The Slaying of the Shrew (30 page)

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 12

SHAKESPEARE FOLLOWED HUGHE CAMDEN OUTSIDE and caught up to him as he was crossing the courtyard, heading towards the fairgrounds. By the time the poet fell in step beside him, the barrister had recovered much of his self-possession and gazed at Shakespeare with a look that conveyed both smug superiority and just the right amount of upper-class contempt.

Shakespeare did not find his snooty attitude even remotely unexpected. Camden was, after all, the son of a wealthy knight and he was given enough money that probably his greatest worry was how many times a month he could afford another suit of clothes or a fancy beaver hat, like those worn rakishly by all his colleagues at the Inns of Court. Then, too, as an inner barrister, he doubtless considered himself something of a connoisseur of theatrical productions, for the young gentlemen at the Inns of Court were well known for staging amateur theatricals in their halls for the better class of people, and the poets whose works they would perform were all university men such as Marlowe, Greene and Nashe. The Queen's Men and their ilk, who performed for the crass groundlings of the public theaters and often staged the very same plays, were looked upon by them as vulgar second-raters.

Camden raised a disdainful eyebrow at the poet, but did not deign to start a conversation. Presumably, thought Shakespeare, one did not speak first to one's inferiors. Fine, he thought, so be it. He simply smiled at Camden in a warm, comradely sort of way, and kept right on walking beside him, saying nothing. Camden cleared his throat after a moment, as if to prompt him, but Shakespeare merely smiled at him once more. This seemed to infuriate the barrister. His face flushed, the corners of his mouth turned down with scorn, and his aristocratic nostrils flared.

"If you suppose that there was any hint of impropriety in what you have just seen," said Camden, haughtily, "and that what you believe you may have witnessed has somehow placed you in some position of particular advantage over me, then I can assure you, sir, that you are very much mistaken on both counts."

"Oh, upon my word, that was well spoken!" Shakespeare said. "You flatter me, sir, to suppose such great complexity of thought to my most ordinary brain. Indeed, I can but scarcely apprehend your meaning. I can but hazard that your remarks just now were in some way concerned with your lying atop the lady in the library… or was it laying? S'trewth, lying, laying, I need my old schoolboy's hornbook, for I can never keep them straight."

"Now, see here…"

"Nay, milord, I was not seeking instruction, for doubtless you would know the difference, as you are a fine and educated gentleman of the Inns of Court. Eloquence, indeed, would be your proper province, whereas mine is but some foolish capering and posturing upon the stage. Odd's blood, what would I know, indeed?"

"Aye, well, not a very great deal, I should think," said Camden, stuffily.

"Not a great deal at all, I quite agree, I quite agree," said Shakespeare. "Which is why, of course, I make every effort to learn more and better myself at every opportunity, you see. And I could see, indeed, that back in yonder library, you were but doing what you could to comfort the young lady, who was doubtless overcome in her bereavement, what with the twin tragedies of the deaths of both her sister and her lover."

"Her
lover,
did you say?" Camden stopped abruptly, startled, but Shakespeare purposely kept right on walking, as if he had not noticed, forcing the barrister to run several steps in order to catch up.

"Aye, her lover, too, slain so tragically on the very same day that her poor, dear sister was murdered, and not once, it seems, but twice! So in effect, I suppose one might say that there were three murders, save for the fact that there were but two victims."

"Wait a moment," Camden said, frowning, "what the devil are you talking about? What do you mean when you say her lover? That is to say,
whom
do you mean? And who is it that was slain and
how?
And, for that matter,
when)"

"Oh, why, that would be Daniel Holland, I believe," said Shakespeare.

"Holland!"

"Aye, indeed, he is the very one."

"Good God! You mean to say that Holland was her lover?"

"Once again, sir, your education speaks, for indeed, 'twas was, not is, that is the proper form."

"What?"

"Was,"
said Shakespeare.
"Was
her lover, not
is
her lover, for as he is dead, he must perforce be was, not is."

"What in God's name are you babbling about?"

"Why, good grammar, I believe."

"God damn your grammar, sir!"

"I know, milord, 'tis atrocious, truly. I mangle each and every part and participle of speech. I am not fit to speak with educated gentlemen such as yourself. I am thoroughly ashamed. Forgive me, I shall be on my way and trouble you no longer."

"Stay, you impertinent rascal! Bestill yourself until I give you leave to go, you hear?"

"Why, certainly. Your servant, sir."

They had stopped just inside the fairgrounds, amidst the colorful pavillions and painted wood stalls decorated with particolored banners, painted cloths, and pennants showing the wares being displayed. The hour was late, but every single stall and tent was open and the grounds were crowded by the guests, none of whom, it seemed, had left for home or even gone to sleep for fear of missing any more excitement. The grounds were lit with flickering campfires and torches and the tents were lit with candles, giving the entire fair a festive glow. The cookfires were all burning brightly and the food vendors were all doing a brisk business. The air was full of tantalizing roasting and baking smells and Shakespeare suddenly realized that he was hungry. He could also do with a pint of ale or nice flagon of spiced wine. The trouble was, he had no money.

"Now, what is all this about Daniel Holland being Blanche's lover?" Camden demanded.

Shakespeare put a hand up to his brow, as if his head was paining him, and closed his eyes as he swayed slightly from side to side. "S'trewth, in all the excitement of the day, I fear I have not eaten anything. And here 'tis night and I am so famished that I nearly swoon with weakness. My stomach growls and I feel weak—"

"Very well then, come on and we shall get some food inside you," Camden said, leading him to the nearest stall that had a cook-fire, "but you shall, by God, answer my questions afore I lose my patience!"

"God bless you, sir, you are a kind and noble soul," said Shakespeare, and within a moment he was munching contentedly upon a leg of mutton the vendor had been roasting.

"Now then," Camden said, "tell me what you know of this matter of Daniel Holland and Blanche Middleton."

"Mmpf!"
said Shakespeare, clearing his throat several times, touching it as if something were caught there.
"Urggh… guggh…"

"Oh, good God!" said Camden. "Here! You! Merchant! Some ale, and be quick about it!"

A moment later, the mutton was being washed down by a strong, dark ale and Shakespeare felt much better. "Ah! There, that seems to have dislodged it! I am much obliged to you, milord. Doubtless, you have saved my life, else I would have choked to death right here upon the spot!"

"I shall bloody well choke you to death right here upon this spot unless you give me an answer to my question!" Camden nearly shouted. "Now what is all this about Holland?"

"Oh, well, he is dead," said Shakespeare, between bites of mutton leg. "He was killed, you see." He frowned, considering.
"Is
dead,
was
killed… aye, that seems to be correct, grammatically speaking."

"Speak whichever way you chose, you mountebank, but tell me how he was killed!"

"Run through, it seems," said Shakespeare, smacking his lips and taking a drink of ale. "Oh, this is most excellent. I truly thank you for your kindness, milord. I was so weak with hunger, I could scarcely stand."

"Stand and deliver me an answer, scoundrel! Run through by
whom?"
persisted Camden.

"Why, no one seems to know for certain," Shakespeare replied. He pointed to a stall a few yards off. "Why, look there! Would those be shepherds' pies?" He started walking towards a stall where an old man with an eye patch was laying out some freshly baked pies. "Ah, I can smell that tasty crust from here! My mouth waters with anticipation!"

Exasperated, Camden pursued him. "What do you mean, no one seems to know for certain? Do you mean that there is someone they suspect?"

"Oh, one of her suitors, I believe," said Shakespeare, coming up to the stall and looking over the pies the grizzled, one-eyed vendor had set out. "Blanche Middleton's suitors, that is. You know, the lady upon whom you were lying in the library. Or is that whom you were laying in the library? I am not quite certain. Both seem to me to be correct. Oh, my, these
do
look good…"

"Blast you! Here, you, vendor, let's have one of those pies."

"Certainly, milord," the old man said, bowing and wiping his hands on his leather apron. "Which one would you wish, yer worship?" He indicated a dozen steaming pies freshly set out on his display board.

"Any one, it does not matter," Camden said, impatiently.

"Oh, now, truly, sir, you do me honor…" Shakespeare said, as the old man selected one.

"Honor me with a reply and we shall both be satisfied." said Camden, tersely.

Shakespeare appraised the pie, which looked quite tempting, and then dubiously glanced at the old man, who seemed a bit bedraggled with his long, stringy, white hair and grimey, floppy hat, but whose hands, at least, looked reasonably clean. "Well, now, I shall need to set this ale down… or else, methinks, this mutton…"

"Put it down upon the board," said Camden.

"But it does not look too clean, milord."

"Heaven help me!" Camden said, rolling his eyes. He threw some coins down for the pie. "Here, give me the mutton, and then you may take your blasted pie."

"But… I was not quite finished with the mutton, milord."

"Fine. Then I shall hold the ale, whilst you take the mutton and the pie."

"Ah… well, that may work, I suppose, but then I cannot drink, you see."

"Just give
me the damned mutton leg!" said Camden through gritted teeth, snatching it away and brandishing it as if it were a club. "Now get
on
with it!"

"What was it I was saying, milord?"

"You were telling me who is suspected in the slaying of Daniel Holland!"

"Ah, well, one of the suitors, it seems, must have done it. Elimination of a rival, you see. They were seen together in the maze, it seems, that is to say, Holland and the lady… much as you and the lady were seen together in the library, and… oh, my goodness! I suppose that means
that you
could very well be next, milord!"

Camden paled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if someone is killing off his rivals — "

"Then any one of us might well be next," said Braithwaite, from behind them. Camden turned so suddenly, he nearly struck Braithwaite with the leg of mutton. Braithwaite jerked back and Camden, alarmed by the sudden movement, instinctively raised the leg of mutton like a club.

"Have a care with that," said Braithwaite. " ‘Twould be a waste to offer violence with a victual."

"You startled me, sir," said Camden, in an affronted tone.