The Slaying Of The Shrew

11

“Mon Dieu, I have only just heard the terrible news!” Dubois said, as he came rushing up to them. He looked as if he just got out of bed and had dressed hastily. He seemed quite agitated and his French accent was a bit more pronounced. Smythe noticed that although his command of English was excellent, as before, he seemed to hesitate slightly, as if in his excitement he was flustered in his attempt to choose the precise words. “Monsieur Holland is slain? How… how did this happen?”

Smythe sighed wearily as he prepared to tell the story yet again, but Shakespeare spoke before he could begin.

“One of Blanche Middleton’s suitors, it seems, was intent on removing a rival… permanently,” he said.

Dubois frowned. “That is a most serious accusation, monsieur” he said. “But unless you were present, how can you know this to be true?”

“ ‘Tis obvious to anyone who is capable of reason,” Shakespeare replied. “One need only ask, what was a respectable young gentle-man like Daniel Holland doing in the maze at such a time of night, alone? What possible reason could he have had for going there? Why, the only reason any respectable young gentleman could have in such a circumstance, no doubt… a romantic rendezvous with a young lady.”

Dubois’ nostrils flared slightly. “Indeed, monsieur, what you suggest does not seem entirely implausible, and yet it is also quite possible there was some other explanation, n’est ce pas?”

“Well, I suppose that many things are possible,” Shakespeare replied, with a shrug. “He might have been seized with a sudden impulse to trim some hedges in the middle of the night, perhaps. Or else he may have simply been out walking when he saw a stag go into the maze and followed, so that he might do a bit of hunting on the spur of the moment, as it were. Or else, perhaps — ”

“You have made your point, monsieur” Dubois said, tightly. “It is not needful… nor is it very wise… to resort to mockery.”

“Mockery?” Shakespeare exclaimed, as if shocked by the suggestion. “God save me, would I do such a thing? Twould be sheer folly, Chevalier Dubois. Never would I risk offending a gentleman of your stature, sir, under any circumstances! You wear the handsome rapier of a true swordsman, while I…” he spread out his arms to show he was unarmed. “… I would not know how to use a blade even if I had one!”

Dubois pursed his lips tightly while his fingers toyed absently with the pommel of his sword. “So,” he said, after a moment, “perhaps I had misunderstood, monsieur. There are subtleties of language one cannot always follow, as a foreigner. I perceive now that you meant no offense.”

“Oh, good heavens, no!” said Shakespeare, stepping back. “Forgive me, ‘twas all my fault, I am quite certain. To be sure, I am an abject fool. I misspoke, or else expressed myself quite badly. I… I am not an educated man, I say the wrong thing often, very often…”

“La!” Dubois said. “Enough, monsieur. It was a minor misunderstanding, nothing more. I assure you, the matter is entirely forgotten. You have clearly had a very trying night, what with discovering the body of that most unfortunate young gentleman.”

“Indeed,” said Smythe, “that maze seems to be bad luck for anyone who goes there, if you ask me. From now on, I intend to avoid it at all costs! The last thing I would wish was to be run through in there!”

“It would seem that it was, indeed, a most unlucky place for Monsieur Holland,” said Dubois. “A man would be wise to avoid any place where such unfortunate things happened. It was a terrible thing, terrible. Poor Sir Roger. I must go and express my condolences. Bonsoir.”

“Hmm,” said Shakespeare, as they watched him walk away. “For a moment there, he was positively threatening.”

“Bluff and bluster, nothing more,” Smythe said, with a grimace.

“You think so? Well, I am not so sure. He did seem to take umbrage quite readily when I tweaked him. The way he looked at me and placed his hand upon his sword, I almost thought that he was going to run me through.”

Smythe snorted. “If that fop ever ran through anything more substantial than an hors d’oeuvre, I shall eat my hat. It takes no bravery to play the bravo when your opponent is unarmed. ‘Twas the superiority of his class that he was counting on to intimidate you, not his skill with a sword, you may be sure.”

“You are unquestionably the expert when it comes to judging blades,” said Shakespeare, “but that sword of his looked like a quality piece of work to me.”

“Would you expect someone in his position to purchase something second rate?” asked Smythe. He shrugged. “I could not give it a close inspection, of course, but it seemed quite the showy piece, all bejeweled flash and dazzle. To my mind, ‘tis not the sort of weapon a serious swordsman would wear.”

“So you do not see him as the killer, then?”

“He hardly seems the lethal sort, Will.”

“Then that leaves us with Braithwaite.”

“I suppose it does,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare shook his head. “ ‘Tis only that he seems so unlike a killer. He seems so… amiable.”

“Where is it writ that a murderer cannot be amiable?”

“Would that villainy were clearly written on the countenance,” said Shakespeare, sourly. “ ‘Twould make our task ever so much simpler.”

“You like the fellow.”

“I suppose I do. He is not without his charm. He has wit and is the sort that grows upon you.”

“The sort that makes for the most dangerous kind of cozener and scoundrel,” Smythe said. “The sort who may smile and smile and yet still be a villain.”

“Well put. You argue well and soundly. I can say but little in the way of dispute.”

“I find I do not share your favorable opinion of him,” Smythe replied, dryly. “He strikes me as a cocky sort, like the roaring boys who often cause mischief at the theatre. He swaggers when he walks and I suppose he thinks himself a young Apollo. Where is Braithwaite, anyway? I have not seen him.”

“I do not know,” Shakespeare responded. “I have not seen him since we all left the tomb.”

“And what of Camden?”

“I have not seen him, either.”

“Well, let us hope for his sake that Blanche does not next choose to favor him with her attentions,” Smythe said. “That could bode ill for his chances of living to a ripe old age.”

“Two of our original suspects left,” Shakespeare said. “One of whom Sir William vouches for, at least in terms of being who he says he is, the other still an unknown quantity. And both seem unaccounted for as of this time. Do you want to see if we can find them?”

“Aye,” Smythe replied. “Let us see how they respond to the news of Holland ’s murder. And let us also see if either of them have any witnesses who can vouch for where they were when Holland died.”

They decided to make a quick tour of the lower floor, but saw no sign of either Braithwaite or Camden, which suggested that either both had retired to their rooms for the night and had heard nothing of Holland’s murder or else had gone out to the fairgrounds, as had many of the guests-in which case, they would undoubtedly soon learn what had transpired as word spread.

Rather alarmingly, many of the guests had obtained torches and gone out to the garden to visit the maze, presumably to see if they could find the spot where the murder had taken place. Smythe thought it quite macabre, imagining them wandering about in there, looking down at the ground and holding their torches low to see if they could spy any traces of spilled blood, but Shakespeare did not find it at all surprising or unusual.

“We are bloodthirsty creatures, Tuck,” he said, as they walked down the great hall of the mansion, past portraits of Godfrey Middleton’s ancestors and illustrious figures from England ’s history, including, of course, the queen. It would not do at all for her to visit at some point and not see a portrait of herself in a place of honor in the great hall. “We think of ourselves as being a civilized people, and yet, in truth, we are still little more than savages. We all flock to a good hanging or a drawing and quartering, and the more the unfortunate victim screams and blubbers, the more we seem to like it.”

“I thought you said before that such sights were meant to horrify and caution us,” Smythe replied.

“Oh, indeed they are,” said Shakespeare. “But even so, there is some savage part of us that hearkens back to those ancient times when we painted our bums blue and smashed one another’s heads in with stone axes, and ‘tis that part which finds the horror curiously stimulating. We discover that it thrills the blood and invigorates the humors. If we should see a carriage wrecked up by the roadside as we ride by, what do we do? Why, we slow down to a walk, thus the better to observe the carnage. And if we happen by when two men are fighting in the street, pummeling each other into bloody pulp, why then we stop and watch, we pick a favorite and cheer him on, perhaps even lay wagers. Our own mortality is sport to us and we play it with a vengeance. Thus, the ground upon which a murder victim falls becomes a sort of playing field.”

“I must say, you see things in a curious way sometimes,” said Smythe, looking around the long hall as they went.

“ ‘Tis because I observe people,” replied Shakespeare, “and people are often very curious.”

As they walked, Smythe noticed their surroundings. They had the great hall almost entirely to themselves. There were a few guests promenading up and down, talking amongst themselves, and every few moments a servant would hustle by with an annoyed expression, because of the lateness of the hour. Night had turned into day at the Middleton estate, and while some of the guests were sleeping, most were still up, though by now they had moved out to the torch-lit fairgrounds to gather round the stalls or at the campfires and discuss the day’s events. The festival had taken a dark turn and no one wanted to miss out on hearing any gossip or miss seeing anything else that might occur.

Smythe had not been to many rich people’s homes. This was only the second one he’d seen. He had been honored to have been invited to Sir William’s handsome and sprawling estate, Green Oaks, on several occasions and he could tell that Godfrey Middleton had taken pains to see that Middleton Manor did not suffer greatly by comparison.

As at Green Oaks, the great hall of Middleton Manor was built with a long gallery, and the walls were panelled with imported woods. The ceilings were an intricate pattern of shallow plaster ribs in geometrical forms, ornamented with arabesques and figures of birds and fishes and beasts, as well as flowers and scrollworks of vines. The staircases were ornate, with solid oak block steps and landings with massive hand rails and newel posts that were all elaborately carved and ornamented with small statues. No expense was spared anywhere in the construction of this house.

Likewise, the decorations in the hall were all expensive and ornate. Several gleaming and enamelled suits of armor stood about, every one of them apparently brand new and doubtless never worn, and there were various weapons hanging on the walls in display arrangements, among them broadswords, rapiers, maces and halbreds, battle axes and, Smythe especially noted, several crossbows with pouches full of bolts.

There were large, richly woven tapestries, with not a painted cloth among them, and of course, large, gilt-framed ancestral portraits and paintings of historical personages. It was these which had caught Smythe’s eye as they walked. There was something curious about them, somehow, something which had troubled him vaguely, and for a while he could not quite put his finger on it, but abruptly, it occurred to him exactly what it was.

“Speaking of observing people, have you noticed anything strange about these portraits?” Smythe asked.

“Strange?” Shakespeare frowned. He had not been paying attention to them. “The portraits? How so?”

“Well… have you not noticed that there are no signs of age on any of them?” Smythe paused and approached one of the paintings, examining it more closely. He stretched out a finger and gently touched the canvas. “The canvas is still quite taut, stretched tight as a drum, and the colors are all so fresh and vivid, they look as if they have scarcely had the time to dry. Most of these portraits have only been painted fairly recently, unless I miss my guess.”

Shakespeare shrugged. “And so what of it? The house is still relatively new, is it not? ‘Tis no more than a few years old. So Middleton had commissioned a few score portraits to hang upon his walls. I suppose he could have purchased older paintings, but then why not commission new ones? After all, he can certainly afford them.”

“Oh, I do not dispute that,” Smythe replied. “ ‘Twas not my point, Will. Middleton is very rich, I grant you that. ‘Tis just that I was thinking… if most of these paintings are supposed to be portraits of his ancestors, then do you not find it curious that they were only painted recently?”

“Perhaps he merely had some older portraits copied,” Shakespeare said.

“But why would anyone do that?” persisted Smythe. “A portrait of an ancestor becomes more valued and more meaningful with age. It conveys a sense of history, of lineage. Making copies of old portraits so that new ones could be hung would be rather like opening a cask of fine, aged wine and spilling it all out, only to refill it with juice from newly ripened grapes. It simply makes no sense.”

“No… I suppose not,” said Shakespeare, with a puzzled look. “I had not considered it that way. In truth, I had not considered it at all. I was, in fact, considering the murders that took place at this house, not the paintings that are hung within it.”

“Well, I am not sure why it struck my notice, only that it did,” said Smythe. “Does it not make you wonder how genuine the likenesses may be?”

“What are you going on about?” asked Shakespeare, frowning. “We have two murders we must solve! What is all this about the blasted paintings? What have they to do with anything?”

“I am not certain,” Smythe replied. “Perhaps nothing at all.” He shook his head. “I cannot say why I notice such things, only that I do, you see. You observe people closely, I suppose because you write about them and thus need to understand them better. I simply observe things, perhaps because I have been taught to make them well. I notice if a sword is crafted well or if ‘tis simply flashy, ornamented to no purpose save to disguise the fact that the blade is not made very well. The blade the Frenchman carries, for example, seems to be a fairly good one from what little I could see of it, and young Holland carried a simple, albeit first-class duelist’s rapier. What was more, he knew how to use it. If we were to make inquiries, I would wager we would find that he had studied with a fencing master.”

“Well, whoever killed him must have studied harder,” Shakespeare said, wryly.

“Precisely,” Smythe replied. “You may jest, but I could tell from the cadence of the strokes that both combatants knew what they were about. That it went so quickly also tells me that the killer was either very lucky or else he was a first-rate swordsman. Holland had skill, yet despite that, he never stood a chance. For my money, our man is the very devil with a blade.”

“All the more reason we should avoid making his close acquaintance,” Shakespeare said.

“I thought you just said that you wanted to solve these murders,” Smythe replied.

“I do, insofar as ‘tis an exercise intended as a challenge to the mind, only I would prefer to do so at a safe distance. I find it interesting to puzzle out a killer’s motives and attempt to deduce who he might be, but when it comes to chasing him about with swords and things, I find that my enthusiasm wanes.”

Smythe stopped. “Well, we have now made a complete circuit of the hall and all the lower rooms,” he said. “If Braithwaite and Camden are not outside on the fairgrounds, they must be upstairs, asleep.”

“Perhaps we should follow their example,” Shakespeare said.

“What, and miss all the excitement? I should think that scarcely anyone will sleep this night.”

“I would make a liar of you in an instant.”

“Oh, come on, Will! You have spent many a night at The Toad and Badger, carousing until dawn. Are you going to start yawning on me now?”

“The very mention of it tempts me.”

“Well, fine then. Go sleep, if you must. I shall carry on alone.”

“And catch a dagger or an arrow in your back without me there to watch it for you? I should never sleep a wink again. Your ghost would haunt me, I am certain.”

“Aye, my shade would stand over your bed each night, all horrible and bloody, and would wail piteously until dawn. ‘Willlllllllll… Willlllllllll… ‘twas all your fault! ‘Twas all your fault!’ “

“You know, I do believe that you would do just that, to spite me.”

“I would.”

“You, sir, are a bounder and a scoundrel.” “And you, sir, are a lily-livered goose.”

A muffled high-pitched giggle stopped them as they went past the library. The door stood slightly ajar. Shakespeare glanced at Smythe. “Surely, you do not suppose…?”

“Two of the guests, perhaps, emboldened by the night’s events?”

“Should we make sure, you think?”

“Perhaps not. ‘Tis really none of our concern…”

They opened the doors to the library together. Hughe Camden scrambled to his feet from the floor as if he had been stung. Blanche Middleton, on the other hand, remained lying where she was, in a tangle of silks and taffeta, revealing a great deal more shapely feminine leg than Smythe had ever seen before, and looking up at them with insolent amusement.

“Uh… we were… uh… just talking and… uh… the lady fell,” said Camden, hastily, his face beet red. “Aye, she fell… that is to say… she swooned, doubtless from the strain of all tonight’s events…”

“No doubt,” said Shakespeare, with a perfectly straight face. “With all of the activity tonight, it must have been quite a strain for her.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Camden, hastily, regaining some of his composure. “I was merely trying to help her up, you see, and I misjudged her weight…”

“I beg your pardon!” Blanche said, from the floor.

“That is to say, the angle, you see, I misjudged the angle, and we both fell, and so now…”

“Now you are back up again,” said Shakespeare.

“Um, precisely. Well. Well, then.” He turned back to Blanche and bent over slightly, holding out his hand to help her up. “Milady…”

She simply gazed up at him, wide-eyed, saying nothing. She made no move to take his hand. “Perhaps these two gentlemen could assist me,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I am sure that between the two of them, they could certainly manage the weight.”

Camden straightened up and cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Ah, well, to be sure, if milady would prefer…” He bit his lower lip, flustered, searching for the proper exit line. “Well, uh…”

Blanche saved him, after a fashion. “Thank you, Master Camden, for your concern and your attentions.”

“My pleasure, milady. Uh… that is to say… you are most welcome. Most welcome, indeed.” He cleared his throat once more. “Gentlemen…”

Shakespeare gave him a small bow and Smythe followed his example. Camden made haste to leave the room.

“I think perhaps I should go after him,” said Shakespeare, “and see if he has heard the news.”

“Aye, perhaps you should,” said Smythe. “I shall be along shortly.”

“No hurry,” Shakespeare said, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. He turned and left the room.

“May I assist you, milady?” Smythe said, offering his hand to Blanche, trying not to be distracted by the fetching sight of all that leg.

“Thank you, good sir,” she said, taking his hand. He gently helped her to her feet and she quickly readjusted her clothing, brushing herself off. “I am really not sure what came over me,” she said. “I suddenly felt so faint, I must indeed have swooned.”

“It must have been a very trying day for you, milady. You should get some rest.”

“I think you are right,” she replied. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your arm and escort me up the stairs? I fear that I might swoon again and lose my footing.”

“Of course,” said Smythe. He offered her his arm. “Tuck Smythe, milady, at your service.”

She took his arm, her fingertips resting lightly on the back of his hand. She smiled at him as they left the library and headed towards the stairs. The hall was deserted now and quiet.

“What news was your friend speaking of just now?” she asked, as they approached the stairway.

“Oh, uh… well, perhaps now is not the time,” said Smythe. “You are unwell and perhaps tomorrow would be better.”

“I want to know,” she said, as they began to climb the stairs.

“Milady, truly, I would not wish to disturb you.”

“Is it disturbing news then?” she asked, her eyes wide. “You have to tell me now. I insist. I could not sleep without knowing. I would stay awake all night and wonder.”

They had reached the landing. “There has been another murder,” Smythe said.

She stopped and gasped. “No! Who?”

Smythe moistened his lips. “Daniel Holland.”

She almost fell. Smythe grabbed her around the waist, thinking she was really going to swoon this time. “Milady!”

She clutched at him. This time, not surprisingly, perhaps, her distress seemed quite genuine. She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath, which made her breasts swell very visibly in her low-cut bodice. Smythe caught himself and quickly looked away. He felt his face flushing.

“Daniel is dead? But…” she hesitated. “When? How did it happen?”

“Milady, perhaps we should not discuss this now-” “I shall be all right. Now tell me!”

Smythe felt her closeness acutely and released her, but she retained a hold on his arm as they continued up the stairs. “He was murdered in the garden maze tonight. Run through with a rapier.” He paused a moment, then added, “ ‘Tis not entirely clear what he was doing there, but it seems that someone must have followed him who meant to do him harm. I do not suppose you would have any idea who might have wished him ill?”

She shook her head. “No. No, not at all. Goodness, to think that…” She caught herself. “To think that he is dead! First my sister, and now this! Poor Daniel!”

“It must have happened very quickly,” Smythe said. “He could not have suffered.”

“Well, that is some small consolation, perhaps. But just the same…” He felt her trembling. He could well understand why, though she, of course, had no idea that he knew. “How very frightening,” she said. “To think that there is a vicious murderer amongst us… I feel so very vulnerable all of a sudden. This corridor is so empty… would you please escort me to my rooms?”

“Certainly, milady.”

She put a finger to her lips. “We must be quiet, though,” she said. “My sister’s friend is in this room just ahead and to our right. I think that she is still awake and packing, preparing to depart first thing in the morning. I would not wish her to get the wrong idea, you understand.”

“Of course, milady. Nor would I,” Smythe said, with some alarm, wondering how Elizabeth would react if she came out and saw them together, walking arm-in-arm towards Blanche’s bedroom. He was not sure she would believe his explanation. They walked past her door in silence.

“You are most understanding,” Blanche said, after a moment, smiling at him. “You are a true gentleman.”

“Alas, milady, I fear you have the wrong impression of me,” he replied. “I am not a gentleman, merely a poor and lowly player.”

“Oh, of course! Now I remember where I saw you! We met down by the river gate, when I arrived.”

“Quite so, milady. I was among the Roman senators who were assigned to greet the guests.”

“I remember. You looked much better in your toga than did any of the others.”

“That is kind of you to say, milady.”

Her face clouded over. “ ‘Twas when we all thought Catherine was dead,” she said. “And then she turned out not to have been dead at all, only to be killed in her own tomb… how horrible! Oh, no, I must not think of it! I must think of something else, or I shall be quite undone. Tell me how it is to be a player.”

“How it is to be a player?” Smythe repeated, not quite prepared for the question. “Ah. Well…’tis not that I possess a great deal of experience, milady. I am still quite new at it. But I am fortunate, indeed, to have found a position with the Queen’s Men, who are the finest players in the land. ‘Tis something I have dreamed of doing since I was but a boy.”

“I thought that young boys were permitted to apprentice with the players,” she said, “so that they might play the female roles before their voices change. Did you not do that?”

“Regretably, milady, my father did not approve of my becoming a player. He thought ‘twas no fit occupation for a gentleman.”

“Oh! So then you are a gentleman!”

“My father was a gentleman, milady. But he aspired to rise higher and become a knight, and in his efforts to pursue that lofty goal, he bankrupted himself and left me with nothing to inherit. Thus, I cannot claim to be a gentleman. I am but a simple farrier, a smith, an ostler, and now a player, though not, I fear, a very good one, though I do my humble best.”

“Humility in any man is a most becoming trait,” she said, with a smile. “And I can understand your story perhaps better than you know.” They had reached her bedroom and she opened up the door as she spoke and went inside, but without releasing his arm, so that he was forced to enter with her. “Your father sounds very much like mine,” she said, letting go his arm and closing the door behind them. “He is a most ambitious man. Appearances mean everything to him.” She sounded bitter. “He gives more credence to what other people think than he does to the concerns of his own family. He drove my mother to an early grave with his obsessions. A proper lady does this, and a proper lady does that, and a proper lady would never do this, that, and the other. Tis enough to drive one mad.”

As she spoke, as if without thinking, she slipped off her shoes and began unfastening her laces. For a moment, Smythe was too startled to speak, and then he could not quite find a way in which to get a word in edgewise.

“I can imagine how very frustrating it must have been for you, wanting so to be a player and never being allowed to pursue your heart’s desire!” Blanche continued. “Always being told what a proper gentleman must or must not do! There are times, I am quite sure, when you thought that you might scream! Oh, how well I know that feeling. I understand, you see. I do. The two of us are very much alike.”

She had now loosened her bodice and unlaced and removed the first of her petticoats, stepping out of it and letting it drop onto the floor. He was speechless, riveted to the spot. He could not believe that she was actually undressing in front of him. He looked around to see if there were any servants, but the two of them were quite alone. As she removed her second petticoat, Smythe saw that she was not wearing a farthingale, but a padded roll instead, which gave her skirts a softer drape and was probably more comfortable, especially when lying in a garden or upon a floor.

He swallowed hard. Blanche Middleton was a very beautiful young woman and she was exposing more of her beauty by the moment. It occurred to him that she fully intended to bed him, and it also occurred to him that he very much wanted to let her. But he could not go through with it.

“Milady, please, forgive me…” He said, interrupting her and holding out his hand in a staying motion. “This must stop now. Truly. I… I really must leave now. Please.” He began to back away, toward the door.

She stopped and gazed at him, eyes wide. “Must you?” she said, softly.

His throat suddenly felt very dry. “In truth, I do not wish to,” he replied, “but I must. Your beauty makes my heart race, but the truth is that I love another and could not bear to be unfaithful to her.”

He reached the door and reached out behind him to open it. “Tuck, wait,” she said, coming toward him. “Milady, please…” He opened the door and stepped back into the corridor.

She followed him, and came up close, and put her hands upon his chest. “You are a gentleman,” she whispered. “The first true gentleman that I have met. And whoever she may be, I envy her.” She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him softy and lingeringly on the lips. “Good night, sweet Tuck.” She smiled, stepped back inside, and shut the door.

For a moment, Tuck just stood there, his heart pounding, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of another door being shut behind him. He turned, quickly, but the corridor was empty now. He felt a knot form in his stomach as Blanche’s words came back to him… “My sister’s friend is in this room just ahead and to our right. I think that she is still awake and packing, preparing to depart first thing in the morning. I would not wish her to get the wrong idea…”

Elizabeth! Oh, God, he thought. What could she have seen? He had been coming out of Blanche’s bedroom and she had followed him out into the corridor, barefoot and dressed in nothing but her undergarments, and she had kissed him on the lips and said good night…

He closed his eyes. She would never believe him if he told her what had truly happened. And for that matter, why should she? Guiltily, he realized that it had taken every ounce of willpower he had possessed to leave that room. He felt ashamed to admit it to himself, but he had wanted Blanche. And he could easily have had her. However, unlike every other male who came near her, he had managed to resist his baser urges. But would Elizabeth believe him?

He started to head down the corridor, toward her room, intent upon doing everything he could to convince her that he had not bedded Blanche, but suddenly he stopped.

What if it had not been Elizabeth, after all? What if the sound he had heard had merely been one of the other guests, going in to sleep after a late night? Whoever it was might not even have seen anything. It had only been an instant, after all. A mere moment. If he went to Elizabeth now, and protested his innocence, and it turned out that it had not been her, and she had not seen anything at all, then it would only make things worse.

Better to wait, he thought. After all, he had nothing to feel guilty for. He had not actually done anything wrong. He had merely escorted a lady back up to her room, and then had watched her strip down to her undergarments, said good night, and left. Well, she kissed him, but that was all, only a kiss, and a chaste one, at that. Hell, he thought, if she had seen only that much, Elizabeth would be furious. And he would know soon enough if she had seen him. It would be best to wait until he knew for certain. He took a deep breath, exhaled heavily, and headed for the stairs.

As Shakespeare followed Hughe Camden back downstairs, he had a feeling that he had left Smythe with his hands full. But then the lad was certainly old enough to be able to take care of himself. And if he couldn’t, well, then Blanche Middleton was doubtless fully capable of taking care of him. What Shakespeare wanted to find out, if he could, was how long Camden had been in the library with Blanche. With any luck, Smythe would be asking Blanche exactly the same thing, so long as he was not distracted by her rather obvious attributes.

It would be nice to know if they both told the same story, and if the details coincided. But at the same time, Shakespeare thought, even if Smythe was distracted by the apparently perpetually randy Blanche Middleton, it might not necessarily prove to be a bad thing. It might get his mind off Elizabeth, if only for a little while. But even a little while could be enough, with any luck, to help effect a cure.

He did not really have anything against Elizabeth, personally. It was just that women were trouble. He knew that only too well. He thought of his Anne, back home in Stratford with the children, doubtless berating him soundly to anyone who would listen, and doubtless considering other likely prospects even as she did so. Not for the first time, he sighed with regret over his foolishness.

He would not forget his obligations. He would continue to send money, though at times, it placed a hardship on him he could ill endure. He did not really need fine clothes or lavish entertainments, and he could always eat a little less if it would allow him to drink a little more. And it was not as if things were not improving. He was certainly doing much better now than when he had first arrived in London. Having Smythe to help share the expenses eased some of the burden for them both, though at least Smythe did not have to support a family that he had never wanted. Although if Tuck did not watch out, he might easily get himself in trouble with young Blanche. But then, given Blanche’s predilections and general lack of discretion, it would doubtless be impossible to fix the blame with any certainty. And from her father’s point of view, any other candidate-except, perhaps, the neighbor’s stableboy-would be a far more suitable scapegoat. No, Smythe was safe enough, thought Shakespeare.

Hughe Camden, on the other hand, would probably like nothing better than to place a bun inside that ready little oven. And even if a loaf was baked from someone else’s dough, he might not object to claim it, for it would ensure a marriage, which in turn would ensure a fortune for him when Blanche’s father died. There were no other heirs, and even if Godfrey Middleton decided to remarry in his dotage and sired a son with a new wife, Blanche’s husband would still find himself in a very comfortable position. Aside from which, a man who had no compunction about killing would certainly not hesitate to dispose of any new young heirs. But what were the chances that Hughe Camden was that man?

They seemed rather remote, thought Shakespeare, as he followed Camden outside to the fairgrounds. Sir William seemed inclined to dismiss Camden as a suspect on the grounds of his pedigree, and on that basis alone, Camden could not be the man Smythe had overheard. That left Andrew Braithwaite and the Frenchman. One of them had to be the killer. But which one?