Simon Hawke - Shakespeare and Smythe 04 - Merchant of Vengeance (v1. html).

by The Merchant of Vengeance (v1. 0) (mobi)

  Elizabeth sighed and shook her head once more. “I cannot say. ‘Tis not so long ago I would have said that Henry Mayhew certainly did not strike me as a man who would be capable of murder, but I have since discovered that one simply cannot tell such things from appearances and that people one might never think capable of doing such terrible things are, indeed, capable of them and more.”

  “So then he may have done it,” said Antonia. “Or else he may have paid to have it done. Is that what she believes?”

  “I am afraid so,” said Elizabeth. “What does one tell a girl who thinks her father killed the man she loved?”

  “I do not know,” Antonia replied. “‘What has her father said to this?”

  “Thus far, he has said nothing,” said Elizabeth.

  Antonia frowned. “Does he even know that she is herd”

  Elizabeth nodded. “He knows. I sent a servant to him with a letter, so that he would know that she was safe with me. It seemed the proper thing to do. Had I a daughter who ran off somewhere, and I did not know where she was, I would be frantic with concern.”

  Antonia nodded. “You did the right thing. And how did he respond?”

  “See for yourself,” Elizabeth replied, picking up a letter and passing it to her. “This came but a few hours ago.”

  With a look of interest, Antonia took the letter, unfolded it, and read:

  My dear Elizabeth,

  I have received your letter and was gratified to learn that Portia had decided to spend some time upon a visit with you. Doubtless, your pleasant company shall be of benefit to her and help assuage her distress over recent unfortunate events. The sheriff's men had paid me a visit, as they did you, it seems, and I informed them that there was little more that I could add to what they apparently already knew, but that I would remain at their service if they should require anything further of me in their inquiries. They thanked me respectfully and took their leave.

  & to my daughter’s future, the present uncertainty of which has likely been the cause of her distress, you may inform her that she is ever in my thoughts, and that I have already taken certain steps that will assure her welfare and grant her even greater prospects than she may have earlier expected. With warmest wishes of regard and good will toward your family, I remain, as ever, yours sincerely,

  Henry Mayhew

  “Well, upon my word,” said Antonia, as she finished reading the missive, “he does not seem much concerned. What do you suppose he means when he writes that he has ‘taken certain steps that will assure her welfare’?”

  “I can only take that to mean that he has already found another suitor for his daughter,” Elizabeth replied.

  “So soon?”

  “Aye, he did not waste any time,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot imagine how I shall tell Portia.”

  “You mean to say she has not seen this letter?” Antonia asked, holding it up.

  “I have been afraid to show it to her. There is no telling how she may respond.”

  “Well, you cannot keep it from her,” said Antonia. “She shall find out eventually, from her father if not from you. And the sooner she knows, the better, I should think. ‘Tis time that she learned to accept things as they are.”

  “That was rather an unfeeling sentiment,” Elizabeth replied, a bit taken aback. “She is still grieving for the man she loved.”

  “Then let her don her mourning black, thus giving death its due, and go on about her life,” Antonia said.

  “Antonia! How can you be so harsh?”

  “Oh, truly, Elizabeth, ‘tis not my intent to sound hard-hearted.” she replied, “but Portia simply must accept that Thomas is dead and there is naught that she can do to bring him back. And if she believes that he died by her father’s hand or else by his will, then even so, what can she do about it? Is there proof she may present? And if, by some chance, she has such proof, would she present it, accusing her own father? And even if she could, what good would come of it? Who would convict a father for seeking to protect his daughter from disgrace? Who would even fault him for it?” She held up the letter once again. “He writes here in this very letter that the sheriff’s men had come to see rum. From the sound of it, they spoke to him respectfully and he answered them in kind; thus they were satisfied and took their leave. And there it shall end, Elizabeth. There it shall end. Regardless of what we may suspect, officially the murderer shall remain unknown. Thomas was a young journeyman of much promise but of little means, and a Jew, at that. Henry Mayhew is a prominent and wealthy merchant and a Christian. What more is there to say?”

  “There is something more to say for Portia, surely,” said Elizabeth.

  “Very well, then let us say it,” Antonia replied. “She is her father’s daughter and must do her duty, as must we all. My father never sought my counsel or consent when he arranged for me to marry. Nor do most fathers do so. And for all of your poetic and romantic notions about love, Elizabeth, the day will come when your father, too, shall decide upon a husband for you, before you become too old for him to marry off and he is settled with a spinster. You and I have talked of this before. Marrying for love is fine for the more common sort of people, but we must be more serious and practical. And the sooner Portia comes to understand that and accept it, the better off she shall be. That is my advice to you, Elizabeth. Do with it what you will, but know this: Neither Portia’s father nor yours shall remain patient forever.”

  “And why, pray tell, should it be a matter of their patience?” replied Elizabeth, her temper flaring up. “Why is it a daughter’s place to do her duty by her father and not a father’s place to do his duty by his daughter? ‘Tis a parent who brings a child into the world, and I should think ’tis a parent’s duty to ensure that child is nurtured and protected. Why must a daughter grow up to be little better than a slave, destined to marry a man she did not choose, and to spend the remainder of her life at his beck and call, while a man may do whatever he desires?”

  “Oh, Elizabeth, there are ways for a woman to do what she desires also, if she does so with careful judgement and discretion,” said Antonia. “Look around you at this handsome home. Is this truly what you call living like a slave? You have servants, for God’s sake. You have never raised a hand to do anything much more demanding than embroidery! Methinks you see too much of your-self in Portia’s plight, if we may truly call it plight. Indeed, how different has her life been thus far? Her father is one of London’s richest merchants, and from what he writes in his letter, ‘twould seem that he has made arrangements for a marriage for her that would improve her prospects even further. She shall marry a rich man of good standing and live a pleasant life of indolence, waited on by servants hand and foot, in return for which, in all likelihood, she shall be required to do nothing more than help entertain his friends and give birth upon occasion. This is a desperate plight? Good Lord! However shall we save her?”

  Elizabeth stared at her friend, her mouth set in a right grimace. “I perceive that I have made a mistake,” she said after a moment. “I called upon you because I believed that you would care enough to help, but I see now that you do not care at all. Forgive me, Antonia. I did not mean to waste your time.”

  Antonia raised her eyebrows. “Well, I see I have offended you, though such was not my intent. Should I take that as a dismissal, then?”

  “Take it any way you please,” Elizabeth said curtly, turning away from her.

  Antonia gazed at her for a moment, her head cocked thoughtfully, then she sniffed, stood, and made her way outside, back to her carriage, without saying another word.

  Elizabeth heard the door shut behind her and bit her lower lip. She felt tom. She felt angry with herself for having become angry, and at the same time she felt justified in feeling so. She had known Antonia for a long time. Though she was a few years older, they had grown up together and she had always considered Antonia one of her closest friends. And even though she had not seen Antonia as often since her marriage, she certainly knew
her much better than she did Portia. Yet it was to Portia that her heart went out, while Antonia had shown her a side of her character that seemed harsh and insensitive, even a little cruel. And that both surprised and disappointed her.

  Yet at the same time, she had to admit that Antonia was not entirely in the wrong. Elizabeth had to acknowledge that she lived a life of privilege, as did Portia. Yet she was still dissatisfied with her lot in life. So did that make her ungrateful? Or was there, in fact, more to life than simply being well taken care of? Had every need truly been supplied?

  If a woman were provided with a home, however comfortable that home might be, and if she were well fed and clothed and granted every material comfort that she might desire, then did that mean that she should not wish for anything more—or, if she did desire something further, pursue such desires quietly. “with careful judgement and discretion”?

  Elizabeth looked inside herself… looked hard… and found that she could not accept that. It just did not seem right. “Gild a cage howsoever you may choose,” she murmured to herself, “and yet still ‘twill be a cage. Forge chains from gold or silver, and yet still they will be chains.” At the same time, she reminded herself that her own chains, such as they were, were certainly of silver, if not gold, and she wore them fairly lightly. There were many women whose lives were far more difficult than hers. She truly had very little about which to complain.

  And yet… there was that cage. Let a woman try to step outside, she thought, and the world would gently usher her back in, or else revile her for a shrew and chastise her accordingly. If only I were born a man, she thought… and then realised that even if, by some strange and supernatural twist of fate, she could somehow have been given such a choice, it was not what she would have chosen. She would no more wish to be a man than she would wish to be a horse. No, what she wanted was the freedom that went with being a man. She wondered if the day would ever come when women could enjoy such freedom. Most likely, it would not, she thought. Men would never allow it. And women like Antonia would continue having to resort to “careful judgement and discretion.” Perhaps, as Antonia had advised, that was what she should do, as well.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when one of the servants entered and announced, “Mistress, there is a Master Symington Smythe to see Miss Portia.”

  She turned. ‘To see Miss Portia?“

  “Aye, mistress, that was what he said.”

  She frowned. Why would Tuck come to see Portia and not ask to see her first? “Show him in, Albert,” she replied.

  “Aye, mistress.”

  A moment later, Albert announced the visitor once more.

  “Master Symington Smythe,” he said.

  But instead of Tuck, to her surprise, a man that she had never seen before came in.

  “How do you do, Madame?” he said, with a slight bow. “Symington Smythe II, Esquire, at your service. Have I the honour and the pleasure of addressing Mistress Portia Mayhew?”

  Chapter 8

  The rain had abated slightly by the time Smythe and Shakespeare reached the London Bridge, but the sky was dark and the wind had picked up significantly, producing a sheering effect that came and went with the irregular gusts. There were still a few wherries out on the Thames, but there was a strong chop out on the water, and most of the boats had pulled in to await a lessening of the storm.

  The water moving through the narrow arches between the twenty stone piers supporting the bridge was flowing very rapidly and churning with foam. Originally constructed from a ring of wooden beams driven into the riverbed, forming an enclosure that was then filled with rock and crossbeams, the piers had been rebuilt with stone, along with the rest of the bridge, and then widened a number of times over the years until the openings between them were made narrow enough to cause rapids underneath the archways of the bridge. Even wherry-men were wary of trying to “shoot the arches” at ebb tide, and among those who had tried, not a few had drowned. At flood tide, the arches were impassable.

  As Smythe and Shakespeare stepped out onto the bridge, they could hear the loud creaking of the water-wheels powering the corn-mills beneath some of the archways. Two arches out from the south bank of the river stood the Great Stone Gate of London Bridge, originally constructed to help defend the city. Like a medieval castle, it was a gatehouse with large and heavy wooden doors set in a Gothic-arched opening with a portcullis. About a hundred years earlier, the stone gatehouse had collapsed. It had been rebuilt, but ever since, the citizens of London gathering in alehouses sang a traditional song about how London Bridge was “falling down.”

  It was at the Great Stone Gate that heads of traitors were displayed on iron spikes, where they were left to rot and moulder and be picked at by the rooks until nothing but bone was left and the skull was eventually pitched into the river. Shakespeare paused at one such head as they came up to the gate, gazing at it quizzically.

  “I do not seem to remember who this fellow is, do you?” he asked Smythe, as he contemplated the wet and rotting head, all but unrecognizable now after the ravages of the crows, the elements, and decomposition.

  “It looks a bit like Kemp, methinks,” said Smythe.

  “‘Strewth, and so it does! Ah, alas, poor Kemp! I knew him, Tuck. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy! Where be your gibes now, Kemp? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the groundlings in a roar, eh! What, nothing to say? Or have you forgot your lines again? Speak up!”

  Smythe laughed. “I do not think. he can hear you, Will.”

  “What, drunk. and senseless once again? Dead to the world?

  Pah! You are of no use to me, Kemp! Nay, none at all! Stay here and rot, then. Let the crows pick ant your eyes.“ He peered closer at the head. ”Oh. I see that they already have. Well, never mind, then.“

  Smythe laughed once more. “Come on, then, Will, before we get soaked through to the skin. ‘Tis a warm fire and a heady brew for me.”

  “You hear that, Kemp? We are going now to drink with men who know how to hold their grog. No room for the likes of you, you old reprobate. Go back to the Lord Admiral’s Men, for we have had our fill of you.”

  In good spirits, they passed through the gate together, entering upon the main thoroughfare of the bridge, which was lined with buildings on both sides. These were shops and houses constructed on the bridge itself of timber frames with wattle-and-daub walls. The wooden counters that folded down and out from the shops front windows were now folded up and shut against the weather, of course, which made the bridge appear like a residential block that spanned the Thames, rather than the marketplace it more closely resembled on a sunny day.

  There were several galleries that spanned the bridge from one side to the other, connecting the third stories of some of the buildings and allowing residents to cross over. And as in many of the streets throughout the city, the upper floors of many of the houses hung out over the thoroughfare. With the exception of the drawbridge, it looked just like many another street running through the city, save that it was straighter than most.

  On this day, with the weather as beastly as it was, there was not as much traffic on the bridge as usual, and there were only a few pedestrians moving along quickly through the rain. Each year, it seemed, the traffic in the city continued to grow worse and worse. Sometimes, the streets became so congested that traffic came to an absolute standstill and fights broke out. On a day like this, however, even Londoners long accustomed to the rain and cold had hurried to find shelter somewhere inside.

  “Ah, ‘tis a marvellous day, Will, a marvellous day!” said Smythe, spreading out his arms as if to embrace the weather.

  “‘Tis a very wet day, if you ask me,” Shakespeare replied. “’Tis a marvellous day if you are a turtle.”

  “Well, then I must be part turtle, for I love walking in the rain.” said Smythe. “It reminds me of walks I took through the forest in my childhood. On such days as this, Will, do you not find yourself mis
sing your home in Stratford?”

  “I seldom find myself missing my home in Stratford,” Shakespeare replied. “My wife is at my home in Stratford. And I suspect she seldom finds herself. missing me, either.”

  “Well, marriage is not for everyone, perhaps,” said Smythe with a shrug.

  “Happiness is not for everyone,” said Shakespeare. “Marriage, on the other hand, is a most democratic institution.”

  “One that not all people live to experience,” said Smythe.

  “I see that you are thinking of Thomas Locke again.”

  “Aye. Regardless of my disposition, he keeps returning to haunt my thoughts, like some poor, benighted ghost.”

  Shakespeare shook his head. “‘Twill do you no good to dwell upon it, you know,” he said.

  “Perhaps. But arc you not in the least bit curious what will come of it all?” asked Smythe.

  “I have found, in general, that such curiosity can be decidedly unhealthy,” Shakespeare said. “I have found so in particular since meeting you. In truth, I would have been perfectly satisfied to have remained completely in ignorance of the entire affair.”

  “And yet ‘twas your curiosity, in a manner of speaking, that led to it,” said Smythe.

  “My curiosity? However so?”

  “You wanted to learn something of the Jews,” said Smythe. “‘Twas why we went to visit Ben Dickens in the first place, if you will recall.”

  “I was merely trying to learn something about them as a people, the better to enable me to write about a Jew, so that I would not do quite as laughable a job as Marlowe did.”

  “The audiences at The Jew of Malta were not laughing.”

  “Well, they should have been,” Shakespeare replied. “That they were not merely goes to prove that they do not know any better.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Smythe, “‘twas still your curiosity that took us to Ben Dickens’s shop, where we met Thomas, which was where this whole thing began.”