by Simon Hawke
“Aye, but then at least I would have been able to swear to Corwin’s innocence,” said Dickens. “And as matters stand, I cannot say that I know in my heart that he could not have done it. Fie upon me for a false friend! Never would he have doubted me!”
“Perhaps not, but you cannot truly know that, Ben,” said Smythe. “Were your roles reversed, Corwin might well be blaming himself even now for suspecting that you could be a murderer. Can any man truly know what another man may do when the blood runs hot and overwhelms his reason? Perhaps no man even knows what he may do himself in such a circumstance. Either way, it makes no difference. Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that you had followed him that night, and that when the two of you left here together, Master Leonardo was still alive. Then you could swear to that at Corwin’s trial, of course. But everybody knows that for the price of only a few crowns, men can be bribed to bear false witness. They can be found in Paul’s Walk every day, waiting to sell their honor for the price of a meal and a few drinks. And ‘tis well known that you are Corwin’s friend, and a mercenary, to boot. I mean you no offense, Ben, but ‘tis doubtful that your word would bear much weight in his defense.”
“The only thing that matters is that we find out what truly happened here that night,” said Shakespeare. “You said that you have spoken with the servants?”
“Aye, and they could tell me nothing.”
“But they were here that night?” said Shakespeare.
“They say so.”
“And they saw nothing? They heard nothing?”
Dickens merely shrugged and shook his head.
“How is that possible?” asked Shakespeare, frowning. “Servants commonly know everything that goes on inside the house wherein they work. I would like to speak with them myself.”
“Do as you wish,” said Dickens. “If you discover aught, then I shall stand a ready listener.”
They went back downstairs, where the servents waited anxiously, as if not knowing what else to do.
“Where are the other servants of the house?” asked Shakespeare, speaking to the wispy-haired man who’d let them in.
“We are all here, milord,” the man said, glancing around nervously.
“What, just the three of you?” asked Shakespeare, frowning again. The two women stood close together, clutching their aprons anxiously.
“Aye, milord,” the man replied. “We are all the servants in this house.”
“What is your name?” Shakespeare asked him.
“I am called Edward Budge, milord.”
“And the women?”
“This here is Mary Alastair, milord,” he replied, indicating each with a gesture, “and this is Elaine Howard.”
“You are both English,” Shakespeare said.
“Aye, milord,” they both replied nervously, almost but not quite in unison. They bobbed in a slight curtsy.
“Was there not a Genoan lady in this house?” asked Shakespeare. “A governess or maidservant for Master Leonardo’s daughter?”
“Nay, milord, we was all there is,” replied the one called Mary. “The mistress did for herself, she did.”
“Aye, very good to us, she was, milord,” added Elaine. “A kind soul with a good heart is our Mistress Hera; never spoke a cross word to any of us. Never struck us, neither.”
“Aye, she wouldn’t ask us to do anything she wouldn’t do herself,” added Mary. As they spoke, they both kept glancing at Edward, as if for reassurance. He nodded in agreement.
“How very strange,” said Shakespeare, puzzled. He looked at Ben. “You came to England aboard ship with Master Leonardo and his daughter, did you not?”
“Aye, I did,” said Dickens.
“And did they bring no servants with them from Genoa at all?”
Dickens looked blank for a moment. “Now that you mention it, I do not recall there being any servants attending them aboard ship, although for most of the voyage Hera had remained below, struck with the sea sickness. I may have assumed that there was someone taking care of her, but in truth, I do not believe I ever gave the matter any thought, one way or the other.”
“It never struck you as peculiar that a wealthy man such as Master Leonardo would be traveling without servants?” Shakespeare asked.
Dickens shook his head. “I suppose not. ‘Twas his ship we sailed upon. Doubtless, with his crew, he had no need of servants on the voyage.”
“That could be,” admitted Shakespeare. “But it does strike me as peculiar that he would bring no one along to attend upon his daughter. And that he would maintain only three servants here in London.”
“Perhaps, with a modest house like this, he did not require more,” said Dickens.
“Aye, ‘tis a modest enough house for a wealthy man,” Shakespeare agreed. “We had been discussing that before. I suppose that I understand a man of means choosing to live in a home such as this if his needs were few and simple, or else if he had planned to purchase or build a better house at some point in the near future. Nevertheless, I still find it passing strange that he should choose to live so simply. After all, he had retired from his life at sea to live a more comfortable, settled life on land. And yet, observe these furnishings. Boarded stools and chests, likewise a cupboard, all pegged with wood or nailed… not a single piece of jointed furniture, not one carved or upholstered chair. That chest upstairs, which you had splintered with your boot…’tis the sort of simple, inexpensive, boarded chest that you or I might own. The one good, solid piece here was that old sea chest that was upended in the bedroom, with the clothes all tumbled out of it and strewn about. Everything else here is poor-man’s furniture… made of common boarded oak, left plain, and stained with linseed oil.”
“So what then?” asked Ben. “That only goes to show that Leonardo was a frugal man.”
“Methinks I would say more than frugal,” Shakespeare replied. “I would say he pinched his pennies so tightly that the queen winced.”
“That is often how a man of modest means becomes a wealthy man,” said Dickens. “And old habits die hard.”
“Perhaps,” said Smythe, as a new idea occurred to him. “Or else that is how a man of very little means makes himself out to seem a wealthy man.”
“What, are you suggesting that Leonardo had no money?” Dickens said. “Nonsense! He was the master of his own merchant ship, which he had sold for a handsome profit upon coming to England!”
“Aye, and we may be standing in the midst of those profits,” said Smythe, looking around at their surroundings. “And ‘tis possible that they were not nearly so handsome as you think.”
Shakespeare turned back to the servants. “Edward, tell us, when you hired on with Master Leonardo, did he pay your wages in advance?”
“Aye, milord,” the servent replied. “A week’s wages for each of us.”
“Only a week?”
“Aye,” Edward replied. “ ‘Twas to be a trial period. We were to be paid a week’s wages at a time until the master had decided we were suitable, and then we were promised that arrangements more to our advantage would be made.”
“And your wages included room and board, of course?” asked Shakespeare.
“Well… they would, in a month’s time,” said Edward. “Once we had proved our suitability.”
Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances. “So then you did not sleep here?” Smythe asked.
“Why… no, milord.”
“Neither did you eat here?” Shakespeare asked.
“No, milord,” Edward replied, a bit more tentatively. He suddenly looked uncomfortable.
Shakespeare immediately followed up, watching the man carefully. “Where did you dine?”
“Why… we all dined together at the nearby tavern,” Edward said, glancing at them nervously, his eyes darting back and forth. “The ordinaries are very reasonable there.”
“And the ale too, no doubt,” said Smythe.
Before the man could reply, Shakespeare quickly asked, “How long we
re you gone to supper the night Master Leonardo was killed?”
They noticed that the women had gone very still. They both looked pale and Mary’s lower lip had started trembling. They both looked frightened as they clutched each other’s hands tightly. Edward did not look much better.
“Why… why, not long at all,” stammered Edward. “No longer than usual, I am quite certain…”
“You were out drinking and carousing,” said Smythe, fixing him with a hard look.
“Nay, milord, we were not!” protested Edward, blinking. “We only went to supper! Honest!”
“You are lying, Edward,” Smythe said, stepping up close and looming over him. “You were out drinking.”
“Nay, ‘tisn’t true! We only went to supper!” Edward protested, but he swallowed hard and retreated back against the wall, looking panicked.
“You were in the tavern, drinking and carousing,” Shakespeare said, “all three of you.” He turned to the women, who were now both trembling and crying. “We shall go to the Devil Tavern and inquire of the tavernkeeper. I am quite certain that he will recall what transpired that night, as everyone has heard of it by now. No doubt he will remember you. And then you three shall all be going to the devil!”
“We didn’t kill him! We swear!” wailed Mary, sinking to her knees and clutching at Shakespeare’s doublet. Elaine simply started blubbering.
“Shut up, you fools!” shouted Edward.
Smythe grabbed him by the front of his doubtlet and slammed him back against the wall, hard enough to stun him momentarily and silence him.
“We didn’t do it! I swear we didn’t!” Mary sobbed. “I swear, so help me God!”
“Please, sir! Please!” was all that Elaine was able to manage.
“Bloody hell!” said Dickens. “ ‘Twas the servants murdered him! They murdered him to get his money!”
“We never did! I swear we never did!” cried Mary, desperately.
“Nay,” said Shakespeare, shaking his head as he looked down at Mary, “they did not kill him. He was already dead when they returned.”
She looked up at him with disbelief and awe, as if he were her guardian angel suddenly descended from on high. “Oh, God be praised, sir, ‘tis true! ‘Tis true! God bless you, sir, ‘tis true, I swear it on my life!”
“You are swearing it on your life, you slattern,” Dickens told her. “And ‘tis a life that will be forfeit!” He looked at Shakespeare. “Surely, you do not believe this lying wench?”
“Aye, I do believe her,” Shakespeare said, quietly, looking down at her with pity. “Think you that they would have remained within this house until Hera had returned, all the while knowing that their master was lying dead upstairs?”
Edward glanced from Smythe to Shakespeare and then back again. He had the look of a drowning man who had just been thrown a rope. “ ‘Twas just how it happened, milords, ‘tis true! Honest! We never knew that he was dead! We never did!”
“And you became convinced you would be blamed,” said Shakespeare, “unless you all swore to it that you were here when Corwin left the house.”
“What strange mystery is this?” demanded Dickens. He glanced at Smythe. “What the devil is he talking about?”
“I see it now,” said Smythe. “They have all lied out of fear to save themselves.”
“You believe that they have lied before and yet they are not lying now?” asked Dickens. “What, am I the only one here who has not taken leave of his senses? I understand none of this!”
“Season your admiration for a while with an attentive ear, Ben,” Shakespeare said, “and I shall deliver unto you the tale of what they did that night, and they shall stay my story and redirect me if I wander from the truth. Is that not right, Mary?”
She nodded several times as he gently helped her to her feet.
“Listen well and correct me if I stray,” he told her, and then he looked at Ben. “A week’s wages was what Master Leonardo paid them, by their own account,” he said. “And week by week, they would be paid thus until they had proved their suitability, at which point, arrangements more to their advantage would be made. Such was the promise.”
He glanced at Mary for confirmation and she nodded several times, emphatically. “Well,” he continued, “for the first few days, they did endeavor to be most suitable, indeed. ‘Tis not easy, after all, to get good work in London nowadays. But as the week drew near a close, and more wages looked to be forthcoming, they felt the need to celebrate. Their positions seemed secure and excellent. Their master did not seem to demand too much of them; likewise their mistress, who was land to them and asked nothing of them that she would not do herself. A servant could certainly do a great deal worse.
“So then,” he went on, “with the week drawing to a close, they decided, as was their custom of an evening, to go to their suppers in the tavern, where they lingered for a while to drink a toast or two or three to their good fortune. By now, after nearly a week, they had learned the regular habits of their master, who as a seafaring man for many years was no doubt an early riser so went early off to bed. They had also learned that Hera had found herself a friend, Elizabeth Darcie, with whom she often spent her evenings, and that these evenings went so pleasantly that Hera often stayed quite late, returning in a carriage that Henry Darcie had most likely provided for her use. Thus, there was no harm in staying out a little late to have their celebration. They had intended to be back before their mistress had returned.”
All three of the servants were now staring at Shakespeare, speechless with disbelief, as if he were some sort of sorcerer, divining precisely what had happened on that night.
“They left the house just as Corwin was arriving,” Shakespeare continued. “Thus did they know that he had been there. They had, of course, seen him before, and so knew who he was, for he was courting Hera. They admitted him to see Master Leonardo, and told him that they were going off to supper. Doubtless, he told them that he would be letting himself out. Likely, he was glad that they were leaving, for he doubtless wished to speak privately with Leonardo, and thus avoid making a scene before the servants. And so, off they went to supper, and then stayed to celebrate a while. When they returned, the house was quiet, and so they naturally assumed their master had retired for the night. Before long, they knew, Hera would return, and then they would be able to go home. And so it was. Hera returned, then went upstairs to say good night to her father, as was her custom, and they heard her screams when she discovered him dead. The rest you know. She went running through the streets in a panic to the Darcie house, the carriage having already returned. Edward, fearful that some greater misfortune might befall her, followed.
“Thereafter,” Shakespeare concluded, “it did not take him very long to realize how things stood. Clearly, he thought, after Corwin had arrived, he and Leonardo must have quarreled and then Corwin killed him. But they had not seen him depart, for they had not been present. When Hera came home later that night, they were there, having returned, unaware that Leonardo already lay dead upstairs. Corwin must have done it. Who else could it have been? Edward realized that they had to swear they saw Corwin leave the house, and that Leonardo had been alive when he arrived, else they themselves might be suspected of the murder. And therein lies the rub. They all swore that they saw Corwin leave the house, when they were never there to see it. And that means Master Leonardo could still have been alive when Corwin left, and that someone else came here to do the deed and leave unwitnessed.”
“Oh, great merciful Heaven protect my soul, can this be true?” said Edward, going deathly pale. “Have I borne false witness against an innocent man?”
“You have borne false witness, Edward, one way or the other,” Shakespeare replied, “and there are penalties for that in both this life and the next which all three of you may now incur. Your only hope now to extricate yourselves from this terrible predicament is to tell us the entire truth.”
“We shall do just as you say, milord,” said Edward
, meekly.
“We need to know everything that occurred that night,” said Shakespeare, his gaze encompassing all three servants. “You must recount to us each thing you saw and did and heard, down to the most minute detail, from the time that you last saw your poor master alive to the time Hera came back and found him dead. And do not leave out anything, no matter how unimportant or insignificant it may seem to you, for somewhere in betwixt those times, the foul deed of murder was done, and we have much to do in order to ferret out the truth, and precious little time in which to do it.”
10
THEY WALKED TOGETHER DOWN THE rain-slicked, cobbled street, heading toward the Devil Tavern. It had started to drizzle and the damp, chilly breeze coming in off the river made them draw their cloaks around themselves and pull their hats down low to avoid having them blown off. It was a gray and gloomy sort of day, an early herald of autumn’s approach. However, despite the dismal weather, their spirits were unclouded. For the first time there was now a faint, tentative ray of hope beaming in on Corwin’s fate.
“I was hoping to hear his version of what happened on that night,” Dickens was saying, “but the prison warders would not allow me in to see him at the Marshalsea, where he is held, awaiting trial. And no one has said how soon that trial may be. For all we know, it could be on the morrow, or a month or more away. ‘Twould seem that once a man’s been thrown in prison, his fate is as chaff upon the wind. No one much cares what may become of him, save for his family and friends, and unless they have some influence, there is nothing much that they can do.”
“Well, we may not be without some influence,” said Smythe, “though I am loathe to use it prematurely. I would prefer to wait until it can truly do some good.”
“You mean Sir William?” Shakespeare said.
Smythe nodded. “Aye. A word from him to his friend, Sir Francis Walsingham, would open nearly any door.”
“Do you mean Sir William Worley?” Dickens asked, with surprise. “But he is one of the richest and most powerful men in England!”