature to him to carry his uncle’s dagger with him everywhere, for he had carried it since he was a boy. However, until he came London, there had never been any real need to go about armed with a sword. Most of the men in London wore swords, though often more as fashion accessories than as practical weapons. An elegant rapier was considered an essential item of apparel for a proper gentleman, even if he did not have much idea how to use one. But although Smythe was a competent fencer, he had yet to fall into the habit of wearing a sword on a daily basis and unlike the typical London fop, who had mastered the art of posturing rakishly with one hand on his hip and the other resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, when Smythe did wear one, he found that it was always getting in his way.

  A few more blocks and Molly had arrived safely at her door, escorted by the dark-cloaked stranger. Smythe watched from a distance as they lingered, speaking for a few moments in the street, then they embraced and exchanged chaste losses on the cheek before Molly went inside and the stranger went off down the street alone. Well, whoever the fellow was, Smythe thought, he at least appeared to be behaving properly. But it did seem as if Ben Dickens may have lost his charm for Molly Beatrice O’Flannery.

  He debated for a moment whether or not to follow the stranger and perhaps find out who he was, but then decided against it. It was truly none of his concern whom Molly chose to see. So long as she was not in any sort of trouble and the man was not a villain or a bounder who was trying to take advantage of her. For all he knew, perhaps the stranger was her brother or an uncle or some other relative. She had reached home safely and that was really all that mattered. He decided that he might as well head back toward the inn. Whatever vague apprehension had been troubling him before seemed to have gone now, which suggested that it must not have been of any true concern.

  He had gone about a block or so when two men stepped out in front of him from a dark side street, blocking his way. There was no mistaking their confrontational demeanor. Both men carried clubs. Remembering what he had read in Greene’s pamphlets about how alleymen waylaid their victims, Smythe stopped and backed up slightly, then quickly spun around, drawing his knife as he turned… only to find the tip of a sword point pressed lightly up against his Adam’s apple.

  “Quick, laddie, very quick. But not quite quick enough, eh?”

  The voice was husky, raspy, and low, and not in the least bit apprehensive. The tone was soft, relaxed, and confident. And the sword point held at his throat bespoke an excellent control. It could easily have pierced him through, but as it was, it
exerted just the right amount of pressure to make him lift his chin. In the darkness, he could not quite make out his assailant’s features, but by the clothes, he recognized the stranger who had escorted Molly home. He was also uncomfortably aware of the two men standing very close behind him.

  “You’ve been following my friend and me ever since we left the Toad and Badger,” said the stranger. “Now be a good lad, drop the dirk, and tell us why, eh?”

  Moving quickly, Smythe used his knife to bat away the sword point from his throat, then in almost the same motion, struck out behind him with his leg, lacking back as hard as he could. He heard one of the men behind him cry out. Without pausing, he lowered his shoulder and slammed into the stranger in front of him, seized him, and then swung him around to use him as a shield, holding the knife to his throat.

  “Bloody hell!” the second alleyman swore, standing there and holding his club, uncertain what to do. In an instant, the tables had been turned, and the cony had turned out to be not quite such a helpless rabbit after all.

  “Now you drop your blade, my friend,” said Smythe. And as he spoke, he suddenly became aware that the dark-garbed stranger was not a man at all, but unmistakably female. Her hat had fallen off and long, raven tresses tumbled to her shoulders. However, it was soft fullness in his grasp that gave the game away.

  “Gently, laddie,” she said, in her husky, raspy voice. “ ‘Tis not a cow’s udder that you’re milking, you know.” Her sword dropped to the cobbles.

  “My apologies,” said Smythe, relaxing his grip a bit, but still maintaining it. “I did not expect a woman.” He saw the other man make a move toward the sword lying on the ground. “And you stay right where you are, ruffler,” he said to him. “Unless you want your friend to have her throat cut.”