The Slaying Of The Shrew

10

As the dark figure came closer, they all crouched behind the shrubbery and kept very still. Clearly, whoever it was had not seen them, for he kept coming directly towards them on the path, moving briskly. As he came closer, they still could not see who it was, for the figure was wearing a dark cloak and a hat and his face was in shadow. As he drew even with them, and they still could not discern his features, Smythe surprised both Shakespeare and Elizabeth by suddenly lunging out from their hiding place and throwing himself upon the dark figure, seizing him around the waist and bringing him down upon the ground.

The man grunted as Smythe brought him down, but otherwise did not cry out. However, he fought back fiercely, struggling in Smythe’s powerful grasp as they rolled around on the ground.

“Hold him, Tuck!” said Shakespeare, rushing to his aid.

At the same time, Smythe’s antagonist brought up his knee sharply and Smythe wheezed with pain as the blow struck his groin. He let go and the stranger rolled away, but Shakespeare leaped upon him before he could rise back to his feet.

“Aha! I have you now!”

“Shakespeare, let go of me, you damned fool!” “What… Good Lord! Sir William?”

Worley pushed him off and got to his feet. He was dressed all in dark clothing, a stark contrast to the resplendent suit he had worn earlier. He bent over Smythe, solicitously. “Tuck… are you injured?”

Smythe made a gasping, wheezing sort of sound and nodded weakly.

“Hell and damnation. Come on, then, shake it off. Give me your hand… Help me, Will, he weighs more than a bloody ox.”

Together, they helped Smythe to his feet.

“Forgive me, Tuck,” Sir William said. “Are you badly hurt?”

“I… I shall live… I think,” Smythe managed, his voice strained and constricted.

“Sir William, we had not realized ‘twas you,” said Shakespeare. “We thought you might have been the killer! Whatever were you doing out here at this time of night?”

“I might well ask you lot the same thing,” Worley replied.

“We were attempting to deduce who murdered Catherine tonight,” said Shakespeare.

“You mean this morning,” Worley said.

“No, I mean tonight,” said Shakespeare. “She was stabbed to death sometime this evening in her tomb.”

“A moment,” Worley said, frowning. “I could have sworn that you just said she was stabbed to death this evening in her tomb.”

“Aye, she was slain within her tomb, milord,” said Smythe.

“Presumably, one must already be dead before one is laid to rest within a tomb,” said Worley. “I mean, ‘tis customary, is it not?”

“Under ordinary circumstances, ‘twould indeed be so,” Smythe replied, “but in this case, things were far from ordinary. Catherine was not dead when she was laid to rest within her tomb, you see, but merely drugged with a potion so as to feign death.”

“You see, milord, ‘twas all a plot conceived by Catherine and Elizabeth,” Shakespeare added, “to enable Catherine to escape the marriage to Sir Percival and instead run off with John Mason.”

“John Mason? It so happens I have a young groom by that name.”

“And it so happens Catherine had a young lover by that name,” said Shakespeare.

“ ‘Twas the very same man, milord,” said Smythe.

“My groom was Catherine’s lover?” Worley glanced from Smythe to Shakespeare to Elizabeth. “Can this be true?”

“Aye, Sir William,” she replied. “ ‘Tis true.”

“Zounds! Where is he now?”

“Middleton has him locked away somewhere, presumably,” said Shakespeare. He quickly brought Sir William up to date on what had happened.

“Astonishing!” said Worley, when the poet had finished. He shook his head. “What a terrible and tragic twist of fate. The poor, unfortunate girl.”

Smythe had, by now, largely recovered from the effects of the blow, though he still stood a bit bent over. “We were going to question the carpenter, Sir William. We think the killer might have been young Holland. No one has seen him since the funeral, it seems.”

Worley shook his head. “Not so. Holland was surely not the killer,” he said. “I, for one, have seen him.”

“When, milord? And where?” asked Smythe.

“Just now, back there,” said Worley, jerking a thumb back toward the maze.

“In the maze?” Elizabeth said, with surprise. “Why, whatever would he be doing in there?”

“Blanche Middleton,” said Worley, dryly, “with apologies for my indelicacy, milady. But within moments after I returned, I saw young Holland skulking about suspiciously and so decided to follow him. The two of them met within the maze, in an arbor at its center, and were still… actively engaged… when I departed. Needless to say, they did not see me. They were quite preoccupied.”

“Well, thus is my report of Blanche’s character borne out, as you can see,” Elizabeth said, with distaste. “And by no less impeccable a witness than Sir William. That she could so disgracefully disport herself on the very day of her own sister’s funeral… Heavens, need any more be said?”

“I take it, then, that her behavior in this instance does not come as a complete surprise to you?” said Worley.

“I fear not, milord,” Elizabeth replied. “Whoever barters for that baggage will be getting goods well used.”

“I see,” said Worley. “I would assume, then, that her father would be unaware of her proclivities in this regard.”

“We are informed that she plays upon him like the virginals… while being not quite virginal herself,” said Shakespeare.

“How very unfortunate,” said Worley.

“Forgive me, milord.”

“I meant the circumstances, Shakespeare, not the pun,” said Worley. “However, your apology remains no less deserved, thus I accept it. But this failing in the young lady’s character is a fortunate thing for Holland in more ways than one, as things turn out, for it now provides him with an alibi. He could not have murdered Catherine while deflowering her sister.”

“Those petals dropped quite some time ago, I fear,” Elizabeth said, wryly.

“Well, could he not have murdered Catherine and then still had time to get back here and meet with Blanche?” asked Smythe.

“What, you mean kill one sister and within the very hour make love to the other? Egad, that would be cold-blooded, indeed,” said Worley. “Such a man would be the very devil, and I do not believe that Daniel Holland answers to that description. What is more, I have ascertained that he is no imposter, but exactly who he claims to be. His father, Sir Roger Holland, whilst not a regular at court, is nevertheless well known to the queen. Thus, while young Holland may lack in judgement and discretion, he does not lack in pedigree, at least.”

“So then Holland is not our man,” said Smythe. “That still leaves us with the other three.”

“And of those three, Hughe Camden, our young inner barrister, is also who he claims to be,” said Worley. “The Earl of Oxford recalled him from the Inns of Court, where he once saw him performing in a play by Greene and thus made his acquaintance. Edward described the young man to me in some detail and I am satisified that Hughe Camden is the man whom he had met. Likewise, his father, Sir Richard, was known to several of the heralds.”

“So then they are not imposters, either,” Shakespeare said. He frowned. “Well, that brings us down to Braithwaite and the Frenchman. Everyone else seems to have been accounted for.”

“And we have already agreed that ‘tis quite unlikely for the imposter to be Dubois,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare sighed. “I know. It just seems hard to credit,” he said. “Braithwaite truly seemed like a good fellow.”

“Perhaps he is, for all we know,” said Worley, “for as it happens, I have been unable to establish anything about our friend Dubois. No one at court seems to know a thing about him… or his self-effacing, silent father. I have arranged for the heralds to investigate his claims, but then that will take some time, I fear.”

“What of Andrew Braithwaite?” Smythe asked.

“I have had no luck there, either,” Worley replied. “I have men investigating his claims, as well, but I was unable to immediately confirm his identity with anyone at court. A number of people said they might recall his father, but that was hardly reliable evidence and no one could give any stronger testimony. Once again, it will take some time to establish whether or not he is an imposter.”

“Time is a commodity we may only have in short supply,” said Smythe.

“Not necessarily,” Worley replied. “Consider what has already been accomplished. We know that we are seeking two men, one of whom seems to be the principal motivating force behind this deviltry, whilst the other works as his confederate. Both may already be upon the scene as imposters, or else one is here amongst us openly whilst the other waits somewhere nearby, perhaps among the merchants at the fair, held in reserve. We have already managed to eliminate most of the guests from consideration as suspects. We appear to be down to only two.”

“Only the fair is drawing to a close,” said Shakespeare.

“True, but ‘tis no cause for alarm,” said Worley. “Remember that in order for the plot to succeed, the prize must be secured. And the prize, in this instance, is Blanche Middleton. More specifically, her dowry. And once that prize is secured, Blanche then becomes disposable.”

“Goodness!” said Elizabeth, shivering involuntarily.

“Forgive me, milady,” Worley said, “but the truth of the matter is that we are dealing with desperate and evil men, or at the very least, with one man who is the evil genius of this plot and another who merely allows himself to be led. Either way, the sort of character who would hatch a devilish plot like this is not a man who would be squeamish or would frighten easily. He knows that you, Tuck, have overheard something of his plan, but he cannot know for certain how much you may have overheard. Thus, methinks that he will likely be disposed to gamble.”

“How so, milord?” asked Smythe.

“Well, it takes an old corsair to know how another pirate thinks,” said Worley. “And whilst our man may be a landlubber, he is nevertheless quite the buccaneer in the way he sails straight into danger with every inch of canvas up. He knows that at least in part, his plan has been exposed, and yet he also knows that if his true identity were known, he would have been in chains by now. Since he is not, he has made the logical assumption that his masquerade still remains intact. We do not know who he is. Therefore, he perseveres. There is still considerable risk involved, but then he knew that from the very start. The risk has now increased, of course, but to such a man, ‘twould only add spice to the adventure.”

“As with one who plays at dice or cards, the thrill is in the risk,” said Shakespeare.

“Verily,” Worley said, nodding in agreement. “And our man knows that the greatest risk to him at present is our friend, Tuck, here. He is the one who overheard the plot, or at the very least a part of it, and thus he is the one who may yet recognize one or both of the voices he had heard. Thus, Tuck is the obvious risk to be eliminated.”

“And our man has tried that twice already,” Smythe said, grimly.

“Doubtless, he shall try again,” Worley replied. “You may depend on it, so watch your back. However, here is what our quarry does not know. He does not know about me. He assumes that because the queen has left the city with her court, that anyone of consequence among the nobility will be traveling with her, as indeed, most of them are. He has also assumed that because Middleton is not, himself, a peer or a prominent fixture in court society, though he has ambitions in that regard, that the guests at his daughter’s wedding celebration will not be among the upper crust, but rather the topmost layer beneath it, if you will. In other words, primarily the wealthy new men of the middle class and, perhaps, a few rather minor members of the nobility. He knows that there is still a chance his masquerade might be exposed, but the risk of that is not so great as ‘twould have been were any courtiers present, for they have little else to do but keep track of one another and their respective standing in the pecking order. Thus, our man puts on a bold face and proceeds as planned. But he does not know that I am here, or that I have been alerted to his villainy and have already made inquiries which have enabled us to narrow down our list of suspects to just two. As a result, the degree of risk for him has now become quite high… only he does not yet know that.”

“But he shall surely know it as soon as he becomes aware of your presence here, milord,” Elizabeth said.

“Which is precisely why he shall not become aware of it,” said Worley. “Save for the three of you, no one else knows I have returned. Therefore, let us keep it that way. Do not mention my return to anyone, and if anyone should ask, feign ignorance.”

“But… where shall you be, milord?” Elizabeth asked. “Even if you intend to conceal yourself in the upstairs rooms, the servants will become aware of you and they will surely spread the word.”

Worley smiled. “Never fear. Not even Godfrey Middleton will know I have returned. I have already made preparations in anticipation of this.”

“But… where will you be, milord?” asked Shakespeare.

“Hiding in plain sight,” said Worley, with a smile. But before he could continue, a sharp cry echoed suddenly across the grounds.

“Goodness! What was that?” Elizabeth said, clutching at Smythe instinctively.

“I think it came from over there,” said Shakespeare, pointing. “The maze!” said Worley. He started running towards the entrance.

“ Elizabeth, get back to the house,” said Smythe. “No, I am going with you.” “ Elizabeth, for God’s sake!”

“I feel much safer with you,” she insisted. “Do not bother to argue, for I am not going back!”

“What if I go back?” said Shakespeare.

“Oh, Hell’s bells! Come on, both of you! We must catch up with Sir William!”

Smythe quickly realized that was more easily said than done, for Sir William’s long legs had given him a considerable head start and he was running very quickly. If Smythe had not known about his secret life as the outlaw, Black Billy, he might have been surprised at how fit Sir William was for a supposedly indolent aristocrat, but he knew that Worley was in truth anything but that. By the time they reached the entrance to the maze, Sir William had already gone inside.

Their eyes were well accustomed to the night by now, but it was nearly pitch dark inside the maze. Smythe still had his sword, and he now drew it, holding it before him as they proceeded, for although it was difficult to see, what they heard gave them due cause for caution.

Somewhere within the labyrinthine hedges of the maze, a furious fight was taking place. They could hear the rapid clanging of blades ringing out in the darkness somewhere nearby, and judging by the sounds of the combat, it was in deadly earnest. Smythe knew enough of swordsmanship to tell, just by the sounds of blade on blade, that the men engaged were both skilled swordsmen.

“ Elizabeth, which way?” he said, tensely.

“To the right,” she said, keeping close behind him.

“Odd’s blood, I do not like this one bit,” said Shakespeare, glancing around uneasily. “I can scarcely see in this infernal shrubbery!”

“Now to the left,” Elizabeth said, directing them from memory as they proceeded. “Oh, I do hope Sir William is all right!”

“Sir William can take care of himself, never fear,” said Smythe. “He is an accomplished swordsman.”

“Well, he may be, but I am not,” said Shakespeare, “so if there is any fighting to be done, it is my devout wish that he shall be the one to do it, for I lack not only swordmanship, I lack a sword, as well!”

“You should have worn one,” Smythe said.

“And this from the man who forgets to wear one half the time himself,” Shakespeare replied. “For all the use a sword would be to me, I might just as well wear a farthingale.”

“And very fetching you would look in one, methinks,” said Smythe. He paused. “I do not hear anything now. Do you?”

“Not a thing,” Shakespeare replied.

“Should we call out?” Elizabeth asked, softly.

“And give away Sir William’s presence?” Smythe said. “He is somewhere ahead of us. If he needs help-”

“Will! Tuck! Come quickly!” Worley called out. He sounded very close.

A moment later, as they made another turn, they came upon him, standing stooped over what appeared to be a pile of leaves upon the ground. He dropped to one knee as they approached, stretching out his hand, and Smythe abruptly realized that it was not a pile of leaves at all, but a body lying on the ground.

“Good Lord!” said Shakespeare. “Is that…?”

“ ‘Tis Holland,” Worley replied. “Or ‘twas Holland, I should say. He has been run through, clean through the heart. There is also a wound here, high in the left shoulder.”

“Oh, God!” Elizabeth said, drawing back. “And what of Blanche?”

“Not a sign of her,” said Worley.

“You do not think…” Elizabeth ’s voice trailed off as she brought her knuckle up to her mouth and bit down on it, as if to stifle a cry.

“I do not yet know what to drink, milady,” he said, frowning.

“Well, I suppose this definitely removes young Holland from our list of suspects,” Shakespeare said.

“Here, Smythe,” said Worley, tossing him a gauntlet. “Strike him for me, will you?”

Smythe caught the glove and smacked Shakespeare on the shoulder with it.

“Sorry,” Shakespeare said, lamely.

“You ought to be.”

“I know ‘twas rather bad form, but I could not help myself. This whole thing is beginning to take on the aspect of a Greek tragedy.”

“ Elizabeth, there is more than one way out of this maze, is there not?” asked Worley.

“There are three,” she replied, “counting the way we came in.”

“As I thought,” he said. “That explains why we did not encounter anyone as we came in. Blanche and the killer must have left by another way.”

“So then he has her?” Smythe said.

“Not necessarily,” Worley replied. “We did not hear her cry out. And Holland here was fully dressed and on his way out from the center of the maze, heading back the way he came. Blanche must have left by another way.”

“Aye, that would make sense,” said Smythe. “ Twould ensure they were not seen together. So whoever killed Holland caught him as he was on his way out. He struck, and Holland cried out in alarm, then drew his blade.”

“That is what I think,” Worley agreed. “This wound here, in the shoulder, must have been the first touch, before Holland had time to draw steel. He must have twisted away at the last moment, else this would have been the fatal touch. The combat was fast and furious, but very brief. The killer had already fled when I arrived and found Holland slain. The question is, why?”

“Good question,” Shakespeare said. “What say we go back to the house, have a drink and mull it over within the safety of four walls and a well lit room?”

“He is eliminating his rivals,” Smythe said.

Worley glanced at him as he stood up from the body. “Aye, a sensible deduction,” he said, nodding. “Our man must feel very secure in his deception.”

“Then why his attempts to kill Tuck?” asked Elizabeth.

“The same reason he has just killed Holland, I should think,” Smythe replied. “He wishes to improve his chances.”

“But does he not place himself even more at risk by this?” asked Elizabeth.

“Perhaps,” said Smythe, “but if he is the sort of man we judge him to be, one who thrives upon the thrill of risk-a gambler, in other words-then this second slaying is nothing more than a playing of the odds.”

“Nothing more?” Elizabeth said, shocked.

“Well, to his mind, Elizabeth, not ours,” Smythe hastened to explain. “Clearly, he has no scruples about the taking of life. It does not trouble his conscience, if he even has one. He must have observed Blanche and Holland together earlier and seen some evidence of a mutual attraction, then followed Holland to their rendezvous and killed him.”

“Wait,” said Worley, “your reasoning is sound, save for one thing. If the killer had followed Holland, then why would he not have encountered me? Or any of you?”

“Indeed, he likely would have,” Smythe corrected himself, “which means he must have followed Blanche, instead. We have already deduced that she must have left the maze by another way, so then it follows that she came by that way, also. That would explain why none of us had seen them.”

“Of course,” said Shakespeare, somewhat mollified now that he felt reasonably sure the murderer had fled the scene and was not lurking somewhere nearby. “And now that Holland has been eliminated, the competition has been reduced by one, but we should keep in mind that ‘tis the field of suitors that has been reduced, and not the list of suspects.”

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Worley, with a puzzled frown. “How can the list of suspects not have been reduced?” He indicated Holland ’s body. “Yonder is one less!”

“Aye, milord,” said Shakespeare. “But only to us. For us, ‘tis one less suspect, from a list we have already narrowed down to two likely candidates. However, the killer does not know that, as you have already pointed out. We must think like the killer if we are to comprehend the motives for his actions. From the killer’s point of view, he has merely reduced the field of suitors by one, that one being an individual who clearly had a leg up… so to speak… on the others. Since the killer does not know that you are here, milord, he therefore cannot know that through your knowledge of the nobility and court society, as well as through inquires, you have already eliminated most of Blanche’s suitors from our list of suspects. Consequently, he believes that he stands well hidden in a forest, when in truth, unbeknownst to him, most of the trees have already been cut down around him. Thus, he does not realize the extent of his exposure, and so this killing, from his point of view, does not seem so great a risk.”

“You have a most interesting faculty, Shakespeare,” said Worley. “You have the ability to put yourself into another’s shoes, assume his character, and then reason not only from his point of view, but with his emotions and morality, as well. ‘Tis a talent that should serve you well upon the stage, but if you are not careful, it could bring you to grief in the real world.”

“If this be the real world, methinks that I shall take the stage, milord,” said Shakespeare, wryly. “At least when one dies upon the stage, one generally revives in time for the next performance.”

“ Elizabeth,” said Smythe, “are you all right?”

She was staring at the body with a strange expression on her face, a look somewhere between alarm and desolation. “ ‘Tis the third time now that I have seen somebody slain. First Anthony Gresham, struck in the back by a thrown knife before my very eyes. Then within the span of but a few months, Catherine is stabbed to death, and now poor Daniel Holland is run through with a sword.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “I gaze down on his body and I feel sadness and regret that his young life should have been snuffed out so suddenly and cruelly, and yet… I do not scream with terror. I am not horrified into near insensibility by the sight. I do not feel my gorge rising at the sight, nor do tears come coursing down my cheeks. I wonder what has become of me that I can look so calmly upon death?”

“Familiarity doth breed contempt, milady,” Worley replied. “With repeated exposure, one can grow accustomed to almost anything. Else one would go mad. ‘Tis a lesson learned by each and every soldier on the battlefield, and each and every sailor on the sea. I am saddened that a young lady like yourself should learn it, also. Would that it were not so.” He turned to Smythe and Shakespeare. “You two should take up Holland ’s body and bring it to the house. When you are asked what happened, tell the truth… just take care that you do not tell it all. Say no more than what you know and what you yourselves have witnessed. Say nothing of Holland ’s tryst with Blanche. You were out walking in the garden and you heard a cry. You responded, and you found him slain. Say nothing of my presence. ‘Twould be best were I not seen. Remember… I am not here.”

“But how shall we find you if we need you, milord?” asked Smythe.

“Never fear, I shall find you. Now go on. Take Holland back. Let us stir up a hornet’s nest and watch what happens next.”

As Shakespeare said when they returned to the house, “The specter of death appears to have brought new life to the festivities.” Indeed, thought Smythe, it was strangely and unsettlingly all too true. The house was ablaze with lights when they returned, and even the fairgrounds were weirdly illuminated with flickering torchlight and campfires. Having earlier closed up their stalls and colorful pavil-lions, the merchants had opened them up once again to take advantage of the situation as the guests stayed up and wandered through the house and fairgrounds. It seemed that no one slept, as they were all eager to hear or else impart the latest bit of gossip.

Catherine’s dramatic resurrection and murder already had everyone abuzz, and anyone who had retired for the night had been awakened by the uproar of people running through the halls and calling out the news or else banging upon doors to awaken their friends. When Shakespeare and Smythe, accompanied by Elizabeth, returned to the house, bearing between them the limp body of Daniel Holland, the news exploded through the estate like a petard.

The stricken Sir Roger was desolated by the news of his son’s death, but his grief was mixed with righteous fury as he announced to one and all that he would pay a thousand crowns to whoever brought his son’s murderer before him. Not to be outdone, Godfrey Middleton immediately doubled the amount.

“This outrage against justice and all humanity shall not be tolerated!” he cried out to the assembled guests. “We shall never submit to it! We shall not suffer damned, bloodthirsty assassins to walk amongst us unmolested! I hereby swear before Almighty God that our children’s foul murders shall be avenged!”

“Oh, damn, where did I leave my pen?” muttered Shakespeare, as he listened raptly to Middleton’s address. “This is great stuff!”

“Really, Will!” said Elizabeth, taken aback by his response.

“Forget it, Elizabeth,” Smythe said to her, shaking his head.

“ ‘Tis hopeless. He cannot help himself. He is a poet, and to a poet, all the world’s a stage and all the people in it merely players.”

Shakespeare cocked an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

They were questioned at length by everyone, it seemed, until both Smythe and Shakespeare had grown nearly hoarse from telling the story over and over again. To escape all the attention, Elizabeth finally retired to her room to pack her things. Middleton had said nothing about rescinding his order for her departure, and though she was not eager to leave now that things had reached a fever pitch of excitement, she did not seem to have much choice.

“What a perverse creature I have become,” she said to Smythe, before she went back upstairs. “All sensibility and logic dictates that I should make all haste to leave this place, and yet, I find myself longing to remain and see how it all turns out. I cannot reconcile my feelings. I am both repelled and fascinated.”

“I know just how you feel,” Smythe told her. “I felt much the same when first I set foot on London Bridge and beheld the severed heads of criminals set upon the spikes there. I had never seen anything like that at home, in my small village, and when I first beheld the birds feasting on the rotting flesh of those gruesome, severed heads, I was nearly sickened by the sight. I was appalled by it, and yet, I could not look away. Now, when I pass by them on the bridge or by the law courts, I scarcely even notice them.”

“Have we become so callous then,” she asked, “that the sight of violent death touches us so little, or even not at all?”

“It does, indeed, touch us,” Shakespeare said, “else we would not be speaking of it so. ‘Tis when we stop speaking of it that we must feel concern about our very souls. Ask yourself, Tuck, about those very heads of which you speak. Is it truly that you scarcely notice them because you do not find them remarkable in any way at all, or because despite having become accustomed to their presence, you nevertheless prefer to look away and not dwell upon the sight? If we see a beggar on the street, scrofulous and ragged, do we gaze at him directly, with honest curiosity, or do we not look away? And if we look away, is it because we are not touched by his sad plight, or because we fear we may be touched too much? Those severed heads are not placed there on the spikes in order to inure us to the sight, but quite the opposite. They are put there to horrify, as an object lesson, intended to touch us with its violence.”

“And yet there are those who are not touched at all,” said Smythe.

“Aye,” said Shakespeare. “And ‘tis their heads that are placed upon the spikes to remind us of the consequences.”

“Well, I, for one, shall pray that whosoever murdered Catherine and Daniel shall suffer those selfsame consequences,” said Elizabeth. She looked around. “This celebration has become a festival of death and we are all specters at this wedding. ‘Tis meet that I should leave, lest I begin to enjoy myself too much.”

“Methinks the lady thinks too much,” said Shakespeare, as he watched her walk away. “ Twill make her life most cumbersome.”

“Hmm,” said Smythe. “And then again, some men have found life cumbersome because they thought too little.”

Shakespeare smiled a bit ruefully. “I do believe the lad has scored a touch. Methinks you like her more than just a little. You are a caring soul, Tuck. Take care you do not care too much.”

“We have had this conversation.”

“Indeed, we have. Point made and taken. Let us proceed then to another matter close at hand. Namely, our two remaining suspects. What shall we do about them, do you think?”

Smythe shook his head. “I am not sure. Sir William was not very clear in his instructions.”

“Well, he did say we should stir up a hornet’s nest,” said Shakespeare. “Yonder comes the Frenchman, making straight for us. Let us poke him just a bit and see how he responds.”