The Slaying Of The Shrew

6

The guests watching from the plaza at the top of the steps knew something had gone wrong, but it was a while before word of what had happened reached them. They saw the commotion below them, where the wedding barge had pulled up to the river gate, and they heard the screaming and saw one of the bridesmaids fall into the river, which resulted in a burst of laughter breaking out among them, but within moments, they knew that something much more serious than a minor mishap had occurred.

When they saw the players rush onto the barge, accompanied by several of the servants, their merriment subsided into silence and the hush continued, stretching out uneasily as they saw the players gather around the bride. A few among the gathered guests began to whisper, wondering what had gone wrong, and then they heard the shouting. At first, they could not make out what was being shouted, and the whisperings among them grew into an anxious undertone that made the shouting down on the barge even more difficult to understand. Then, as people started running back up the steps, calling out what had happened, they finally learned the news of the bride’s death.

Godfrey Middleton had stood among the wedding guests, together with his youngest daughter and the groom, impassively watching the spectacle below him. He had frowned angrily at first when the commotion broke out on the barge, doubtless thinking that something had gone amiss at the last moment in all the carefully rehearsed arrangements, but moments later, when it became apparent that something more serious had occurred, his angry frown became a look of consternation. And then the color drained out of his face when he saw Smythe coming slowly up the stairs, carrying the limp form of Catherine in his arms.

Instinctively, the people standing near him drew back, as if proximity could somehow infect them with his horror. Meanwhile, Godfrey Middleton stood absolutely motionless with Sir Percival and Blanche beside him, the three of them forming a sort of island in the sea of guests around them, guests invited to a wedding that was now clearly not going to take place.

The gravity of the situation had apparently not yet impressed itself upon Sir Percival, who seemed oblivious not only to Middle-ton’s concern, but to the strained mood of the crowd around him, as well. “Dear me!” he said. “The poor girl looks to have swooned, eh, what? Bridal jitters, I daresay. Mere trifle. A few sips of wine and we shall have her right as rain, eh, what?”

“For God’s sake, Sir Percival, shut up,” said Blanche.

His eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. “Well! I never! The cheek! Godfrey! Good Lord, Godfrey, is this how you taught your daughter to address a gentleman?”

But Middleton moved away from him as if he hadn’t even heard, and in all probability, he hadn’t. His stricken gaze was riveted on Smythe as he came up the stairs, carrying Catherine in his arms. Blanche went to her father’s side and took his arm, leaving the dithering groom standing alone, not quite knowing what to do with himself.

Middleton was pale as death as Smythe reached the top of the stairs and stopped before him. “Sir,” Smythe said, haltingly, “oh, sir, I am so very sorry.”

Middleton’s lips began to tremble. He simply stood there for a moment, trying to find some way to accept the unacceptable. He looked up at Smythe, his eyes moist, holding an agonized expression. Somehow, he found his voice.

“Be so good as to take her into the house, young man,” he said, his voice strained with his effort to control it.

“Of course, sir,” Smythe replied.

The crowd parted before them silently as Smythe carried Catherine toward the house, with Middleton and Blanche following. As they passed Sir Percival, the groom stood there perplexed, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Is… is there to be no wedding, then?” he said.

Middleton stopped and turned to stare at him, aghast. “My God, sir,” he said. “I knew you were a fool, but I did not suspect you were an utter, money-grubbing, inbred idiot.” And with that, he turned and followed Smythe and Blanche into the house.

As Smythe was coming back downstairs, he saw Elizabeth at last, standing in the entrance hall with Shakespeare, in conversation with a gentleman who had apparently just arrived. He was still wearing his cloak and was in the act of pulling off his riding gloves while listening to Elizabeth intently. It was not until he removed his hat and cloak and handed them to a servant that Smythe saw to his surprised relief that it was Sir William Worley.

Accustomed as he was to seeing Sir William attired in subdued and somber colors, Smythe almost failed to recognize him resplendent in a gold embroidered, burgundy velvet doublet with generously puffed shoulders and gold buttons, with the wide sleeves slashed to reveal the crimson silk shirt he wore beneath it. His breeches matched his doublet and were tightly gartered and tucked into high, cuffed brown leather riding boots that made him look like one of the privateering captains who commanded his ships. His shoulder-length black hair hung loose, framing his chisled, cleanshaven features.

He looked up at the sound of Smythe’s approach. “Tuck!” he said. “Elizabeth and Will were just telling me the dreadful news. ‘Tis a sad, sad day, indeed.”

Smythe came the rest of the way down the stairs and nodded. “Aye, milord. I have just carried Mistress Middleton upstairs to her room, where I have left her with her sister and her father.”

Worley shook his head. “Poor Godfrey. I came to attend his daughter’s wedding, and now it appears that I shall be attending her funeral, instead.”

“And ‘twould probably be best if ‘twere attended to as soon as possible,” Elizabeth said. “What with all the guests still here, their presence would doubtless be a comfort to Master Middleton in his time of grief. I should think ‘twould be unbearable if he were to delay in laying her to rest til everybody left and then have to face malting arrangements all over again.”

“I quite agree,” said Worley, nodding. “ ‘Tis a compassionate suggestion, and a very sensible one, as well. The sooner after death a body is interred, the better. Not only does it aid the bereaved in coming to grips with grief, but it lays the dead to rest before corruption can set in. I shall take the liberty of making certain his steward makes immediate arrangements to place Catherine in the family vault. It may be presumptuous, but under the circumstances, I suspect that I may be forgiven the presumption. Godfrey is doubtless devastated by what has happened. He shall need to have some help.”

“I should go and see how he is bearing up,” Elizabeth said. “And I should look to poor Blanche, as well.”

“Indeed, you should,” Worley agreed.

“ Elizabeth…” Smythe began, but she interrupted him.

“We shall speak later, Tuck. For the present, I must go and try to comfort the Middletons.”

“Of course. I understand.”

As she hurried away up the stairs, Smythe turned to Shakespeare. “Have you told Sir William everything?”

“Not yet,” Shakespeare replied. “ Elizabeth was here. ‘Twould have been a trifle awkward.”

“What do you mean?” asked Worley. “What is awkward? What more is there to tell?”

“A great deal more, Sir William,” Shakespeare said. “It has been a most unfortunate and trying day, a beastly trial for all concerned. And I, for one, could certainly use a drink.”

He took out a small flask and unstoppered it, then started to raise it to his lips. In that instant, Smythe recognized the flask.

“Will!” He reached out and snatched it from him just before he drank. “For God’s sake, man! The poison!”

Shakespeare paled. “Oh, sweet, merciful heavens! What in God’s name was I thinking?”

“Poison?” said Sir William, with a frown. “What poison?”

“You had not told him?” Smythe said.

“I had not,” Shakespeare replied, shaken by what he had almost done. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair distractedly. “ Elizabeth did not seem to know and I did not wish to upset her any further, though it shall not be long before she hears about it, I am sure. The rumors are already flying among the guests. ‘Tis entirely my fault, I fear. I should have been more discreet down at the barge, rather than blurt it out as I did.” He put a hand up to his brow, as if he suddenly felt faint. “Odd’s blood, I cannot believe I nearly drank the vile stuff!”

“Right,” said Worley, grimly. “Come with me.” He led them to the library in a brisk manner that made it clear he knew his way around the house. Once there, he closed the door behind them firmly and looked around to make sure they were alone. “Now… what is all this about poison?” he asked, frowning.

“Catherine Middleton was apparently drinking from this flask during her journey on the wedding barge,” said Smythe, holding it up for Sir William to see. “Will found it lying stoppered at her feet.”

“I opened it and sniffed to see what it contained,” said Shakespeare. “And I knew at once that there was something wrong.”

“Let me see it,” Worley said.

Smythe handed it over. Worley unstoppered it and took a tentative sniff. He frowned. “Brand,” he pronounced at once, identifying it correctly. “But for a surety, ‘tis mixed with something else. There is a curious, uncommon, musty sort of odor.” “I thought so, too,” said Shakespeare.

Worley sniffed the flask once more, frowned, then shook his head. “I cannot put a name to it. And you say Catherine was drinking from this?”

“ ‘Twould appear so,” Smythe replied, “although we did not see it for ourselves.”

“But Will found it lying stoppered at her feet, you said. If she were drinking from it, and ‘twere poisoned, then would she not have dropped it while it was still open?”

“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare. “But like one who has already had too much to drink and falls insensible in the act of raising the cup once more, if she had already drunk from it earlier and the poison was not very quick, then she may have been preparing to open the flask to take another drink when it finally took effect, causing her to drop the flask unopened.”

Worley nodded. “That is certainly possible. And ‘twould explain why the flask was still stoppered and unspilt. But though it may smell peculiar and raise a foul suspicion, we must nevertheless find out for certain if ‘tis poison and, if possible, what the poison is. ‘Twill take a skilled apothecary to make such a determination.”

Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances and simultaneously replied, “Granny Meg.”

“She is the cunning woman who had helped you once before, as I recall,” said Worley.

“Aye,” said Smythe. “She has an apothecary shop in the city.”

“And she is possessed of uncommon skills,” added Shakespeare.

“Her name is not unknown to me,” said Worley. “But ‘tis said she is a witch.”

“If so, then she is an honest one,” said Smythe. “And witch or no, she knows her herbs and potions. If anyone can tell us what manner of poison has been put into this wine, she is the one.”

“So be it,” Worley said, nodding. “Middleton has a light carriage in which you can make the journey with dispatch. In the meantime, I shall see to matters here and send word to Her Majesty that I shall not be rejoining her because of pressing matters that require my immediate attention.”

“There is more, Sir William,” Smythe said.

“What, more? Come on, then, out with it.”

As quickly as he could, Smythe told him about what he had overheard the previous night in the maze, and how an attempt had been made upon his life to silence him.

“I see,” Worley said, when he had finished. He fixed Smythe with a sharp look. “And how did it happen that you were in the maze to overhear this intrigue in the first place?”

Smythe hesitated awkwardly.

“Come on, Tuck, tell him, for God’s sake,” said Shakespeare. “There is no shame in it.”

“I… was following Elizabeth,” said Smythe, somewhat sheepishly. “We had quarrelled previously, some days ago, and I suspected that she was seeing someone else.”

“And was she?”

“I never learned the truth of it,” admitted Smythe. “I lost her in the maze, and then I heard the voices of those men, and you already know the rest. More than anything, I feared that they would stumble upon her and she would come to harm. Hence, I shouted out to warn her and to draw them off.”

“Well, if ‘twas ever any doubt that foul play was at hand, this certainly dispells it,” Worley said. “Whoever those two plotters are, it seems evident from their attack on you that they will not stop at murder to achieve their goal. And now with Catherine’s tragic death…” He grimaced and shook his head. “Catherine was, G6d rest her soul, a strong-minded young woman. Godfrey had been trying to get her married off for quite some time, but whether ‘twas justified or not, she had a reputation as a shrew. Her sister seems to have a milder disposition, one most men would doubtless find preferable in a wife, but ‘twas well known that Godfrey would never have consented to the betrothal of his younger daughter before the older one was married. And now Catherine is dead… ‘out of the way,’ as that miserable scoundrel put it.”

“And with no sons to inherit Middleton’s fortune, ‘twould all go to Blanche now,” Shakespeare said. “Or, more to the point, to whoever should become her husband.”

“Indeed,” said Worley. “And whoever marries Blanche will likely find her far more manageable than ever her sister would have been.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Smythe, “but either way, methinks Master Middleton should know of this.” He sighed heavily. “If I had only said something last night…” His voice trailed off.

“ ‘Twould have made no difference in the end, Tuck,” said Shakespeare, gently. “Last night, as it turns out, Middleton was in London with his daughters. We did not know that then, yet even if we did, word could never have reached him in time to save Catherine. How were you to know that someone meant to kill her? And even if you knew, you could not have known she would be poisoned.”

“Your friend speaks sensibly and truly,” Worley said. “You are entirely blameless in the matter, Tuck. The guilt rests with the murderers. And we shall find them, have no fear. There cannot be many here who are not known to me. We shall look to Blanche’s suitors for our suspects.”

“But will they not be forewarned now?” Smythe asked.

“Perhaps,” said Worley. “However, we have a number of things working in our favor. For one thing, they may not know who you are. And for another, even if they do, they can have no way of knowing that you have discussed with me the things you overheard last night. They shall have no reason to suspect any relationship between us, and we shall give them no reason to suspect one. For all they know, you are merely someone who may have overheard part of their conversation last night. They cannot know for certain what you may have heard, or whether you shall do anything about it, or even whether you shall make any connection between their plot to impersonate aristocrats and Catherine’s death.”

“But in either case,” said Shakespeare, “would it not be in their interest to eliminate even the least possibility that their plot may be exposed?”

“To be sure,” Worley agreed. “And they have already demonstrated their willingness to do so in their attack on Tuck. And if they did not hesitate to do so once, they shall not hesitate to try again. Remember that without Blanche Middleton, they have nothing. The entire success of their plan rests on their remaining here and seeing it through. And that is where they shall give themselves away.”

Smythe sighed. “I fear I know where this is headed.”

Worley clapped him on the shoulder. “Tuck, no one shall force you to take any risks you do not wish to take,” he said. “But consider that one woman has already died and the welfare of another is at stake.”

“I had already considered those things, Sir William,” Smythe replied. “And there can be no question but that I must do whatever must be done. I am completely at your service.”

“Good lad.”

“I, too, stand ready to assist,” said Shakespeare. “What would you have us do?”

“I knew that I could count on you both,” Sir William said. “We shall have to move quickly, however. The more time that elapses, the more it favors the killers.” He turned to Shakespeare. “Will, you must make all haste to London with this flask and see your Granny Meg. I shall have a carriage made ready for you at once.”

“We shall change our clothes and leave immediately,” said Smythe.

“Not you, Tuck,” Worley said. “You shall be staying here. You have a different part to play.”

“That of the Judas goat,” said Smythe, dryly.

“Precisely. We must bait them into coming after you once more. Are you up to it?”

Smythe took a deep breath. “I am.”

“Good. Now, the first order of business shall be to get Will on his way to Granny Meg’s and then see to Catherine’s funeral. I shall speak with Godfrey Middleton and fix him to our purpose. It shall not be difficult. He may appear foppish, but there is iron in his spine. I should not wish to have him as an enemy. Once he finds out that his daughter has been murdered, he shall not rest until he has seen her killers brought to justice. But at the same time, we must see to it that in his anger, he does not give our plan away.”

“We have a plan, then?” Shakespeare asked.

“Aye,” Smythe replied, “to put me into harm’s way and see who tries to harm me.”

“Ah. It sounds like a good plan to me.”

“Oh, does it, indeed?” asked Smythe, wryly.

“Well, I much prefer it to putting myself into harm’s way,” the poet said, nonchalantly.

“ ‘Twould be an awful thing if the carriage hit a rut and dropped a wheel on its way to London, so that you fell out and broke your neck,” said Smythe.

“Aye, and ‘twould be terrible if someone stuck a rapier in your gizzard whilst I was not there to watch your back,” Shakespeare riposted.

“If you two are finished fencing, there is more to be discussed,” said Worley. “Now then, mark me well, here is what we shall do…”

The journey back to London in Godfrey Middleton’s light carriage took far less time than the trip out, but it was also far less comfortable. When they had set out for Middleton Manor, the Queen’s Men had travelled by horseback and by wagon, but because their wagon was large and rather cumbersome and loaded with all of their gear, they had traveled slowly, those of them on horseback proceeding at an easy walk so as not to lose the wagon. This was Shakespeare’s first ride in a gentleman’s open carriage, and he was not especially enjoying the experience.

The well-padded, velvet-covered seats were certainly a vast improvement over a simple leather saddle or the hard, unupholstered wooden bench of a wagon, but the rate at which they travelled made the carriage bounce and jounce as they careened along the rutted road to London and each jarring impact was transmitted through the wooden wheels of the carriage to its frame, then through the seats, despite their padding, directly into the poet’s bones. Every bump made his teeth click together sharply and at least twice he had almost bitten through his tongue. Sir William had directed the driver to waste no time in getting him to London and back, and the man was complying with disconcerting efficiency.

Shakespeare knew better than to ask the driver to slow down. The liveried servant had stared at him with thinly veiled contempt when he discovered whom he would be driving to the city and back. After all, he was a gentleman’s driver. He had certain standards and a reputation to uphold. And Shakespeare knew that he did not even remotely resemble a gentleman.

Someday, he thought, it would be a fine thing to be able to call oneself a gentleman, with good clothes and a grand house and servants who would tug their forelocks at you. He imagined what it must be like to have his own coat-of-arms to display over his doorway and his mantelpiece, and have painted on the sides of a fine, black-lacquered coach. A coach whose driver he could order to drive slowly. He swore to himself as yet another jarring impact shot painfully through his tailbone into his spine. If this was how a gentleman was meant to travel, then he could damn well do without it. If I should ever become a gentleman, he thought, then I shall travel everywhere on horseback. At a walking pace.

It struck him suddenly how utterly ludicrous that thought was. That an actor should ever be regarded as a gentleman was simply ridiculous. An actor, he thought, had about as much chance of becoming a gentleman as he did of being knighted. Still, it was a lovely fantasy with which to pass the time.

It was not very long before the rutted road led to the outskirts of the city and then gave way to London ’s cobbled streets, which were no less gentle to the poet’s fragile frame than they were to the stout, wooden frame of the carriage. Shakespeare swore softly to himself as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Carriages and coaches were a fairly recent addition to the traffic on the streets of London, but there were now so many of them vying for space with the wooden-wheeled carts and wagons of the farmers and tradesmen, not to mention the horses and pedestrians, that the streets were more often than not hopelessly clogged. It was becoming insufferable and Shakespeare could not see it getting any better as more and more of the “new men” were infiltrating the ranks of the upper classes and buying carriages and coaches of their own.

The ditches that ran down the middle of each street trickled with a stinking quagmire of every sort of waste, including human and animal, raising a stench that was enough to take the starch out of a pleated ruff. And for those who could not navigate these streets from the relative safety of a carriage or a perch on horseback, it was a constant hazard to be splashed with the awful ooze, or to lose one’s footing on the slippery cobbles. Not a few elegant suits of clothes in evidence on the streets were inelegantly bespattered, and those that were not bore testimony to the light-footedness of their owners.

At the same time, however, London was full to brimming with a sense of energy and purpose that Shakespeare found invigorating and even intoxicating. Unlike his sleepy home village of Stratford, this was a place where things were happening all the time. Here in these teeming streets, and behind those doors, fortunes were being made and lost and people struggled to survive, to live and love, sometimes with passion worthy of a poet’s muse, and sometimes with a dull, rutting mindlessness that was nothing more than some primitive, instinctual affirmation of existence. It was all here, the base and the sublime, the endless drama of human character and existence that he found so endlessly fascinating and compelling. Just being here made him feel alive.

To him, this was the true theatre, whose machinations he wanted his more artificial theatre to reflect. There was an ongoing drama unfolding in these streets that was far more essential, far more basic, far more tragic, comedic, and uplifting than anything that was currently being acted on the stage. Compared to all of this, he thought, as his alert gaze swept the streets around him, how tawdry, how simple-minded and how utterly banal were the highjinks, jokes and caperings indulged in by the players of the day. All that petty posturing, all those silly, ribald songs, all those grandiloquent speeches said nothing at all about the piece of work man truly was. The ancient Greeks had understood something that men like Greene and his academic cronies seemed to have forgotten, and that was that the highest king could have at heart the motives of the basest peasant, and the meanest menial could possess nobility that would surpass that of the highest king.

The carriage had slowed considerably when they had entered the city and now, as it turned down a winding, narrow street, it slowed even more as the driver scanned the buildings carefully, unsure of his surroundings. Shakespeare called out to him, “Just a short way further on! Look for the sign of the mortar and the pestle!”

Moments later, the driver was reining in before a small apothecary shop on the ground floor of a small, two-story timbered house, crammed wall-to-wall in a row with other similar houses that lined the narrow, winding street. Above the heavy, planked front door hung a wooden sign with a mortar and a pestle painted on it, identifying the apothecary shop.

“Wait here,” Shakespeare said to the driver, rather superfluously, for of course the man would wait. He had been ordered to take him there and back. The driver merely glanced at him with disdain and said nothing.

The shop was still open for business, so Shakespeare went straight in. The strong aroma of herbs filled the air inside the shop.

It was the same curious, yet somehow comforting mixture of rich smells he remembered from the first time he had visited the shop, together with Tuck Smythe, Dick Burbage, and Elizabeth Darcie. The door shut behind him with a loud, protracted creaking sound, accented by a soft tinkling of small bells tied to a cord. A profusion of herbs hung drying from the ceiling beams in bunches, dozens and dozens of them, giving the ceiling the appearance of a hanging garden. From one instant to the next, depending upon where he stood, different odors wafted over him, some familiar, like rosemary, fennel, thyme and basil, others strange and exotic. Wooden shelves from floor to ceiling lined all four walls, each shelf holding a wide assortment of earthenware jars of various sizes. In front of one row of shelves, to his left as he entered the shop, stood a long wooden counter upon which were spread cutting boards and mixing bowls, mortars and pestles, scales with weights and measures, scoops, funnels, scissors, knives and various other tools, some of which he could not even identify. For all the clutter, however, there was not a speck of dirt or dust anywhere in evidence.

A hanging cloth embroidered with the symbols of the zodiac was pushed aside and a tall, almost skeletal-looking man in a long black robe stepped out. His dark eyes were deeply set, giving them a hooded aspect, and his features were lined and gaunt. He had high, prominent cheekbones and a high forehead with long, wispy, snow white hair cascading down over his shoulders from beneath a woven skullcap. His face was set into what appeared to be a perpetual expression of somberness. Once again, Shakespeare thought that he looked like the very image of a sorcerer, only instead of having a dramatic name like Merlin Ambrosius or Asmodeus or some other suitably necromantic appellation, he bore the rather prosaic and innocuous name of Freddy.

“Good day to you, Master Shakespeare,” Freddy said, greeting him with a slight bow.

“ ‘Allo, Freddy. I am pleased to see that you remembered me.”

“Indeed, I do remember, sir. And if I had not, then Meg would have reminded me. She told me that we might be expecting you today.”

“Did she?” The poet shook his head, smiling. “Your good wife continues to amaze me, Freddy. And did she also, by any chance, happen to tell you on what errand I would come?”

“A grave errand, Master Shakespeare.”

The smile slipped from Shakespeare’s face. “Aye. A grave errand, indeed. I trust that she will see me then?”

“But of course,” said Freddy, standing aside and beckoning him through the doorway. “This way, sir.”

The poet went through as Freddy held aside the hanging cloth and together they proceeded to the back of the dimly lit shop, towards a steep and narrow flight of stairs against the far wall. Shakespeare slowly climbed the creaky wooden stairs until he came out through the floor of the living quarters on the second story. It was a narrow, one-room apartment, longer than it was wide, with whitewashed walls and a planked wood floor that was, unlike the floor in the shop below, not covered with rushes, but swept bare and kept immaculately clean.

At the far end of the room was the only window, looking out over the street below. It was partially hidden by a free-standing wooden shelf that also functioned as a divider to screen off the sleeping area in the back. Nothing at all had changed since the last time he was here. The furnishings were still simple and rough-hewn, consisting of not much more than a couple of sturdy wooden chairs, several three-legged stools and a number of large, old-looking wooden chests. A rectangular wood-planked table similar to those that one might find in any tavern stood in the center of the room, before a fireplace.

Except in the homes of the wealthy, fireplaces on the second floor were simply unheard of. In thatch-roofed country homes, where the ceilings on the upper floors were usually just the dry thatch on the roof, the fire hazard would have been extreme, to say nothing of the flammability of the rushes strewn upon the floors.

However, there were no rushes scattered here, and the ceiling was planked and wood-beamed, not thatch. With the exception of a couple of candles, the flames from the hearth provided most of the light in the room, and there were several black cauldrons of various sizes hanging from iron hooks over the fire. In his mind’s eye, the unbidden image of three witches came to him as they stood over the cauldrons, stirring the bubbling brew and cackling to themselves. He shook his head and smiled at his own foolishness, yet at the same time, his surroundings were very much conducive to that sort of vision.

Like the apothecary shop below, the walls were all but covered with wooden shelves crammed full of books and earthen jars, curious looking wooden carvings and small statuary made of stone, clay pots of every shape and size, necklaces and amulets of every description, little leather pouches suspended from thongs with who knew what sort of strange talismans contained therein… Shakespeare imagined eyes of newts and wings of bats and pulverized horn of unicorn. Everywhere he looked, there was something wonderfully different and strange to arrest his attention.

“Freddy, I was wondering…” he began as he turned around, then stopped abruptly when he saw that Freddy was not there. He frowned. He could have sworn that Freddy had come up the stairs right behind him. In fact, he was certain that he had. He made a wry grimace and shook his head. “The man moves like a ghost,” he said to himself.

“Not all ghosts move quietly,” said a soft, low voice from behind him.

He started when she spoke and turned around again to see Granny Meg standing by the table in front of the fireplace. It seemed as if she had simply appeared from out of nowhere. Clearly, she must have come from behind the screen at the far end of the room, by the window, but she was barefoot and had moved so quietly that he had not heard her footsteps. He tried to recall if Freddy had been barefoot also, but he had not noticed, and with his floor-length robe, it would have been difficult to tell, in any case.

Once again, he was struck by how ageless Granny Meg appeared. She was no longer young, but her skin was so fair and clear as to be almost translucent, without a single blemish or wrinkle. She was of average height, girlishly slim, and sharp-featured, with a pointed chin, high cheekbones, and a delicate, thin nose. Her thick, silvery-gray hair hung down to her waist. She had worn it loose the first time he had seen her, but now she had it plaited into one thick braid that hung down the left side of her chest and was held with simple rawhide thongs. She wore a simple homespun gown, lightly and delicately embroidered with green vines and flowers around the neckline. Her voice was low and mellifluous, memorable certainly, but not nearly so much as her eyes, which were an unusual, striking shade of pale grayish blue, so light that they seemed to absorb light and reflect it. And she seemed to be surrounded by a brightly glowing, pulsating aura.

Shakespeare blinked, taken aback, and then realized that it was but a momentary illusion of the firelight on the hearth behind her. He smiled, thinking of how easily his imagination ran away with him each time he came here. It was, after all, nothing more than an ordinary apothecary shop.

“I was thinking that surely no ghost could move as quietly as you, madame,” Shakespeare said. “You gave me a bit of a start.”

She smiled. “Forgive me. The floorboards here are stout, and these old bones are very light.”

“ ‘Tis good to see you once more, Granny Meg. Good day to you. I am given to understand I was expected?”

She shrugged, a very spare and graceful gesture. “I had a strong presentiment that I would be seeing you today.”

“And lo, here I am.”

“There you are.” She indicated one of the chairs at the table. “Please, be seated.”

He took the chair and she sat down across from him.

“You are very troubled,” she said.

“Indeed. You can divine that much already?”

“I can divine that simply by looking at your face,” she replied, raising her eyebrows. “You wear a very troubled look.”

“Ah. Well…” He nodded. “I am troubled, ‘tis true. Very much troubled. Something has happened… something both unfortunate and terrible. There has been a murder… or at the very least, it seems very like a murder. A young woman is dead and it appears as if there may have been foul play. Indeed, we very much suspect so.”

“We?” she asked.

“The esteemed Sir William Worley, Tuck Smythe, and my humble self,” Shakespeare replied.

She nodded. “I have heard much of Sir William, and I remember Tuck, of course. Go on.”

“Well…” He paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. “The poor, unfortunate girl… ‘twas to be her wedding day, you see, and her father had prepared a most elaborate and lavish celebration at his estate outside the city. We players were to participate, which is why Tuck and I were there, of course, and Sir William was one of the illustrious invited guests. There was to be a fair, and a grand progress on the river with the bride in costume as Queen Cleopatra arriving on her royal barge. All went well, as had been planned, until the arrival of the bride, who tragically turned up dead upon her throne. And beside her body, I found this…” He took out the flask. “ ‘Twould appear that she was drinking from this flask to ward off the chill upon the river. Tis brand, burnt wine, but ‘twas mixed with something else, methinks, some foreign matter. There is a curious sort of odor, one the girl no doubt could not discern, which would be no great surprise if she were not accustomed to the drink. I believe it may contain a deadly poison.”

“And so you seek to have me confirm what you believe,” Granny Meg said.

“Aye, ‘twould prove that murder had been done,” said Shakespeare, grimly. “And perhaps, if we knew the nature of the poison and where it might have been obtained, then ‘tis possible we might learn who had obtained it. Sir William will see to it, of course, that your efforts in this matter are rewarded.”

Granny Meg nodded. “Let me see the flask.”

Shakespeare passed it to her across the table, but the moment her hand came in contact with the flask, Granny Meg stiffened and a frown crossed her features. Her grasp tightened on the flask. She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if to dispel whatever perception or sensation she had just experienced, or else deny it, then she unstoppered the flask and brought it up close to her lips, as if she were about to drink, only instead her nostrils flared delicately as she sniffed its contents once, and once only, whereupon she set the flask down and abruptly got up from the table.

Shakespeare could no longer contain himself. She knew what it was, that much seemed certain from her reaction. She had turned away from him and was staring intently into the flames upon the hearth. Clearly, she was greatly troubled.

“I can see that you recognized the odor,” he said, softly. “I was right, was I not?”

Granny Meg kept staring into the flames as she slowly shook her head. “No. You were not.”

He was completely taken aback by her reply. It did not seem possible. He had been so certain. “ ‘Tis not poison?” he said. “Are you certain?”

“I should think I ought to know,” Granny Meg replied. “I had prepared it myself.”

“What?” He stared at her, eyes wide with astonishment. “You prepared this flask?”

“Not the flask,” she replied, “but ‘twas I who mixed the potion that went into it. ‘Tis an ancient blend of certain rare herbs and distillations, comingled with some common plants that can be found simply growing wild by the roadside. But the effect that it produces is not common at all.”

“But… you just said ‘twas not a poison,” Shakespeare said. “And yet Catherine Middleton is dead!”

Granny Meg turned back towards him and shook her head. “ ‘Twas not the name she gave me, though I had a feeling that the name she gave was false. That alone might have dissuaded me from helping her, yet she came well recommended. If she was the bride of whom you speak, the one who drank this potion, then most assuredly it did not kill her.”

Shakespeare pushed back his chair and stood. “Granny Meg, I was there! With my own eyes, I saw her lifeless body! She neither moved nor took a breath! Tuck listened at her chest and said her heart had ceased to beat! Odd’s blood, if she came to you for some sort of tonic and by mishap you had made some dreadful error in the concoction that resulted in her death, why then… this terrible tragedy is your responsibility!”

“There has been no error, Master Shakespeare, I assure you,” Granny Meg said calmly. “Hear me out before you rush to judgement of me. The potion I had mixed at the woman’s own request has, by your own report, produced precisely the result that was desired.”

“Good God!” he said. “Are you saying that Catherine Middleton wanted to kill herself?”

“No. Far from it. She had the best reason in the world to want to live. But she wanted to produce the illusion that she did not. She asked me if I could prepare a potion that could, for a certain length of time, produce the appearance of death, and yet not bring it about. I hesitated to perform the task she asked of me, and warned her that such a ruse was not without its dangers, but she and your friend who brought her to me both beseeched me, and said it was the only chance she had to avoid a life of hopeless misery.”

“You said that a friend of mine had brought her to you?” Shakespeare said. “What do you mean? Which friend?”

“Why, the one you brought to see me once before,” Granny Meg replied. “Young Mistress Darcie.”

“ Elizabeth?”

“Aye, she is the one who brought her to me.”

“Then you mean to say that Catherine Middleton is not truly dead, but merely in a sort of morbid slumber?”

“Her heart still beats, but so weakly that one may not easily discern it,” Granny Meg replied. “And she still breathes, but only barely, and to all outward appearances seems not to breathe at all. She will lie thus for at least a day or more, and then she will awake as if from an ordinary slumber, and should be no worse for wear.”

“But… the funeral…” Shakespeare said.

“I was assured that there would be no burial,” said Granny Meg, “but that she would be laid to rest within her family vault, where she could sleep in safety until the effects of the potion had worn off.”

“Of course!” said Shakespeare. He remembered then Elizabeth ’s insistence that the funeral should take place as soon as possible, while the guests were still assembled, so that Catherine could be laid to rest inside the family vault, the better to ease her father’s grief… and aid in the deception. “So there has been no murder after all!”

“And yet,” said Granny Meg, as she reached out slowly and picked up the flask, “I have a strong presentiment of death.” Her brow was deeply furrowed and her eyes had an unfocused, distant look. “Something is very wrong. I see death where there should be no death.” She looked at him. “Go back,” she said. “And ride with all due haste. Death comes; there is no time to waste.”