The Merchant of Vengeance

Chapter 6

The discovery of Thomas Locke’s body briefly displaced Smythe’s concern about Elizabeth’s involvement with Portia Mayhew, but it had been simmering away at the back of his mind ever since they had left Master Leffingwell’s tailor shop. Then he began to think about it once again as soon as his father left the tavern.

Just the thought of his father getting married while still being married to his errant second wife was disconcerting enough all by itself, but it only served to remind him once more of Thomas Locke’s plan to elope with Portia Mayhew, a plan that Thomas might never even have considered had he not suggested it to him in the first place. And now it seemed to have resulted in his death. Ben Dickens had been right, Smythe thought; he should have kept his mouth shut and his mind on his own business.

He wondered how Elizabeth was involved with Portia Mayhew, whom he knew only by name. Presumably, they had known each other all along. Perhaps that should not have been surprising. after all, Elizabeth’s father and Portia’s father were both successful and wealthy merchants who most likely travelled in the same social circles and probably did business with one another. And it was not as if Elizabeth were in the habit of introducing him to all her friends. He understood that. He was under no illusions that he was a suitable companion for someone of her class. He could hardly expect her co acknowledge their relationship to everyone she knew.

He had never met or even known about Antonia, for example, until she had happened upon them together by chance in Paul’s Walk one day. As he recalled, Elizabeth had clearly felt a little awkward introducing them. It had been the most cursory sort of introduction. Elizabeth had introduced her merely as “my friend Antonia.” He did not even know her last name. Later, when they had once again chanced upon each other at the bookstalls in Paul’s Walk, this time without Elizabeth being present, Antonia had greeted him in a warm and friendly manner, doubtless only being polite, of course, and it had seemed, under the circumstances, a bit presumptuous CO ask her full name. Not that he had given it much thought at the time. Their conversation had quickly turned to their tastes in reading matter, for they were both there to browse the bookstalls. But at the same time, he had felt that Antonia had been very curious about him and the nature of his relationship with Elizabeth. She was, however, much too well bred to question him about it, and they had soon gone their separate ways.

Then he found out that both she and Elizabeth had been at Leffingwell’s tailor shop with Portia, looking for Thomas only a short while before he had arrived there with Will on the same errand. He had known better than CO tell the sheriff’s men about that, and fortunately Will had refrained from mentioning it, as well. However, the sheriff’s men would almost surely question Master Leffingwell and probably find out about it then. And that, in turn, meant that they would doubtless pay a call on Henry Darcie soon thereafter. His relationship with Elizabeth’s father was already somewhat strained. This would certainly not serve to improve matters between them.

The entire matter had somehow turned into a hopeless, tangled, tragic muddle, with him in the centre of it all. The headache that began with his father’s arrival at the tavern had continued to build in intensity until he had started drinking with his friends, and then for a time it went away. Now, with the advent of the morning, it had returned full force, much worse than it had been the previous night.

“Here,” said Shakespeare, bending over to help him sit up, “have some of this.” He held a tankard up to his lips.

Smythe wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Good Lord, not more beer!” he said, groaning at the sound of his own voice. “Odd’s blood, Will, I should think that I have had enough,” he added miserably.

Shakespeare chuckled. “More than enough, I would say. Yet drink this just the same. ‘Tis the hair of the dog that bit you. ’Twill make you feel somewhat better.”

Smythe sipped and groaned again. “‘Strewth!” he said. “If this is what comes of getting drunk, then I swear that I shall never drink again!”

“I have heard that a time or two, methinks,” said Shakespeare. “In your case, however, I may well be inclined to believe it. You never did much care for spirits, and I have never seen you drink but sparingly afore last night. I had cautioned you to have a care, but you seemed disinclined to listen.”

“I do not remember,” Smythe replied.

“Well, that does not surprise me,” Shakespeare said with a smile. “Here, have a little more.”

Smythe took another sip and moaned. “I feel sick to my stomach,” he said. “God! Does this happen every time one has too much to drink?”

“To varying degrees,” Shakespeare replied, nodding. “Men who are not used to drink should not drink more than they are used to.”

Smythe had seen Shakespeare in similar straits a number of times before, but until now he had never fully appreciated how it felt. “How in Heaven’s name can people stand it? Lord, the way Speed drinks, I should think ‘twould be an utter agony!”

“Well, if Speed ever sobers up, no doubt his head shall burst,” Shakespeare replied. “But he seems to maintain an even strain upon his constitution, having apparently learned the fine art of balancing his inebriation through long experience. If he were an alchemist with such precision, then he would have long since turned lead into gold, though doubtless he would have drunk up all the profits from it. Are you feeling any better yet?”

“Not really,” Smythe replied.

“Here, have a little more. If you feel the need to spew or pluck a rose, then I shall bring the chamberpot.”

“Nay, there is no need,” said Smythe, shaking his head, and then instantly realizing his mistake as the room began to move. He shut his eyes and brought his hands up to his head. “Oh, Lord. ‘Tis a right worthy penance I receive now for a night of folly.”

“‘Twill get a little worse, I fear,” said Shakespeare, handing him a note. “This came for you by messenger a little while ago. ’Tis from Elizabeth.”

“Have you read it?”

“I did take that liberty, considering your indisposition, since I thought that it might have some bearing upon recent events.”

“And?” said Smythe, still holding the message with its broken seal of red wax. He almost didn’t want to read it.

“And it did, indeed,” said Shakespeare. “‘Twould seem the sheriff’s men came by her house early this morning.”

Smythe groaned and put his hand over his eyes. “Oh, I am fortune’s fool. What said her father?”

“She did not say,” Shakespeare replied. “You may read it for yourself, but she writes little more than that. She wishes to meet you at Paul’s Walk this morning.”

“This morning?” Smythe quickly opened the note and read it.

“‘What is’t o’clock?” he asked.

“Nearly ten 0‘ the clock,’” said Shakespeare.

“Zounds! I shall be late!”

“Not if you run,” said Shakespeare.

“You villain. I believe you are enjoying this,” Smythe accused him.

“Rather a great deal,” Shakespeare said with a smile. “For a change, the shoe is on the other foot. Next time, perhaps you may have more sympathy for a man in this condition.”

“A man who allows himself to fall into this condition deserves no sympathy,” said Smythe, hopping about as he got dressed. “And nor do I deserve it. But just the same, I shall endeavour to be more tolerant in the future.”

“Good luck,” said Shakespeare. “And do not forget rehearsal!”

It had felt hellish to run at first, but the brisk pace he forced himself to maintain and the cool air rushing over his face had improved the way he felt. Although the headache had not completely gone away by the time he reached St. Paul’s, the intensity of it was greatly diminished, much to his relief.

The churchyard was a bustle of activity, as usual. Still an impressive edifice, even after its tall spire had been destroyed by lightning, the cathedral of St. Paul had nevertheless seen better days. Since the Dissolution, no incense was permitted, organ music was prohibited, and candles could not be used at all except at Christmas. What statuary had not been removed was broken. Overall, the majestic cathedral was in a sad state of disrepair.

Morning prayer service was usually held between seven and eight o’clock, with evening prayer held from two to three. Following the separation from the Church of Rome during King Henry’s time, the Act of Uniformity had decreed that the Book of Common Prayer was to be used for services, and all recusants were severely punished. The harbouring of priests had been declared high treason, punishable by death. It was unlawful for shops to be open during the time of common prayer, on Sundays, or on holy days, though the enforcement of these laws was entirely another matter. Wednesdays had been set aside for abstaining from meat, although it was said that this was less for spiritual reasons than to help the fishing industry. And in a similar manner, there was a great admixture of the sacred with the profane in the cathedral of St. Paul.

There was much demand among the citizens of London for “good books,” such as the Geneva Bible and the Bishop’s Bible, of course, as well as collections of prayers, sermons, aphorisms, and religious stories, such as Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, or translations from the French of Calvin’s commentaries, or the popular devotional works of Thomas Bacon. All of these and more were for sale in the bookstalls, along with more prosaic and sensational matter, not only outside in the churchyard, but inside the cathedral itself, as well.

St. Paul’s School had been established on the grounds to give a grammar school education to young boys, but if they happened to venture out of the school and down the main aisle of the cathedral, known commonly to one and all in London as Paul’s Walk., then they could quickly receive a different sort of education altogether. Since the Dissolution, Paul’s Walk. was less a quiet and sombre aisle in a church than it was a busy thoroughfare, where the citizens of London came to hear the latest news, as well as meet with lawyers, many of whom kept more or less permanent stations at certain pillars in the cathedral where they could conduct business with their clients. Men in search of work often loitered in the Walk., hoping to find someone who would hire them for endeavours either legal or illegal. Merchants set up their stalls at the tombs and at the font, where they sold such commodities as ale and beer, bread and fruit, and even fish.

For a time, there were even horses ridden through the cathedral, as well as carts drawn along the Walk by either mules or oxen, though a law was finally passed prohibiting such traffic. Nevertheless, from time to time, some young bravo on a prancer would still take a trot along the Walk, enjoying the sound his horse’s hoof-beats made as they echoed above the general din. Paul’s Walk was also known as a place of assignations, and London’s lovers, either married or unmarried, often met there. And related activities, although of a considerably less romantic nature, were also conducted at the pillars and in shadowed corners. Many religious houses had been taken over following the Dissolution and converted to other uses, but perhaps none served quite as many or as varied uses as St. Paul’s.

For Smythe, once he overcame his initial shock at the spectacle of what St. Paul’s had become, Paul’s Walk served two primary purposes. It was a place he often came to purchase books and pamphlets, and it was also where he came to meet Elizabeth Darcie now and then.

His friendship with Elizabeth — for it was truly little more than that-was a source of both joy and misery to him. He was hopelessly in love with her, and had been ever since the day he met her at the Burbage Theatre, where he and Will had gained employment as ostlers upon first coming to London. From the very beginning, there had seemed to be a spark between them, but she had arrived in a fine black coach to meet a gentleman to whom she was betrothed. And, he had thought at the time, even if she were not already spoken for, she was still too far above him for him to entertain any serious thoughts of courtship.

She was the beautiful daughter of a wealthy merchant who was also a partner in the Burbage Theatre, while he was a lowly working-class ostler whose greatest hope in life was to become a player. With such a daughter, a wealthy man like Henry Darcie could easily arrange a marriage that would advance his family both socially and financially. Shakespeare, who had quickly realised his friend was smitten, had vainly pointed out to him that someone like himself had about as much chance of courting Elisabeth Darcie as a player had of being knighted. And it might have ended there had fate not brought Elizabeth to seek his help in freeing herself from a betrothal to a man who turned out in the end to have been an impostor, a murderer, and a spy.

The situation had served to bring them closer, and a grateful Henry Darcie, as a way of acknowledging his debt, had allowed their friendship to continue. He could still not countenance any sort of formal relationship or courtship, but because he owed a debt to Smythe and trusted both him and his daughter to behave honourably, he could at least, somewhat grudgingly, look the other way. And in that Smythe found both relief and frustration.

He enjoyed his meetings with Elizabeth immensely and looked forward to them, but at the same time he often found them agonising. He could not simply come out and tell her how he felt about her. He had no right to do so, nor did she encourage him — at least, not in any direct way — either because she could not or would not. He was never really certain which. Maybe it was both.

They had long conversations every time they met, but there was often another sort of conversation that took place between them, one that went unspoken. He was convinced, despite Shakespeare’s repeated assertions that he was only deluding himself, that Elizabeth cared for him more than merely as a friend. And a number of times, she had come close to saying it outright.

She was at an age when many young women of her class would have already been married. Yet she had obstinately resisted every attempt by her father to arrange a suitable match for her, insisting that she would not marry for any reason save for love, an attitude her father found maddeningly unreasonable. To his way of thinking, she had at most another five years of opportunity to find a suitable husband, one that would advance Henry Darcie’s own position as well as hers. Much past the age of twenty-five or-six and she would be considered a spinster.

Given her beauty, there had certainly been no shortage of suitors. However, her fiery and assertive nature had given her the reputation of a shrew, a term that she wryly defined as “a woman who does not do all that a man wishes.” At times, that same strong sense of independence led to arguments between them, but no argument, however passionate, was ever enough to break the bond they had. Quite the opposite, in fact.

They met most frequently in Paul’s Walk, a crowded place where people of all classes mingled, where, if necessary, the convenient fiction of a chance encounter could explain their being together. Yet, in Antonia’s case, that had not been quite enough. She had seemed suspicious of them from the start, although Smythe had the feeling that she suspected a great deal more than she had reason to suspect. It was in the way that she had looked at him, with a sort of smug and knowing glance. It had irritated him and at the same time, curiously, made him feel guilty, like a small boy caught doing something wrong.

He soon spotted Elizabeth’s familiar long, dark green velvet cloak and hastened toward her. As usual, she was at the bookstalls, perusing the titles. It was not merely for the sake of appearances, however. She was a great reader, although their tastes were not the same. He liked to read pamphlets about London’s criminal underworld and about the adventures of sailors and soldiers and such, while Elizabeth was much more interested in poetry. Nevertheless, their love of reading was something that they had in common.

“Elizabeth, I received your message and came as soon as I could,” he said.

She turned toward him and, once again, as every time, he was so struck by her beauty that he was rendered speechless for a moment. Like most unmarried women, she did not wear a coif and her blond hair fell out in a thick braid from beneath the hood of her cloak and hung down the side of her chest to her waist, which was naturally narrow even without the aid of a boned, stiff-pointed bodice and stomacher. Much co her mother’s chagrin, since turning twenty, she had obstinately refused to wear the latest fashions, claiming that they were too confining and would not let her breathe. She preferred much simpler clothing, such as gowns cut in the kirtle style, similar to those worn by working-class women. However, so as not to utterly scandalize her parents, she had hers made from silks and three-piled velvets, the better, very costly kind that was cut into three heights and imported from Italy or France. And, unlike most women of the upper and middle classes, she did not dye her hair or paint her face, because she claimed that it was too much trouble and made her face feel as if it were caked with grease.

This was her rebellion against having been dressed in fashionable, adult clothing from an early age and dragged around her father’s ever widening social circles, “paraded before the gentry and the aristocrats like a Judas goat staked out for bait,” as she described it. For, having realized early on that he had a daughter of surpassing beauty, with soft, flaxen hair, deep blue eyes, high cheekbones, and creamy, nearly translucent skin, Henry Darcie had seen an opportunity that might otherwise have been denied him, regardless of how hard he worked and how successful he became.

He knew that an alliance through marriage to a family of rank and longstanding position might allow him to overcome the handicap of his common birth and become a gentleman. Unfortunately for Henry Darcie, his own pride and overreaching ambition had ultimately kept him from achieving his goal. He could easily have married off Elizabeth a dozen times over when she was younger and more tractable, but none of her suitors had ever seemed quite good enough. He had always believed he could do better. Why settle for a gentleman when he might net himself a knight? And then why settle for a knight when his daughter’s charms might snare a nobleman?

Yet as Elizabeth grew older and her intelligent, wilful personality became more and more assertive, she became more and more difficult to handle. Potential suitors whom her father now found quite suitable enough were often quickly discouraged by her independent disposition and by her refusal to subordinate her will or her intelligence to theirs.

Quite impractically, she had announced that she would marry only if she were in love, an idea her father blamed upon a tutor who had instructed her in poetry and who had been summarily dismissed for putting such foolish notions into her head. Sadly for Henry Darcie, once that notion had taken root, it was not so easily dislodged. He believed the day would come when Elizabeth would finally come to her senses and realize that her own future, as well as that of her family, depended upon making a good marriage. However, since his last attempt at arranging a marriage for her had nearly ended in disaster, he had, at least for the present, given up trying to make a match for her. Perhaps, he thought, having tried everything else, if he left Elizabeth alone for a time and allowed her at least some of the freedom that she seemed to crave so much, she might eventually become more settled in her disposition and more amenable to practical decisions.

Meanwhile, so long as her attention seemed to be occupied by books, her women friends, and a rather loutish but honourable and good-hearted young player, she would probably keep out of trouble. She had enough sense that she could not possibly consider anything more than friendship with him, and he, in turn, had proven himself trustworthy, even if he was insufferably working class. Remove the reasons for her rebellion, Henry Darcie thought, and her rebellious spirit might dissipate in time. At least, this was his fondest hope.

Smythe both knew and understood this. What Elizabeth had not explained to him, he could easily surmise from his acquaintance with her father, who was, for all his pomposity and ambition, basically a good and decent man. He trusted them both to behave properly, something Smythe found flattering and frustrating at the same time. There were men, he knew, who would not hesitate to take advantage of such a situation, but he could not. And he did not think Elizabeth could… or would. Therein lay the exquisite agony of their relationship.

‘You look as if you have been running, Tuck,“ Elizabeth said to him. ”You are all flushed and out of breath. Are you unwell?“

“Nay… well, perhaps only a little. I fear I drank too much last night and overslept, and when I awoke, my head was fit to burst.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You were drunk? ‘Tis not very like you, Tuck. Is your friend Shakespeare becoming a bad influence upon your Or is it that something causes you distress?”

“The latter, I confess, although ‘tis still a poor excuse for such behaviour, and I have learned my lesson painfully,” Smythe replied, rubbing his still-aching head. “My father came to visit me last night at the Toad and Badger. Our conversation was exceedingly unpleasant, but ’tis a matter of no consequence at present. I am more concerned to learn that the sheriff’s men came to your house this morning. What happened?”

“Methinks that you already know,” she replied. “They wanted to know about poor Thomas.”

“Leffingwell told them that you were at the shop, no doubt,” said Smythe with a grimace. “I was afraid he would. I had hoped to keep you out of it.”

“How are you involved in this?” she asked with a frown.

He sighed. “‘Twas all my fault, I fear.” Her eyes went wide. “What?”

“Oh, I do not mean his murder,” Smythe quickly replied. “I

had naught to do with that, but I fear ‘twas I who had set events in motion that must have led to the foul deed. And now I feel myself responsible for the tragedy that came to pass.“

“But how?” Elizabeth asked, as they proceeded together slowly down the crowded Walk. “I did not know you even knew him.”

“Until yesterday morning, I did not,” said Smythe, and he quickly told her what had happened since the time that he and Will went to see Ben Dickens at his shop. He did not tell her the full scope of his conversation with Thomas Locke, for that was a bolt that struck a bit too close to home, but he did convey the essential substance of it. “So, you see,” he concluded, “‘twas all my fault that Thomas had decided to elope with Portia Mayhew, for had I never mentioned it, the idea might never even have occurred to him.”

“I see,” Elizabeth replied. She took a deep breath and exhaled heavily before continuing. “Well, in that event, perhaps you might feel somewhat relieved of your guilt in this sad matter if you knew that the idea would surely have occurred to him whether you had suggested it or not, for I had also suggested it to Portia.”

“What?” said Smythe, staring at her with astonishment. “You mean to say that you told Portia that she should elope with him? But… when did this occur?”

“From what you have just told me, I would surmise it must have been at nearly the same time that you spoke with Thomas at Ben’s shop,” Elizabeth replied. “So ‘twould seem not to be possible, in truth, to determine for a certainty which of us was first to offer our counsel.”

“Odd’s blood!” said Smythe, thinking Shakespeare had been right. “So that was why you went to Leffingwell’s tailor shop? You were looking for Thomas so that Portia could tell him that she was willing to run off with him?”

“Quite so,” Elizabeth replied. “But she never had the chance to speak with him, poor girl. And now she has been driven nearly insensible with grief over what has happened.”

“When did she learn of it?” asked Smythe.

“When I did, this morning,” Elizabeth replied. “She was staying at my father’s house with me.”

“But why was she at your house?”

“Because she was angry at her father for refusing to let her marry Thomas,” she replied. “And now she refuses to go home, because she is convinced that her father had poor Thomas killed.”

“He may well have done so,” Smythe said. “He would seem a likely suspect, especially if he knew the two of them planned to elope. But then, I do not see how he could have known. There would not seem to have been enough time or opportunity for him to have made such a discovery.”

“Unless he met with Thomas and Thomas told him outright what he planned,” Elizabeth replied.

“But why would he do that?” asked Smythe. “‘Twould seem very foolish to forewarn him.”

“Mayhap Thomas did it out of spite, to defy Portia’s father and flaunt in his face that there was nothing he could do to stop them,” Elizabeth replied.

“Would he have done such a thing?” asked Smythe with a frown. “Was Thomas that much of a hotspur?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “In truth, I do not know,” she said.

“I did not know him. We had never even met.”

“What, never?”

She shook her head. “Not even once. I never did lay eyes upon him.”

“But I thought Portia was your friend?”

“She was, and is, my friend,” Elizabeth replied. “But there was never an occasion for me to meet Thomas. They had only but lately become formally betrothed, and I had not seen very much of her of late. I had heard her speak of him before, but you would know him much better than I, for all the brief time that you spent with him. Did he strike you as a man who was possessed of a bold and fiery disposition?”

Smythe considered for a moment. “Nay, I would say that he did not. He seemed quite driven to distraction by what had happened, but I would say his disposition was more one of desolation and dismay than of scorn or anger. He did not strike me as some roaring boy. Quite the contrary, he seemed more. well, if you had met him, I do not think that you would have taken him for anything but what he was, a tailor.”

“And you do not think that he could have gone to Mayhew’s home and stood up to him? Cannot even a tailor be driven to a fury born of anger and frustration?”

“I suppose ‘tis possible,” said Smythe. “But I should think that he would have wished to speak with Portia first. After all, how else would he have known she would be willing to elope with him? And you just told me that Portia was with you and had not seen him. At least, not since Will and I had met him at Ben’s shop.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Nay, she had not. We had been together all that time. And Antonia was with us and may vouch for that.”

Smythe frowned and gave her a sharp glance. “Why would she need to?”

Elizabeth grimaced. “You would not ask that had you seen the way the sheriff’s men behaved,” she said. “They were very boorish and suspicious.”

“They merely want someone to deliver up to the hangman for the crime,” said Smythe contemptuously. “I believe they would have arrested me and Will for it if they thought they could have pinned the blame upon us without too much trouble.”

“Well, Portia could never have done such a terrible thing,” Elizabeth replied. “In any event, she was with me and Antonia when it must have happened.”

“How did she respond to their questioning?” Smythe asked. “She could not speak with them,” Elizabeth replied. “She ran from the room, sobbing with grief. I was left to answer all of their questions, and then I gave those ruffians a good talking-to for the way they treated her!”

“I should imagine that you did,” Smythe said with a smile, easily able to picture it. “‘Where was your father during all this?”

“He was away on business,” she replied. “Else he would have had a thing or two to say about it, too!”

“I have no doubt,” said Smythe, feeling at least momentarily relieved. “And your mother?”

“In the country, visiting her sister,” said Elizabeth. “And just as well, I should say. I see no reason to trouble my parents with any of this.”

“Nor do I,” said Smythe, nodding. “At least, not unless anything should happen that might involve you further. Well then, given what they had heard from Will and me, and what they learned from you this morning, I would gather that they next went to Henry Mayhew’s house. I take it that Antonia,vas there with you, as well, when the sheriff’s men came?”

“Nay, she had gone home to her husband yester-night,” Elizabeth replied, “after we had failed to find Thomas.”

“So then you never went to his room across the street from Leffingwell’s?”

She shook her head. “There was no reason, as Master Leffingwell had said he was not there.” She shuddered. “Thank God we had not gone there. Then we should have found him slain.”

“A sad business, indeed,” said Smythe. “I wonder if they have arrested Henry Mayhew?”

“Do you suppose he did it?” Elizabeth asked.

Smythe shook his head. “I do not know. what sort of man is he?”

“Well.. I should not think he was the sort who would be capable of murder,” Elizabeth replied, “bur then one never truly knows, does one?”

“Nay, one does not,” Smythe agreed. “If there is one thing I have learned, Elizabeth, ‘tis that most any man could be capable of murder, given the right circumstances and the provocation.”

“Even you?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Aye, even me,” he said. “In truth, I can imagine certain circumstances that could drive me to it, such as if some villain were to harm… someone that I cared about.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘“You mean Will?” she asked, in a slightly mocking tone.

“Well, Will is my closest friend,” he said, a little awkwardly. “But I can think. of others on whose behalf I might be moved to some act of violence, if the occasion warranted.”

“If the occasion warranted,” she repeated. “Aye, there’s the rub, indeed. Who is to say what sort of occasion may warrant such a deed? You? Or I? Or Portia’s father? If he believed that his daughter had been disgraced or, worse yet, defiled, might he not consider that an occasion which warranted an act of violence? Or even murder?”

“I suppose that would depend upon what he believed may have occurred and how strongly he detested Jews,” he replied. “Strangely enough, come to think of it, ‘twas the desire to learn more about the Jews that started all of this.”

“Indeed?” Elizabeth asked with a slight frown. “How so?”

Briefly, Smythe explained to her how he and Will had met with Robert Greene and how that, in turn, had led to the discussion of Marlowe’s Jew of Malta) which Shakespeare had deter-mined to surpass.

“So that was why you went to see Ben Dickens?” asked Elizabeth. “So that Will could find out if he knew any Jews?”

“Aye,” said Smythe. “Ben is the most well-travelled person that we know, and we supposed perhaps he might have met some in his soldiering days. Little did we suspect that we were about to meet one in the flesh.” He frowned. “Although I must admit, the thought of Thomas being a Jew did not impress itself upon my mind especially, save that he had mentioned it as being the reason for his troubles. Otherwise, he seemed much like any other man.”

“Why would he not?” she asked.

“‘Well, in truth, I do not know,” Smythe said. “But he was nothing at all like Marlowe’s evil villain. He seemed a decent enough fellow, and struck me as no different from any other Englishman.”

“Did you expect him to be different somehow?”

Smythe shook his head. “I do not know that I expected anything, in truth, having never met a Jew. Perhaps I had expected that a Jew would look different somehow, more like Marlowe’s Barabas, I do not rightly know. But then, Thomas Locke’s father is an Englishman.”

“And so is he,” Elizabeth replied. “Or, I should say, was he,” she added sadly. “Did he not go to church? I seem to recall Portia telling me that they had gone together.”

Smythe nodded. “Aye, since you mention it, I recall he did say so. Thomas told us that he had been raised in his father’s faith, and not his mother’s. Was that not the only way a Jew could have remained in England?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I truly know nothing of such things. But from what I understood from Portia, ‘twould make no difference to her father yea or nay. Once he had discovered that Thomas’s mother was a Jewess, then that made Thomas a Jew, as well, even by the standards of his own people.”

“Curious. I wonder how Mayhew would have known that,” Smythe said. “And how did he happen to discover that Thomas’s mother was a Jewess?”

“Portia made no mention of it,” Elizabeth replied. “But ‘tis an interesting question, I must say. Unless he had found out from Thomas.”

“‘Why would Thomas even mention it, especially to Mayhew?” asked Smythe. “Knowing that Jews had been barred from England since King Edward’s time, one would think ’twould be the last thing he would do.”

Elizabeth glanced at him. “You have become all caught up in this, I see.”

“And you have not?”

“To the extent that Portia is my friend, I have,” she replied. “But for me, it ends with my concern for her. Not so with you, however.”

“Well, as I told you, I feel at least in part responsible for what has happened,” he replied.

“And as I have told you, even had you not spoken with Thomas at all, he still would have at least considered an elopement, if not purely on his own, then certainly after Portia told him that she was willing to run off with him.”

“Except by that time, he would already have been dead,” said Smythe. “‘Tis the timing of it all that troubles me. Like a hungry dog that worries at a bone, I cannot seem to let it go. Did Portia happen to mention if Thomas had any other enemies? Perhaps someone with whom he may have quarrelled of late?”

Elizabeth frowned, thinking for a moment, then shook her head. “Nay, I do not think she mentioned Thomas having any enemies. Of course, that does not mean he did not have them. Are you thinking that Henry Mayhew may not have been the one who did it?”

“Well, ‘twould seem unlikely he would have done it by himself,” said Smythe. “He could have hired someone and had it done, which would not have been very difficult at all.” He glanced around. “We could probably find men willing to perform such work right here. And yet, the more I dwell upon it, the more it troubles me, Elizabeth. I do not think. Mayhew could have acted so quickly to have had it done within so brief a span of time.”

“Unless he had already planned to do it earlier,” Elizabeth replied.

“‘Tis possible,” said Smythe, nodding as he considered it.

“And yet, methinks ‘twould seem unlikely.”

“Why so?” she asked.

“Consider this,” he said. “Mayhew discovered somehow that Thomas was a Jew, and let us not trouble for the moment about how he happened to come by this knowledge, although that is a point which puzzles me considerably. We shall assume, for the moment, that he was outraged and infuriated by this knowledge to the point where he was willing to commit murder, or else hire someone else to do it. Well then, why not simply go ahead and have it done? ”Why bother formally withdrawing his permission for the marriage? Why bother saying anything at all, to Portia or to Thomas or to anyone, for that matter, Would it not have been simpler by far for him to have poor Thomas killed, and then feign ignorance and commiserate with his daughter over the terrible tragedy that had occurred? In that event, would anyone have seen any reason at all to tie him in with it? Assuming that he was not an utter fool, which he could not have been, else he would not have made such a success in business, then would he not have found such a course much more expedient?“

“Indeed, ‘twould seem so,” Elizabeth replied, after considering it a moment. “So then, why did he not do so?”

“Perhaps,” said Smythe, “because he was not the one who did it.”

“But… if that is true…” Elizabeth began with a worried frown.

“Then the sheriff’s men may very likely be arresting an innocent man even as we speak,” said Smythe.