by Simon Hawke
“I see,” said Smythe, gazing at the Genoan girl. “But your father seemed to think that Master Leonardo may not have approved of Corwin.”
Elizabeth glanced at Smythe with surprise. “Whatever gave him that idea?”
“Did he have reason to think otherwise?” Smythe asked.
Elizabeth frowned. “I do not know. I have no idea why he would have thought so. I know that he and Master Leonardo spoke at length that day when we came to the Theatre, but I think that they discussed matters of business. I do not recall if they spoke of anything else. I do not know that anything at all was said of Hera and Corwin, one way or the other.”
“Corwin seemed smitten with her,” said Shakespeare. “Was she in love with him?”
Elizabeth glanced at him. “She seemed excited at the prospect of the marriage,” she replied.
“Aye, but was she in love with him?” Shakespeare asked again.
“Do you doubt that she was?”
Shakespeare shrugged. “I do not know. That is why I asked. She scarcely knew him.”
“He knew her no better,” Elizabeth replied. “Have you never heard of two people falling in love upon first sight?”
Smythe glanced at her sharply, but she did not look at him. Almost as if she were carefully avoiding it, he thought.
“I am a poet,” Shakespeare replied. “Of course I know that people can fall in love upon first sight. The question is, was she one of those people?”
Elizabeth did not seem to have an answer.
Shakespeare tried another tack. “Did she know that Corwin had gone to her house to see her father and break off the engagement?” he asked, softly.
Elizabeth gasped and her eyes grew wide. “Is this true?” she asked with astonishment.
“He told me so himself,” Shakespeare replied.
“But… why?”
“It seems he believed she had deceived him about her virtue,” he replied.
“What!” Elizabeth said, with disbelief.
“I do not know precisely what Corwin had heard, or from whom,” Shakespeare said, “for he was in a fever of outrage and indignation when he came to the Theatre, but it seems that someone had convinced him that Hera was not… chaste.”
Elizabeth brought her hands up to her face. “Who would do such a vile thing?”
“We do not know,” said Shakespeare. “But we intend to do our utmost to find out.”
“She sits there as if she does not even hear us,” Smythe said, staring at Hera where she sat by the window on the other side of the room. “I know that we are speaking softly, so perhaps she cannot tell what we are saying from over there, but just the same, you would think that she would respond to our presence in some way, at least.”
Elizabeth ’s eyes were glistening with tears. “I have tried speaking to her,” she said, “but she simply does not answer.”
“Let me try,” said Smythe.
“Be gentle with her,” said Elizabeth.
He crossed the room and knelt on the floor by her side. She did not respond to his approach. “Hera…” he said, softy.
She did not respond.
“Hera?”
She kept on staring out the window, as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Hem” he said, more firmly and emphatically, though without raising his voice. He reached out and gently placed two fingers on her cheek, carefully turning her face toward his.
He was not certain if she really saw him, although she seemed to. Her gaze met his and, for a moment, it was as if she were looking through him. Then her eyes focused on his. He wanted to say something to her, but suddenly, he could not seem to find the words. The look in her eyes was one of unbearable pain and sadness, a grief that ran so deep it went down to her very soul. She blinked, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.
***
“What did you see when you gazed into her eyes?” asked Shakespeare, as they left the Darcie house.
“Unutterable sadness,” Smythe replied. “A grief so deep and all-encompassing that there was no room within her for aught else. It filled her to the very brim.”
They walked side-by-side along the cobblestoned street, keeping near the buildings so as to avoid all the muck that drained down into the declivity at the center. Traffic flowed by in a constant stream, horses and pedestrians, two-wheeled carts and four-wheeled open carriages, coaches and caroches with their curved roofs and ostentatious, plumed ornaments, all creating a cacophany of jingling and creaking, clopping and splashing, shouting and neighing that filled the air with constant noise during the daylight hours.
“Do you suppose she could have known that Corwin was going to break off the engagement?” Smythe asked.
Shakespeare shook his head. “I do not see how she could have known,” he said. “I suppose the only possibility would be if perhaps one of the servants overhead whatever had transpired between Corwin and her father, and then mentioned it to her when she came home, but that seems very unlikely.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, for several reasons,” Shakespeare replied. “Servants who eavesdrop on their masters and then gossip about what they had overheard are certainly not rare, but then they usually gossip amongst one another, certainly not with the daughter of the master of the house.”
“Good point,” said Smythe, nodding.
“And for another matter,” continued Shakespeare, “if any of the servants had overheard whatever passed between Corwin and Master Leonardo, then one would think they surely would have known that something was amiss. One would think they would at least have looked in on their master when Corwin left the house. However, we are told ‘twas Hera who had found her father’s body, and not any of the servants. Either the murder had occurred without any of the servants being alerted, or else they all turned a deaf ear and ignored it. Does that seem very likely to you?”
“It does not,” said Smythe.
“Nor does it to me,” said Shakespeare, emphatically. “What we know thus far about the murder only raises further questions. If Corwin had gone to Master Leonardo’s house to kill him, then surely he would not have stopped first at the Theatre to tell us he was going there. ‘Twould be absurd. So then if Corwin is truly guilty of the crime, then ‘twould only seem reasonable to suppose that he did not go there with the intent of killing Master Leonardo, and that what happened came about in a spontaneous manner. They argued, perhaps a blow was struck, then blades were drawn-”
“Or at least one blade,” Smythe said. “Master Leonardo may have been unarmed for all we know.”
“Quite so,” said Shakespeare. “We must find that out, as well. If he was unarmed, then ‘twas clearly murder. If not, then Corwin could have merely been trying to defend himself. Either way, if the two men fought, then it seems unlikely that there would have been no noise. How could the servants have failed to hear the sounds of such a struggle?”
“ ‘Tis a question we must try to answer,” Smythe replied, “for unless we can find someone who was there to witness it or even hear what happened, the only one who knows the truth of it is Corwin. And I do not know if we shall be permitted to put the question to him.”
“Aye, and even if we could be allowed to speak with him, how would we know if what he told us were the truth?” asked Shakespeare. “Neither of us truly knows him well. If he is guilty of the crime, he could dissemble with us, and if he is a practiced liar, then we would never be the wiser.”
“One thing is for certain,” Smythe said, “we are not going to discover what occurred by questioning Hera any further. For the present, at least, the girl is much too grief-stricken to be of any use. We shall have to seek out Master Leonardo’s servants to see what we can learn.”
“I agree,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “That is the very next thing we must do. And there is one more thing we must discover. Who told Corwin that Hera was not chaste?”
“Who in London could know her well enough to say such a thing and make Corwin believe i
t?” Smythe asked.
“We are proceeding, then, on the assumption that the tale is a lie?” said Shakespeare.
“Do you doubt it even for a moment?” Smythe asked, with surprise.
“Does it seem impossible there could be truth in it?” Shakespeare countered.
“How can you say such a thing? You have met the girl!”
“Aye, and I have had no words with her other than to give her greeting when we were introduced the other day. To all outward appearances, she seems modest and demure, as Henry Dar-cie said, but what do we truly know of her?”
“Will! I am surprised at you!” said Smythe.
“Why?” asked Shakespeare, puzzled. “Does the question not seem reasonable to you? And if not, then why not?”
“Oft’ it seems to me that you have little love for women,” Smythe replied. “Perhaps your own marriage was not everything you hoped ‘twould be-”
“My marriage has naught to do with it,” Shakespeare said, irritably. “If we are to pursue the truth, Tuck, then we must not presume. Regardless what we think, we must find things out for certain, so that we know them to be true beyond any shadow of a doubt. You are moved to sympathy for Hera, perhaps because of your own feelings for Elizabeth. You know that Henry Darcie only tolerates your friendship with her because he owes you a debt of gratitude, and because he trusts that you would do nothing to dishonor her, nor would she do aught to bring dishonor to herself or to her family. You look at Hera, and what I suspect you see is Elizabeth in a similar situation. You look at Corwin, and I suspect that in some ways, you see yourself. Tis a bad situation altogether, Tuck. You must divest yourself of prejudice and sympathy if you intend to find the truth. What do you truly know of Hera?”
“I know that when I look into her eyes, I see an innocent,” said Smythe with conviction.
Shakespeare stopped and turned to face him. “When I look into your eyes, I see a bloody innocent,” he said. “You, my lad, are a great, hulking, soft-hearted, and besotted fool and if you do not season your romantic notions about women with a pinch of caution and a dash of doubt, then someday some sweet and pretty face is going to ruin you and leave you gutted like a dressed-out stag.”
“Oh, that was rather nicely put,” Smythe said. “You must be a poet.”
“You know, if you did not have that bandage on your head, I would slap you.”
“Very well, then,” Smythe replied. “You look for the worst in people and I shall seek the best. That way, betwixt the two of us, we should cover all the ground.”
“You can be a wearisome bastard, you know that?” Shakespeare said. He clapped Smythe on the shoulder and they resumed walking. “Very well. Let us assume, for the sake of argument if naught else, that the fair Hera is as goodly and godly as her name implies. She was accused unjustly and maliciously. So… who is to profit from such an accusation?”
“I cannot see how there could be any profit in it,” Smythe replied, with a frown.
“A child lies for attention or amusement,” Shakespeare said. “A villain lies for profit, of one sort or another. There must be something in this to benefit someone.”
“But who could benefit from the ruin of Hera’s reputation?” Smythe asked. “She scarcely even knows anyone in London.”
“I do not think that the ruin of Hera’s reputation was in itself the object,” Shakespeare said. “And whilst I may play the Devil’s advocate in an attempt to keep us honest, like you, Tuck, I believe the girl to be an innocent. All this has the odious scent of malice hanging over it like a miasma. Hera has suffered very greatly from it, nevertheless, I do not think that she was the intended victim. We need to look elsewhere, I believe. Let us dissect this plot to make our augery. We must consider who else, save Hera, has been harmed by this.”
“Well, most immediately, her father, of course,” said Smythe. “And then, after him, Corwin. Assuming he is innocent.”
“Let us proceed on that assumption, for if he is not, then the guilty party is already apprehended and justice shall be done. But if he is innocent, then we must act swiftly to prevent a miscarriage of that justice. So…’tis entirely possible that Master Leonardo had made enemies and that one of them had followed him to England and then done away with him. If so, then perhaps vengeance is the profit that we seek. We must find out if anyone had compelling reason to wish Master Leonardo dead.”
“How would we discover that?” asked Smythe.
“At the moment, I have not the slightest clue,” said Shakespeare. “Even if she were in any state to speak with us, Hera might not know aught of her father’s business dealings and what enemies he might have made. Mayhap Ben could be of some assistance to us, since he knew Master Leonardo best.”
“Or perhaps one of the household servants?” Smythe said. “Surely, he must have had at least one servant, if not more, who had accompanied his daughter and himself from Genoa. Hera did not seem comfortable speaking English, though she seemed to speak it well. She must have had a maidservant, a governess, perhaps, who came to England with her.”
“Of course,” said Shakespeare. “That only stands to reason. So, once more then, we came back to the servants. Let us consider Corwin.”
“He could have enemies, I suppose,” said Smythe. “His rise from apprentice to successful journeyman was swift. He had already made something of a reputation for himself among the fashionable nobility. There may be someone who felt envious, another apprentice, perhaps, who believed that Corwin’s place was rightly his.”
“You are thinking of your friends, the Steady Boys, perhaps?” asked Shakespeare.
“I did not have to think too hard,” said Smythe, touching his bandage. “They have impressed themselves upon my memory.”
“Indeed,” Shakespeare replied. “And I do not for one moment think that murder would be beyond them. They very nearly murdered you. And that aside, there seemed to be little love betwixt Corwin and that Darnley fellow and his sneering friend.”
“Bruce McEnery,” said Smythe. “I’ll not forget either of those names anytime soon.”
“I did not expect you would. Nor shall I, for that matter. I do not have so many friends that I can afford to lose any of them. We both have a score to settle with those two and their misbegotten Steady Boys. But let us not allow our outrage to blind us to our course. They may not have been the culprits.”
“And yet, I could easily see them spreading vile rumors about Hera,” Smythe replied.
“As could I. But then, why would Corwin give any credence to them, considering their source?”
Smythe grimaced. “I am still not ready to dismiss them from our consideration.”
“Very well then, we shall not. But for the moment, let us put the Steady Boys aside, as well. Where does that leave us? Who else is affected by Master Leonardo’s death?”
“We are,” Smythe replied.
“We are?”
“I mean, the Queen’s Men,” Smythe said. “Master Burbage and his son, all of the shareholders and the hired men, even Henry Darcie, for that matter. He is a partner in the Theatre, in which Master Leonardo was going to invest.”
“Very true,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “ ‘Twould seem our list of suspects grows and grows.”
“Oh, you cannot suspect any of the Queen’s Men, surely!” Smythe said. “Or Henry Darcie, for that matter. He may be an insufferable old goat, but he is certainly no murderer.”
“Methinks I am in agreement with you there,” said Shakespeare, “else he would have had you murdered long since for making cow eyes at his daughter.”
“Very funny,” Smythe replied dryly, “but that still does not refute my point. Henry Darcie, for all that he is more full of himself than a baker’s dozen of courtiers and finds me utterly unsuitable to pay court to Elizabeth, is nevertheless a good and decent man, and only stood to lose from Master Leonardo’s death.”
“Did he?” Shakespeare asked.
Smythe frowned. “What do you mean? Of course he d
id! Had Master Leonardo lived, he would have invested in the Theatre, and necessary refurbishments would have been made with his money. As things stand, those refurbishments must still be made, but now, instead of being paid for out of Master Leonardo’s investment, the cost will fall upon Henry Darcie and the Burbages. His death was a great disadvantage to them.”
“Ah, but was it?” Shakespeare said. “Consider this, Tuck: thus far, we have only Henry Darcie’s word that Master Leonardo was eager to invest. ‘Tis quite possible that after seeing the Theatre and then meeting with the company and considering all his options, Master Leonardo had some reservations, or else changed his mind entirely.”
“But Burbage would have known that,” Smythe said.
“Perhaps,” Shakespeare replied. “Or perhaps not. Elizabeth had already taken Hera under her wing, as it were, and thus Henry Darcie had somewhat more to do with Leonardo than Burbage did. Most likely, they were spending more time together, especially since Leonardo had aspirations of advancing himself in London and Darcie would have been more helpful to him in that regard than the Burbages would be. So, if the late, lamented Master Leonardo had reservations about investing in the Theatre, or else had set his mind against it, ‘tis possible that he might only have told Darcie. If so, then Henry Darcie would have been the only one to know that Leonardo was not going to invest.”
“And so what then?” asked Smythe. “He killed him? Or else had him killed? How could he profit by that? Either way, there would be no investment money.”
“Nay, not necessarily so,” Shakespeare replied. “Leonardo had no male heirs, apparently. Hera was his only child. As such, she stands to inherit her father’s wealth. Alone in a strange country, to whom would she turn for guidance if not to the father of her only friend in London?”
“God’s mercy, Will! You cannot believe that, surely! Tis absolutely diabolical!”
“Aye, murder is diabolical, Tuck. I am not saying that I believe it came to pass that way, but I am saying that if we wish to find the truth, we must consider every possible alternative, else the truth, and the real murderer, may easily elude us. We must not allow our sympathies to blind us to any possibility. We must be crafty, canny hunters, you and I, carefully following each spoor that we find, else we shall lose the trail entirely.”