Much Ado About Murder

8

Henry Darcie’s four-story, lead-roofed townhouse built of rough-cut gray stone bore stately testimony to his success in business. As with many homes built so close together in the crowded environment of London, the upper floors jutted out over the cobblestoned street, so as to take the maximum advantage of space, and expensive glass windows not only afforded plenty of light to the upper floors, but also showed all passersby that the owner of the house was wealthy enough to afford such luxuries. The servant who opened the door glanced at them as if they were curious insects, heard their names without a word, and closed the door again while he went to announce them to the master of the house. Moments later, Henry Darcie came to the door himself to greet them.

“Ah, Shakespeare, Smythe,” he said, nodding to them curtly. “Come in. I assume that you have come about the news of Leonardo.”

“Indeed, we have, sir,” Smythe replied. “We had hoped to speak with Hera, unless, that is, she is too grief-stricken to entertain a visit at this time.”

“Aye, ‘tis a terrible thing, terrible,” Darcie replied, shaking his head. “Here we were, on the verge of acquiring a prosperous new investor for the Theatre. ‘Twould have neatly taken care of all of the needed refurbishing at once, too. Ah, well. Such a pity. Still, one learns to accept these sort of reverses if one is to survive in business. Such is the nature of things. Life goes on.” And then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Poor Hera is upstairs with Elizabeth.”

As they went through the entry hall and toward the stairs, Shakespeare gawked at their surroundings. The planked floors were covered not with rushes, but with rush mats woven in intricate patterns and handsomely colored. The walls were panelled with wood and hung with tapestries, not the cheaper painted cloths that were used by all except the very rich. The furnishings were carved and inlaid with ivory or pearl, many pieces draped with patterned carpets, and some of the chairs were actually upholstered. There was not a boarded stool or chest in sight.

“Actually, sir, with your permission, before speaking with Elizabeth and Master Leonardo’s daughter, I should like to ask you a question or two, if I may,” said Smythe.

Darcie turned toward him and raised his eyebrows. “Concerning what?”

“Concerning the very matter that you just now mentioned, sir,” Smythe replied. “I merely wanted to make certain that my understanding was correct. Had Master Leonardo already made a firm commitment to you and Master Burbage concerning an investment in the Theatre?”

“Indeed, he had,” Darcie replied, nodding emphatically. “And he was most anxious to proceed. Unlike most people, he did not hesitate to make decisions. I saw that quality in him and was encouraged by it. He would weigh an opportunity, assess the potential advantages and risks, and then proceed without wasting any time. As I have said, ‘tis a great pity that things turned out the way they did. We had discussed the possibility of partnership in several ventures.” He shook his head again, in resignation. “He was excited to be making a new start in London, anxious to take advantage of the opportunity to be a partner in the Theatre, and to explore other avenues, as well. Now, all his hopes and dreams have been snuffed out, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Do you know if Master Leonardo had planned any other business ventures, that is to say, other than those he had discussed as possibilities of partnership with you?” Smythe asked.

“I suppose ‘tis entirely possible he may have had such plans, but if so, he did not mention them to me,” said Darcie. “He did not strike me as the sort of man to limit himself. His interests seemed varied and diverse.” He frowned. “Why, what the devil are you getting at, Smythe?”

“Well, sir, I was merely wondering if he might have been involved with anyone in some venture that might have gone amiss in some way,” Smythe replied. “Something of that sort could possibly have been a motive in his murder.”

“Whatever do you mean? I was under the impression that the murderer had already been placed under arrest,” said Darcie, frowning. “ ‘Twas that young goldsmith who had desired to marry Hera, was it not?”

“Corwin was, indeed, arrested this morning, as you have already heard,” Shakespeare said, “but he did protest his innocence most strenuously. And he has friends who believe firmly in his innocence, as well, among them Master Peters, whom you know.”

Darcie grunted. “Aye, well, the lad was his apprentice, after all, and a valued journeyman in his shop. A skilled artisan, by all accounts, whose work was in considerable demand.”

“Are you suggesting that Master Peters may have a selfish motive for his stated belief in Corwin’s innocence?” asked Shakespeare.

“Why, does that not seem possible to you?” asked Darcie.

“Well, I suppose ‘tis possible,” Shakespeare replied. “Master Peters does seem quite fond of Corwin.”

“Well, there you have it, then,” Darcie said, with a shrug. “The young man wanted the daughter; the father disapproved; tempers ran hot-these Italians often get that way, I understand-and the next thing you know, blades are drawn and blood is spilt.”

“You say the father disapproved of him?” asked Smythe, with some surprise.

“Fathers do not always approve of the young men their daughters choose,” said Darcie, wryly, with a glance at Smythe.

Smythe ignored both the well-placed barb and the pointed look. “How very curious,” he said. “I was under the impression that Master Leonardo had not only approved of Corwin, but had already given his consent to the match,” he said.

Darcie raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Where did you hear that?”

Smythe turned to Shakespeare. “Where did we hear that?”

“We have it on the word of Master Peters,” Shakespeare said.

“Is that so?” said Darcie. “Hmm. I had not known that.”

“Betimes, fathers do approve their daughters’ choices,” Smythe said with a straight face, unable to resist.

“Well, then I cannot imagine why the young fool would have killed him.”

“ ‘Twould seem that there was some sort of accusation concerning the young lady’s virtue,” Shakespeare said. “When he came to the theatre, looking for Ben Dickens, Corwin had informed me that he was going to Master Leonardo’s house to break off the engagement.”

“Odd’s blood!” said Darcie. “I had heard none of this at all! I had not even known that there was a formal engagement, much less any question concerning Hera’s virtue!”

“Had she said nothing to you about the matter?” Smythe asked, frowning.

“I should say not!” Darcie said. “S’trewth, the girl scarcely speaks at all. She speaks only to Elizabeth and keeps her eyes so downcast, ‘tis a wonder she can see where she is going. Not that I can fault her for her modesty. ‘Tis a manner most demure and most becoming in a woman. I would not find it amiss if some of it should rub off on Elizabeth. Why, the very thought of such a girl having her virtue brought into question…” He snorted with derision. “ ‘Tis an absurdity! I simply cannot credit it.”

“Yet ‘twould seem that Corwin could,” said Shakespeare.

“If so, then his love for her was fickle,” Darcie said.

“Perhaps. Or else so overwhelming that it overcame his reason,” Smythe said.

“Aye, friendship is constant in all other things save in the office and affairs of love,” mused Shakespeare.

“Yet one more argument in favor of marriages being arranged, as by tradition,” Darcie said with a sniff, as he led the way up the stairs, past portraits of the queen and her most celebrated courtiers. The portraits all looked fairly new, and among them were no relatives, thought Smythe. The mark of the new man was that he had no illustrious antecedents with which to grace his walls. “This peculiar notion of allowing young people to make their own choices in marriage, as if they were no better than working class,” continued Darcie, “is arrant nonsense, if you ask me. Such foolish, bardic sentiments are best left to romantic balladeers and poets. Marriage is much too serious a matter to be cluttered up with feelings.”

“I do not know that I could argue with you there,” said Shakespeare, wryly. Smythe gave him a look.

“And how is poor Hera bearing up under this woeful tragedy?” asked Smythe. Thus far, Darcie had said nothing whatever of her state.

“As well as could be expected, one supposes,” Darcie replied, with a shrug. “She is a quiet girl, and does not seem given to any loud displays of lamentations. Her comportment has been the very model of decorum and restraint. Elizabeth seems more upset about it all than she does.”

“How very strange,” said Shakespeare. “I should think that if my own father were killed, I would be a very torrent of emotions… grief, rage, melancholy, the desire for vengeance, each feeling battling with the other for supremacy.”

“Not all children have so strong an attachment to their parents,” Smythe replied. “And not all parents engender such affection.”

They reached the third floor and proceeded down a short corridor to an open sitting room where they found Elizabeth keeping company with Hera. Both women sat quietly near the windows. Elizabeth was doing some embroidery, while Hera simply sat staring out the window.

“ Elizabeth, we have visitors,” her father said, as she looked up when they entered. To Smythe and Shakespeare, he added in a low tone, “Mark you, do not over-tax the girl with questions, especially concerning the conduct of her father’s business. Make the appropriate expressions of sympathy and so forth, offer condolences and whatever help she may require. Alow her to know that the company shall stand behind her in her hour of need, so that she will know that her fortune is tied to yours and yours to hers. But do not overstate the case. She will need some time, no doubt, to recover from her grief, and then she shall remember who her friends were when she had need of them. I’ll leave you now. Elizabeth can show you out when you are done.”

Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances of disbelief at Darcie’s callousness, but there was no opportunity to discuss it, as Elizabeth was already approaching them.

“Will! Tuck! So good of you to come!” she said, holding out her hands to them both. Her eyes widened at the sight of the bandage on Smythe’s head. “Goodness, Tuck! Were you injured? What happened?”

“Nothing truly worth discussing,” he replied, dismissively, “certainly not in comparison with what happened yesterday.”

“What a dreadful thing,” Elizabeth replied. “And just when things had looked so promising for everyone!”

“You know they have arrested Corwin?” Smythe said.

She nodded. “Aye, like an ill wind, bad news travels quickly,” she replied. “They were crying the news out in the streets before, and thus Hera heard it, whilst sitting at the window and dwelling upon her father’s tragic fate.” She glanced toward the dark-haired girl, who still sat looking out the window. She had not even glanced around when they came in.

“How long has she been thus?” asked Smythe, glancing from Hera to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “Ever since this morning,” she replied. “She simply sits there, saying naught and doing naught in her melancholy humor. I have tried to draw her out, but now she will not even speak to me. ‘Tis as if a veil has been drawn betwixt her and the world. I cannot even tell if she knows that we are here.”

“Has the poor girl lost her reason?” Shakespeare asked with concern.

Elizabeth bit her lower lip. “I pray not,” she replied. “I fear for her. Father says that ‘tis a melancholy that will pass. I wanted to send for Granny Meg, but he does not wish to hear of it. He says there is no need for witches, and that God shall heal her in time.” She sighed and gazed at Hera anxiously. “I do so want to believe that, but I cannot help feeling afraid for her.”

“How did she come here?” Smythe asked.

“She came last night, on foot,” Elizabeth replied.

“On foot?” said Smythe. “At night? Alone?”

“One of the servants came after her,” Elizabeth said. “ ‘Twas not that he came with her to escort her so much as he followed her, out of concern for her safety. After she had found her father, she cried out and then went running from the house, he said. She came straight here.” Elizabeth sighed. “Indeed, where else would she go? I am her only friend in London.”

“She had been with you earlier that day?” asked Smythe.

Elizabeth nodded. “And what a happy time we had.” She smiled at the memory. “We spoke of English weddings. She wanted to know all about our marriage customs. She was so full of happy expectation… Such a marked contrast to her present, mournful humor.”

“She was happy about the engagement, then?” said Smythe. “Her father had approved?”

Elizabeth nodded. “ ‘Twas all settled save for the setting of the date and the arrangements for the wedding,” she said.

“Were they not Catholic?” Shakespeare asked. “Would that not have posed some impediment to the marriage?”

“I had thought the same,” Elizabeth replied, “but it seems not to have presented any difficulty. Hera had told me that her father said to her, ‘We are in England now, and we shall do things as the English do.’ He was, I believe, content to provide the dowry and leave all the arrangements for the wedding to Corwin and Master Peters.”

“I see,” said Smythe, gazing at the Genoan girl. “But your father seemed to think that Master Leonardo may not have approved of Corwin.”

Elizabeth glanced at Smythe with surprise. “Whatever gave him that idea?”

“Did he have reason to think otherwise?” Smythe asked.

Elizabeth frowned. “I do not know. I have no idea why he would have thought so. I know that he and Master Leonardo spoke at length that day when we came to the Theatre, but I think that they discussed matters of business. I do not recall if they spoke of anything else. I do not know that anything at all was said of Hera and Corwin, one way or the other.”

“Corwin seemed smitten with her,” said Shakespeare. “Was she in love with him?”

Elizabeth glanced at him. “She seemed excited at the prospect of the marriage,” she replied.

“Aye, but was she in love with him?” Shakespeare asked again.

“Do you doubt that she was?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “I do not know. That is why I asked. She scarcely knew him.”

“He knew her no better,” Elizabeth replied. “Have you never heard of two people falling in love upon first sight?”

Smythe glanced at her sharply, but she did not look at him. Almost as if she were carefully avoiding it, he thought.

“I am a poet,” Shakespeare replied. “Of course I know that people can fall in love upon first sight. The question is, was she one of those people?”

Elizabeth did not seem to have an answer.

Shakespeare tried another tack. “Did she know that Corwin had gone to her house to see her father and break off the engagement?” he asked, softly.

Elizabeth gasped and her eyes grew wide. “Is this true?” she asked with astonishment.

“He told me so himself,” Shakespeare replied.

“But… why?”

“It seems he believed she had deceived him about her virtue,” he replied.

“What!” Elizabeth said, with disbelief.

“I do not know precisely what Corwin had heard, or from whom,” Shakespeare said, “for he was in a fever of outrage and indignation when he came to the Theatre, but it seems that someone had convinced him that Hera was not… chaste.”

Elizabeth brought her hands up to her face. “Who would do such a vile thing?”

“We do not know,” said Shakespeare. “But we intend to do our utmost to find out.”

“She sits there as if she does not even hear us,” Smythe said, staring at Hera where she sat by the window on the other side of the room. “I know that we are speaking softly, so perhaps she cannot tell what we are saying from over there, but just the same, you would think that she would respond to our presence in some way, at least.”

Elizabeth ’s eyes were glistening with tears. “I have tried speaking to her,” she said, “but she simply does not answer.”

“Let me try,” said Smythe.

“Be gentle with her,” said Elizabeth.

He crossed the room and knelt on the floor by her side. She did not respond to his approach. “Hera…” he said, softy.

She did not respond.

“Hera?”

She kept on staring out the window, as if she hadn’t heard him.

“Hem” he said, more firmly and emphatically, though without raising his voice. He reached out and gently placed two fingers on her cheek, carefully turning her face toward his.

He was not certain if she really saw him, although she seemed to. Her gaze met his and, for a moment, it was as if she were looking through him. Then her eyes focused on his. He wanted to say something to her, but suddenly, he could not seem to find the words. The look in her eyes was one of unbearable pain and sadness, a grief that ran so deep it went down to her very soul. She blinked, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.

“What did you see when you gazed into her eyes?” asked Shakespeare, as they left the Darcie house.

“Unutterable sadness,” Smythe replied. “A grief so deep and all-encompassing that there was no room within her for aught else. It filled her to the very brim.”

They walked side-by-side along the cobblestoned street, keeping near the buildings so as to avoid all the muck that drained down into the declivity at the center. Traffic flowed by in a constant stream, horses and pedestrians, two-wheeled carts and four-wheeled open carriages, coaches and caroches with their curved roofs and ostentatious, plumed ornaments, all creating a cacophany of jingling and creaking, clopping and splashing, shouting and neighing that filled the air with constant noise during the daylight hours.

“Do you suppose she could have known that Corwin was going to break off the engagement?” Smythe asked.

Shakespeare shook his head. “I do not see how she could have known,” he said. “I suppose the only possibility would be if perhaps one of the servants overhead whatever had transpired between Corwin and her father, and then mentioned it to her when she came home, but that seems very unlikely.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, for several reasons,” Shakespeare replied. “Servants who eavesdrop on their masters and then gossip about what they had overheard are certainly not rare, but then they usually gossip amongst one another, certainly not with the daughter of the master of the house.”

“Good point,” said Smythe, nodding.

“And for another matter,” continued Shakespeare, “if any of the servants had overheard whatever passed between Corwin and Master Leonardo, then one would think they surely would have known that something was amiss. One would think they would at least have looked in on their master when Corwin left the house. However, we are told ‘twas Hera who had found her father’s body, and not any of the servants. Either the murder had occurred without any of the servants being alerted, or else they all turned a deaf ear and ignored it. Does that seem very likely to you?”

“It does not,” said Smythe.

“Nor does it to me,” said Shakespeare, emphatically. “What we know thus far about the murder only raises further questions. If Corwin had gone to Master Leonardo’s house to kill him, then surely he would not have stopped first at the Theatre to tell us he was going there. ‘Twould be absurd. So then if Corwin is truly guilty of the crime, then ‘twould only seem reasonable to suppose that he did not go there with the intent of killing Master Leonardo, and that what happened came about in a spontaneous manner. They argued, perhaps a blow was struck, then blades were drawn-”

“Or at least one blade,” Smythe said. “Master Leonardo may have been unarmed for all we know.”

“Quite so,” said Shakespeare. “We must find that out, as well. If he was unarmed, then ‘twas clearly murder. If not, then Corwin could have merely been trying to defend himself. Either way, if the two men fought, then it seems unlikely that there would have been no noise. How could the servants have failed to hear the sounds of such a struggle?”

“ ‘Tis a question we must try to answer,” Smythe replied, “for unless we can find someone who was there to witness it or even hear what happened, the only one who knows the truth of it is Corwin. And I do not know if we shall be permitted to put the question to him.”

“Aye, and even if we could be allowed to speak with him, how would we know if what he told us were the truth?” asked Shakespeare. “Neither of us truly knows him well. If he is guilty of the crime, he could dissemble with us, and if he is a practiced liar, then we would never be the wiser.”

“One thing is for certain,” Smythe said, “we are not going to discover what occurred by questioning Hera any further. For the present, at least, the girl is much too grief-stricken to be of any use. We shall have to seek out Master Leonardo’s servants to see what we can learn.”

“I agree,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “That is the very next thing we must do. And there is one more thing we must discover. Who told Corwin that Hera was not chaste?”

“Who in London could know her well enough to say such a thing and make Corwin believe it?” Smythe asked.

“We are proceeding, then, on the assumption that the tale is a lie?” said Shakespeare.

“Do you doubt it even for a moment?” Smythe asked, with surprise.

“Does it seem impossible there could be truth in it?” Shakespeare countered.

“How can you say such a thing? You have met the girl!”

“Aye, and I have had no words with her other than to give her greeting when we were introduced the other day. To all outward appearances, she seems modest and demure, as Henry Dar-cie said, but what do we truly know of her?”

“Will! I am surprised at you!” said Smythe.

“Why?” asked Shakespeare, puzzled. “Does the question not seem reasonable to you? And if not, then why not?”

“Oft’ it seems to me that you have little love for women,” Smythe replied. “Perhaps your own marriage was not everything you hoped ‘twould be-”

“My marriage has naught to do with it,” Shakespeare said, irritably. “If we are to pursue the truth, Tuck, then we must not presume. Regardless what we think, we must find things out for certain, so that we know them to be true beyond any shadow of a doubt. You are moved to sympathy for Hera, perhaps because of your own feelings for Elizabeth. You know that Henry Darcie only tolerates your friendship with her because he owes you a debt of gratitude, and because he trusts that you would do nothing to dishonor her, nor would she do aught to bring dishonor to herself or to her family. You look at Hera, and what I suspect you see is Elizabeth in a similar situation. You look at Corwin, and I suspect that in some ways, you see yourself. Tis a bad situation altogether, Tuck. You must divest yourself of prejudice and sympathy if you intend to find the truth. What do you truly know of Hera?”

“I know that when I look into her eyes, I see an innocent,” said Smythe with conviction.

Shakespeare stopped and turned to face him. “When I look into your eyes, I see a bloody innocent,” he said. “You, my lad, are a great, hulking, soft-hearted, and besotted fool and if you do not season your romantic notions about women with a pinch of caution and a dash of doubt, then someday some sweet and pretty face is going to ruin you and leave you gutted like a dressed-out stag.”

“Oh, that was rather nicely put,” Smythe said. “You must be a poet.”

“You know, if you did not have that bandage on your head, I would slap you.”

“Very well, then,” Smythe replied. “You look for the worst in people and I shall seek the best. That way, betwixt the two of us, we should cover all the ground.”

“You can be a wearisome bastard, you know that?” Shakespeare said. He clapped Smythe on the shoulder and they resumed walking. “Very well. Let us assume, for the sake of argument if naught else, that the fair Hera is as goodly and godly as her name implies. She was accused unjustly and maliciously. So… who is to profit from such an accusation?”

“I cannot see how there could be any profit in it,” Smythe replied, with a frown.

“A child lies for attention or amusement,” Shakespeare said. “A villain lies for profit, of one sort or another. There must be something in this to benefit someone.”

“But who could benefit from the ruin of Hera’s reputation?” Smythe asked. “She scarcely even knows anyone in London.”

“I do not think that the ruin of Hera’s reputation was in itself the object,” Shakespeare said. “And whilst I may play the Devil’s advocate in an attempt to keep us honest, like you, Tuck, I believe the girl to be an innocent. All this has the odious scent of malice hanging over it like a miasma. Hera has suffered very greatly from it, nevertheless, I do not think that she was the intended victim. We need to look elsewhere, I believe. Let us dissect this plot to make our augery. We must consider who else, save Hera, has been harmed by this.”

“Well, most immediately, her father, of course,” said Smythe. “And then, after him, Corwin. Assuming he is innocent.”

“Let us proceed on that assumption, for if he is not, then the guilty party is already apprehended and justice shall be done. But if he is innocent, then we must act swiftly to prevent a miscarriage of that justice. So…’tis entirely possible that Master Leonardo had made enemies and that one of them had followed him to England and then done away with him. If so, then perhaps vengeance is the profit that we seek. We must find out if anyone had compelling reason to wish Master Leonardo dead.”

“How would we discover that?” asked Smythe.

“At the moment, I have not the slightest clue,” said Shakespeare. “Even if she were in any state to speak with us, Hera might not know aught of her father’s business dealings and what enemies he might have made. Mayhap Ben could be of some assistance to us, since he knew Master Leonardo best.”

“Or perhaps one of the household servants?” Smythe said. “Surely, he must have had at least one servant, if not more, who had accompanied his daughter and himself from Genoa. Hera did not seem comfortable speaking English, though she seemed to speak it well. She must have had a maidservant, a governess, perhaps, who came to England with her.”

“Of course,” said Shakespeare. “That only stands to reason. So, once more then, we came back to the servants. Let us consider Corwin.”

“He could have enemies, I suppose,” said Smythe. “His rise from apprentice to successful journeyman was swift. He had already made something of a reputation for himself among the fashionable nobility. There may be someone who felt envious, another apprentice, perhaps, who believed that Corwin’s place was rightly his.”

“You are thinking of your friends, the Steady Boys, perhaps?” asked Shakespeare.

“I did not have to think too hard,” said Smythe, touching his bandage. “They have impressed themselves upon my memory.”

“Indeed,” Shakespeare replied. “And I do not for one moment think that murder would be beyond them. They very nearly murdered you. And that aside, there seemed to be little love betwixt Corwin and that Darnley fellow and his sneering friend.”

“Bruce McEnery,” said Smythe. “I’ll not forget either of those names anytime soon.”

“I did not expect you would. Nor shall I, for that matter. I do not have so many friends that I can afford to lose any of them. We both have a score to settle with those two and their misbegotten Steady Boys. But let us not allow our outrage to blind us to our course. They may not have been the culprits.”

“And yet, I could easily see them spreading vile rumors about Hera,” Smythe replied.

“As could I. But then, why would Corwin give any credence to them, considering their source?”

Smythe grimaced. “I am still not ready to dismiss them from our consideration.”

“Very well then, we shall not. But for the moment, let us put the Steady Boys aside, as well. Where does that leave us? Who else is affected by Master Leonardo’s death?”

“We are,” Smythe replied.

“We are?”

“I mean, the Queen’s Men,” Smythe said. “Master Burbage and his son, all of the shareholders and the hired men, even Henry Darcie, for that matter. He is a partner in the Theatre, in which Master Leonardo was going to invest.”

“Very true,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “ ‘Twould seem our list of suspects grows and grows.”

“Oh, you cannot suspect any of the Queen’s Men, surely!” Smythe said. “Or Henry Darcie, for that matter. He may be an insufferable old goat, but he is certainly no murderer.”

“Methinks I am in agreement with you there,” said Shakespeare, “else he would have had you murdered long since for making cow eyes at his daughter.”

“Very funny,” Smythe replied dryly, “but that still does not refute my point. Henry Darcie, for all that he is more full of himself than a baker’s dozen of courtiers and finds me utterly unsuitable to pay court to Elizabeth, is nevertheless a good and decent man, and only stood to lose from Master Leonardo’s death.”

“Did he?” Shakespeare asked.

Smythe frowned. “What do you mean? Of course he did! Had Master Leonardo lived, he would have invested in the Theatre, and necessary refurbishments would have been made with his money. As things stand, those refurbishments must still be made, but now, instead of being paid for out of Master Leonardo’s investment, the cost will fall upon Henry Darcie and the Burbages. His death was a great disadvantage to them.”

“Ah, but was it?” Shakespeare said. “Consider this, Tuck: thus far, we have only Henry Darcie’s word that Master Leonardo was eager to invest. ‘Tis quite possible that after seeing the Theatre and then meeting with the company and considering all his options, Master Leonardo had some reservations, or else changed his mind entirely.”

“But Burbage would have known that,” Smythe said.

“Perhaps,” Shakespeare replied. “Or perhaps not. Elizabeth had already taken Hera under her wing, as it were, and thus Henry Darcie had somewhat more to do with Leonardo than Burbage did. Most likely, they were spending more time together, especially since Leonardo had aspirations of advancing himself in London and Darcie would have been more helpful to him in that regard than the Burbages would be. So, if the late, lamented Master Leonardo had reservations about investing in the Theatre, or else had set his mind against it, ‘tis possible that he might only have told Darcie. If so, then Henry Darcie would have been the only one to know that Leonardo was not going to invest.”

“And so what then?” asked Smythe. “He killed him? Or else had him killed? How could he profit by that? Either way, there would be no investment money.”

“Nay, not necessarily so,” Shakespeare replied. “Leonardo had no male heirs, apparently. Hera was his only child. As such, she stands to inherit her father’s wealth. Alone in a strange country, to whom would she turn for guidance if not to the father of her only friend in London?”

“God’s mercy, Will! You cannot believe that, surely! Tis absolutely diabolical!”

“Aye, murder is diabolical, Tuck. I am not saying that I believe it came to pass that way, but I am saying that if we wish to find the truth, we must consider every possible alternative, else the truth, and the real murderer, may easily elude us. We must not allow our sympathies to blind us to any possibility. We must be crafty, canny hunters, you and I, carefully following each spoor that we find, else we shall lose the trail entirely.”

Smythe nodded. “Aye, your argument is sound. And much as I dislike to say so, Henry Darcie did seem somewhat callous in regard to both Master Leonardo’s death and Hera’s grief. His main concern, now that I think of it, was for us to convince her that we were her friends and to make her understand that her fortune was now tied to ours and ours to hers.”

“I thought you would remember that,” said Shakespeare.

“Aye, but still, that merely shows that he is selfish,” Smythe replied. “It does not mean he is a murderer.”

“True,” said Shakespeare, “it does not. Nor do I think he is. Yet I do see where he may nevertheless profit by the death. And that is the sort of thing that we must look for. So… who else profits by it?”

Smythe shook his head, puzzled. “I cannot imagine, unless he had unknown enemies in London and, if so, I do not now see how we may discover them. ‘Tis easier by far to see who stands to lose by his death rather than who stands to profit.”

“Very well. Let us try to view the situation from that vantage point,” said Shakespeare. “Who stands to lose?”

“Most obviously, Hera,” Smythe replied. “But I cannot believe that she had aught to do with it. Her misery is deep and clearly genuine.”

“I am inclined to agree,” Shakespeare said. “Who else?”

“Well… we stand to lose, that is, the company does if the investment is not made and the refurbishments cannot be done,” said Smythe. “Without Master Leonardo’s money, Darcie and the Burbages may find the cost too dear and the work may not be done.”

“And the result of that will be?” asked Shakespeare.

Smythe shrugged. “Audiences may well decide to attend productions at the Rose, instead. ‘Tis a much newer playhouse and they boast Chris Marlowe and Ned Alleyn. So I suppose that could make Henslowe a suspect, but that would mean he would have to have known about the planned investment. How likely would that be?”

“At this point, we cannot say,” Shakespeare replied. “My thought is that ‘twould be somewhat unlikely, but not impossible. Leonardo was interested in making an investment in a playhouse. For all we know, he could have approached Philip Henslowe first.”

“I suppose ‘tis possible,” said Smythe.

“Or else someone in our own company who plans to defect to the Lord Admiral’s Men, as Alleyn did, could have told Henslowe about it.”

“A long shot, even for an accomplished bowman, I would say,” Smythe replied. “We have at present far more to fear from Henslowe than Henslowe has to fear from us. He has already taken our best actor. He has a better playhouse and he has-”

“If you say he has a better poet, I shall kick your arse,” Shakespeare said.

“I was going to say he has more money” Smythe replied, with a grimace. “The Lord Admiral’s Men are in the ascendancy whilst we are in decline. Thus, I do not think ‘twould stand to reason that Henslowe would have aught to do with it. After all, why bother to lack a dying dog?”

“Well, we may be down, but we are not dead yet,” said Shakespeare. “But do you know who very nearly is? Young Corwin. Whether he is innocent or guilty of the crime, he now stands to lose his life in either case.”

“Aye, he does, indeed,” said Smythe. “There is no question that he was obsessed with Hera. But was he obsessed enough to kill?” He shook his head. “Those who knew him best do not believe it, nor do I.”

“Why not?” asked Shakespeare.

“I cannot give you a sound reason, Will,” Smythe replied, with a helpless shrug. “I simply feel that he could not have done it. He did not strike me as the sort. He struck me as the sort who might stand on his affronted dignity and break off his engagement if he felt that he would be dishonored by the marriage, but he did not strike me as the sort to fly into a rage and cut a man to ribbons. That phrase sticks in my mind, Will. ‘He was cut to ribbons.’ Master Leonardo was the captain of a merchant ship. That is not a life for a soft, indolent, and doughy shopkeeper. Seamen are a hardy lot and it takes a hardy man to lead them. He was lean and weathered, erect in his carriage, and with a spring in his step. He carried a fine sword and had the look of a man who knew how to use it. Italians are well known for their schools of fencing. And Corwin was no duelist. He was an apprentice who but recently became a journeyman. A sword was never a tool of his trade. I cannot recall that he even wore one, can you?”

Shakespeare thought a moment. “I do not think so.”

Smythe shook his head. “I do not believe he did. And even if he did, I find it hard to credit that he could prevail over a man like Master Leonardo, who must have had to deal with men a great deal rougher than Corwin in his time.”

“He may have gained the advantage of surprise and so prevailed,” said Shakespeare, “but I do not believe it, either. Betimes, a man must act upon his instinct, even if it seems to go against his reason. And whilst my reason tells me that Corwin may be guilty, my instinct tells me he is not.”

“Then we are in complete agreement,” Smythe said, emphatically. “We must find someone else who had good reason to see Master Leonardo murdered.”

“Or else see Corwin blamed for it,” said Shakespeare, thoughtfully. “Methinks that is another possibility we should consider. Master Leonardo’s death may not have been in itself the end, but just the means.”

“You mean that he could have been killed merely so that Corwin would be accused of his murder and thus destroyed?” said Smythe. “Odds blood! ‘Tis a cold heart that could conceive of such a deed!”

“Aye, a cold heart,” repeated Shakespeare, “with cold blood coursing through it, as opposed to hot. Mayhap ‘twas not a crime of passion, after all, but of opportunity.”

“We have much to do,” said Smythe, grimly. “And little time in which to do it. The noose for Corwin’s neck is being plaited even as we speak.”