Much Ado About Murder

9

The townhouse where Master Leonardo had all too briefly lived was not nearly as ostentatious or as large as Henry Darcie’s. Situated in a tidy row of houses near the Devil Tavern and the Thames, it was a modest-looking residence built of lathe and plaster, with nothing to set it apart from any of the other row houses on the street. It certainly did not look like the home of a wealthy man. Perhaps, thought Smythe, it might have been intended merely as a temporary residence, meant for use only until such time as Master Leonardo had established himself and found a better home or else had built one just outside the city, as some successful tradesmen were now doing. But on the other hand, he may have been a man of relatively simple tastes who did not require much out of a home that was not functional, comfortable, and practical, rather than elegant, ostentatious, and luxurious.

In a city where the members of the new, rising middle class were constantly competing to show off whose rise was faster, and where the nobles were always trying to outdo one another in elaborate displays of wealth and fashion, a frugal man who spent his money wisely on his business interests rather than on expensive homes or carriages or suits of clothes that he could change as many as three times a day could quietly build up his wealth and become a rich man without fanfare. And that seemed like just the sort of thing an unassuming, former seafaring man would do.

“This seems like the kind of place where a retired ship’s captain would drop anchor,” Shakespeare said, echoing Smythe’s thoughts. “A nice, solid, comfortable place to live on dry land, within walking distance of the river, where he could stroll on the bankside and observe the wherrymen and the ships beyond the bridge. A man could do much worse.”

“And many do,” said Smythe.

“Someday, I shall have a fine house of my own in town,” said Shakespeare. “You know, I could be well satisfied with something similar to this. I need no cut stone or brick to look like some archbishop’s residence. A good, solid, English home of lathe and plaster will do me nicely, the sort of place befitting a gentleman, rather than a marquis or a viscount.”

“ Tis good to know that your ambitions are merely modest ones,” said Smythe, with a straight face. “ ‘Twouldn’t do at all for a humble poet to overreach himself.”

“You think?” said Shakespeare.

“Aye. How many poems or plays, do you suppose, would one have to write in order to be able to afford a modest place like this?” asked Smythe, giving him a sidelong look.

“Do you mock me, you pernicious rascal?”

“What, I?” Smythe said, feigning surprise. “Nay, ‘twas merely an idle question. Three or four score, do you think? Well, perhaps less, if you are made a shareholder. Aye, two score or so should do it. So long as they are all as popular as Marlowe’s. That should not present too great a difficulty, not to a fellow as industrious and talented as yourself. How many have you written thus far?”

Shakespeare glowered at him.

Smythe blithely went on. “Well, let us see… there is that one about the drunken lout who falls asleep and is then found by a noble and taken to his house… oh, no, wait, you never finished that one, did you? Ah, but then there is the one about the war… no, you still have not got past the first act, have you? Oh, hold on, there was that idea you had about the twins, from the time we helped Elizabeth and encountered that fiendish foreign plot… did you ever actually do anything with that?”

“You cankerous, flea-infested, mocking dog! See who nurses you the next time you are brought home with a broken head, you ungrateful, prating wretch!”

“Ah, well, thus am I justly chastised,” Smythe replied, hanging his head in mock shame. “Ungrateful wretch I am, indeed. I am a rude fellow. You may beat me. Here, let me find a stick…”

“Oh, cease your foolishness,” Shakespeare said, with a snort. “Come along, let us go and question Master Leonardo’s servants.”

The household servant who opened the door to them had the look of a man whose future was uncertain. Tall, thin, and balding, with wisps of white hair sticking out in all directions, as if he habitually ran his hands through what little of it was left, he reminded Smythe of a horse that had been spooked.

“Dear me, more visitors and more inquiries,” he said, anxiously. “I really do not know what I should do. The master of the house is cruelly slain, the mistress is not present and is grieving in seclusion, and it simply is not right to have people coming to the house and asking questions, searching through everything…”

“Your concern for your master’s house and goods is very commendable,” said Shakespeare. “We are here merely to ask some questions of you and the other servants on behalf of your mistress and your master’s business associate, Henry Darcie. But tell us, first, who else has spoken with you? Someone has been here to search the house?”

“Aye, and he, too, claims to have had business dealings with poor Master Leonardo.”

Smythe frowned. “Who was he? Did he give you his name? Can you describe him?”

“You may see him for yourself,” the servant said. “He is within.”

Shakespeare and Smythe exchanged glances, then quickly pushed past the distraught servant and entered the house. They saw two female servants in their aprons standing near the stairs, huddled together like frightened chickens in a corner of the coop, and at once they could hear the sounds of someone rummaging about upstairs. As they exchanged glances once again, they heard a loud crash, as if something heavy had been overturned.

“This time, I have brought my sword,” said Smythe, drawing it from its scabbard.

“I shall be right behind you,” Shakespeare said.

“With what, your quill?”

In response, Shakespeare pulled out a knife from inside his boot, a bone-handled stiletto with a six-inch blade.

“Good Lord!” said Smythe. “Where did you get that?”

“I brought it from the Theatre,” Shakespeare said.

“Do you know how to use that thing?”

“I understand one pokes at people with it,” Shakespeare replied, wryly. “I have done some fencing on the stage, you know.”

“On the stage,” repeated Smythe, rolling his eyes. “God help us. Just keep behind me.”

“Precisely where I had intended to remain,” Shakespeare replied.

They went up the steps cautiously, with Smythe leading the way. The rummaging noises grew louder as they drew closer. Someone was ransacking the house, and from the sound of it, being none too gentle about it.

“Be careful, Will,” said Smythe, when they reached the top of the stairs.

“You be careful,” Shakespeare replied. “If anything should happen to you, I would be next.”

“Your concern for my safety is touching,” Smythe said with a grimace. He reached out and placed his hand on a door that stood slightly ajar. The noise was coming from within. “Get ready…”

He shoved the door open hard, slamming it against the wall, and came into the room fast, his sword held out before him. The man ransacking the room spun around, immediately drawing his own blade.

“Tuck!”

Smythe’s eyes grew wide. “Ben! What the devil are you doing here?”

Dickens lowered his sword, then sheathed it as he spoke. “I might well ask you the same thing,” he replied. He glanced over Smythe’s shoulder. “Is that you, Will?”

“ ‘Allo, Ben,” said Shakespeare, coming into the room sheepishly after having peeked around the corner.

Smythe sheathed his blade, as well. “We came to question Master Leonardo’s servants, to see what we could learn about what had transpired here the night that he was killed.” He looked around. “God’s body, Ben! You have bloody well torn the place apart! What in Heaven’s name are you searching for?”

Dickens shook his head, looking around helplessly. “ ‘Twas not me, Tuck. I came to look for something… anything… that could help Corwin prove his innocence, but the house had already been ransacked when I got here.”

“Did you find anything?” asked Shakespeare.

Dickens shook his head in frustration. “Nothing. Save only that there seems to be no money left anywhere in the house.”

“He may have had it all cubbyholed away somewhere,” said Smythe.

“If he did, then I cannot find it,” Dickens replied. “And I have looked everywhere. But I tell you, there is not a tuppence nor a halfpenny in this house. Not anywhere. It must have all been stolen.”

“Did you question the servants?” Smythe asked.

“Aye, I have already spoken with them. They swear that they did not ransack the house. They have no idea where Leonardo kept his money. They are worried. They say that they have not received their wages, but despite their claim that they have not even ventured upstairs since the crime, I suspect they have already looked through everything.”

“You think they might have taken it?” asked Shakespeare.

Dickens shook his head. “I cannot say. I would have thought that if there was money in the house for them to take, they would have found it and absconded with it. Then they would be far away by now. Instead, they are still here; there is little in the larder, and they do not even seem to know where their next meal is going to come from.” He shook his head again. “Methinks that there was nothing here for them to find.”

“Perhaps he had his money deposited with some merchant banker,” suggested Shakespeare.

Dickens shook his head again. “I had thought the same, but then there would have been letters of credit, or else bills of exchange, and I have discovered none. I thought perhaps that he might have devised some clever hiding place in which to store such things, but if so, then I have failed to nose it out.” He sighed with exasperation as he looked around at the mess. “ ‘Tis a mystery to me, I tell you. Leonardo was a wealthy man, and yet, there is not one coin to be found in this entire house. If his money was not stolen, then where is it?”

Shakespeare scratched his chin. “A thought occurs to me,” he said, “and yet, I hesitate to speak it for fear that it might give offense.”

Dickens glanced at him. “Go on, Will. Be forthright. Say what is on your mind.”

Shakespeare cleared his throat. “Well… if there were such documents as letters of credit or bills of exchange, do you suppose that Corwin could have taken them?”

For a moment, Dickens did not speak. The corners of his mouth drew tight. “After he murdered Leonardo, do you mean to say?”

Shakespeare cleared his throat once more. “To find the truth, must not one consider all the possibilities?”

Dickens stared him down.

“Ben,” said Smythe, placatingly, “we know that Corwin is your friend and that you are loyal to him. But if we do not ask these questions, others shall. Corwin has already been arrested. Soon he shall be tried. He is in dire straits and your loyalty, however honorable or well-intentioned, cannot help him now. Only our diligence and perseverence in searching out the truth can be of any aid to him. And if he is truly innocent, then the truth shall set him free.”

“Or else condemn him,” Dickens said, tightly.

Smythe stared at him as comprehension suddenly dawned. “Odd’s blood. You think he might have done it,” he said, softly.

Dickens looked down at the floor and then savagely kicked out at a chest that had been overturned. “Aye, damn it, I think he may have done it. Beshrew me, a fine friend I have turned out to be to suspect him guilty of so vile a deed!” He kicked the chest again, splintering it. “Bloody hell! What keeps going through my mind again and then again is the thought that had I only followed him that night, then I may have arrived in time to prevent…” His voice trailed off.

“There may have been nothing to prevent, Ben,” said Smythe, “at least insofar as Corwin is concerned. Had you followed him, then you may or may not have arrived in time to prevent him from breaking off his engagement, but if that was all he did that night, then you would doubtless have left the house together, and the murderer would have arrived after you had gone.”

“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 were 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.”