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

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

  The masters of the guild were all at their places on the dais.

  Moll Cutpurse had rejoined them. Mayhew sat where Shakespeare had left him, at the table. He looked a little haggard, but someone had brought him a pitcher of ale and some bread and cheese. He had not touched the bread and cheese, but he had partaken liberally of the ale. His tankard was half full and the pitcher was half empty.

  “Do not go getting yourself drunk,” Shakespeare told him. “Why the hell not?” asked Mayhew with a grimace. Shakespeare opened his mouth, then shut it once again.

  “‘Strewth, you have a point. I cannot think of a single reason.”

  “Nor could I,” said Mayhew. He quaffed the remainder of the ale in his tankard and poured himself another.

  Locke struck his hammer on the table several times. “Master Shakespeare, are you prepared to begin?”

  “I am,” Shakespeare replied, rising to his feet.

  “Proceed, then.”

  “I should like to call for my first witness my good friend Tuck Smythe,” he said.

  Tuck got up and walked over to the seat placed before the dais. “Do you swear before God, upon pain of your immortal soul, that what you say before this court shall be the truth?” asked Locke.

  “I do,” said Smythe.

  “Be seated.”

  “Would you please give your full name to this assemblage?” Shakespeare asked him.

  “Symington Smythe II,” said Tuck.

  Winifred caught her breath and stared at him with astonishment.

  “And what is your occupation?”

  “I am a player with Lord Strange’s Men, and a sometime smith and farrier.”

  “Could you explain to this court how it happened that you met Thomas Locke and what was the nature of your acquaintance?”

  “You and I had gone together to the shop of Ben Dickens, the armorer,” said Smythe, “who is a friend of ours. ”Whilst there, we met Thomas Locke, another friend of Ben’s, who had arrived in a state of great agitation because the father of his betrothed, Portia Mayhew, had just withdrawn his consent to the marriage and forbidden him from seeing her again.“

  “Did he say why this consent had been withdrawn?” asked Shakespeare.

  “Because his mother was a Jew,” said Smythe.

  “And how did Thomas respond to this?”

  “He was most distressed. He said he loved this girl with all his heart and soul and could not live without her. He could not bear the thought of never seeing her again.”

  “And what was your response to this?” asked Shakespeare. Smythe hesitated slightly. “I advised him to elope with her.”

  “Indeed?” said Shakespeare. “And did you know him well?” Smythe hesitated yet again. “Nay, we had never before met.”

  “And yet you took it upon yourself to advise him to elope?”

  “Aye.”

  “Were you acquainted at all with his intended, Mistress Mayhew?”

  “I was not.”

  “You had never met her nor even laid eyes upon her, as it hap pens, is that not so?”

  “‘Tis so.”

  “And yet you still advised Thomas Locke, whom you had only just met, to elope with this girl whom you had never met?”

  Smythe spoke under his breath. “Will, what the devil are you doing?”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  “I did so advise him, aye,” said Smythe with a grimace.

  “Are you ordinarily in the habit of advising strangers to elope?”

  “Not ordinarily.”

  “So then why in this case?”

  “Because .. because I understood how he must have felt, I suppose,” said Smythe.

  Elizabeth sat up a little straighter in her seat.

  “Because something of a somewhat similar nature, so to speak, had occurred in your own life?”

  Smythe gave him a hard look. “Aye,” he said after a moment. Elizabeth looked down.

  “And what happened then?” asked Shakespeare.

  “Thomas said that he would follow my advice and left.”

  Smythe replied. “And then Ben took me to task for not minding my own business. As did you.”

  “I did, indeed,” said Shakespeare. “And what happened then?”

  “Upon listening to you and Ben, I decided that perhaps I had spoken rashly, and we—that is, you and I, not Ben—went together to seek out Thomas’s parents and inform them of what their son intended.”

  “The rest you know,” said Shakespeare, turning to face Locke upon the dais. “But for the benefit of this assemblage, we came to you and told you what had happened, whereupon you requested us to deliver a message to your son, asking him to come and see you. When we tried to do so, we found, much to our profound regret, that young Thomas had been slain.” He turned back to Smythe. “Thank you, Tuck. If it please the court, I am finished with this witness.”

  “You may step down,” said Locke to Smythe.

  “I would now like to call forth Mistress Elizabeth Darcie.”

  Shakespeare said.

  Elizabeth stepped up to take the stand and was sworn. “Elizabeth,” said Shakespeare, “would you please tell this court your connection with this sad situation?”

  “Portia Mayhew is a friend of mine,” Elizabeth replied. “Our fathers know one another.”

  “Would you say that you are very dose friends?” Shakespeare asked.

  “I would not say that we were very close,” Elizabech replied, “which is to say, I like Portia, but I have not known her very long.”

  “You knew she was betrothed to Thomas Locke?”

  “I did.”

  “And how did you discover that her father had withdrawn his consent for her to marry?”

  “When she came to my home, very upset, and delivered the news to Antonia and myself.”

  “And who is Antonia?”

  “She is a friend of mine, and the wife of Harry Morrison, one of my father’s business acquaintances. She was visiting with me at the time.”

  “And how did you respond to this news?” asked Shakespeare. “Well, we sought to comfort her, of course,” Elizabeth replied. “And was that all!”

  “Not entirely.”

  “As it happens, ‘twas your suggestion to her that she should elope with Thomas, was it not?”

  “It was.”

  This brought a reaction from the assemblage, and Locke hammered for silence, or at least some reasonable semblance of it.

  “Curious,” said Shakespeare. “‘Twould seem that everyone wanted this young couple to elope, save for their parents. And what did you do then?”

  “We took a coach and went in search of Thomas,” Elizabeth replied.

  “And by ‘we,’ you mean yourself, Antonia, and Portia, is that not so?”

  “‘Tis so.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To the shop of Master Leffingwell, where Thomas was employed,” Elizabeth replied.

  “And what did you discover when you went there?”

  “We discovered that Thomas was not there,” Elizabeth replied.

  “Master Leffingwell told us that he had not come in to work that day.”

  “And was that all he told you?”

  Elizabeth frowned. “I believe so.”

  “Allow me to refresh your memory. Did you not know that Thomas had a room just across the street in the cul-de-sac, above the mercer’s shop?”

  “Oh. Aye, we did. That is to say, I did not know it, Portia did. But we did not go there, because Master Leffingwell also told us that he had sent one of his apprentices there earlier to see if Thomas was at home, and he was not.”

  “And so, not seeing any reason to do otherwise, you took him at his word and returned home, thinking to find Thomas later, perhaps the following day. At what point did you discover he ,was dead?”

  “The very next day,” Elizabeth replied, “when the sheriff’s men came to my house to question us.”

  “And why did they wis
h to question you?”

  “Because Master Leffingwell had told them we were at his shop, seeking Thomas.”

  “Portia was with you at the time the sheriff’s men arrived?”

  “Aye, she was. She had spent the night with me at my home.”

  “And how did she respond to this tragic news?”

  “As you may well imagine, she was horrified and struck with grief. She fled the room, sobbing.”

  “And the sheriff’s men, of course, did not pursue her to press her any further.”

  “I should say not!”

  “After they left, however, I should imagine that you went to her at once, out of concern?”

  “I did, indeed.”

  “And did she say anything to you about Thomas’s murder?” Elizabeth moistened her lips and nodded.

  “She told you, did she not, that she believed her father was responsible?” .

  “She did.”

  “And did you believe her?”

  Elizabeth hesitated.

  “Elizabeth… did you believe her when she said she thought her father was the one responsible?”

  “I did,” Elizabeth replied.

  “You are doing a bloody marvelous job,” said Mayhew, with a disgusted look at Shakespeare. “Keep it up!”

  Locke slammed down his hammer. “Silence!”

  “Did you have any knowledge, other than what Portia told you, that led you to believe that Henry Mayhew murdered Thomas Locke, or else paid to have it done?” asked Shakespeare.

  Elizabeth moistened her lips again. “Nay, I did not.”

  “But you believed it just the same?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Aye. I did believe it.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Well… who else could have done it?”

  “The fact is, anyone in London could have done it,” Shakespeare replied. “What you mean to ask is ‘Who would have done it?’

  Is that not so?“

  “Aye. What is the difference?”

  “Oh, there is a very great difference,” Shakespeare said. “A very great difference, indeed. There could have been any number of people who could have killed him. The question is, who would have had a reason to do so? Aside from Henry Mayhew, that is.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I am sure I do not know.”

  “Well, that is what we must endeavor to find out,” said Shakespeare. “I am finished with this witness. I would next like to call Master Leffingwell, the tailor.”

  Elizabeth stepped down, and Master Leffingwell was brought out, dressed in his nightclothes. He looked very frightened and disheveled. As soon as he was sworn, Shakespeare tried to reassure him. ‘

  “Do not be afraid,” he said. “All you need to do is tell the truth, and you should be home in bed within the hour. Now, please tell the court your name and occupation.”

  “M-M-Master William Leffingwell,” he stammered. “I am a’t-tailor.”

  “No need to be afraid,” Shakespeare told him once more. “No one shall harm you. All you need do is answer a few questions. ”What was your relationship with Thomas Locke?“

  Leffingwell looked terrified, but he managed to compose himself enough to answer. “He… he worked for me. He was my apprentice.”

  “And you had known him for the entire seven years of his apprenticeship, of course, is that not so?”

  Leffingwell nodded. “Aye, I did.”

  “You were generally satisfied with his work, were you not?”

  “I was, indeed, aye.”

  “So much so that when he completed his apprenticeship, you offered him a position as a journeyman tailor in your shop, is that not so?”

  “Indeed, ‘twas so, indeed. He was an excellent tailor. I was pleased to have him in my shop.”

  “And in all the time you knew him, did you know him to have any enemies who may have wished him dead?” asked Shakespeare.

  “Nay, not Thomas!” Leffingwell replied emphatically, shaking his head. “He was a fine lad, a fine lad, indeed, well loved by everyone!”

  “Would it be fair to say that you never knew him to have any enemies at all?”

  “Nay, none at all. None at all. He was an excellent young man.

  He got on well with everyone.“

  “So then you were surprised when you learned that he was murdered?”

  “Oh, I was astonished! ‘Twas a horrible thing, a horrible thing, indeed! I could not imagine who would have done such a ching!”

  “You knew he was betrothed?”

  “I knew that, aye. He often spoke of it.”

  “And did you know the young woman to whom he was betrothed?”

  Leffingwell shook his head. “Nay, I cannot say I did. He had mentioned her name a munber of times, and I… I think. she may have come to the shop once, but in truth, I cannot say I recall, other than the day she came with those two other women, seeking him. And that must have been the very day he…”

  “The day he was killed,” said Shakespeare. Leffingwell looked down and nodded.

  “You told the young ladies on that day that Thomas had not come in to work and was not at home,” said Shakespeare. “Just as you told us the very same thing. How did you know that he was not at home?”

  “I had sent one of my apprentices over to his room to see if perhaps he had fallen ill, and the lad returned and said he was not at home.”

  “But in fact, he was there,” Shakespeare said. “The boy you sent merely knocked upon the door, did he not, and when there was no answer, he returned to say that Thomas was not at home. But had he actually tried the door, as we did when we went there ourselves shortly thereafter, he would have found it open, and he would have found that Thomas was already dead. Thank you, Master Leffingwell. I am sorry to have disturbed your rest and troubled you. You may go home now.”

  A a much relieved Leffingwell was escorted out of the chamber, Shakespeare went over to where Smythe sat and whispered in his ear. Smythe glanced up at him sharply, then nodded and left the room, accompanied by one of Moll’s men.

  “You have not made much of an argument for the innocence of the accused,” said Locke. “Have you any other witnesses to call?”

  “I have, if it please the court,” said Shakespeare.

  “Get on with it, then.”

  “I call Mistress Antonia Morrison,” Shakespeare said. Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide, and she spun around in her seat as Antonia was escorted in. Until that moment, she had not known that Antonia had been brought here, as well. Like Leffingwell, she looked frightened as they brought her in, but unlike him, she was fully dressed. When she saw Elizabeth, she looked a bit relieved, though still apprehensive.

  “Please tell this court your name,” said Shakespeare.

  “My name is Antonia Morrison,” she replied.

  “Do you know where you are?” asked Shakespeare. “I do not mean exacty where, for I know that you were brought here blindfolded. I mean do you know what this place is?”

  She nodded, gravely. “The meeting hall of the Thieves Guild.”

  “And you have been told why you have been brought here?”

  “To testify at the trial of Henry Mayhew for the murder of Thomas Locke,” she replied.

  “So then you understand the import of all this, and that you must, above all, tell the truth?”

  She nodded. “Aye, I do.”

  Shakespeare looked up and saw that Smythe had returned, together with the man he had left with, as well as several others. He nodded.

  “Very well, then. What is your relationship with Portia Mayhew?”

  “She is my friend.”

  “A close friend?”

  “Well, she is more Elizabeth Darcie’s friend than mine. ‘Tis through Elizabeth that we had met.”

  “Did you know her father?”

  “Nay, I did not.”

  “So then would it be correct co say that you have not known Portia Mayhew for very long?”

  “Aye, ‘twould b
e correct.”

  “And did you know Thomas Locke?”

  “Nay, I did not. I knew of him, for Portia had spoken of him often, but we had never met. And now, I fear, we never will.”

  “Indeed,” said Shakespeare, nodding sympathetically. “Where were you when you first learned that Portia’s father had withdrawn his consent for her marriage?”

  “I was with Elizabeth Darcie at her home.”

  “And Portia was there with you?”

  “She arrived afterwards.”

  “After you did?”

  “Aye, that is so.”

  “She was upset when she arrived?”

  “Very much so,” said Antonia. “She was in tears and most distraught.”

  “Because her father had withdrawn his consent for her to marry Thomas?”

  Anconia nodded. “Aye, that is so.”

  “And did she say why?”

  Antonia nodded again. “Because Thomas’s mother was a Jewess.”

  Mayhew shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Why did she come to Elizabeth Darcie’s house?”

  “Because Elizabeth was her friend, and she was distressed and in great need of a friend.”

  “Whose idea was it in the first place that Porcia should elope with Thomas?”

  “‘Twas Elizabeth who had suggested it,” Antonia replied. “And what did you think of this idea?”

  “Well… I thought ‘twas rather ill advised, to be honest.”

  “Indeed? You did not find it… romantic?”

  “I found it rather foolish, if you must know,” said Antonia.

  “Of course, I did not say so at the time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I did not wish to seem lacking in sympathy. Portia was very much upset, and I did not wish to make matters any worse for her.”

  “I see,” said Shakespeare. “‘Twas most considerate of you. Why did you believe that the elopement would be ill advised?”

  “Because if she and Thomas were to have run away together, they would afterwards have been penniless,” Anconia said. “How would they have lived? What would have become of her? Would she have been forced to find work as a laundress or a serving wench? What sort of life would that have been for the daughter of a gentleman?” .

  “A life with the man she loved, perhaps,” said Shakespeare.

  “Some may find contentment in such a life. Others may have greater needs. Your husband is a very wealthy man, I undersrand, is that not so?”