The Merchant of Vengeance

Chapter 4

The Wherry Ride across the choppy, windswept river took them to the area known as the Liberties, outside the city proper on the south bank of the Thames. They disembarked not very far from the Rose Theatre and the Paris Gardens, where the residents of London, or at least those with a taste for bloodier drama than they could see portrayed upon the stage, could watch the sport of bear-baiting in the ring or, on occasion, see a chained ape tormented by a pack of hounds. In this same area, close by the theatre, a number of thriving brothels could be found, as well as several taverns and gaming houses. A short walk in a South Easterly direction took them to the residence of Thomas Locke’s parents, Charles and Rachel Locke, on a tree-lined dirt street near the outskirts of Southwark.

“For a mere tavern keeper, Charles Locke lives in a rather large and handsome home,” said Shakespeare, observing the three-story, oak-framed house with its white plaster walls and steeply pitched thatched roof.

The timbers of the house had been tarred, blackening them so that they stood out dramatically against the white plaster of the walls. In between the upright timbers were shorter boards arranged in opposing diagonal directions, resulting in a dramatic herring-bone effect that made the house stand out from all those around it.

“Strange that we never should have heard of him before,” said Shakespeare. “I would have thought by now that we knew all of the taverns hereabouts.”

“Methinks that he is rather more than a mere tavern-keeper,” Smythe replied. “When Ben told us his, name, it seemed somehow familiar to me, although I could not then call to mind just why. Yet now it comes to me at last. If this is the same Charles Locke that I

am thinking of, and not just a coincidence of names, then he also owns a brothel and is a master of the Thieves Guild.“

Shakespeare glanced at him with surprise. “Now, how in the world would you know something like that?” he asked.

“Of late, I read it in a pamphlet that I bought in a bookstall in

Paul’s Walk,“ Smythe replied.

“Oh, no,” said Shakespeare, stopping in his tracks. “Do not tell me ‘twas one of Robert Greene’s works about the so-called ’dark and murky underworld‘ of London!”

“Well…”

“Good Lord, Tuck! You saw the man! He was living in his cups, for God’s sake, if you could even call that living. I had heard that he was fallen on hard times and dissipated, but the sight of him alone more than confirmed it, to say nothing of his bilious and caustic disposition. How could you possibly take anything he wrote seriously, considering the source?”

“If we were to dismiss the work of every writer ever known to take a drink,” said Smythe, “then there would be no literature left in all the world. And I might add, whilst we are on the subject, that you yourself have been known for your supine presence ‘neath the tables in many of the lesser alehouses of the city.”

“You infernal bounder!” Shakespeare sputtered. “Do you mention me in the same breath as that hopeless, rheumy-eyed, and bloated souse?”

“Not yet rheumy-eyed and not yet bloated, at the least,” said Smythe, “but if there be not a flask of brandy somewhere about your person even as we speak, then I shall herewith eat your bonnet!” He swiped the floppy velvet cap off Shakespeare’s head and held it underneath his nose. ‘Well? What say you now, Master Shakescene?“

Shakespeare stared at him squinty-eyed for a moment, then flatly said, “There is no flask.”

“Why, you saucy, timorous, and motley-minded liar!” Smythe said. “What will you wager that if I picked you up and shook you, one should not fall out from somewhere within your doublet?”

“You would never dare!”

“Oh, would I not!”

Smythe reached out quickly and spun him around, then seized him about the waist from behind and easily lifted him up into the air.

“Gadzooks! Put me down, you great baboon! Have you lost your senses?”

Then Shakespeare yelped as Smythe turned him upside down and shifted his grip so that one hand grasped each of his ankles. “Now,” Smythe said, “what shall I do, I wonder? Shake you or make a wish?”

“Tuck! Damn you for a venomous double-dealing rogue, let me down at once, I say!”

“Hmmm, now what was it you said just now?” asked Smythe, holding him aloft. “There is no flask, eh? Was that what you said?” He started shaking the helpless poet up and down.

“Tuuuuuuuuuuck!”

Something fell out of Shakespeare’s doublet and struck the damp ground with a soft thud.

‘Well, now!“ said Smythe, ”what have we here?“ He turned slightly so that Shakespeare, still held upside down, could see what was lying on the ground.

“Is that a flask, or do mine eyes deceive me?”

“Ohhhhh, I am going to beat you with a stick!” said Shakespeare through gritted teeth as he vainly tried to strike out behind him. Smythe merely held him out farther away, at arm’s length.

“Aye, I do believe that is a flask I see down there at my feet. I do not suppose ‘twould happen to be yours, by any chance?”

“God’s body! You are as strong as a bloody ox!” said Shakespeare. “Let me down, I pray you, the blood is rushing to my head.”

Smythe released him. “Very well, then. Down you go.”

It was not very far to fall, no more than a foot or so, but from the way Shakespeare cried out, it might have been a precipice that he was dropped from. He fell to the ground in a heap, groaning.

“Now then,” Smythe said, looking down at him with his hands upon his hips, “what was it you were saying about not taking seriously anyone who drank?”

“You know very well what I meant, you great, infernal oaf,” grumbled Shakespeare, getting up and dusting himself off. “There is a deal of difference between a man who drinks in moderation and a man who drinks to excess.”

“Moderation?” Smythe replied. “Compared to you, half the drunks in London drink. in moderation, and the other half are bloody well abstemious!”

“Gentlemen,” a deep voice said from behind them, “if the two of you are intent upon a brawl, might I suggest a tavern, or perhaps some wooded place where you could maul each other to your hearts’ content?”

They turned to see a tall, gray-bearded, and barrel-chested man with sharp, angular features and thick, shoulder-length gray hair standing between them and the front entrance to the Locke house. In his right hand, he held a stout quarter-staff with one end resting lightly on the ground. “Either way,” he continued, “I would much prefer that you conduct your mischief elsewhere, and not at my front door, if you please.”

“Master Charles Locke, I presume?” Smythe said. He started toward him, but immediately stopped when he saw Locke raise the quarter-staff and hold it across his body in the defensive posture of a man who was prepared to fight.

“Who are you?” Locke demanded, gazing at him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

Smythe held out his hands, palms forward. “Your pardon, good sir, we mean you no harm. My friend and I were merely having a bit of sport, is all. As it happens, ‘tis you we came to see. My name is Tuck Smythe, and this is my friend Will Shakespeare.”

Locke frowned and maintained his staff held at the ready. “I know you not. What is it you want of me?”

“‘Tis a matter concerning your son,” said Shakespeare.

“Thomas?” Locke said, narrowing his eyes. “‘What have you to do with him?”

“In truth, not a very great deal,” Smythe replied. “We have met him for the first time but this afternoon, at the shop of our good friend Ben Dickens, the armourer.”

“I know of him,” said Locke curtly. “And yet I still know naught of you.”

“We are players, good sir,” said Shakespeare, “at present with the august company of Lord Strange’s Men.”

“And so what is that to me?”

“Indeed, sir, it may be naught to you,” Shakespeare replied, a touch defensively, “but the news we bring you of your son may not be naught at all.”

“Bah! Do not plague me with your riddles, you mountebank! What news have you of my son? Speak plainly and try not my patience!”

“We believe that your son is planning to elope,” said Smythe.

“Elope!” Locke gave out a barking laugh. “What nonsense! What earthly reason would he have to do such a damned fool thing?”

“Because the father of the prospective bride has now withdrawn his consent to the marriage and forbidden Thomas ever to see or speak with her again,” Smythe replied.

“And we have heard this from your son’s own lips this day.” added Shakespeare.

Locke frowned and lowered his staff. “Indeed? And did he tell you why Mayhew has done this?”

Smythe hesitated slightly, then replied, “He said ‘twas because his mother is a Jew.”

For a moment, Locke simply stood there, saying nothing. His already stormy countenance betrayed little more response. Then he finally replied. “If you are lying about this because you are bent upon some sort of mischief, then so help me Almighty God, I shall have your hearts cut out.”

Shakespeare swallowed nervously and turned a shade paler. Smythe merely returned Locke’s steely, level gaze. “Sir, I know full well just who you are, and that you are fully capable of making good upon your threat. Given that knowledge, then, consider how foolish we would have to be to play at making mischief for a man such as yourself.”

Locke’s gaze never wavered. He merely nodded once, then curtly said, “Why do you come to me with this? What concern is it of yours? Did you hope to gain some favour or ask for something in return for imparting this most unfortunate news?”

“Indeed, sir,” Shakespeare began, “the truth of the matter is that we had thought the doing of a favour for a man in your particular position could be of some considerable benefit to struggling players such as ourselves, and — ”

Smythe interrupted him before he could continue. “Nay, the truth, sir, is that ‘twas all my fault and, as such, my conscience did bid me cry to make amends.”

“Oh, Good Lord…” muttered Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. “Explain yourself,” said Locke curtly.

In as few words as possible, because he could clearly see that Locke would not have any patience for long-winded explanations, Smythe described how it happened that he advised Thomas to dope with Portia if he truly believed that he could not bear to live without her. Locke listened impassively. When Smythe was finished, he took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. He looked down at the ground for a moment, as if digesting everything that he had heard and considering it carefully, then he looked up once again, fixing Smythe with a very direct, unsettling gaze. The wind from the river had picked up, and as it blew the old man’s hair back, away from his face, and plucked at his dark, coarse woollen cloak, Smythe thought he looked for all the world like some biblical prophet, an angry Moses about to cast his staff down before the pharaoh.

“Methinks you are a man who does not shy from the consequences of his actions,” he said to Smythe. “I respect that. But there is one thing that you have not yet told me, and that is why you saw fit to offer your opinion on this matter to my son, who was essentially a stranger to you.”

“I suppose ‘twas meddlesome of me,” said Smythe, with a self-conscious grimace. “But in truth, at the time we spoke, I did not truly realize why I had done so. My friend here helped me to comprehend my motives, which I myself had not considered. Like your son, I also am in love, but sadly, with one who is much above my station. And whilst my own situation is not quite the same as that of your son, in that this woman’s father, owing me a debt of gratitude, does not forbid our friendship, yet that friendship is the only sort of bond he can permit. In hearing your son’s anguish over being forbidden to wed or even see the girl he loved so deeply, I took it much to my own heart and counselled him to do that which, perhaps under different circumstances, I wished that I could do myself.”

Locke nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well… I can understand that, perhaps better than you know.” He looked off into the distance for a moment, in reflection, and then continued. “I must ask your pardon, gentlemen. I would invite you both to come inside, but I do not wish to distress my dear wife with this most untimely and unfortunate news.”

“We understand completely, sir,” said Smythe. “Would there be anything more that we… or that I could do to be of service to you in this matter?”

“I am tempted to say that you have already done more than enough,” said Locke dryly, “and yet, young Master Smythe, I shall not hold you entirely to blame, for I know my own son. He is possessed of a passionate temper, much like his mother, and what he feels, he feels most deeply. I believe that had you not mentioned elopement as a possible course for him to take, then he would doubtless have come to it on his own. And knowing what my reaction would have been, to say naught of how his mother would respond, he never would have told us. Nor would Mayhew have sent any word to us concerning his decision, so I would have continued on in ignorance of how things stood until ‘twas much too late.” He nodded to himself. “There is one thing you can do for me, and I would be indebted to you for that favour.”

“You have but to name it, sir, and if ‘tis within my power, then it shall be done,” said Smythe.

“Find my son,” said Locke. “I do not wish to see him throw away everything that he has worked for all these years. In time, I believe, he would regret doing so himself: although now, impassioned as he is, doubtless he cannot think so clearly. There are certain things that I can do to prevent him from making such a costly error if he should choose to continue on this course regardless of my wishes, but I shall need some time to make arrangements. In the meantime, find him for me, and communicate to him my feelings on this matter. Remind him also of my love for him, and in particular that of his mother, and bid him consider the effect that this would have upon her.”

“I should be glad to do so,” Smythe replied.

“I shall tell you of some places where he may be found,” said

Locke. “He is most regular in his habits, and with luck you shall not take long in finding him. The first place you must seek him is the tailor shop of Master Leffingwell…”

“Well, here is another fine mess you have got us into,” Shakespeare grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and huddling in his cloak as the small boat bobbed up and down in the choppy current of the Thames. “Pray tell, why is it that you always have to go sticking your nose into other people’s business?”

Smythe sighed. “I am sorry, Will. You are quite right, of course. The entire matter was really none of my concern. Thomas is Ben’s friend, not ours, and I should, indeed, have kept my foolish mouth shut. I apologise. I truly do.”

“Well… we still have some time before our next performance,” Shakespeare said, although he sounded a bit dubious. “With any luck, we shall find Thomas at his master’s shop, pass on his father’s message, and then make it back across the river to the theatre by the first trumpet call.”

“I hope so, but I am not so certain,” Smythe replied. “We may be cutting it a bit too close. For certain, we shall miss rehearsal.”

“Never fear,” said the grizzled wherry-man, in a gruff and raspy voice, without missing a stroke as he rowed them across. “‘Twill rain cats ’n‘ dogs within the hour. Ye won’t be havin’ any show this night, ye can be sure O‘ that.”

Smythe glanced up at the sky. “‘Tis a bit gray, indeed,” he said,

“but how can you be so certain?”

The wherry-man spat over the side. “I can feel it in me bones, lad. I been scullin‘ this ’ere river since afore yer birth. If’n I say’tis gonna rain, ‘strewth ’n‘ ye count on rain. Wager on it, if ye like.”

He pulled hard and steady on the short oars of the sharp-prowed wherry as they cut through the choppy water. About twenty feet in length and narrow in the beam, the wherry could carry up to five passengers. On this short cross-river journey, though, only Will and Tuck were being rowed by the sole wherry-man, whose powerful arms pulled on the sculls with strong and purposeful strokes.

The Company of Watermen consisted of several thousand wherry-men much like him, a rough-and-tumble lot who plied the waters of the Thames in boats of various sizes, rowing the citizens of London across and up and down the river. With all the traffic on the narrow, crowded, and muddy city streets, many of which still remained unpaved, it was often easier to get around London by travelling the river. Thus, the Company of Watermen was one of the largest companies in the city.

The weather-beaten boatmen, known as watermen or wherry-men or scullers, made their living ferrying the citizens of London on the Thames for the very reasonable fare of about one pence per person. On any given day, their boats dotted the surface of the river like water-flies upon a country pond. There were even Royal Watermen, who rowed solely in service to the queen and her court. A veteran such as the old wherry-man who rowed them had very likely also spent some time serving in the Royal Navy, which often turned to the Company of Watermen for impressment. Consequently, there was little point in questioning his knowledge of the river and the weather. If he said he knew that it would rain, then it would surely rain.

“Well, ‘tis a pity that we shall not be able to perform tonight,” said Shakespeare, “but all the same, it serves us just as well. I should not have liked hastening back for our performance before we could have done Locke’s bidding properly. He is not a man to be trifled with, methinks.”

“Ye mean Shy Locker” the wherry-man asked. “You two on a job for ‘im, are ye?”

“Shy Locker” said Shakespeare. “Nay, one Charles Locke, a Southwark tavern-keeper, was the man I meant.”

“Aye, ‘tis ’im,” the wherry-man replied. “Shy Locke, they call

‘im.“ He grinned. ”Ye want’t’ know why?“

“Somehow I have the distinct impression that you are going to tell us,” Shakespeare said wryly, drawing his cloak about him against the chill.

“‘E’s an important man in ’is own way, ‘e is,” the wherry-man replied from somewhere behind his thick and bushy beard as he bent to the oars. “But ye would never know it to see ’im in ‘is tavern, mind. ’E ‘ides ’is light under a bushel, ye might say, like a shy sort. Never acts important. Never puts on airs. An‘ yet, not a thief or alley-man in the city plies ’is trade without ole Shy Locke’s permission, if ye please.”

“There, you see?” Smythe said. “What did I tell you? Greene was right.”

“Robby Greene, what writes them pamphlets?” asked the wherry-man.

“Robby?” Shakespeare said, raising his eyebrows. Somehow, the familiarity did not seem to fit the bitterly resentful ruin of a man that they had met.

“Aye, ‘e knows whereof ’e speaks, ole Robby does,” the wherry-man continued as he rowed. “A regular chronicler of the underworld,‘e is.”

“One might think people like that would resent his writing all about them and telling all the world their business,” Shakespeare said.

“Aye, one might think that, indeed,” the wherry-man replied. “And yet, strange as it might be, they seem to like it. I often ‘ear ’em talk about it in the taverns or when I ‘ave ’em in me boat. Robby Greene makes ‘em famous, see? Get yer name in one o’ those pamphlets’e writes an‘ then yer cock o’ the walk in that lot.”

“How curious,” said Shakespeare. “Much as noblemen often have their pet poets who write sonnets to extol their virtues, so ‘twould seem that criminals in London have their own poet in Robert Greene. And, as such, I could see how ’twould be a measure of their status to be mentioned in his writings.”

“‘Twould help explain why he has a cut-throat like that Cutting Ball at his beck and call,” said Smythe.

“Oh, aye, ‘e’s a bad one, all right,” the wherry-man replied with a knowing nod. “I would be givin’ ‘im a right wide berth if I was you. One time, one o’ Robby Greene’s creditors sent a bill collector after ‘im. The man found ’im, all right, but Cutting Ball was with ‘im, and ’e gave the poor sod a choice to eat the bill or ‘ave his throat cut.”

“I imagine that he ate it rather promptly,” Shakespeare said dryly.

“Washed it down with ale, then took to ‘is heels like the devil ’imself were chasin‘ ’im,” the wherry-man replied with a chuckle.

“That sounds like just the sort of thing that ruffian would do,” said Smythe with a grimace. “I must admit, the more I learn about Master Robert Greene, the less and less I like the man.”

“Oh, ‘e’s an ’orrible man!” the wherry-man exclaimed. “Vile tempered and mean-spirited as they come!”

“And a university man, at that,” said Shakespeare. “A master of the am, no less.” He shook his head. “He was a good poet in his time. ‘Tis a pity what has become of him. A sad thing. A very sad thing, indeed.”

“A harbinger of things to come, perhaps?” asked Smythe with a smile.

“Perish the thought!” Shakespeare replied with a shudder. “I should sooner go back to Stratford than see myself reduced to such a state! Nay, I shall not be fortune’s fool, Tuck. Thus far, I have achieved some small measure of success, and I an) most grateful for it. I shall endeavour to make the most of it, you may be sure of that, but if I see that my run of luck has ended, then I shall know well enough to quit. I promise you. A wise guest knows not to overstay his welcome at Dame Fortune’s table.”

“‘Ere we be, good sirs,” the wherry-man said, as he shipped the oars and let the boat drift up to the flight of stone steps coming straight down the bank to the river. There were many such “pairs of stairs” along the riverside, built expressly for the purpose of small boats pulling up to them. ’Watch yer step, now!“

The warning was as traditional as it was unnecessary. Everyone knew how slick the steps could be, especially on a damp day. The rough-cut stones had been smoothed by both the elements and foot traffic over time and were often slippery. Smythe and Shakespeare stepped out gingerly, one at a time, while the wherry-man held the boat steady, dose to the steps.

“Look sharp, good wherry-man,” Smythe said, flipping him an extra coin. “For a swift passage and the benefit of your wisdom.”

“Thank ye, lad,” the old wherry-man replied, catching the coin. “Mind now, ye go muckin‘ about with the likes o’ Shy Locke and ‘tis fortune’s darlings ye will need to be to come out with your heads all in one piece. Do what ye please, but just remember old Puck the Wherry-man and what ’e told ye.”

“We shall do that, Puck, and thank you,” Smythe replied, as the wherry-man pulled away in search of another fare. “A right good fellow, that,” he said to Shakespeare.

“Aye. A good fellow, indeed. But did you happen to pay any mind to what he said?”

“He said ‘twould rain soon.”

“And that we would do well to avoid any dealings with the likes of this Shy Locke if we wanted to keep our heads from being broken,” Shakespeare said.

“We have already had some dealings with him,” Smythe replied, as they ascended the steps to the street, “and thus tar, we seem to have survived with our heads unscathed:”

‘Thus far,“ Shakespeare replied with a grimace.

“Oh, stop worrying so much, Will,” said Smythe with a grin. “‘Tis a simple enough matter. All we need do is deliver his message to Thomas Locke and there will be an end to it. ’Tis not as if we were embarking upon a precarious journey to some den of thieves!”

“It seems to me that when all of this started, ‘twas merely a simple matter of going to a tavern so that you could meet your favourite pamphleteer,” Shakespeare replied dryly. “Your ’simple matters’ have a disconcerting tendency to become byzantine in their complexity.”

“And this from a man who cannot seem to get a single play finished before he begins a new one,” Smythe replied. “How many are you working on at present? Three? Or is it four?”

“A poet must follow his inspiration,” Shakespeare replied. “He might do better to generate some perspiration by applying himself to only one task at a time,” Smythe said.

“Oh, indeed? And where, pray tell, did you learn your mastery in the craft of poetry? Whilst apprenticing with your Uncle Thomas at his forge? Doubtless, you declaimed the classics to one another between hammer blows upon the anvil. Beat the verses into submission, I suppose. Iambic pentameter, if you will.”

“”I am a what?“

“Oh, never mind,” said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. “To you, a heroic couplet probably suggests Greek ardor.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

‘“Your education, sirrah, or, more to the point, the lack of it.

‘Tis showing as brightly as a pinked sleeve. I shall take your lead when it comes to smithing or weaponry or knowledge of the criminal underworld, about which you have read so exhaustively and exhaustingly, but when it comes to poetry, my friend, I shall thank you to speak little, or, better yet, speak not at all.“

“Do you know, if you expended as much effort in your writing as you do in tongue lashing, then your productions would be hailed throughout the world,” said Smythe.

“And if you spent half as much time learning your lines as you do in finding fault with me, then London would forget Ned Alleyn and hail you as the greatest actor of all time!”

“Hark, methinks I hear a kite screeching,” Smythe said sourly. “”Whilst I hear a tiresome and rustic drone,“ Shakespeare replied.

“Rustic? Rustic, did you say? And this from a bog-trotting, leather-jerkined Stratford glovemaker! See how yon pot calls the kettle black!”

“Bog-trotting, leather-jerkined glovemaker? Oh, that was vile!”

“Well, if the muddy gauntlet fits…

“”Why, you base and timorous scoundrel! You call me a leather-jerkined bog-trotter whilst you lumber about London in country galligaskins and hempen homespun like some hedge-hopping haggard? You raucous crow!“

“Unmannered dog!”

“Rooting hog!”

“Yelping cur!”

“Honking goose!”

“Balding miscreant!”

“Balding? Balding? ”Why, you vaporous churl…

“Hey, you, down there! Shaddap!” A stream of odoriferous slop came pouring down from a second-story window above them as somebody threw out the contents of a chamberpot, just barely missing them.

“Why, that miserable, misbegotten-”

“Never mind, never mind,” interrupted Shakespeare, pulling on Smythe’s arm to hurry him along. “We really do not have time for this. I should very much like to complete our errand and return in enough time to attend at least part of today’s rehearsal. Henslowe has said that he would be fining us from now on if we did not attend.”

“Well, I suppose you are right,” Smythe grumbled, allowing himself to be led away. He shot a venomous glance back toward the building from whence the excrementory assault had come. ‘We should be nearing Leffingwell’s shop, in any event.“

“I believe ‘tis right around the corner,” Shakespeare said, as they came around a bend in the curving street and entered a small, cobblestoned cul-de-sac containing a number of shops with painted wooden signs hanging out over their doors.

Several of these shops had display windows in the front with one large wooden shutter that was hinged at the bottom, so that it swung down to open and swing up to close, then was latched from the inside. When swung down in the open position, this shutter, supported by chains or ropes, functioned as a display table upon which the craftsmen could show their wares to passers-by in the street. Of course, it was often necessary to fasten the goods down or have someone there to watch them; otherwise a thief could make off with something without even entering the shop. Here, however, such a snatch-and-grab would be rendered more difficult, since these shopkeepers had all joined forces to hire a couple of burly, rough-looking men armed with clubs and daggers to act as guards. They sat upon wooden kegs at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, leaning back against the building walls with their thick arms folded across their massive chests, giving everybody who came past them a close scrutiny.

Smythe and Shakespeare entered the tailor shop where Thomas Locke had served his apprenticeship and now worked as a journeyman. The owner of the shop, a lean and severe-looking master tailor, approached them, looked them over quickly, and did not quite manage to mask his purse-lipped disapproval of their attire, which was neither very fashionable nor very expensive. Still, there was always the possibility that they might be looking to upgrade their appearance, and so he put on a polite smile and asked them if he could be of any assistance.

“In truth, sir, we came in search of Thomas Locke, who we were told is employed here as a journeyman,” said Smythe. “We have a message for him from his father.”

The tailor sighed and rolled his eyes. “Indeed, everyone seems to be looking for Thomas today,” he replied with irritation. “I, too, would very much like to know what has become of him. He should have been here hours ago. ‘Tis most unlike him to be so late.”

“What do you mean, everyone seems to be looking for him?” Shakespeare asked. “Has someone else been here asking for him, as well?”

“Aye, three women came by in a carriage a little while ago,” the tailor replied. “They were asking about him, too. One of them was his betrothed, or so she claimed.”

“Did she give her name as Portia?” Smythe asked.

“Aye, she was the one,” the tailor replied. “A pretty young thing, if you like that sort. A bit on the coltish side, if you ask me, but with the right style of clothing, in a fuller cut, she could present a decent figure, I suppose. I know not who her tailor is, and did not presume to ask, but she could certainly do better. The other one was not all that much different. Antonia, I think she said her name was, a bit more brassy looking, but well dressed in silks and damasks in dark hues that set off her colouring to good advantage. However, the flaxen-haired one, Mistress Elizabeth, now, there was a woman who knew how to wear clothes. The moment I saw that exquisite green velvet cloak, I told myself this was a woman of excellent taste and sensibility.”

“Elizabeth?” said Smythe, interrupting him abruptly. “Do you mean Elizabeth Darcie?”

“Aye, Darcie was her name, indeed. Master Henry Darcie’s daughter. Now there is a gentleman I would be proud to count among my customers. Mistress Darcie admired some of my bolts of cloth and said she might return and order a dress or two. Aye, she had excellent taste. Excellent taste, indeed. My most expensive silks and velvets were what caught her eye. In my humble opinion, Thomas would have done himself a deal of good had he set his cap at her rather than that other one.”

“Oh, good Heavens!” Shakespeare said, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “How has Elizabeth managed. to become mixed up in this business? Is there nothing the two of you do not stick your noses into?”

“Mixed up in what business?” the tailor asked, frowning. “Thomas has not done anything wrong, has he?”

“Nay, I am certain he has not,” replied Smythe. “‘Tis only that his father was most anxious to speak with him concerning some family matter and, as we have just come from him, he asked us to convey the message to him.”

“Well, if you see him, you may convey another one to him from me,” the tailor said. “You may tell him that Master Leffingwell is not in the habit of employing journeymen who do not show up for work. He never behaved this way when he was my apprentice, and if he thinks that becoming a journeyman means that he may now come to work only when it pleases him, then he is very much mistaken. And you may tell him that I shall expect him here tomorrow, promptly, and I shall want a full accounting from him concerning where he was today, indeed I shall!”

“We shall be sure to tell him, Master Leffingwell,” said Smythe. “But we are not certain where he may be found. Perhaps you could assist us. Did he not reside somewhere nearby?”

“I can only tell you what I told the three young ladies,” the tailor replied. “Thomas has a. room he rents above the mercer’s shop across the street. However, as I had already sent one of my apprentices there earlier today, to see if perhaps Thomas had fallen ill, I can of a certainty tell you that he is not there. As to where he may be found, I fear I cannot say. ‘Tis not my habit to keep track of everyone who works for me. I merely expect them to be here on time and to do their jobs properly.”

“Well, thank you just the same, Master Leffingwell,” said

Smythe. ‘We shall endeavour to find him on our own.“

‘Well, that would seem to be that,“ said Shakespeare, as they left the tailor’s shop. ”We have done our best to deliver Locke’s message to his son, but his son was simply nowhere to be found. Certainly, no one can hold us to account for that.“

Smythe frowned. “I am rather more concerned about Elizabeth,” he said. “I cannot think what she and Antonia were doing here with Portia, unless ‘twas their intention to help the two of them elope.”

“Well, of course, that is their intention,” Shakespeare replied irately. “That should seem obvious. Elizabeth is simply incapable of resisting the urge to meddle, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. She is a decent and good-hearted soul, but she has not the sense God gave a goose. I tell you… wait, where are you going?”

“Across the street,” said Smythe.

“But Leffingwell has already told us that Thomas is not there.”

Shakespeare replied.

“He has told us that he sent an apprentice there earlier today, to see if perhaps Thomas had fallen ill,” said Smythe, recalling the tailor’s words exactly.

“Well then?” said Shakespeare. “Did you not believe him?”

“Oh, I believed him. But what do you suppose that apprentice must have done when he went over there?” asked Smythe. “He knocked on the door and waited for an answer, and then when there was none, he returned. But suppose that Thomas was there and did not answer to the knock?”

“‘Tis possible,” said Shakespeare. “But why would he fail to answer?”

“What if he were packing his things as he prepared to run away with Portia? Or perhaps he was not there at the time the apprentice was sent, but has returned since. In any event, I should like to go and see for myself.”

Shakespeare sighed. “Oh, very well, if you insist. But I should not like to spend the remainder of the day questing for Thomas all over the city. This has already taken up too much of our time to no good purpose.”

They crossed the courtyard at the end of the cul-de-sac and went into the mercer’s shop, where they learned that Thomas Locke’s room was on the third floor. With people from all over the countryside flocking to London in search of work, accommodations were often difficult to come by, and people with rooms to rent could make a handsome profit. It was not unusual for one room to be shared by a number of unrelated people splitting the rent among them, and with such crowded conditions, rooms were often used only for sleeping. That Thomas Locke was able to afford a room all to himself, albeit a small one, already said something about his success as a new journeyman tailor.

Perhaps he had made some arrangement with the mercer in which he bartered his tailoring skills in exchange for part of the rent. Either way, thought Smythe, he certainly had a comfortable arrangement: his own room in a reasonably decent section of the city, where he only needed to walk across the street to get to work in a job where he was doing well. A great many people in London had to make do with a great deal less, Smythe thought, himself included. And yet, Thomas Locke was apparently willing to leave it all behind for an uncertain future in some unknown place. He would gain the woman that he loved, but he would lose everything else. And, Smythe thought with some self-recrimination, he was the one who had given him the idea in the first place.

He could not help wondering if he would do the same if Elizabeth were willing to run off with him. He did not delude himself that she would ever agree to do such an incredibly foolish thing, but nevertheless, he had to wonder. Would he have the courage to do the same in Thomas Locke’s place? He discovered, with somewhat mixed feelings, that the answer was not immediately forthcoming.

Perhaps it was not entirely a question of courage. He loved Elizabeth, of that he had no doubt, but then he also loved being a player, something he had dreamed of all his life. When he had left home and set off for London to pursue his dream at last, he had nothing but the clothes upon his back and a few personal possessions. On the way, he had met Will Shakespeare at a roadside inn, a chance encounter of two strangers who, by coincidence, were both in pursuit of the same goal. They had achieved that goal, when so many others who came to London following their dreams were doomed to bitter disappointment. Smythe knew that he had been very fortunate, indeed. Would it not be wrong to turn his back on his good fortune when others had been so much less fortunate than he?

Aside from that, he had good friends now. Shakespeare and the other players in the company were all like brothers to him, even Kemp, cantankerous and quarrelsome as he was; they all seemed like family. He had never had such friends as these. And then there was the old smith Liam Bailey, who in many ways had taken the place of his beloved Uncle Thomas, not to mention the illustrious and adventuresome Sir William Worley, the knight who had befriended him and trusted him with secret knowledge. He had a life here now, a life that meant something to him. He did not think that he could simply walk away and leave it all behind, even if Elizabeth were somehow willing to run off with him.

For that matter, even if she was-not that he could ever ask her-what sort of life would he be able to offer her? Her father was a gentleman. She could never be a player’s wife, and the only other trade he knew was that of a smith and farrier. Elizabeth Darcie was simply not the sort of woman who could leave everything she had and live the life of a humble country blacksmith’s wife. Such a step down would be a disgrace to both her and her family. But it was all nothing more than pointless conjecture.

Thomas Locke’s situation was completely different. He and Portia Mayhew were in love and were going to be married until her father had suddenly withdrawn his consent, while he and Elizabeth had never declared their feelings to each other. It was an unspoken thing between them, never openly acknowledged.

Shakespeare had been right. He had no business meddling in this affair in the first place. It did not concern him and was nothing more than wishful thinking on his part, in which he had suggested a course to Thomas Locke that he wished that he could take himself, but in all likelihood would not, even if such a possibility were open to him. Still, he thought, it was interesting that Elizabeth had coincidentally become involved in this affair, as well, from Portia’s side.

‘You are being strangely silent,“ Shakespeare said as they reached the top of the stairs to the third floor. ”Are you thinking about Elizabeth again?“

Smythe smiled and shook his head. “You know me much too well,” he said. “I do not think that I could ever keep a secret from you, Will.”

“‘Tis your face that is to blame,” said Shakespeare. “Whenever Elizabeth is in your thoughts, it assumes a woeful, maudlin aspect and you look for all the world like a small boy who has dropped his favourite sweet into a drainage ditch.”

Smythe grimaced. “I shall have to cultivate a new expression, then, for that one sounds altogether insufferable.”

“You should see it from my angle,” Shakespeare said. “Perhaps we can work on some new ones in the tavern later, when we have finished with this nonsense. Then we can sit in comfort over some bread pudding and tankards full of ale and make faces at each other.”

They came to the door, and Smythe knocked upon it several times. There was no answer. He knocked again, a bit harder.

“Well, so much for that,” said Shakespeare, turning to go back down the stairs.

“Wait,” said Smythe. He had tried the door and it had opened.

“Look,” he said. A sudden and ominous clap of thunder outside announced the arrival of a storm.

Shakespeare turned and sighed with resignation. “I suppose you simply must go in!”

“Well, ‘tis open,” Smythe said with a shrug. He opened the door wider and went inside.

“Oh, I just know that nothing good can come of this,” said Shakespeare, following him in. “Perhaps he has already packed up all this things and left.”

“Nay, he is still here,” Smythe replied heavily.

The body of Thomas Locke lay upon the floor in a puddle of blood, a dagger sticking up out of his back.