The Slaying Of The Shrew

7

The news of the bride’s death had cast a pall over the festivities, but not quite to the extent that Smythe might have expected. For one thing, rather to his surprise, it had not brought the festivities to an end. Quite the contrary, it seemed to add a morbid stimulation to them. Instead of offering their condolences to their host, or at least sending them through servants and then leaving quietly, as Smythe had expected most of them to do, the guests had all, without exception, chosen to remain, no doubt out of curiosity to see what would develop and because there was still a fair they could attend, with the added spice of new rumors and gossip to exchange.

None of the merchants had packed up and left, mainly because no one had told them to go and the fair was still on so far as they were concerned. There were still good profits to be made and they continued to do a brisk business as the day wore on. When Godfrey Middleton’s steward came out to announce formally that Catherine’s funeral would be held that very afternoon, and that banqueting would follow for the guests, then anyone who might have considered leaving chose instead to stay. As Shakespeare had remarked wryly just before he left for London, “ ‘Tis thrift, Tuck, thrift. The baked meats of the wedding feast shall now coldly furnish forth the tables for the wake.”

Smythe thought that was rather cold of his friend to make the observation in such bitter terms, yet he had to admit that it was accurate. His eldest daughter had just apparently been murdered on the very day of her wedding, and Godfrey Middleton, however distraught he might have felt, was nevertheless allowing the fair to continue. Was it because he had already made a commitment to the merchants, who had indeed gone to some trouble and expense to come out to Middleton Manor from London, or did he have more mercenary motives because he would, as owner of the grounds on which the fair was held, pocket a percentage of the merchants’ profits?

“If ‘twere my daughter,” Smythe said to Sir William, “I would have shut down the fair and asked everyone to leave, albeit kindly, so that I could be left alone with my grief. Instead, the fair proceeds as planned, even with Catherine lying dead upstairs in the house.” He shook his head. “I simply cannot see how Middleton can continue with it.”

“ ‘Tis said the rich are different, Tuck,” Sir William replied, “and having started out in life quite poor, I have seen both sides of fortune, good and ill. There is, indeed, a lot of truth to what they say. A poor man may not have a rich man’s luxuries, but then neither does he have his obligations. And while ‘tis true that money may beget more money, ‘tis also true that it takes money to maintain money. Godfrey Middleton is a rich man, but his estate is frightfully expensive to keep up, as is his business and his home in London, too. All must be staffed, provisioned and supplied, and otherwise maintained. There are many people who depend upon him for their livelihoods. Just because a man is rich, Tuck, does not mean that he is without care or duty.”

“I can see your point, Sir William,” Smythe replied. “And yet, I still cannot help but think that there are times when a man can simply be past caring, and when duty can just be damned.”

Worley nodded. “I can see your point, as well, lad. And ‘tis well taken, too. For my own part, I have no children, so I cannot say for certain that I know how I would feel were I in Godfrey’s place. But I have known what it is to love, and then to lose that love, and if such pain can in any measure be akin to the pain of a lost child, then I believe that I would feel much the same as you.”

Smythe glanced at Sir William briefly, but Worley seemed to be looking off into the distance somewhere. Smythe had never before heard Sir William speak of any romances in his past. Indeed, there was much about Sir William Worley’s life he did not know- although in some respects, he knew a great deal more than most- and it would have been much too presumptuous of him to ask.

“Howsoever that may be,” Worley continued, “it serves our purpose that the fair has not closed down and the guests have not been asked to leave, for we can now proceed to run our murderer to ground.”

“Or murderers, if there be more than one,” said Smythe, mindful of the two men whose plotting he had overheard.

“Indeed,” said Worley. “And the first order of business shall be to inform Godfrey Middleton of how things stand. That, I fear, must be my sad duty to perform, as he is my friend and neighbor.”

“And yet, he is your rival,” Smythe observed.

“That, too. However, truth be told, ‘tis a rivalry more keenly felt by him than me. I am aware of it, of course, but I do not pay it any mind. I know he envies me my privilege of playing host to Her Royal Majesty each year when she sets out for her progress through the country, but I shall tell you frankly-and in strict confidence, mind you-that ‘tis a privilege I would gladly cede to him. Her Majesty alone can be a handful at the best of times, but together with her sycophantic pilot fish at court, she becomes much more of a vexation than a privilege. Each year, I play the gracious host to them and spend a small fortune on their entertainment. And each year after they have gone, it takes yet another small fortune to clean up the mess they leave behind. If Godfrey wishes to contend with that, believe me, he is more than welcome.”

“Well, after what has happened, I should think there would be little chance that the queen would ever wish to lodge here.”

Worley gave a snort. “After what has happened here, you could not beat the old girl off with a stick,” he replied, in a manner rather more befitting his rough demeanor as Black Billy than the elegant Sir William. “There is no dish quite as piquant to the nobility as a good serving of scandal, and murder makes for the most savory morsel of them all. The queen is no exception. I love the old girl, and ‘tis my honor and my duty both to serve her, but at heart she is as bloodthirsty as her father was before her. Godfrey wanted this to be a memorable occasion that all of London would talk about for months or even years to come. Well, he has paid a very high price for it, I fear, but he has gotten precisely what he wanted. Come on, then. Let us go and pay our respects to him.”

“You wish me to go with you to see him?” Smythe said, with surprise.

“Of course,” Worley replied. “He shall want to hear from you, in your own words, what you overheard those two men say out in the garden.”

“But do you really think, that at such a time… that is, with his daughter’s death as yet so fresh…”

“Godfrey Middleton is not a man who is ruled by sentiment, believe me,” said Worley. “However grief-stricken he may be, he shall still want justice, rest assured. So let us go and speak with him.”

They found Middleton alone in his own chambers, standing and staring impassively out the window at the river. They were admitted by his steward, Humphrey, who quietly withdrew, leaving them alone with him.

“Godfrey… I am so very sorry for your loss,” said Worley.

Middleton slowly turned to face them. He nodded. “Thank you, Sir William. And my thanks to you for coming. I only wish that it were for my daughter’s wedding rather than her funeral.” His gaze settled upon Smythe. “You are the young man who brought my daughter up from the barge. Forgive me, but I do not believe I know your name.”

“Tuck Smythe is one of the players, Godfrey,” Worley said. “He is also my friend and protege.”

Middleton’s eyebrows went up. “Indeed?” He looked at Smythe with new interest. “That is not a claim that many men can make. It speaks very highly of you, young man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“ ‘Tis I who should be thanking you for the service you performed,” said Middleton, his voice flat and unemotional. “But forgive me, I am being rude. Please, be seated.”

“I think that we should rather stand, for the bitter news that we have to impart,” Worley told him.

Middleton stiffened. “ ‘Tis true, then, about the poison?”

“You knew?” asked Worley, frowning.

“My steward, Humphrey, told me that there was talk of poison among the guests, but he did not know if there was any truth to it.” Middleton hesitated. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Is there?”

“We do not yet know for certain,” Worley replied, “but I have good reason to believe there is. She appeared to have been drinking from a flask to help keep warm upon the river. The flask was found and brought to me by William Shakespeare, another of the players, a young poet who is well known to me. I am nearly certain that the flask contained some sort of poison. I have sent Shakespeare to London with it, to have an apothecary analyze its contents so that we may know for certain. He will notify me of what was found as soon as he returns.”

Middleton swallowed hard. “So then ‘tis true. My daughter killed herself to spite me, rather than go through with a marriage that she did not want.”

Worley frowned. “Good Lord, Godfrey! Is that what you thought?”

“What else should I think, damn you?” Middleton shot back, and then he suddenly caught his breath and paled as comprehension dawned. “Dear God in Heaven! Do you mean to tell me she was murdered?”

“I fear she was, Godfrey,” Worley said. “Smythe, here, overheard two men last night, plotting in the garden, and it very nearly cost him his life. I thought it best if he were to tell you what he heard in his own words.”

Quickly, Smythe recounted the details of what had transpired in the maze the previous night. Middleton listened without saying a word, his features strained, his lips compressed into a tight grimace. When Smythe had finished, Middleton simply stood there, motionless and silent, as if he could find no words to say.

At length, Sir William broke the awkward silence. “Godfrey… are you well? Perhaps you should sit down?”

Middleton blinked several times and looked at him. “My God,” he said, hoarsely. He made a weak, waving sort of gesture towards the sideboard. “There is wine… in the decanter there. Help yourselves, please. I insist.”

Smythe went to pour them all a drink. He handed a goblet to Middleton, one to Sir William, and then took one for himself.

“How is the groom taking it?” asked Worley.

Middleton snorted. “Sir Percival? He is out there somewhere, dithering and acting very put upon. One would think that Catherine died just to inconvenience him.” He grimaced, then raised his goblet in a toast. “To my daughter, Catherine,” he said, somberly. “May merciful Almighty God rest and protect her poor, unhappy and un-shriven soul.”

“Amen,” said Worley, softly.

They drank.

Middleton simply tossed the goblet aside onto the floor. “Now then,” he said, grimly, “what are we going to do about this?”

“We are going to find the guilty parties, Godfrey,” Worley said, “and then they shall hang.”

“Not nearly punishment enough,” said Middleton, with a hard edge to his voice, “but as we are not Spaniards, I suppose that it shall have to do. What do you want from me?”

“Proceed with the funeral and hold the fair, as planned,” said Worley. “Let it be known that it shall be held in Catherine’s memory. In the meantime, we shall begin to ferret out our plotters by paying particular attention to your younger daughter’s present suitors, especially those whose families we do not know. In this regard, Tuck Smythe here will assist us, as will young Shakespeare when he returns. They have assisted me before in a matter of great import and they have my fullest confidence.”

Middleton nodded. “Then that is good enough for me. I shall see to it that they have whatever they require.”

“Do so, but pray, do so with discretion,” Worley cautioned him. “Our quarry shall be brought to ground more swiftly if they do not suspect that they are being hunted.”

“It shall be done as you wish, Sir William,” said Middleton. “I am in your debt.”

“He who strikes out at my neighbor strikes at me,” said Worley. “I am certain that you would do no less if you were in my place. Smythe and Shakespeare shall be our hounds in this regard. For the present, I fear that I must leave and rejoin Her Majesty, who shall be awaiting my return. However, I shall inform her of what has happened here and beg her leave to absent myself from court in order to pursue this matter to its swift conclusion. I feel confident that she shall not refuse me.”

“You honor me in this,” said Middleton.

“Murder does dishonor to us all,” Worley replied. “Now, before I leave, let us sit down and put our heads together, so that Smythe may have the benefit of our common knowledge and proceed in my absence…”

The funeral was held late that afternoon, when the performance of the play had originally been scheduled. Much to everyone’s surprise, however, it was announced that the players would still perform on the afternoon of the following day. This news was as much of a surprise to the Queen’s Men as to anybody else. They had fully expected that their performance would be cancelled because of the bride’s death and were thus quite taken aback by the announcement. They had already returned the Roman togas they were given as costumes for the bride’s arrival and had started packing up their gear to leave. Now, with this unexpected turn of events, it brought about a flurry of unpacking and new preparations.

A lively debate ensued among them about which play from their repertoire should be performed. Burbage was strongly of the opinion that Shakespeare’s new play, being a broad and rather bawdy comedy, would now be completely unsuitable for the occasion, and most of the players agreed. Kemp, of course, was the notable exception, for any comedy with a good deal of physicality and broad humor played mostly to his strengths as a dancer and a clown. John Fleming argued that a tragedy should be performed instead, for that would be more in keeping with the funereal occasion.

Part of the problem was that with Shakespeare still away in London, the man who would be most adept at making any last minute alterations in any of their plays to render them more suitable was gone, and they could not seem to agree on which play should be performed or whether any changes should be made. The one thing they all seemed able to agree on was that, under the circumstances, the success of their performance would almost certainly be doomed from the beginning. However, they could not very well refuse to perform. It simply was not done, aside from which, they had already been paid; their audience would be an illustrious one; and their host was a good friend of one of their principal investors. It was a situation that none of them were pleased with and their mood was petulant and sullen.

After explaining that he and Shakespeare had both been directed by Sir William to perform some special tasks for their bereaved host, Smythe left them arguing amongst themselves. As he was not one of the principal actors, or even a significant supporting player, Smythe thought wryly that he would not truly be missed unless there was a need to move any heavy objects. It occurred to him, in passing, that here was probably the single greatest opportunity for him as a player to make a good impression on some of the most important people in the city, and it now looked as if he would not even be setting foot upon the stage. But then again, the few times that he had set foot upon it, he had not distinguished himself for anything save his maladroitness.

“Face it, Smythe,” he mumbled to himself, as he left the others arguing in their quarters, “as a player, you make an admirable blacksmith.”

In the months since he had arrived in London together with Will Shakespeare, whom he had met upon the road, they had accomplished much together. They had managed to find jobs, for one thing, which in itself was a significant accomplishment, considering the vast numbers of people arriving in London every day from small towns and villages across the country. And not only had they found jobs, but they had found positions with one of the most illustrious companies of players in the land, which had been the dream they shared in common.

Granted, they had started out as ostlers, tending to the horses and carriages of playgoers, but Shakespeare had quickly demonstrated his value to the company as a poet and adapter of existing plays, while he, at least, had managed to move up to stagehand and occasional spear carrier, though he was still expected to perform his duties as an ostler when not otherwise engaged. And considering his appalling lack of talent as an actor and his disastrous clumsiness on stage, Smythe knew that he should consider himself fortunate not to have been summarily dismissed from the company. In all likelihood, he thought, he would have been let go already, were it not for Shakespeare, whose abilities were highly valued by the Queen’s Men and for whose sake they had kept him on.

In all, Smythe knew that he had nothing to complain about.

There were many men and women in London who were jammed together in absolutely squalid quarters, a dozen to a room or more, barely able to eke out an existence by picking up odd jobs, or begging, or stealing, or selling themselves upon the streets. For many, their dreams of making a new life for themselves in the city would end up on the gibbet, or in prison, or perhaps worse still, in Bedlam, among the screaming lunatics. Yet, at odd moments, Smythe wondered what his life would have been like if he had remained in his small village in the Midlands and followed the trade to which he had been apprenticed.

He would have continued to work together with his Uncle Thomas at his forge, spending his days with the man who was more of a father to him than his own father ever was, and he would have pursued a trade at which he had some skill. Smythe knew he was a good smith, an excellent farrier, thanks to his natural way with horses, and he had a serviceable talent as a forger of blades which, under the skilled and gifted tutelage of his uncle, he could have developed into a separate trade of his own. In time, perhaps, he would have met a girl and married, and then had children and a home of his own. It would have been a good life, undoubtedly, better than most. From any practical standpoint, leaving home and coming instead to London to pursue a life in the theatre had been foolish beyond measure.

Yet, it had always been his dream. It was all he had wanted to do ever since he had seen his first play performed by the Queen’s Men upon a makeshift stage in the courtyard of a village inn. Now, he had joined that very company, and was embarking upon his very first tour. True, the beginnings of the tour were certainly far from auspicious, and the players were already speaking with trepidation of the tour being ill-omened, but Smythe nevertheless felt buoyed by the knowledge that he was living out his dream.

Even the present circumstances could not dampen his enthusiasm. He was on the road with the Queen’s Men and he was having an adventure. He could feel sympathy for Godfrey Middleton, and he certainly felt sorry for what had happened to his daughter, but then, he had never known her. It was not his tragedy and he could feel no grief. There was really only one dark cloud on his horizon… the possibility that Elizabeth had found somebody else.

Perhaps he was wrong for feeling jealous. After all, it was not as if Elizabeth were his lover. They had never been intimate; they did not have any sort of understanding between them and, indeed, they could not. Shakespeare was right when he pointed out that she was much too far above him. Her father was a wealthy man, a principal investor in the Burbage Theatre, and if Henry Darcie was not quite yet a member of the landed gentry, then the tide of “gentleman” was certainly not very far beyond his reach. Henry Darcie often purchased dresses for his daughter that cost more than Smythe could make in several months. The thought that he could ever hope to meet with her on equal terms was ludicrous. Her father tolerated their friendship-rather grudgingly, it seemed-because of the service Smythe had rendered to his family, and because he knew that Sir William Worley had taken Smythe under his wing, but at the same time, Smythe knew it was a tolerance that would not bear much testing. Darcie still hoped to make a good, advantageous marriage for his daughter. He would not stand idly by and watch some randy young ostler spoil his plans.

Smythe knew and understood that, but still could not help the way he felt. And until recently, he had been certain that Elizabeth had felt something for him, too, something more than friendship. Now, he was no longer certain. Since the day they had argued in St. Paul ’s, Elizabeth had been avoiding him. She had barely even spoken to him, and the one time that she had, she had put him off. Granted, she had promised him that they would speak, and under the circumstances, it would have been the height of selfishness if he had expected her to put his needs above those of a grieving father, especially when the daughter he was grieving for had been Elizabeth ’s close friend. Smythe very much wanted to believe that was all it was. Yet, there was still the troublesome riddle of what Elizabeth had been doing in the garden maze that night.

It worried him throughout the funeral ceremony, which was mercifully short, doubtless because Godfrey Middleton would have found it unbearable to draw it out into an elaborate ritual, as he had intended to do with Catherine’s wedding. The musicians who had been engaged to play for the wedding now played for the funeral instead, offering up sweet and solemn tunes which they played upon lutes, recorders, citterns, sackbutts, harps and psaltries, coaxing more than a few tears from the assembled guests, especially the women, many of whom joined in to sing several psalms for the procession to the family vault.

As it was a newly built estate, the vault was new as well, a small yet stately stone mausoleum which contained but one coffin, that of Catherine’s mother. Now Catherine would sleep beside her, laid out in her wedding dress upon the slab until her own coffin could be prepared. It would doubtless be speedily arranged upon the morrow, if Middleton or, more likely, his steward did not already have a carpenter at the estate busily engaged upon the task. The procession gathered in the front courtyard of the house and then slowly and solemnly made its way across the grounds, in the opposite direction from the fair’s pavillions, down a path that led along the riverside and through the woods to where the vault stood in a small clearing, surrounded by a stone wall with an iron gate set into it. It would, thought Smythe, be a very peaceful place to rest.

His thoughts and his attention were less upon the funeral, however, than upon those in attendance, in particular a certain few who had been the subject of discussion earlier between Godfrey Middle-ton, Sir William, and himself. Because of what he had overheard, their discussion had centered upon Blanche Middleton’s suitors, in particular those who were not well known to either Middleton or Worley. Given that Blanche was quite a sultry beauty, and with a very wealthy father, there seemed to be no shortage of eager suitors for her hand in marriage. However, a good number of them were easily eliminated from consideration as suspects due to either Middleton or Worley being well acquainted with their families, if not with the young men themselves. That still left three or four who seemed quite worthy of suspicion.

One such was young Andrew Braithwaite, a baron’s son who hailed from Lancashire. Or so he claimed. Middleton knew nothing of him and Worley had no knowledge of him, either. However, that did not necessarily mean Braithwaite was not who he said he was. Not all the members of England ’s nobility were regulars at court or sat among their peers in the House of Lords; some never even came to London. Consequently, they did not necessarily all know one another. Sir William had explained, primarily for Smythe’s benefit, that presently there were three degrees of nobility in England, those of baron, viscount, and earl, in descending order. A duke would have been above a baron, of course, but at present, no one held that tide.

As a country commoner with little formal education, Smythe did not know a great deal about the nobility, nor had he learned very much more since he came to London. He knew that a noble was created by the sovereign through a patent bearing the Great Seal of England and the title of that noble was thereupon passed down through the eldest son. He also knew that bishops, equal to the nobility in rank, were likewise appointed by the sovereign, and their offices were not hereditary. Below them were knights and gentlemen, with knighthood bestowed for special service or as a mark of favor by either the sovereign or a deputy empowered to act in the sovereign’s name, such as a general or an admiral in time of war. As with a bishopric, a knighthood was not hereditary, and a gentleman could only properly call himself a gentleman when the College of Heralds saw fit to award him with a coat of arms. And that, essentially, was the limit of Smythe’s knowledge.

Sir William was not sure exactly how many nobles there were in England at the present time. There were a dozen earls or so, he thought, a few viscounts, and probably more barons than any other degree of nobility, perhaps thirty or more. There were people at court, he said, who paid far more attention to that sort of thing than he did. Her Majesty, for one, would have more knowledge at her fingertips, as would her ministers and any of the heralds, for among their varied functions was the granting of coats of arms to gentlemen and the preservation of all records of England’s noble families.

The heralds took their duties very seriously, Sir William had explained. Organized into a college, they were under the authority of the Earl Marshal, who was a court official. The three senior heralds held the tides of Garter King at Arms, Clarenceaux King at Arms, and Norry King at Arms. Below them were the heralds of York, Somerset, Lancaster, Richmond, Chester, and Windsor, with four pursuivants below them bearing the colorful titles of Rouge Dragon, Blue Mantle, Portcullis, and Rouge Croix. And while Her Majesty might conceivably lose track of a noble or two, Sir William said, especially if he were not in regular attendance at her court, it was unthinkable that a herald should do so, for one of their most important duties was to examine the claims of anyone, including foreign visitors, who claimed to be of noble or gentle birth. Regretably, there were no heralds handy, and with the royal court away from London, a bold imposter might easily believe that he could pass himself off as a nobleman and get away with it, at least for a while.

Young Braithwaite seemed modest to a fault, a quality which had initially impressed Middleton quite favorably, but that now made him suspicious. Braithwaite’s apparent reticence in discussing his family had at first seemed like modest self-effacement, but now, given what Smythe had overheard from the two mysterious plotters, it could readily be perceived as guile. Moreover, there was something rather rakish about young Andrew Braithwaite, despite his outward display of manners. He was approximately the same age as Smythe, chestnut-haired, blue-eyed, clean-shaven and handsome in a rugged, provincial sort of way, but there was something in his manner that Smythe did not quite care for. He had a way of strutting when he walked, a sort of loose-hipped, rolling swagger that did not quite seem to match his seeming outward modesty. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it rubbed Smythe the wrong way.

The elder Braithwaite was not in attendance, which might have cast some doubt on the younger Braithwaite as a suspect, for the plan that Smythe had overheard involved one of the two men posing as the father. However, as Worley had pointed out, knowing that someone had overheard them, even if they did not know precisely who it was, could easily have brought about a change in the two scoundrels’ plans. If they knew that someone might expect a nobleman and his son to be imposters, then it was possible that they might have decided to withhold the father, so to speak, and just advance the son, thus hoping to confuse anyone looking for a father and a son, while keeping the other man in reserve, standing by to perform whatever unsavory task might be required of him. That made sense to Smythe, therefore he did not dismiss the strutting Andrew Braithwaite out of hand. Nor did he miss the fact that Blanche very much seemed to enjoy the attention he was paying to her. But then, at the same time, she seemed more than willing to encourage the attentions of the chevalier Phillipe Dubois, as well.

Here, thought Smythe, was a different kettle of fish entirely, and he did not much care for how it smelled. One of the things he had discovered about the upper classes since coming to the city was that artifice was something that they often elevated to an art. They went to extraordinary lengths and expense to out-peacock one another, and an exaggerated sense of flamboyance-or at least so it seemed to Smythe, with his plain, country sensibilities-was usually the order of the day not only in fashion, but also in behavior. In this respect, Dubois excelled even in this company. True, the young Frenchman was not required, on this occasion, to compete with the more socially prominent and consequently more fashionably adept courtiers who were away from London with Her Majesty, but Worley had observed in passing, after only a brief glimpse of him, that Phillipe Dubois would have doubtless held his own with them, as well.

If Andrew Braithwaite could be considered handsome, Smythe thought, then Phillipe Dubois was very nearly beautiful to the point of femininity. Smythe had never before seen anyone quite like him. He could not have been very much older than twenty or so, but it was somewhat difficult to tell, for Dubois painted his face and wore a beauty mark, and his curled hair was so long that it hung almost to his waist. He clearly lavished a great deal of attention upon it and Smythe noticed not a few women gazing at his dark tresses with undisguised envy. Nor was envy the only emotion that Dubois seemed to engender in many of the ladies present.

He was tall, well-formed, and graceful to the point of being langorous. His slightest gesture seemed elegant, studied and deliberate, and his demeanor was the very epitome of cultured charm, which this French Huguenot supporter of Henry of Navarre wielded most adroitly and disarmingly.

Smythe had detested him on sight, in no small part because earlier he had observed Dubois walking with Elizabeth upon his arm, and Elizabeth seemed rather taken with him. It seemed unlikely, however, that this effete fop could be one of the plotters whom he had overheard, for those men both had English accents, and while Dubois spoke excellent English, his accent was unquestionably French. Nevertheless, Dubois had arrived together with his father, a French aristocrat who smiled at everyone, yet spoke to no one because, according to his son, he had gone completely deaf from some injury sustained upon the battlefield.

Then there was Hughe Camden of Pendennis, who had arrived at the estate with his father, Sir Richard. Smythe was not quite sure what to think of Sir Richard and his son. He supposed they could have been the men that he had overheard, although he could not say for certain. The white-bearded Sir Richard seemed rather aloof and close-mouthed, and acted as if he disdained the company that he was keeping. His short, curdy polite, yet somewhat irritable replies to any comments or questions that were addressed to him discouraged conversation. The general impression was that Sir Richard Camden was a solitary gentleman of leisure, and no one was quite certain what he had done to merit a knighthood. Knights, said Worley, who spoke as one, were even harder to keep track of than barons, earls and viscounts. Indeed, there was concern among some of the nobility that the rank of knight was being diminished by the recent increase in the ranks of knighthood.

“In the old days,” Sir William had said, “a mere merchant shipbuilder such as I would never have been knighted. But as I have done much to increase the royal coffers, so hath Her Majesty seen fit to increase my honor through my rank. ‘Twas a generous offer, and one that I could scarcely refuse, you understand. But at the same time, neither did I campaign for it, as so many others have, and continue to do, often successfully. Why, if one were to throw a stone at some annoying dog in London these days, one would be just as liable to miss and strike a knight. So then, Sir Richard Camden may indeed be entitled to wear spurs, for all I know. And then again, he just as well may not be. For my part, I do not know him from Adam. He and his son, therefore, must remain suspect, at least until I can find out more about them.”

For the present, it seemed somewhat easier to learn something of the younger Camden. Hughe was a slightly built, studious-looking young man in his mid-twenties, with a neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, and a thick shock of dark and curly hair that came just to his shoulders. He seemed as self-effacing in his dress as did Andrew Braithwaite in his manner, affecting somber hues of black and brown in his simple, unadorned doublet, breeches and hose with a plain, though well-made shoulder cloak. He was a student of the law, an inner barrister at the Inns of Court, and had a great fondness for poetry, which he had been observed to write in a fine Chancery hand well worthy of a scrivener. He seemed an amiable and pleasant enough fellow, and Middleton said he had applied for and been given a small stipend as Blanche’s tutor in poetry and literature while they were at their home in London. He seemed clearly smitten with her and she, in turn, seemed not averse to his company, but at the same time, Smythe had the distinct impression that there were few males between the ages of eighteen and eighty to whose company Blanche Middleton might actually be averse.

Finally, that left Sir Roger Holland and his son, Daniel. Sir Roger had, apparently, won his knighthood on the field of battle in his younger days, had married well, sired a brood of children, and was now primarily devoted to managing his wife’s fortune and her property in Lincolnshire. Beyond that, Middleton had said, he had not revealed very much of substance. He dressed reasonably well, if somewhat unfashionably, and had, in fairly short order, established himself as a crashing bore. He spoke of little else save hunting and his “sports”-the dogs he raised for fighting-and of those two subjects, he spoke almost incessantly. Middleton had said that regardless of what anyone tried to speak with him about, within moments Sir Roger would turn the conversation back to dog fighting or hunting and drone on with so much throat-clearing and hemming and hawing and harrumphing that one would be reminded of the sounds made by a pair of rutting hogs. apparently, he did not seem to notice that anyone he struck up a conversation with thereafter tended to avoid him as if he had the pox. Or, perhaps that was his intent.

Daniel Holland seemed much more amiable than his father, and looked a few years older than both Braithwaite and Camden, and possibly Dubois, for the latter’s age was not easy to determine and he had not volunteered it. However, what Daniel Holland may have lacked in youth, he made up for with a confident maturity that made him appear very self-possessed. Without saying so in so many words, he managed to give off the impression that he felt himself unquestionably superior to his rivals, and he positively smirked whenever his gaze fell upon the elegant Dubois. Blonde, bearded, green-eyed and good looking without quite being handsome, young Holland was of average height and stocky build. Being a gentleman of means, he had no need of a trade, although he claimed to know something of horses and their breeding. He stood to inherit a considerable amount of land and also spoke vaguely of some investments that he made in the New World.

Any of them, Smythe thought, could be the plotters he had overheard in the maze, though some seemed more likely candidates than others. There seemed to be no way, at least for the present, to verify their true status or their claims, and Smythe was certainly in no position to question their veracity. To his immense frustration, he was not able to recognize any of their voices. Dubois’ voice seemed the most unlike those that he had overheard, as did his accent, but then again, the accent could be something he was faking, although if he was, he was certainly convincing, and his father spoke not at all, which Smythe found a bit suspicious. Of the remaining three, Daniel Holland seemed, perhaps, the least likely to be one of the plotters, as both Worley and Middleton had thought, as well. He neither looked nor acted like a rogue, and if Smythe were casting for the part, Daniel Holland would probably have been the last one that he would pick. He looked like a student at the Inns of Court, and he seemed very well educated. He quoted poetry and wrote it. Yet since Sir William had departed, Smythe had noticed something else about young Holland that had given him some pause.

Most well-dressed gentlemen went armed, and the guests at Middleton Manor were no exception, especially the young, fashionable men who vied for Blanche Middleton’s attention. Dubois, as might be expected of a French chevalier, had a very showy blade, a rapier with a curvaceous basket hilt and jewelled crossguards. It seemed quite well made, though Smythe was unable to make a close inspection. However, it made sense that a man who could afford the sort of elegant clothing Dubois wore would also be able to afford a first-class blade. Whether or not he knew how to use it was another matter entirely. He wore it in a rakish hanger, but beyond that, Smythe had his doubts that the blade had ever been drawn in practice, much less combat. Likewise, Braithwaite and Camden both wore blades, and if they were not as showy and expensive looking as the Frenchman’s, they were nevertheless quite handsome. Daniel Holland, on the other hand, who looked as if wearing a blade would suit him about as well as a silk dressing gown would suit a horse, wore a rather plain-looking rapier with a cup hilt and hooked cross-guards. It was of Spanish design, and it was most certainly not the blade of a courtier or fop or roaring boy. It was the purposeful blade of a duelist. It was, of course, quite possible that Holland had purchased it cheaply in the city from some down-on-his-luck soldier and had no more idea how to use it than Smythe had of writing poetry. But Smythe found it interesting, just the same.

Until he knew more, Smythe could not eliminate any of them from consideration. Sir William had the best chance of uncovering any possible deception with a few inquiries at court, but until he could return, Smythe was on his own. The trouble was he did not know what, if anything, he could accomplish. He wished that Shakespeare would return from London soon, for the poet had a clever way of thinking through things and looking at situations from all sides that doubtless came from plotting out his plays. His mind was quite adept at doing that. However, as the day wore on towards evening and Shakespeare still did not return, Smythe could but observe the suspects from a distance and attempt to guess which, if any of them, had tried to kill him in the maze.

At the same time, he could not help but notice that Elizabeth kept right on avoiding him. At the funeral, she had wept openly and unashamedly, and was more demonstrative in her grief than anyone, even Blanche, who dabbed daintily at her eyes with a handkerchief and kept her gaze downcast. Elizabeth had been escorted by her father, who had left for London shortly thereafter, promising to send a carriage for her on the following day, for she had seemed much too distraught to travel. Since then, Smythe had not even seen her. He told himself that she had every reason to feel upset and had probably retired to one of the upstairs rooms. But something told him there was more to it than that.

Elizabeth simply did not seem herself, and some instinct told him there was more to it than grief over a murdered friend, however unlikely that may have seemed. He simply could not shake the feeling. He had learned to trust his instincts. Therefore, when he saw Elizabeth come furtively down the stairs that evening as the sun was going down and head outside, he followed her once more.