Much Ado About Murder (20 page)

"Ah, but was it?" Shakespeare said. "Consider this, Tuck: thus far, we have only Henry Darcie's word that Master Leonardo was eager to invest. 'Tis quite possible that after seeing the Theatre and then meeting with the company and considering all his options, Master Leonardo had some reservations, or else changed his mind entirely."

"But Burbage would have known that," Smythe said.

"Perhaps," Shakespeare replied. "Or perhaps not. Elizabeth had already taken Hera under her wing, as it were, and thus Henry Darcie had somewhat more to do with Leonardo than Burbage did. Most likely, they were spending more time together, especially since Leonardo had aspirations of advancing himself in London and Darcie would have been more helpful to him in that regard than the Burbages would be. So, if the late, lamented Master Leonardo had reservations about investing in the Theatre, or else had set his mind against it, 'tis possible that he might only have told Darcie. If so, then Henry Darcie would have been the only one to know that Leonardo was
not
going to invest."

"And so what then?" asked Smythe. "He killed him? Or else had him killed? How could he profit by that? Either way, there would be no investment money."

"Nay, not necessarily so," Shakespeare replied. "Leonardo had no male heirs, apparently. Hera was his only child. As such, she stands to inherit her father's wealth. Alone in a strange country, to whom would she turn for guidance if not to the father of her only friend in London?"

"God's mercy, Will! You cannot believe that, surely! Tis absolutely diabolical!"

"Aye, murder
is
diabolical, Tuck. I am not saying that I believe it came to pass that way, but I
am
saying that if we wish to find the truth, we
must
consider every possible alternative, else the truth, and the real murderer, may easily elude us. We must not allow our sympathies to blind us to
any
possibility. We must be crafty, canny hunters, you and I, carefully following each spoor that we find, else we shall lose the trail entirely."

Smythe nodded. "Aye, your argument is sound. And much as I dislike to say so, Henry Darcie did seem somewhat callous in regard to both Master Leonardo's death and Hera's grief. His main concern, now that I think of it, was for us to convince her that we were her friends and to make her understand that her fortune was now tied to ours and ours to hers."

"I thought you would remember that," said Shakespeare.

"Aye, but still, that merely shows that he is selfish," Smythe replied. "It does not mean he is a murderer."

"True," said Shakespeare, "it does not. Nor do I think he is. Yet I do see where he may nevertheless profit by the death. And that is the sort of thing that we must look for. So… who else profits by it?"

Smythe shook his head, puzzled. "I cannot imagine, unless he had unknown enemies in London and, if so, I do not now see how we may discover them. 'Tis easier by far to see who stands to lose by his death rather than who stands to profit."

"Very well. Let us try to view the situation from that vantage point," said Shakespeare. "Who stands to lose?"

"Most obviously, Hera," Smythe replied. "But I cannot believe that she had aught to do with it. Her misery is deep and clearly genuine."

"I am inclined to agree," Shakespeare said. "Who else?"

"Well… we stand to lose, that is, the company does if the investment is not made and the refurbishments cannot be done," said Smythe. "Without Master Leonardo's money, Darcie and the Burbages may find the cost too dear and the work may not be done."

"And the result of that will be?" asked Shakespeare.

Smythe shrugged. "Audiences may well decide to attend productions at the Rose, instead. 'Tis a much newer playhouse and they boast Chris Marlowe and Ned Alleyn. So I suppose that could make Henslowe a suspect, but that would mean he would have to have known about the planned investment. How likely would that be?"

"At this point, we cannot say," Shakespeare replied. "My thought is that 'twould be somewhat unlikely, but not impossible. Leonardo was interested in making an investment in a playhouse. For all we know, he could have approached Philip Henslowe first."

"I suppose 'tis possible," said Smythe.

"Or else someone in our own company who plans to defect to the Lord Admiral's Men, as Alleyn did, could have told Henslowe about it."

"A long shot, even for an accomplished bowman, I would say," Smythe replied. "We have at present far more to fear from Henslowe than Henslowe has to fear from us. He has already taken our best actor. He has a better playhouse and he has—"

"If you say he has a better poet, I shall kick your arse," Shakespeare said.

"I was going to say he has more
money"
Smythe replied, with a grimace. "The Lord Admiral's Men are in the ascendancy whilst we are in decline. Thus, I do not think 'twould stand to reason that Henslowe would have aught to do with it. After all, why bother to lack a dying dog?"

"Well, we may be down, but we are not dead yet," said Shakespeare. "But do you know who very nearly is? Young Corwin. Whether he is innocent or guilty of the crime, he now stands to lose his life in either case."

"Aye, he does, indeed," said Smythe. "There is no question that he was obsessed with Hera. But was he obsessed enough to kill?" He shook his head. "Those who knew him best do not believe it, nor do I."

"Why not?" asked Shakespeare.

"I cannot give you a sound reason, Will," Smythe replied, with a helpless shrug. "I
simply feel
that he could not have done it. He did not strike me as the sort. He struck me as the sort who might stand on his affronted dignity and break off his engagement if he felt that he would be dishonored by the marriage, but he did not strike me as the sort to fly into a rage and cut a man to ribbons. That phrase sticks in my mind, Will. 'He was cut to ribbons.' Master Leonardo was the captain of a merchant ship. That is not a life for a soft, indolent, and doughy shopkeeper. Seamen are a hardy lot and it takes a hardy man to lead them. He was lean and weathered, erect in his carriage, and with a spring in his step. He carried a fine sword and had the look of a man who knew how to use it. Italians are well known for their schools of fencing. And Corwin was no duelist. He was an apprentice who but recently became a journeyman. A sword was never a tool of his trade. I cannot recall that he even wore one, can you?"

Shakespeare thought a moment. "I do not think so."

Smythe shook his head. "I do not believe he did. And even if he did, I find it hard to credit that he could prevail over a man like Master Leonardo, who must have had to deal with men a great deal rougher than Corwin in his time."

"He may have gained the advantage of surprise and so prevailed," said Shakespeare, "but I do not believe it, either. Betimes, a man must act upon his instinct, even if it seems to go against his reason. And whilst my reason tells me that Corwin may be guilty, my instinct tells me he is not."

"Then we are in complete agreement," Smythe said, emphatically. "We must find someone else who had good reason to see Master Leonardo murdered."

"Or else see Corwin blamed for it," said Shakespeare, thoughtfully. "Methinks that is another possibility we should consider. Master Leonardo's death may not have been in itself the end, but just the means."

"You mean that he could have been killed merely so that Corwin would be accused of his murder and thus destroyed?" said Smythe. "Odds blood! 'Tis a cold heart that could conceive of such a deed!"

"Aye, a cold heart," repeated Shakespeare, "with cold blood coursing through it, as opposed to hot. Mayhap 'twas not a crime of passion, after all, but of opportunity."

"We have much to do," said Smythe, grimly. "And little time in which to do it. The noose for Corwin's neck is being plaited even as we speak."

Chapter 9

THE TOWNHOUSE WHERE MASTER LEONARDO had all too briefly lived was not nearly as ostentatious or as large as Henry Darcie's. Situated in a tidy row of houses near the Devil Tavern and the Thames, it was a modest-looking residence built of lathe and plaster, with nothing to set it apart from any of the other row houses on the street. It certainly did not look like the home of a wealthy man. Perhaps, thought Smythe, it might have been intended merely as a temporary residence, meant for use only until such time as Master Leonardo had established himself and found a better home or else had built one just outside the city, as some successful tradesmen were now doing. But on the other hand, he may have been a man of relatively simple tastes who did not require much out of a home that was not functional, comfortable, and practical, rather than elegant, ostentatious, and luxurious.

In a city where the members of the new, rising middle class were constantly competing to show off whose rise was faster, and where the nobles were always trying to outdo one another in elaborate displays of wealth and fashion, a frugal man who spent his money wisely on his business interests rather than on expensive homes or carriages or suits of clothes that he could change as many as three times a day could quietly build up his wealth and become a rich man without fanfare. And that seemed like just the sort of thing an unassuming, former seafaring man would do.

"This seems like the kind of place where a retired ship's captain would drop anchor," Shakespeare said, echoing Smythe's thoughts. "A nice, solid, comfortable place to live on dry land, within walking distance of the river, where he could stroll on the bankside and observe the wherrymen and the ships beyond the bridge. A man could do much worse."

"And many do," said Smythe.

"Someday, I shall have a fine house of my own in town," said Shakespeare. "You know, I could be well satisfied with something similar to this. I need no cut stone or brick to look like some archbishop's residence. A good, solid, English home of lathe and plaster will do me nicely, the sort of place befitting a gentleman, rather than a marquis or a viscount."

" Tis good to know that your ambitions are merely modest ones," said Smythe, with a straight face. " 'Twouldn't do at all for a humble poet to overreach himself."

"You think?" said Shakespeare.

"Aye. How many poems or plays, do you suppose, would one have to write in order to be able to afford a modest place like this?" asked Smythe, giving him a sidelong look.

"Do you mock me, you pernicious rascal?"

"What, I?" Smythe said, feigning surprise. "Nay, 'twas merely an idle question. Three or four score, do you think? Well, perhaps less, if you are made a shareholder. Aye, two score or so should do it. So long as they are all as popular as Marlowe's. That should not present too great a difficulty, not to a fellow as industrious and talented as yourself. How many have you written thus far?"

Shakespeare glowered at him.

Smythe blithely went on. "Well, let us see… there is that one about the drunken lout who falls asleep and is then found by a noble and taken to his house… oh, no, wait, you never finished that one, did you? Ah, but then there is the one about the war… no, you still have not got past the first act, have you? Oh, hold on, there was that idea you had about the twins, from the time we helped Elizabeth and encountered that fiendish foreign plot… did you ever actually
do
anything with that?"

"You cankerous, flea-infested, mocking dog! See who nurses you the next time you are brought home with a broken head, you ungrateful, prating wretch!"

"Ah, well, thus am I justly chastised," Smythe replied, hanging his head in mock shame. "Ungrateful wretch I am, indeed. I am a rude fellow. You may beat me. Here, let me find a stick…"

"Oh, cease your foolishness," Shakespeare said, with a snort. "Come along, let us go and question Master Leonardo's servants."

The household servant who opened the door to them had the look of a man whose future was uncertain. Tall, thin, and balding, with wisps of white hair sticking out in all directions, as if he habitually ran his hands through what little of it was left, he reminded Smythe of a horse that had been spooked.

"Dear me,
more
visitors and
more
inquiries," he said, anxiously. "I really do not know what I should do. The master of the house is cruelly slain, the mistress is not present and is grieving in seclusion, and it simply is not right to have people coming to the house and asking questions, searching through everything…"

"Your concern for your master's house and goods is very commendable," said Shakespeare. "We are here merely to ask some questions of you and the other servants on behalf of your mistress and your master's business associate, Henry Darcie. But tell us, first, who
else
has spoken with you? Someone has been here to search the house?"

"Aye, and he, too, claims to have had business dealings with poor Master Leonardo."

Smythe frowned. "Who was he? Did he give you his name? Can you describe him?"

"You may see him for yourself," the servant said. "He is within."

Shakespeare and Smythe exchanged glances, then quickly pushed past the distraught servant and entered the house. They saw two female servants in their aprons standing near the stairs, huddled together like frightened chickens in a corner of the coop, and at once they could hear the sounds of someone rummaging about upstairs. As they exchanged glances once again, they heard a loud crash, as if something heavy had been overturned.

"This time, I have brought my sword," said Smythe, drawing it from its scabbard.

"I shall be right behind you," Shakespeare said.

"With what, your
quill?"

In response, Shakespeare pulled out a knife from inside his boot, a bone-handled stiletto with a six-inch blade.

"Good Lord!" said Smythe. "Where did you get that?"

"I brought it from the Theatre," Shakespeare said.

"Do you know how to use that thing?"

"I understand one pokes at people with it," Shakespeare replied, wryly. "I
have
done some fencing on the stage, you know."

"On the stage," repeated Smythe, rolling his eyes. "God help us. Just keep behind me."