The Slaying Of The Shrew

by Simon Hawke

  Braithwaite chuckled. “You do not care much for this company, I see. And yet, here where each man competes with every other, you have seized everyone’s attention. You stand centerstage, and yet seem to regard it as an imposition.”

  “It amuses you?” asked Shakespeare, glancing at Braithwaite to see if he was being mocked. But it seemed that he was not.

  “If I can say so without giving offense, aye, it does amuse me. But the amusement, I hasten to add, is not at your expense.”

  “I am not offended then.”

  “Good.”

  Shakespeare glanced at him with interest. “Most people, especially in this vaunted company, would not concern themselves overmuch about giving offense to a mere player.”

  “Well, I try not to be careless about whom I may offend,” Braithwaite replied. “That way, I can husband my offenses for those who most deserve them.”

  “Well said.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, sir. What would you have of me?”

  “Why, nothing in particular,” Braithwaite replied.

  “What, not even after my singular announcement at the wake?”

  “ ‘Twas, indeed, singular,” Braithwaite said. “Quite astonishing, in fact.”

  “And in light of it, you have nothing more you wish to ask?”

  “Not at present. I suppose if what you said proves to be the truth… well, frankly, I have absolutely no idea what will occasion then. It should prove quite fascinating. But if what you said turns out to be false, I have a rather better idea of what will occur. Godfrey Middleton will have you whipped for your impertinence and then see you thrown off his estate. That is, assuming you survive the whipping.”

  “Which would you prefer to see, I wonder, Catherine alive or me whipped?”

  “Oh, I would much prefer to see Catherine alive. The ensuing scandal would be absolutely marvelous. And you seem much too fine a fellow to be whipped.”

  “Odd’s blood, Master Braithwaite, ‘tis entirely too likeable for a knight’s son, you are. I may be in danger of aspiring to have a friend above my station.”

  “Never fear, I have no shortage of friends below mine. And those friends call me Andrew.” He offered his hand and Shakespeare took it.

  “Will Shakespeare is my name.”

  “I heard you tell Camden that your name was Marlowe.” “I lied.”

  “I knew that. Among those lowly friends of mine is a certain poet by the name of Marlowe. Camden ’s father has considerable influence. You may have caused Chris some annoyance.”

  “Well… he deserves it.”

  “Aye, he does, at that. He is a scoundrel. But then, I seem to like scoundrels. I generally find them much more entertaining than this lot. We are nearly there, I think. ‘Tis hard to tell. At night, things often neither look nor sound the same.”

  “Indeed. I do not see young Master Holland.”

  “I have not seen him myself since the funeral. But as we are all rivals for Blanche Middleton’s affections, we do not enjoy a particular camaraderie. Perhaps he had retired early and thus missed your dramatic entrance and your speech. If so, then he shall doubtless miss whatever happens next, for we have arrived.”

  They were just behind Middleton and the torchbearers at the head of the procession, and ahead of them they could dimly make out the white stone structure in the clearing that was the Middleton family vault. As they approached it, however, a piercing scream sounded and, for a moment, froze everybody in their tracks. It had been, unmistakably, a woman’s voice.

  “Good God!” Braithwaite exclaimed. “Did that issue from within the crypt?”

  Shakespeare did not respond, however. He was already running towards the door, for he saw that it stood open. Braithwaite was right on his heels, having had enough presence of mind to pause only long enough to grab a torch from one of the servants. They ran past Middleton, who stood rooted to the spot with the others in the vanguard, and Shakespeare was almost to the door when he felt his arm seized from behind.

  “Wait, Will!” Braithwaite said. “Have a care!” He handed him the torch and drew his rapier. “You are unarmed. Stay close behind me.”

  Shakespeare hesitated, then followed him through the door.

  The scene that greeted them within the vault was startling, to say the least. There stood Smythe, holding Elizabeth in his arms. She was sobbing against his chest as he held her close and tried to comfort her. Next to the carved stone pedestal where Catherine’s shrouded body had been placed, awaiting the completion of the coffin, stood a young man Shakespeare had never seen before. He appeared to be about the same age as Smythe, but of a slighter build, cleanshaven, with blonde hair and strong, handsome features that were contorted with misery as he bent over Catherine’s now un-shrouded body, holding it in his arms as he wept unashamedly. But as dramatic a sight as that presented, even more striking was the stark red blood all over Catherine’s snow white gown and the dagger protruding from her chest.

  “Tuck!” said Shakespeare, as soon as he recovered from his initial shock and found his voice. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us! What deviltry is this?”

  “Treachery and murder, Will,” Smythe said, looking shaken. “Murder most foul.”

  Braithwaite stood there with rapier drawn and held ready, looking both stunned and uncertain. Behind them, Middleton and several others came into the chamber.

  “God’s mercy!” Middleton exclaimed, as he beheld the startling tableau before him. “What foul, horrible and loathesome desecration is this! Seize that man!”

  Several of the servants rushed forward and grabbed hold of the young man, prying him away from Catherine’s body. For a moment, he resisted them, holding onto her corpse as if with desperation, then he seemed to resign himself and simply went limp, allowing them to pull him away.

  Middleton’s eyes widened even further as he recognized Elizabeth, who had turned around at the sound of Shakespeare’s voice and now stared at them all with desolation, her ashen face streaked with tears. “ Elizabeth! Dear God in Heaven, what are you doing in here?”

  Her mouth opened as if she were about to reply, but no sound issued forth. It was as if she had lost the power of speech. She could simply find no words.

  “We came in and found her thus,” said Smythe, indicating Catherine’s body, which now lay sprawled at an awkward angle, her head hanging down, the dagger protruding starkly. “ ‘Twas Elizabeth who screamed. Catherine was already dead.”

  “Is this some ill-conceived notion of a joke?” asked Middleton, his face pale and drawn. “My God, man, what else should she be but dead in her own tomb?”

  “That dagger was not there when she was laid to rest earlier this day,” said Smythe.

  “Of course that dagger was not there, you imbecile!” said Middleton, his voice trembling with fury. “Because this… this… foul, perfidious, evil fiend has violated both her tomb and body and thus desecrated my poor dead girl by plunging it within! Oh, horrors! Horrors! What manner of vile beast would mutilate the dead?”

  “Methinks that was not what happened here,” said Braithwaite slowly, gazing at the body curiously. He put away his rapier and approached Catherine’s corpse. “I truly mean no disrespect by what I am about to say, Master Middleton, but as any hunter would readily attest, blood does not gush forth from a carcass as ‘twould from a body freshly slain. And what we have here, I would hazard from my experience at tracking, is blood that seems but freshly spilled within the hour. ‘Twould seem Will Shakespeare spoke the truth in what he told us all tonight. Without a doubt, your daughter was still alive when she was stabbed.”

  “Can this be possible?” said Middleton, his voice strained. “Am I to bury the same daughter twice within the same day? Oh, Heaven! Oh, monstrous spite! Then this foul villain has slain her!”

  “No!” Elizabeth shouted. “No, ‘tis not true! He loved her!”

  “Then from whence came that dagger buried in her breast?” Middlete
on demanded.

  “ Tis mine,” Mason said, dully.

  “John, no!” Elizabeth shouted.

  “There! You see? Convicted out of his own mouth!” cried Middleton, pointing at him. “Venomous wretch! Who are you, that you would visit such vile treachery upon me? What is your name, villain? Speak!”

  “My name is John Mason,” he replied, emptily. “I am… or I have been a groom at Green Oaks. Now… now I am nothing.”

  “A groom! A groom, by God! And at good Sir William’s estate! Incredible! And you…” He turned his wrathful gaze on Elizabeth. “My best friend’s daughter, and I had treated you as if you were my own! Thus do you repay my kindness towards you, by conspiring with this deceitful rogue to seduce my poor daughter and lead her to her ruin! You are as guilty of her death as he is!”

  “Oh, that was base!” Elizabeth said, flushing red with anger. “In your spiteful eagerness to place the blame, you put it everywhere save where it belongs, squarely upon your own shoulders! Had you not tried to force her into a farcical and loveless marriage intended solely to advance your own ambitions, there would have been no need for Catherine to resort to the deception that has led to this sad end! John Mason is no murderer. Look at him! See his face! So utterly undone is he by Catherine’s death that he will not even speak out to defend himself! He did not do this awful thing! If you have him arrested for this crime, then the true criminal shall go free! And God Himself shall judge you for it!”

  “Enough!” said Middleton. “You go too far! This is what comes of too much tolerance and too soft a hand with children! You have said quite enough, Elizabeth! Had you been born a man, so help me, I would seek my satisfaction, but as you are a woman, I will leave you to your father. Let him decide what is to be done with you. Henceforth, you are no longer welcome in my house. You may stay the night, until your father comes for you in the morning, but I shall suffer neither your impertinence nor your presence any longer. Now get out of my sight!”

  “Tuck,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice from breaking, “would you be so kind as to escort me?”

  “Of course,” said Smythe. He glanced at Shakespeare. “Will?”

  Shakespeare nodded and started to walk out with them.

  “Get out, all of you!” shouted Middleton to the others. “Jackals! Get out and let my poor daughter rest in peace!”

  Elizabeth walked quickly with her head held high and Smythe hurried to catch up with her. Shakespeare paused to take a torch from one of the servants, then trotted after them. They quickly outdistanced all the others, who slowly made their way back up the path.

  “ Elizabeth…” Smythe said.

  “I am all right,” she replied, although her voice was strained. “I am more afraid for John. What shall they do to him?”

  “I do not think they shall do anything, for the present,” Smythe replied. “Middleton will likely have him locked up somewhere, until he can be delivered to the authorities in London.”

  “I would agree,” said Shakespeare. “ ‘Tis likely that he shall turn him over to Sir William, since he is his servant, and let Sir William make proper dispensation of his fate.”

  “But John is innocent!” Elizabeth said. “You know he did not do it, Tuck.”

  “In truth, Elizabeth, I do not know it for a certainty. And he did admit the dagger was his own. How else should it have gotten there?”

  “Because he left it there for her! He was concerned that she might be defenseless in the tomb and so we arranged to leave it hidden there for her in case she should awake and feel frightened, or in the event that robbers should come to steal her jewelry.”

  “Then why did he not say so?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Because he no longer cares what may become of him!” Elizabeth replied. “He loved Catherine with all his heart! He hated the whole idea of this plan, despised it and said ‘twas much too dangerous. He wanted simply to run away with her, instead. And now he blames himself. You saw him! A part of him died along with her! But you know he did not do this, Tuck! You were there with us!”

  “Aye, for a time,” said Smythe. “Because I had followed you, I know when you met him at the vault, but I cannot say when he got there. ‘Tis possible that he had come there earlier, which means that he could have found Catherine when she awoke, and then slain her for some reason that we do not know.”

  “You cannot believe that, surely!”

  “ Elizabeth, I do not know John Mason. I have never before laid eyes on him until this night. But while I admit ‘tis possible he may have killed her, I do not believe he did.”

  “What reasons have you for thinking so?” asked Shakespeare.

  “Several,” Smythe replied. “For one thing, I am inclined to believe Elizabeth. While I did not have much speech with Mason, he struck me as a decent sort. I do not think he is a killer. And I have no doubt that he loved Catherine.”

  “ ‘Twould not be the first time a love had led to murder,” Shakespeare said.

  “Perhaps not,” said Smythe, “but there would have to be some reason for it and there is none here that I can see. The whole plan was designed so that Catherine and he could safely go away together and never be pursued. If his love were so intense and feverish that he might have gone mad if she were to change her mind at the last moment, then I suppose ‘tis possible he might have killed her. Yet, if Catherine were to change her mind, for whatever reason, the time to do so would have been before she took the potion. Otherwise, why take the risk?”

  “Why, indeed?” said Shakespeare. “Your reasoning is sound. Well done. And I agree completely.”

  “And there is one more thing that makes me doubt his guilt,” said Smythe.

  “And what is that?”

  “The fact that someone tried to kill me tonight while I was following Elizabeth to the vault.”

  “What?” Elizabeth exclaimed. “And you never said a thing about it!”

  “ ‘Twas not the time, I thought. And I wanted to see what would occur between you two.”

  “What do you mean someone tried to kill you?” Shakespeare asked, with concern. “How?”

  “With a crossbow,” Smythe replied. “And whoever shot that bolt damn near put it through my eye.”

  “Good Lord!” said Shakespeare.

  “Nearly killed!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “And you said nothing!” “There seemed no reason to say anything about it then. I had thought he saw an opportunity to strike and followed me out from the house, for I heard someone running back toward it after the bolt was shot. Now, however, it occurs to me that whoever shot at me may have been coming back to the house from the tomb, instead.”

  “Then would I have not seen him on the path?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Not if he heard you coming and hid until you had passed.”

  “I do not understand,” Elizabeth said. “Why would someone wish to kill you?”

  “Because I had overheard their plot,” said Smythe.

  “What plot? What on Earth are you talking about?”

  “ Elizabeth, do you remember when I told you that ‘twas I who shouted out to warn you there were others present in the maze that night? There were two men… unfortunately, I never saw them, for there was a hedge between us, but I had overheard them plotting. One of them said to the other that with Catherine out of the way, he would be free to make his move. The plot, it seems, was to impersonate a nobleman and his son, then seek to secure Middle-ton’s consent for Blanche’s hand in marriage. The prize would be Blanche, herself, and of course, her dowry, which would likely be considerable, especially if Middleton believed that he were dealing with a nobelman. I heard no further, for I had made some noise and gave myself away, whereupon they tried to run me through with their rapiers right through the hedge.”

  Elizabeth gave a gasp and stopped, staring at him with alarm. “Then twice someone has tried to kill you!”

  Smythe took her arm and moved her along, not wishing any of the others to catch up and overhear them. �
��True, they have tried twice, and they may yet try thrice if I cannot unmask them. But… here is my point. I know they were in the maze that night. And now I also know they must have seen me, for they now know who I am, which puts me at a considerable disadvantage. What if they had also overheard what you discussed with Mason? Then they would have known about the plan you made with Catherine. And they would have known that Catherine was not truly dead.”

  “But if everyone believed that she were dead, and she was going away with John, then what purpose would be served in killing her?” Elizabeth asked.

  “To divert attention and suspicion from themselves,” said Shakespeare.

  “Precisely,” Smythe agreed. “We are clearly dealing with coldblooded men who shall stop at nothing to achieve their ends.”

  “You must tell Godfrey Middleton about this!”

  “He already knows, Elizabeth. As does Sir William. We have told them both about it and have their charge to do anything we can to help get to the bottom of it.”

  “He knows about it?” she replied, with amazement. “Then why in God’s name does he blame John?”

  “Because he is distraught, Elizabeth. Give the poor man some consideration. He has had a daughter murdered twice in the same day. And then there is his outrage over John being her lover, and worse yet, being a lowly groom.”

  “A neighbor’s groom,” said Shakespeare. “A neighbor with whom he fancies himself to be in competition.”

  “And do not forget John admitted that the dagger stuck in Catherine’s breast was his,” added Smythe. “Under the circumstances, can anyone blame Middleton for reaching the conclusion that he did? In time, when he has had a chance to recover from this heavy blow, then Middleton shall no doubt see reason and reach the same conclusions that we have. But in the meantime, we must do what we can to find the real killer.”

  “And, with any luck, do so without being killed ourselves,” Shakespeare added, wryly. “God’s wounds, but this has been a day to try a man’s soul! Just when I think that things cannot possibly get any worse, they promptly do!”