Much Ado About Murder

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!”

“Indeed, he is,” said Smythe. “For which reason I would hesitate to ask him any favors unless we were absolutely certain of our ground.”

“Odd’s blood! The master of the Sea Hawks, and an intimate of the queen, no less!” Dickens was taken aback. “Do you mean to say that you actually know him?”

“We found ourselves in a position to do him some small service a while ago,” said Smythe, downplaying the relationship. “Since then, he has been kind enough to give me work at his estate upon occasion. He has a passion for well-crafted blades, and has a fine forge of his own at Green Oaks. As you know, I have some small skill in that regard. However, I would not wish to presume on Sir William’s good graces unless we knew for certain that we could prove Corwin’s innocence beyond any shadow of a doubt. I am sorry, Ben.”

“Sorry?” Dickens said. “But this is wonderful news, my friends! It means that Corwin’s fate is not nearly as bleak as it had appeared only this morning!”

“Well, I am very glad you see it that way,” Smythe replied, “but I remind you that we are still a long way from our goal of finding out just what happened on that night.”

“Aye, I know that,” Dickens said, “nevertheless, this still means that there is hope. S’trewth, I had been half convinced myself that he had done it, shamed as I am by it. Now that I know the servants were not in the house that night, their testimony of what happened becomes absolutely meaningless. Why, they never even saw him leave! I wanted to seize that rascal Budge right by his throat and throttle him for his base and cowardly lie!”

“He was afraid,” said Shakespeare. “And he was absolutely convinced that Corwin was the murderer. It had never even occurred to him that anyone else could have come to the house after Corwin had left.”

“That still does not excuse the foulness of his lie!” said Dickens, savagely.

“Indeed, it does not,” Shakespeare agreed, “although it may at least explain it. The poor man was stricken with remorse when it dawned upon him that he may have condemned an innocent man. And that is very fortunate, for it means he has a conscience. We should be thankful for that, otherwise he would be packing his things even as we speak and preparing to flee London.”

“He may still do just that,” said Smythe, “if he grows frightened enough. They may all run off once they have had time to think about it.”

Shakespeare shook his head. “I do not think so, Tuck. I think you convinced them that ‘twould look very bad for them indeed if they fled London now, for with our testimony, they would then become the chief suspects in the crime. Never fear, they shall not be going anywhere. Guilt, remorse, and misery shall surely root them to the spot as firmly as if we had put chains upon them.”

“All the more so now that they know we shall be making inquiries at the tavern to gather further proof of how long they were there that night,” said Dickens. “I am growing ever more hopeful by the moment, my friends. Once we free Corwin from prison, I shall be ever in your debt.”

“Well, we have not freed him yet,” said Shakespeare. “And once again, Ben, I do not mean to cast gloom upon your spirits, but simply knowing that Corwin had departed without the servants seeing him and that Leonardo was alone inside the house for some period of time does not tell us that someone else came there and killed him. It only means that someone else could have done it.”

“By Heaven, why do you persist in wanting to see only the worst, Will?” Dickens asked, irritably.

“Because I do not think ‘tis wise to hold out any false hope,” Shakespeare replied. “Nor do I think it prudent for us to assume things that we do not yet know. Also, in all fairness, I feel bound to remind you that while Corwin seemed to me an amiable young man of excellent character, you know him better than either of us do. You may well know in your heart that he could not have done this deed, but Tuck and I do not, for our acquantance with him is but slight.”

“So then you do believe he did it!” Dickens said.

“Nay, I do not believe he did,” Shakespeare replied, patiently. “But what I believe and what I know are not the same. I shall endeavor to find out the truth, Ben, but I may not find it if I only look in some places and turn a blind eye to others.”

“And you did suspect yourself that Corwin may have done it,” Smythe reminded Dickens gently. “You were so distraught at the possibility that he may truly have been guilty that now you have seized upon the mere possibility that he may be innocent. And ‘tis only a possibility at this point, Ben. We do not yet know it for a certainty, although things do look brighter for him than they did this morning.”

“The two of you seem very close,” said Shakespeare.

“Aye, Corwin is, indeed, my very closest friend,” said Dickens. “If he were my own brother, Will, we could not be closer. We have known each other since we were children. I had only just begun my apprenticeship with the Queen’s Men and was living with the Flemings, as you know. Corwin was then apprenticed to Master Peters, who lived nearby. We often played together when we were not busy with our duties. In time, when my voice began to change and I could no longer play the female roles convincingly, ‘twas Corwin who helped arrange my new apprenticeship by asking Master Peters to speak with Master Moryson the armorer on my behalf. I then asked to be released from my apprenticeship to the company and John Fleming let me go, although he said that he was loathe to do so, but he understood that I was young and chafed for something more, another sort of life, some manner of adventure similar to that which we portrayed upon the stage. Afterwards, for a while, I thought that I had found that sort of adventure with the Steady Boys, but once again, ‘twas Corwin who came and convinced me of the folly of running with a bunch of wild, roaring boys who were just as likely to wind up in prison as they were to break one another’s heads. I saw that he was right, but without the Steady Boys, I still felt a need for some adventure. I had met some soldiers of fortune through my work at Master Moryson’s shop and they seemed to live the sort of life I yearned for. Once more, ‘twas Corwin who tried to dissuade me, but my hunger for adventure was too strong. Afterwards, when I was gone, ‘twas Corwin once again who…” And then his voice trailed off abruptly as he caught himself. He gave them a quick, sidelong glance. For a moment, he looked like a guilty boy caught stealing a steaming, fresh-baked pie from a windowsill where it was cooling.

“He kept an eye on Molly for you,” Smythe said, “did he not?”

Dickens looked at him with astonishment. “However did you know?”

“ ‘Twas not very difficult to guess, Ben,” Smythe told him, with a chuckle. “If the love you have for one another is a secret, then ‘tis very poorly kept, indeed, for anyone can see how you two feel about each other. For all the verbal fencing the two of you engage in, for all the barbed remarks, the biting comments, and retorts, ‘tis clear to one and all you are in love. What is not clear is why you ever left her. I do believe you broke the poor girl’s heart.”

“Is that what she believes?” asked Dickens. “That I had left her?”

“Have you ever given her any reason to believe aught else?” asked Shakespeare.

“ ‘Twas never so,” protested Dickens. “I did not leave Molly. Instead, I left one life to make another. I had heard tales of mercenaries who had made their fortunes fighting in foreign wars, and how some had even gained rank and titles from grateful sovereigns. I had hopes that I, too, could make my fortune as a soldier and come back as a gentleman. Then I would have had the means to offer Molly a better life, the sort of life that she deserved. Alas, ‘twas not to be. The glamour of a mercenary soldier’s tale is only in the telling. The truth is that he does well if he loses neither life nor limb. I did well, I suppose, in that I did not come back a cripple. But I came back with nothing I could offer Molly.”

Shakespeare sighed and shook his head. “Ah, Ben,” he said, shaking his head. “Why is it that we men never learn? ‘Tis not a better life that a good woman wants a man to give her; she only wants to share the life he has. A woman like Molly does not want your money. Faith, she only wants your heart.”

“If you are so full of wisdom about women, Will, then where is the woman who shares your life and has your heart?” asked Dickens, irritably.

For a moment, Shakespeare looked stung, but he recovered quickly. “Alas, the one who had my heart was not, as it turned out, the one who shared my life, and shares it still, if only at a distance,” he replied. “Had I not been such a fool… well, never mind, what’s done is done. There is little to be served in dwelling in the past. ‘Tis what lies ahead that matters.”

The wooden sign that hung above the door of the Devil Tavern at a right angle to the street was painted with an image of St. Dunstan tweaking the Devil’s nose, in homage to St. Dun-stan’s Church, which stood nearby. They opened the heavy, wood-planked door and went inside. The interior was not unlike that of the Toad and Badger in general appearance, but the place had a very different sort of atmosphere.

There were rushes strewn upon the wood-planked floor, but they were not fresh, which lent the place a stale sort of smell that Courtney Stackpole never would have tolerated. The furnishings, like those at the Toad and Badger, were much the same-heavy, wood-planked trestle tables, benches, and stools — but they were rough and cracked and stained with spills, not kept oiled and clean, as Stackpole always insisted at his place. The patrons were mainly working-class locals, with perhaps a few merchants and a craftsman or two here and there. The chief difference, however, was that the mood within the place was not nearly as lively as at the Toad and Badger.

The smell of tobacco smoke was heavy in the air as patrons sat and smoked their clay churchwardens while they drank their beer and ale out of pewter tankards or hard leather “black jacks” sealed with pitch. Some played hazard with their dice cups, others played primero, betting noisily on every hand. A few people glanced up at them as they came in, looking them over, but otherwise, no one paid them any particular attention.

They sat down at an empty table and a moment later one of the serving wenches came by to take their order. After conferring with her as to what she recommended, they decided upon a double-strength ale known as “Devil Dog,” apparently a house specialty. It was brought to them in a large jug and they poured it themselves into heavy pewter tankards, discovering that it had a rich, strong, and heady, spicy flavor. They smacked their lips and nodded their approval.

“An excellent ale, my dear,” said Shakespeare, “aye, excellent, indeed.” He nodded to Smythe and Dickens, prompting them.

“ ‘Tis just the thing for a thirsty man at the end of a long day,” said Smythe, thinking that he would actually prefer one of his herbal infusions brewed from rainwater to this thick and heady brew, for although there was no denying it was tasty, strong ale always left him feeling bloated and gassy. He noticed once again that he had never drank ale or beer until he came to London, where the water was undrinkable, and he had lately noticed that his midsection had started getting thicker from this recent addition to his diet.

“So tell me, my lovely, what is your name?” asked Dickens, flashing her a dazzling smile. It nearly undid the poor girl, who was not lovely by any stretch of the imagination, and was cursed with bad skin and a harelip that gave her a thick and pronounced lisp.

“Kate, m’lud,” she replied, blushing and looking down while carefully avoiding the sibilance of “good sir” in her reply.

“Well, Kate,” Dickens went on, charmingly, “ ‘tis a fine, rich brew that you have recommended, and we may have ourselves another jug or two just to see you bring it.”

She gave him an awkward curtsy and a cautious underlook to see if he was making fun of her. Smythe began to worry that he was overdoing it, for what was the likelihood that any young man as handsome and dashing as Ben Dickens had ever paid attention to so homely and scrawny a girl? Surely, he thought, she could never believe he was in earnest. But in addition to his good looks, Dickens had apparently been gifted with a faery glamour, for within moments, he had completely captivated her with compliments that struck Smythe as rather heavy-handed and transparently insincere. Before long, he had her sitting on his knee and giggling as he laughed and joked with her.

“So do you work here every night, Kate?” Shakespeare asked.

“Well, if she does, then I may have to come back more often,” Dickens said, with a wink. It brought forth another giggle from the girl as Smythe winced inwardly. It was almost embarrassing to watch.

“Aye, m’lud, I work here each day an’ every night.”

“Well, then you must know old Budge, who comes to have his suppers here, along with Mary and Elaine,” said Shakespeare.

“Oh, aye, m’lud, I know them. Very kind, they are, never make fun o’ me like what others often do. The way I talk, y’know.” Her hand went to her mouth self-consciously and she looked away from Ben, as if suddenly remembering her deformity for the first time since they began their conversation.

“What of it?” Dickens said. “Methinks you have a charming voice.”

“Aw, now, go on…” she said, giving him a poke, but at the same time, she beamed at him with childlike pleasure.

“They must have been here that night then, when that terrible thing happened at their master’s house,” Shakespeare said. “You have heard about that?”

Her eyes grew very wide. “Oooh, aye! What an awful thing! Poor Cap’n Leonardo!”

“You knew him, then?” asked Smythe.

“Aye, m’lud, he came in now and again,” said Kate. “Nice gentleman, he was. Never had but one drink, an’ off to home. ‘A touch o’ grog,’ he called it. Poor man, to be murdered like that! What a terrible thing!”

“They stayed late that night, did they?” Shakespeare asked. “I mean, his servants?”

“Aye, they did,” replied Kate. “I remember because they drank so much and got all tipply.” She giggled again. “That old Budge! Who’d have thought it, the way he carried on with them two women! A man his age! And them laughing and encouraging him! Aye, they had a right grand old time, they did. An’ they kept right at it, til I said ‘twas time for them to leave.”

“You said ‘twas time for them to leave?” asked Smythe. “Were they so drunk and rowdy, then?”

“Oh, ‘twasn’t like that at all,” she replied. “Old Budge asked me to tell him when it got near nine o’the clock, for ‘twas when the mistress come back home in her carriage and they had to be back by then. He promised me a farthing if I would remind him. I mean, they was all tipply, but not no trouble, mind. Not like them roaring boys what come by being all mean an’ horrible.”

“Roaring boys?” said Shakespeare.

“Aye, all loud and full o’themselves,” she said. “Puttin’ on airs like they was young lords instead o’ ‘prentices. I didn’t like them. Made fun o’ me, they did. Not nice at all, like you good gentlemen.”

“How many of these boys were there, Kate?” asked Dickens, casually, though Smythe noticed that his eyes had narrowed slightly as he watched her reply.

“Four or five, methinks. Nay, ‘twas five. I remember now. One o’ them tripped me an’ made me fall an’ drop two jugs! He had a mean laugh, he did, an’ a cruel way o’mockin’ me lip, makin’ a face like a cony…” She demonstrated, twitching her lip like a rabbit. “An’ him with his pockmarked face and his own lip all droopy and twisted like. Nasty, evil bugger.”

Smythe and Dickens exchanged glances. “Bruce McEnery,” said Smythe.

“Aye! ‘Twas his name, all right! One o’ the others called ‘im Bruce!” In her agitation as she lisped the name, she doused both Smythe and Shakespeare with a spray of spittle.

“What was his name again?” asked Dickens, innocently.

“Bruce! Bruce!” She repeated, even more wetly and emphatically, making Smythe and Shakespeare recoil from the shower.

“Methinks the roof is leaking,” Shakespeare said, wryly, wiping his face with his handkerchief.

Smythe leaned forward, took hold of Ben’s hand, fixed him with a glare, and squeezed hard enough to make Dickens catch his breath. “We got the name, all right?” he said.

“Right,” said Dickens, gritting his teeth against the pain. When Smythe released him, he took a deep breath and flexed his fingers experimentally, to see if any of them were broken.

“Ooh, you don’t mean to tell me them horrible boys was friends o’ yours!” said Kate, alarmed at possibly having said the wrong thing.

“Not by a long shot, Kate,” Smythe replied. He removed his cap and touched the bandage on his head. “I have them to thank for this. I have a score to settle with that lot.”

“Ooh, they did that?” Kate said, wide-eyed. “I knew they was no good!”

“And was one of them a handsome looking sort,” asked Smythe, “tall, lean, with black hair and dark eyes, with a scar and a sort of smug, amused expression?”

“Aye, I remember him. I thought the others looked to him as if he was the leader,” Kate said.

“Jack Darnley,” Shakespeare said. “Stoats travel in pairs.”

“And rats travel in packs,” said Smythe, with a grimace of distaste. “It seems the Steady Boys were here that night.”

“Let’s have us another jug, my dear,” said Dickens, bouncing her on his knee. “And hurry back, mind, so we can have more of your pleasant company!”

When she left to get another jug of ale, Dickens turned to Smythe and said, “Faith, Tuck, you have the strength of an ox! You damn near broke my hand!”

“You get her saying ‘Bruce’ again, and I shall,” replied Smythe.

“Oh, I was just having a bit o’ fun,” said Dickens, with a grin.

“The same sort of fun those Steady Boys were having at her expense, no doubt,” Smythe replied. “And if you ask me, ‘tisn’t very kind of you to lead her on so.”

“Perhaps not,” said Dickens, “but it did get us what we wanted, did it not?”

“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “And thanks to Ben’s winsome ways, we now know not only that Budge and the two women never saw Corwin leave the house, but that they were gone for several hours, during which time a great deal could have happened.”

“Aye,” said Dickens, “and what I was thinking is that this tavern is a bit off the beaten track for the Steady Boys. Not their stalking ground at all. You shall find them on any given night down at the Broom and Garter, where the mood tends to be a bit more boistrous. This here is not their sort of place at all. Tis much too tame and quiet.”

“So then what brought them here?” asked Smythe.

“I was thinking about that very thing,” said Shakespeare. “Does it not seem interesting to you that they just happened to be here on the very night of Master Leonardo’s murder?”

“I wonder how long they stayed?” asked Smythe, glancing at him and raising his eyebrows.

“That is, indeed, the question,” Shakespeare replied. “And here comes young Kate, bringing us our jug and, with any luck, our answer.”

“Ah, there we are!” Dickens exclaimed, as she set down the fresh jug of ale. “I am growing ever fonder of this Devil Dog, sweet Kate. Come, sit you down and have a drink with us!” He tapped his knee and she perched on it quite readily. He poured for all of them, then gave her the first sip from his mug.

“So tell us, Kate,” said Shakespeare, “these boys that were so mean to you that night, do you happen to recall how long they stayed?”

“You mean the first time or the second?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Shakespeare frowned. “The first time or the second? I do not understand. Whatever do you mean?”

“Well now, the first time, they all come in together,” she said, and Smythe noticed that except when she became excited, she had a way of avoiding the “th” and “s” sounds whenever possible, replacing them with “v’s” and “z’s” in order to minimize her lisp, so that the word ‘first’ came out ‘furz’ and ‘together’ came out ‘togevver.’ It was somehow endearing.

“The first time?” Shakespeare repeated. “You mean to say they left and then came back again, the very same night?”

“Aye. Well, all ‘cept two o’ them.”

“You told us there were five of them in all,” said Shakespeare. “Do you mean that three of them left the tavern and two stayed behind?”

“Aye, you got it,” she said, nodding. “An’ then a bit later, the other three come back and they all left together.”

“Were Budge and the two women in here all during that time?” asked Smythe.

“Aye, they was,” she replied, nodding as Dickens offered her another sip of ale. “I remember ‘cause I kept bringing them more beer.”

“So they drank small beer, then, and not ale?” Shakespeare said. Then he nodded to himself. “ ‘Twould make sense, of course. ‘Tis a cheaper brew, and so they could drink more. And it sounds as if they drank rather a lot. So then while they were drinking and having themselves a fine old time, three of the Steady Boys left, while two remained behind.”

“To act as lookouts, perhaps, and keep an eye on the servants?” asked Smythe.

Shakespeare nodded. “It could be. That way, if Budge and the women started back before the other three returned, then one of the two remaining would run to give his comrades warning, while the other lingered to delay them.”

“The devil gnaw their bones!” Dickens exclaimed. “So they killed Leonardo!”

Kate gasped and her hand went to her mouth.

“We cannot yet say for certain,” Shakespeare said, “but methinks something is rotten here.”

The others frowned and sniffed at their clothing.

“I meant something smells fishy,” Shakespeare said.

Smythe, Kate, and Dickens smelled their armpits.

“Oh, for God’s sake! I meant it seems suspicious, too much of a coincidence!” exclaimed Shakespeare, in exasperation. “Odd’s blood! I know that I am speaking English! Why is it so difficult to understand my meaning?”

“Not a word of this, Kate, you understand?” said Smythe. “Especially if you should see any of those boys again, although I rather doubt you will. Methinks they shall go out of their way to avoid this place for a good long while.”

Her eyes were wide with fear as she nodded mutely and clung to Ben’s arm for support, glancing around at all of them with alarm.

“Hola! You! Wench! Get yer skinny body over here!” called out one of the patrons at a table across the room.

Kate started to get up, but Dickens held her back. “Wait,” he said.

“But, m’lud…”

“Wait, I said. You need not respond to such rudeness.”

“Hola! Wench! You deaf? We need more ale, girl!”

She glanced at Dickens with consternation. “Stay,” he said, calmly.

Shakespeare glanced over at the table where the shouting was coming from. “There are three of them,” he said.

“And there are three of us,” said Smythe.

“One of us with a bandage on his nearly broken head and another with but a dagger for his weapon,” Shakespeare replied, dryly, “while all three of those gentlemen are wearing swords, in the event you have not noticed.”

“You there!” one of the men called angrily to Dickens. “Stop mucking about with that skinny, harelipped wench and send her over here! She’s here to work, not be your bloody doxy!”

“My friends,” said Dickens, easing Kate gently off his knee, “allow me. I shall be but a moment.”

“Right,” said Smythe, with a sigh, as he started to get up, but Dickens stayed him with a hand upon his shoulder.

“Nay, Tuck, I beg you, keep your seat. This dance is mine.”

With a scraping of stools, the three men got to their feet, reaching for their blades.

“Ben, do not be foolish,” Smythe said. “There are three of them, for God’s sake. And they have the look of men who know their business.”

“Then that should make the odds just about even,” Dickens replied, as he stepped forward and drew his sword.

“Why is it that this happens every time I go to some strange tavern?” Shakespeare asked, throwing up his hands. “And where are you going?” he asked Smythe as he started to get up.

“To help Ben, of course,” Smythe said, putting his hand on his sword hilt.

“You were very nearly killed the other day,” Shakespeare replied. “Have you not had enough? He said he did not need your help!”

Smythe opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly shut it and raised his eyebrows in surprise as Dickens engaged the first man with a quick circular parry to his lunge that sent his opponent’s sword flying across the room. As patrons ducked their heads beneath their tables to avoid the flying blade, Dickens smashed the basket hilt of his rapier into his suddenly disarmed opponent’s face, then pivoted to strike down the second’s man blade, following that up with a brutal kick to the man’s groin that made Smythe wince.

“Apparently,” said Smythe, “he does not require any help.”

The third man glanced at his two fallen comrades, swallowed hard, then turned and ran straight out the door.

“Well,” said Dickens, turning around and shrugging. “That was rather disappointing.”

Kate’s eyes were shining with hero worship as she gazed at him, awestruck.

“If you gentlemen are finished with your drinks, then I would very much appreciate it if you left,” the tavernkeeper told them.

Dickens turned toward him, still holding his sword at his side.

“However, I shall not insist,” the tavernkeeper added, holding up his hands, palms out.

“Never mind,” said Dickens. “We are leaving. Kate, my dear, when the Queen’s Men stage their next production at the Burbage Theatre, you shall be my guest. Just tell them that Ben Dickens said so.” He bowed to her with a flourish and then sheathed his blade. “My friends, shall we take our leave?”

“By all means,” said Shakespeare, paying the awestruck girl for their ale. “Where to now?”

“Back to the Toad and Badger, I believe,” said Smythe. “We must put our heads together and devise a plan to trap some rats.”