SHAKESPEARE HAD GROWN UP IN the country and knew how to ride bareback, but then he had not done so since he was a boy. Nor, he quickly realized, was he even remotely nostalgic for the experience. He had always liked horses and counted himself a decent rider, but he had been spoiled by saddles. Riding bareback at the gallop, which he had done so often in his childhood, was now a punishing experience.
The coachman had not wanted to abandon the expensive carriage and had argued that they should try to get the wheel back on once more. Shakespeare had insisted that they had no time to lose and the horses had to be unhitched and ridden bareback. They had argued and Shakespeare said that he would take one of the horses and ride back no matter what, come Hell or high water. They had nearly come to blows over it, and the argument was settled finally when they noticed that the wheel had cracked and the axle had been damaged. There was nothing for it but to abandon the carriage in the road and ride the horses home.
They had quickly modified the harnesses, shortened the reins and gotten on their way, by which time their already muddy clothes were reduced to little more than torn and sodden rags, but nightfall had caught up to them and they lacked a clear sky and a full moon by which to see. The rain had let up somewhat, but the roads were still puddled and quite soft in places. With Shakespeare insisting on riding at the gallop, the going was treacherous, to say the least.
By the time they reached Middleton Manor, Shakespeare was roundly cursing every mare that ever foaled. They came splashing up the road leading to the house, skidded on the wet cobblestones of the courtyard and nearly went down in a tangle, but somehow, miraculously, their mounts managed to retain their footing and they reined in without further incident. Their noisy arrival, however, had alerted some within the house, for many of the guests had not retired early and were still participating in the wake. A few of them might even have remembered whom the wake was for.
Humphrey, the ever-efficient steward, was one of the first upon the scene as they came staggering up to the front door, looking for all the world like two weary and embattled soldiers freshly returned from the wars.
“Good God!” he said, when he beheld their grim and grimey appearance. “What happened, for mercy’s sake? Have the two of you been set upon by brigands?”
“The carriage broke down on the road from London, but never mind that now,” Shakespeare said, trying to catch his breath. “Damn me, but I need a drink! Is Sir William here?”
“Sir William had departed hours ago,” said Humphrey, as the hall behind him began to fill up with curious onlookers. “You look like Death! What is the matter?”
“Get the master of the house at once!” said Shakespeare. “And get Tuck Smythe. And get me a drink, while you are at it.”
“I shall do no such thing!” Humphrey replied, in an affronted tone. “Master Middleton has retired. This day has been a terrible trial for him, as you must surely know. He is grief-stricken and exhausted. His daughter’s funeral has been a horrible ordeal for him.”
“Well, then wake up the old bugger and we shall crack open the tomb and raise her up again! And God damn it, get me a tupping drink!”
The crowd behind Humphrey gasped collectively. But a few were enough past the point of caring that they chuckled at Shakespeare’s irreverent remarks. Humphrey tossed them an acid gaze over his shoulder, then turned the full force of his basilisk glare on Shakespeare and the hapless coachman, who simply stood there helpless, not knowing what to say or do.
“You must be drunk!” said Humphrey, with outrage. “I shall have you thrashed and driven off the property!”
“Then you shall answer to Sir William Worley,” Shakespeare replied, shoving past the incredulous steward and making his way toward the tables. “And you shall likewise answer to your master, who shall not take kindly, I assure you, to being deprived of his eldest daughter for yet a second time!” He picked up a goblet and filled it, then quaffed it in one breath.
By now, more people had gathered round and everyone was talking at once. Humphrey was sputtering with outrage and turning purple with apoplexy, but Shakespeare did not care. He refilled the goblet and drank it down again, spilling some of the wine down his already thoroughly drenched and muddy doublet. It was ruined and it had been one of only two he owned, and the second one was threadbare, whereas some of the guests around him thought nothing of wearing at least three different doublets in one afternoon. He was tired; he was sore; he was cold and he was wet. He was a poet, not some post rider, and he felt resentful of the entire company around him. He had come to stage a play, and instead had played a part in one, the part of errand boy. Worse still, the whole situation had been nothing but a sham.
“Now see here-” Humphrey began, but Shakespeare merely shoved him away roughly without even a glance at him or a break in drinking.
“What in Heaven’s name is all this row?” Godfrey Middleton’s voice cut through the conversation. He stood up in the gallery, wearing a velvet dressing gown and looking down on the assemblage with cold fury. His gaze settled on Shakespeare as the obvious center of it all. “For the love of God, sir, have you no respect? No decency? My eldest daughter has just been laid to rest!”
“Well, mark my word, Master Middleton, she shan’t be resting long,” Shakespeare replied.
“This is an outrage!” Middleton said.
“I shall have the servants throw the vile villain out at once!” Humphrey said, finding his voice at last. “I shall set the dogs upon the pestilential rascal!”
Middleton suddenly seemed to recognize Shakepeare for the first time. “You are the man Sir William sent to London, are you not?”
“I am that very man,” Shakespeare replied. “Or what is left of him after the foul journey I have made. Your carriage, by the way, lies broken on the road some miles hence, I cannot say how far or where, precisely. We had tried to fix it once, but the damned wheel came off again a few miles down the road and cracked, and there was an end to it. By now, ‘tis likely kindling for some rufflers. We unhitched the horses and rode back like red Indians in the pouring rain, your coachman and I, and we are tired men and chilled straight through to the bone, but by God, we have brought fascinating tidings! To wit, sir…” He took another long drink from the goblet, “… your daughter is not dead, because there was no poison in that flask from which she drank. ‘Twas instead a potion merely meant to lull her for a time into the arms of Morpheus and only make it seem as if she slept eternally with Hades. So go back to your bed and rest you well, sir, if you wish, but know that when you wake upon the morrow, you shall find that Catherine had awoke afore you and absconded with her lover.”
He ignored the stunned reactions of the guests around him, turned his back on Middleton, and reached across the table for a cold and greasy drumstick that looked more appetizing to him now than any dish that he had ever seen. As he bit into it, he turned back and looked up towards the gallery. Middleton was gone. Shakespeare glanced at Ian, the coachman, who was staring at him with absolute astonishment, and shrugged.
“Well, I suppose that woke him up, eh, Ian?” he said. He held out the drumstick. “D’you fancy a bite?”
He did not have very much time to eat. Middleton came down almost at once, having paused only long enough to pull on a pair of boots and throw a cloak over his dressing gown. He barked out sharp orders to Humphrey, calling for torches and men, then put on his hat and turned a baleful eye on Shakespeare.
“Young man, you had best be telling me the truth, for if this is your gruesome idea of a prank, then you shall answer to me! I shall have you whipped until your eyes bleed. Now come with me!”
“I should answer quite well to a whipping,” Shakespeare mumbled, taking another quick swallow of wine before following his host.
Phillipe Dubois worked his way through the crowd to Shakespeare’s side. “Prithee, mon ami, do you mean to tell me that Mademoiselle Catherine is not truly dead?” he asked, as they went back outside, herded along by the press of people behind them.
“No, milord, I had meant to tell Master Middleton that Cadierine is not truly dead,” Shakespeare replied. “Strewth, I had not meant to tell you anything.”
“You have great cheek for a vagabond,” said Dubois, somewhat stiffly.
“And you lisp and wear strange suits.”
“I say, small wonder you players have such a scandalous and lowly reputation,” Ian said, as they left Dubois gaping with astonishment behind them. “You really are insufferably rude.”
“And you really are an amazing prig for a mere coachman, Ian.”
“I happen to be a liveried servant to a gentleman!”
“You are a glorified bootblack, Ian, so go stuff your hubris. Or you can actually be useful and go find my friend, Tuck Smythe, and let him know what has transpired, for your master seems intent upon marching us all into the dripping wood when we should all be drinking sensibly inside. I am beginning to envy Catherine. At least she has had an opportunity to lie down for a while.”
“A word with you, sir, if I may?” Hughe Camden called as he hurried to catch up with them. Ian the coachman stopped and fell behind as Camden took his place at Shakespeare’s side.
“And lo, another suitor. The kites begin to flock,” mumbled Shakespeare to himself.
“I beg your pardon?” Camden said.
“And you shall have it, sir. I am feeling positively popish tonight. Tell me your sin and I shall grant you absolution.” “I see you are impertinent.”
“Impertinent and insufferable, as well. Add intemperate and you can compass me with alliteration.” “I believe you are drunk, sir.”
“Not yet, but on such a night as this, ‘tis a course well worth pursuing. How may I serve you, sir? Something to do with the lately lamented Lady Catherine, no doubt?”
“I was listening when you spoke just now,” said Camden, as they continued down the path in the wake of Middleton and his torch-bearers. “You said something about Catherine planning this astonishing deception so that she might run off with a lover?”
“Aye, quite so.”
“Sir, I must say that I find this tale very hard to credit. Tis a harsh thing to defame the dead. I cannot believe that she would have done anything like what you propose. I have heard that Catherine could be somewhat shrewish on occasion, but at heart, she was a good woman.”
“Well, we might have a good woman born before every blazing star or at an earthquake,” Shakespeare said, “but I would not look for such a singular event with any greater frequency.”
“You have, it seems, a rather bilious and spiteful view of women, sir.”
“I am a married man, sir. My view is unobstructed.” “Who is this lover you allege Catherine of having?” “Ah, there I cannot answer you, for I have no knowledge of his name.”
“How, then, do you know that he exists? Or do you merely surmise?”
“Surmise, allege, tales hard to credit… I gather you must be the lawyer.”
“I have the honor to attend the Inns of Court. My name is Hughe Camden. You may know my father.”
“May I? Well then, so I shall, if you decide to introduce him. In the meantime, learned sir, know that whilst I cannot bear witness to the alleged lover’s name, I can vouchsafe his existence by the testimony of the lady herself, who spoke of running off with him.”
“You have heard her say this?”
“Not with mine own ears, but earlier today, I spoke with one who did hear the lady say so.”
“Hearsay, sir. ‘Twas a lie, I’ll warrant.”
Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, we shall find out soon enough.”
“I am not at all sure what you have to gain by raising all this fuss,” said Camden, looking at him as if trying to gauge his motives.
“I have nothing at all to gain, sir,” Shakespeare said, “and only time to lose. You, on the other hand, would stand to gain a great deal more, I should think, if Catherine were truly dead. That would increase her sister’s worth considerably, would it not?”
“I do not care for your tone, sir.”
“I do not much care for yours, either. I have played penny whis-des that have made less grating noise.”
“What is your name, sir?” asked Camden, stiffly.
“Marlowe,” Shakespeare said. “Christopher Marlowe, at your service.”
“Marlowe.” Camden nodded. “I shall make a point to remember that name.”
“Suit yourself. I have already forgotten yours.”
Camden fell behind as Shakespeare increased his stride and hurried on ahead. He had almost caught up to Middleton, at the head of the procession, when yet another of Blanche’s suitors came up beside him and introduced himself.
“Sir, my name is Andrew Braithwaite. Might I have a word with you?”
“Have three, as you are the third to ask.”
“Indeed, I did see Dubois and Camden speaking with you just now. Did they say anything of interest?”
“No, not really. I rather hope you shall do better.”
Braithwaite smiled. “I fear, then, that you are doomed to disappointment. I doubt I can be much more interesting, for I am neither a great wit nor a learned scholar.”
“Then you at least appear to be an honest man, which in itself makes you more interesting. A plain bird would stand out ‘mongst all this plummage.”
Braithwaite chuckled. “You do not care much for this company, I see. And yet, here where each man competes with every other, you have seized everyone’s attention. You stand centerstage, and yet seem to regard it as an imposition.”
“It amuses you?” asked Shakespeare, glancing at Braithwaite to see if he was being mocked. But it seemed that he was not.
“If I can say so without giving offense, aye, it does amuse me. But the amusement, I hasten to add, is not at your expense.”
“I am not offended then.”
“Good.”
Shakespeare glanced at him with interest. “Most people, especially in this vaunted company, would not concern themselves overmuch about giving offense to a mere player.”
“Well, I try not to be careless about whom I may offend,” Braithwaite replied. “That way, I can husband my offenses for those who most deserve them.”
“Well said.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome, sir. What would you have of me?”
“Why, nothing in particular,” Braithwaite replied.
“What, not even after my singular announcement at the wake?”
“ ‘Twas, indeed, singular,” Braithwaite said. “Quite astonishing, in fact.”
“And in light of it, you have nothing more you wish to ask?”
“Not at present. I suppose if what you said proves to be the truth… well, frankly, I have absolutely no idea what will occasion then. It should prove quite fascinating. But if what you said turns out to be false, I have a rather better idea of what will occur. Godfrey Middleton will have you whipped for your impertinence and then see you thrown off his estate. That is, assuming you survive the whipping.”
“Which would you prefer to see, I wonder, Catherine alive or me whipped?”
“Oh, I would much prefer to see Catherine alive. The ensuing scandal would be absolutely marvelous. And you seem much too fine a fellow to be whipped.”
“Odd’s blood, Master Braithwaite, ‘tis entirely too likeable for a knight’s son, you are. I may be in danger of aspiring to have a friend above my station.”
“Never fear, I have no shortage of friends below mine. And those friends call me Andrew.” He offered his hand and Shakespeare took it.
“Will Shakespeare is my name.”
“I heard you tell Camden that your name was Marlowe.” “I lied.”
“I knew that. Among those lowly friends of mine is a certain poet by the name of Marlowe. Camden ’s father has considerable influence. You may have caused Chris some annoyance.”
“Well… he deserves it.”
“Aye, he does, at that. He is a scoundrel. But then, I seem to like scoundrels. I generally find them much more entertaining than this lot. We are nearly there, I think. ‘Tis hard to tell. At night, things often neither look nor sound the same.”
“Indeed. I do not see young Master Holland.”
“I have not seen him myself since the funeral. But as we are all rivals for Blanche Middleton’s affections, we do not enjoy a particular camaraderie. Perhaps he had retired early and thus missed your dramatic entrance and your speech. If so, then he shall doubtless miss whatever happens next, for we have arrived.”
They were just behind Middleton and the torchbearers at the head of the procession, and ahead of them they could dimly make out the white stone structure in the clearing that was the Middleton family vault. As they approached it, however, a piercing scream sounded and, for a moment, froze everybody in their tracks. It had been, unmistakably, a woman’s voice.
“Good God!” Braithwaite exclaimed. “Did that issue from within the crypt?”
Shakespeare did not respond, however. He was already running towards the door, for he saw that it stood open. Braithwaite was right on his heels, having had enough presence of mind to pause only long enough to grab a torch from one of the servants. They ran past Middleton, who stood rooted to the spot with the others in the vanguard, and Shakespeare was almost to the door when he felt his arm seized from behind.
“Wait, Will!” Braithwaite said. “Have a care!” He handed him the torch and drew his rapier. “You are unarmed. Stay close behind me.”
Shakespeare hesitated, then followed him through the door.
The scene that greeted them within the vault was startling, to say the least. There stood Smythe, holding Elizabeth in his arms. She was sobbing against his chest as he held her close and tried to comfort her. Next to the carved stone pedestal where Catherine’s shrouded body had been placed, awaiting the completion of the coffin, stood a young man Shakespeare had never seen before. He appeared to be about the same age as Smythe, but of a slighter build, cleanshaven, with blonde hair and strong, handsome features that were contorted with misery as he bent over Catherine’s now un-shrouded body, holding it in his arms as he wept unashamedly. But as dramatic a sight as that presented, even more striking was the stark red blood all over Catherine’s snow white gown and the dagger protruding from her chest.
“Tuck!” said Shakespeare, as soon as he recovered from his initial shock and found his voice. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us! What deviltry is this?”
“Treachery and murder, Will,” Smythe said, looking shaken. “Murder most foul.”
Braithwaite stood there with rapier drawn and held ready, looking both stunned and uncertain. Behind them, Middleton and several others came into the chamber.
“God’s mercy!” Middleton exclaimed, as he beheld the startling tableau before him. “What foul, horrible and loathesome desecration is this! Seize that man!”
Several of the servants rushed forward and grabbed hold of the young man, prying him away from Catherine’s body. For a moment, he resisted them, holding onto her corpse as if with desperation, then he seemed to resign himself and simply went limp, allowing them to pull him away.
Middleton’s eyes widened even further as he recognized Elizabeth, who had turned around at the sound of Shakespeare’s voice and now stared at them all with desolation, her ashen face streaked with tears. “ Elizabeth! Dear God in Heaven, what are you doing in here?”
Her mouth opened as if she were about to reply, but no sound issued forth. It was as if she had lost the power of speech. She could simply find no words.
“We came in and found her thus,” said Smythe, indicating Catherine’s body, which now lay sprawled at an awkward angle, her head hanging down, the dagger protruding starkly. “ ‘Twas Elizabeth who screamed. Catherine was already dead.”
“Is this some ill-conceived notion of a joke?” asked Middleton, his face pale and drawn. “My God, man, what else should she be but dead in her own tomb?”
“That dagger was not there when she was laid to rest earlier this day,” said Smythe.
“Of course that dagger was not there, you imbecile!” said Middleton, his voice trembling with fury. “Because this… this… foul, perfidious, evil fiend has violated both her tomb and body and thus desecrated my poor dead girl by plunging it within! Oh, horrors! Horrors! What manner of vile beast would mutilate the dead?”
“Methinks that was not what happened here,” said Braithwaite slowly, gazing at the body curiously. He put away his rapier and approached Catherine’s corpse. “I truly mean no disrespect by what I am about to say, Master Middleton, but as any hunter would readily attest, blood does not gush forth from a carcass as ‘twould from a body freshly slain. And what we have here, I would hazard from my experience at tracking, is blood that seems but freshly spilled within the hour. ‘Twould seem Will Shakespeare spoke the truth in what he told us all tonight. Without a doubt, your daughter was still alive when she was stabbed.”
“Can this be possible?” said Middleton, his voice strained. “Am I to bury the same daughter twice within the same day? Oh, Heaven! Oh, monstrous spite! Then this foul villain has slain her!”
“No!” Elizabeth shouted. “No, ‘tis not true! He loved her!”
“Then from whence came that dagger buried in her breast?” Middleteon demanded.
“ Tis mine,” Mason said, dully.
“John, no!” Elizabeth shouted.
“There! You see? Convicted out of his own mouth!” cried Middleton, pointing at him. “Venomous wretch! Who are you, that you would visit such vile treachery upon me? What is your name, villain? Speak!”
“My name is John Mason,” he replied, emptily. “I am… or I have been a groom at Green Oaks. Now… now I am nothing.”
“A groom! A groom, by God! And at good Sir William’s estate! Incredible! And you…” He turned his wrathful gaze on Elizabeth. “My best friend’s daughter, and I had treated you as if you were my own! Thus do you repay my kindness towards you, by conspiring with this deceitful rogue to seduce my poor daughter and lead her to her ruin! You are as guilty of her death as he is!”
“Oh, that was base!” Elizabeth said, flushing red with anger. “In your spiteful eagerness to place the blame, you put it everywhere save where it belongs, squarely upon your own shoulders! Had you not tried to force her into a farcical and loveless marriage intended solely to advance your own ambitions, there would have been no need for Catherine to resort to the deception that has led to this sad end! John Mason is no murderer. Look at him! See his face! So utterly undone is he by Catherine’s death that he will not even speak out to defend himself! He did not do this awful thing! If you have him arrested for this crime, then the true criminal shall go free! And God Himself shall judge you for it!”
“Enough!” said Middleton. “You go too far! This is what comes of too much tolerance and too soft a hand with children! You have said quite enough, Elizabeth! Had you been born a man, so help me, I would seek my satisfaction, but as you are a woman, I will leave you to your father. Let him decide what is to be done with you. Henceforth, you are no longer welcome in my house. You may stay the night, until your father comes for you in the morning, but I shall suffer neither your impertinence nor your presence any longer. Now get out of my sight!”
“Tuck,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice from breaking, “would you be so kind as to escort me?”
“Of course,” said Smythe. He glanced at Shakespeare. “Will?”
Shakespeare nodded and started to walk out with them.
“Get out, all of you!” shouted Middleton to the others. “Jackals! Get out and let my poor daughter rest in peace!”
Elizabeth walked quickly with her head held high and Smythe hurried to catch up with her. Shakespeare paused to take a torch from one of the servants, then trotted after them. They quickly outdistanced all the others, who slowly made their way back up the path.
“ Elizabeth…” Smythe said.
“I am all right,” she replied, although her voice was strained. “I am more afraid for John. What shall they do to him?”
“I do not think they shall do anything, for the present,” Smythe replied. “Middleton will likely have him locked up somewhere, until he can be delivered to the authorities in London.”
“I would agree,” said Shakespeare. “ ‘Tis likely that he shall turn him over to Sir William, since he is his servant, and let Sir William make proper dispensation of his fate.”
“But John is innocent!” Elizabeth said. “You know he did not do it, Tuck.”
“In truth, Elizabeth, I do not know it for a certainty. And he did admit the dagger was his own. How else should it have gotten there?”
“Because he left it there for her! He was concerned that she might be defenseless in the tomb and so we arranged to leave it hidden there for her in case she should awake and feel frightened, or in the event that robbers should come to steal her jewelry.”
“Then why did he not say so?” Shakespeare asked.
“Because he no longer cares what may become of him!” Elizabeth replied. “He loved Catherine with all his heart! He hated the whole idea of this plan, despised it and said ‘twas much too dangerous. He wanted simply to run away with her, instead. And now he blames himself. You saw him! A part of him died along with her! But you know he did not do this, Tuck! You were there with us!”
“Aye, for a time,” said Smythe. “Because I had followed you, I know when you met him at the vault, but I cannot say when he got there. ‘Tis possible that he had come there earlier, which means that he could have found Catherine when she awoke, and then slain her for some reason that we do not know.”
“You cannot believe that, surely!”
“ Elizabeth, I do not know John Mason. I have never before laid eyes on him until this night. But while I admit ‘tis possible he may have killed her, I do not believe he did.”
“What reasons have you for thinking so?” asked Shakespeare.
“Several,” Smythe replied. “For one thing, I am inclined to believe Elizabeth. While I did not have much speech with Mason, he struck me as a decent sort. I do not think he is a killer. And I have no doubt that he loved Catherine.”
“ ‘Twould not be the first time a love had led to murder,” Shakespeare said.
“Perhaps not,” said Smythe, “but there would have to be some reason for it and there is none here that I can see. The whole plan was designed so that Catherine and he could safely go away together and never be pursued. If his love were so intense and feverish that he might have gone mad if she were to change her mind at the last moment, then I suppose ‘tis possible he might have killed her. Yet, if Catherine were to change her mind, for whatever reason, the time to do so would have been before she took the potion. Otherwise, why take the risk?”
“Why, indeed?” said Shakespeare. “Your reasoning is sound. Well done. And I agree completely.”
“And there is one more thing that makes me doubt his guilt,” said Smythe.
“And what is that?”
“The fact that someone tried to kill me tonight while I was following Elizabeth to the vault.”
“What?” Elizabeth exclaimed. “And you never said a thing about it!”
“ ‘Twas not the time, I thought. And I wanted to see what would occur between you two.”
“What do you mean someone tried to kill you?” Shakespeare asked, with concern. “How?”
“With a crossbow,” Smythe replied. “And whoever shot that bolt damn near put it through my eye.”
“Good Lord!” said Shakespeare.
“Nearly killed!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “And you said nothing!” “There seemed no reason to say anything about it then. I had thought he saw an opportunity to strike and followed me out from the house, for I heard someone running back toward it after the bolt was shot. Now, however, it occurs to me that whoever shot at me may have been coming back to the house from the tomb, instead.”
“Then would I have not seen him on the path?” Elizabeth asked.
“Not if he heard you coming and hid until you had passed.”
“I do not understand,” Elizabeth said. “Why would someone wish to kill you?”
“Because I had overheard their plot,” said Smythe.
“What plot? What on Earth are you talking about?”
“ Elizabeth, do you remember when I told you that ‘twas I who shouted out to warn you there were others present in the maze that night? There were two men… unfortunately, I never saw them, for there was a hedge between us, but I had overheard them plotting. One of them said to the other that with Catherine out of the way, he would be free to make his move. The plot, it seems, was to impersonate a nobleman and his son, then seek to secure Middle-ton’s consent for Blanche’s hand in marriage. The prize would be Blanche, herself, and of course, her dowry, which would likely be considerable, especially if Middleton believed that he were dealing with a nobelman. I heard no further, for I had made some noise and gave myself away, whereupon they tried to run me through with their rapiers right through the hedge.”
Elizabeth gave a gasp and stopped, staring at him with alarm. “Then twice someone has tried to kill you!”
Smythe took her arm and moved her along, not wishing any of the others to catch up and overhear them. “True, they have tried twice, and they may yet try thrice if I cannot unmask them. But… here is my point. I know they were in the maze that night. And now I also know they must have seen me, for they now know who I am, which puts me at a considerable disadvantage. What if they had also overheard what you discussed with Mason? Then they would have known about the plan you made with Catherine. And they would have known that Catherine was not truly dead.”
“But if everyone believed that she were dead, and she was going away with John, then what purpose would be served in killing her?” Elizabeth asked.
“To divert attention and suspicion from themselves,” said Shakespeare.
“Precisely,” Smythe agreed. “We are clearly dealing with coldblooded men who shall stop at nothing to achieve their ends.”
“You must tell Godfrey Middleton about this!”
“He already knows, Elizabeth. As does Sir William. We have told them both about it and have their charge to do anything we can to help get to the bottom of it.”
“He knows about it?” she replied, with amazement. “Then why in God’s name does he blame John?”
“Because he is distraught, Elizabeth. Give the poor man some consideration. He has had a daughter murdered twice in the same day. And then there is his outrage over John being her lover, and worse yet, being a lowly groom.”
“A neighbor’s groom,” said Shakespeare. “A neighbor with whom he fancies himself to be in competition.”
“And do not forget John admitted that the dagger stuck in Catherine’s breast was his,” added Smythe. “Under the circumstances, can anyone blame Middleton for reaching the conclusion that he did? In time, when he has had a chance to recover from this heavy blow, then Middleton shall no doubt see reason and reach the same conclusions that we have. But in the meantime, we must do what we can to find the real killer.”
“And, with any luck, do so without being killed ourselves,” Shakespeare added, wryly. “God’s wounds, but this has been a day to try a man’s soul! Just when I think that things cannot possibly get any worse, they promptly do!”
“You seem to have had quite a time of it,” said Smythe. “You look a sight. What happened?”
“That fool of a driver wrecked the carriage,” Shakespeare replied.
“And some of your best clothes, it seems.”
“Aye, but that is of no consequence. What plagues me beyond all measure is that if Braithwaite was right, then if the wheel had not come off the carriage and delayed me, I could have returned in time to save Catherine’s life.”
“Oh, no, Will! Do not blame yourself for that!” Elizabeth said.
“ Elizabeth is right, Will,” said Smythe. “You are no more at fault than she is for helping Catherine, despite what Middleton has said. ‘Twas Catherine’s own choice to do what she did, as ‘twas the killer’s choice to murder her. We should not hold ourselves responsible for what others choose to do of their own free will. We can but be responsible for our own actions. Each of us must suffer the slings and arrows of his own outrageous fortune.”
“Gad, Tuck, that was well put! I wish I had said that.”
“Never fear, I am sure you will.”
“Zounds! You dare unpack your wit at my expense? I have half a mind to pay you back in kind!”
“That would make you a halfwit, then.”
“Villain!”
“Clod!”
“Scurvy knave!” “Steaming turd!” “Rustic mountebank!” “Bad poet!”
“Oh, that was base! Where is my rapier?” “You do not own one.”
“Right. I must make amends at once and buy one at the fair so that I can call you out.”
“You might buy some clothes first, so that you are fit to go out.”
Elizabeth laughed, and then brought her hands up to her head. “Oh, Heaven, that I should find myself able to laugh at such a time as this! How vile must I be?”
“Without laughter, Elizabeth, we have no saving grace at all and must perforce go mad,” said Shakespeare.
“Thank you, Will. You are a kind soul.”
“I am a damned weary soul. This has been a very long and very trying day.”
“And I have been sent packing, to leave upon the morrow,” said Elizabeth. “ ‘Tis a sad thing to be no longer welcome in this house, and yet, ‘tis a house that no longer holds any pleasant memories for me. What do you suppose will happen now?”
Smythe shook his head. “I am not sure, Elizabeth. A great deal will depend on Middleton and what he chooses to do. And then do not forget that we still have not heard from Sir William, who does not yet know the full story of all that has transpired.”
“The fair was to last three days,” said Shakespeare. “Under the circumstances, however, I do not think that anyone would blame our host if he were to cancel the remainder of it.”
“True,” Smythe said, “but at the same time, in a peculiar sort of way, nothing has really changed since we first spoke with Master Middleton, has it? I mean that at the time, we had all, except Elizabeth, of course, believed Catherine to be dead. Well, she was not, but now, she is. We also believed her to have been murdered. She was not, but now, she has been. Middleton was grieving for his daughter, yet wanted to see justice done. And now, he is still grieving for his daugher, so… what has changed?”
“Hmm, I see what you mean,” said Shakespeare. “ Tis a curious situation, indeed. Our expectations of the situation were unfounded, yet now, we have found them to be true. Most strange. I cannot imagine how I would respond in Middleton’s place. Would I wish to continue with my original plan to find the murderer and get justice, or would I fold under the weight of this new blow and wish to banish everybody from my sight?”
“Well, only Middleton can answer that,” said Smythe. “ Elizabeth, you know him best. What do you think he will do now?”
She shook her head. “Godfrey Middelton, for all his stout and doughy looks, is a strong-minded and most ambitious man. In many respects, Catherine took after him. Their similarity of character was the source of many of their clashes. They were both strong-willed and stubborn. Once she had made up her mind, Catherine would not easily be dissuaded. Her father is no different. He is not the sort of man who would forgive a slight. I cannot imagine that he could forgive the murder of his own daughter.”
“So you believe that he shall stay the course, then, and do everything possible to find the killer?” Smythe said.
“I cannot think he would do otherwise.”
They were approaching the house now. They glanced behind them and saw torches on the path not far away. The others were returning.
“There are still things we need to speak of before you must leave in the morning,” Smythe said to Elizabeth. “The rain has stopped. Will you walk with us awhile in the garden?”
“Of course. I am far from eager to retire. I do not think that I shall sleep at all tonight. And I do not really want to be alone right now.”
They reached the courtyard and turned to go around the house, to the opposite side where the garden was, with the maze, thought Smythe, where it all began for him.
“What of Blanche?” Smythe asked. “What can you tell us about her?”
Elizabeth sniffed with disapproval. “She is as strong-willed as Catherine, in her way. A very different way.” “What sort of way?” asked Shakespeare.
“Well, Blanche wants what she desires, and desires what she wants. And one way or another, she always contrives somehow to get it.”
“Spoiled, in other words,” said Shakespeare. “Her father indulges her?”
“Very much so,” Elizabeth replied. “And she plays upon him like the virginals. She is much more subtle than Catherine. At least, with him.”
“And not with other men?” asked Smythe, remembering his first impression of her.
“Not with any other men, so far as I have seen.”
“You disapprove of her?” said Shakespeare.
“ ‘Tis not for me to approve nor disapprove,” Elizabeth replied. “I simply do not like her.”
“She does not seem to want for suitors,” Smythe said.
“No. She is very beautiful, as I am sure you have remarked,” she added dryly.
“Aye, beautiful… and rather bold, I thought.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Oh? I was not aware that you had spoken with her.”
“Only briefly, when she arrived together with the wedding party,” Smythe replied.
“Indeed? And pray tell, what did she say to you?”
“I do not recall precisely. Nothing of substance, I am sure.”
“And yet you do recall that she was bold.”
“Well, doubtless, ‘twas more in the nature of her manner than anything she said.”
“Do tell. And what was her manner towards you?”
Shakespeare chuckled. “You have found, Tuck, both the greatest fault and greatest virtue of all women. They listen.”
“Bestill yourself, you clever quillmaster,” Elizabeth said, sharply. “ ‘Twas not you that I was asking!”
“Mum’s the word, ma’am. I shall take my cue from womankind and be all ears.”
“And I shall box those ears for you if you do not have a care!”
Smythe laughed.
“Laugh all you like,” Elizabeth said, “but when you are done, I shall still be waiting for my answer. I am not distracted.”
“Well… she said…” Smythe shrugged with exasperation. “In all truth, Elizabeth, I cannot recall now what she said, only that what she said seemed very bold. If I had not known better, I might have thought that she had set her cap at me.”
“Blanche has set her cap at men so many times that it has grown quite threadbare,” Elizabeth replied, dryly.
“A woman’s wit is never quite so sharp as when it pricks another woman,” Shakespeare said.
“Provoke me more and you shall find that it can prick a poet, too! Besides, I speak naught but the truth. And there are others, I am sure, who can bear witness to it. Her flaws are plain for all but men to see, who see them not for being blinded by her beauty.”
“And yet ‘twas Catherine who had the worse reputation of the two,” said Smythe.
“Aye, for being a shrew,” Elizabeth replied. “For that is what men call a woman who dares to speak her mind. But if she should speak with other parts of her anatomy, then men will think with other parts of theirs, as well.”
“Which part would that be, pray tell?” Shakespeare asked, in-nocentiy.
“In your case, I have no doubt ‘twould be the smallest.”
Smythe laughed. “ Twould seem she can box a poet’s ears!”
“ ‘Twere not my ears that she defamed,” Shakespeare replied, with a grimace. And then his expression softened. “Why, Elizabeth, you are crying.”
“ Tis for Catherine,” she replied, her voice quavering. “Oh, I do not know how I can stand it! My heart is breaking!”
“There now,” Shakespeare said. “No shame in tears for a departed friend.”
He offered her his handkerchief. Unfortunately, the kindly intention of the gesture was overwhelmed by the sheer filthiness of the grimey handkerchief, which he had earlier used to wipe away some of the mud with which his face was still besmirched. Elizabeth simply stared at the muddy rag for a moment, then started to laugh, despite herself. Smythe and Shakespeare both joined in, and she put her arms around their waists as they staggered together around the house, toward the other side, helpless with laughter.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, as the wave of laughter subsided. “Thank you both for being such good friends.”
“Well, in truth, Elizabeth,” Shakespeare replied, “I fear I cannot claim that I was always a good friend to you.”
“How so? And why not?”
“I must admit that upon more than one occasion, I had told Tuck here that you would only bring him trouble.”
“And so I have,” Elizabeth replied.
“Do not say that, Elizabeth,” Smythe protested.
“ Tis naught but the truth, Tuck,” she replied, with a sigh. “From the day we first met at the theatre, I have only brought you trouble. And Will, too. I cannot forget that he was nearly killed on my account.”
“ Tis true that I was very nearly killed,” said Shakespeare, “but ‘twas not on your account, Elizabeth.”
“I know,” she said, “but neither you nor Tuck would ever have found yourselves placed in harm’s way had you not chosen to befriend and aid me. And now it has happened once again. You might have been killed or badly injured in that wreck, and twice now Tuck was nearly killed. And all on my account!”
“Well… when you put it that way, it does seem as if all the fault is yours,” said Shakespeare.
“Will! For God’s sake, she feels badly enough as things stand!”
“I spoke in jest,” Shakespeare replied. “So far as I can see, Elizabeth, if you were at fault in anything, ‘twas in going along with Catherine in this hare-brained scheme, but then you were only trying to help a friend and I cannot fault you in that. I would do no less for Tuck, nor Tuck for me. That misfortune has befallen is in some part, doubtless, due to Fate, but in part due also to the intervention of others. ‘Tis there the true blame lies, and ‘tis there that we must seek to place it.”
“I agree,” said Tuck, emphatically. “We know that two of the guests here are impostors, and that those two are likely to be found among Blanche’s suitors. Some we have already managed to eliminate from our consideration, but that still leaves Braithwaite, Camden, Holland, and Dubois, and their respective ‘fathers,’ if fathers they truly be.”
“Aye,” said Shakespeare. “And I am somewhat disposed towards eliminating Braithwaite from our list of suspects, too.” “Why?” asked Smythe.
“Well… he seems a very decent sort of fellow,” Shakespeare said. “And I have a good feeling about him.”
“I see. So you wish to eliminate him from consideration merely because you happen to like him?”
“Not entirely. He is the one suspect who does not have a father present, and we are looking for two men. Although I do admit I like him. He is a very likeable young man.”
“That very quality makes for a good cozener,” said Smythe.
“What, are you suggesting that I could be easily taken by some sharp cozener?”
“Will, anyone could be taken by a cozener, especially a sharp one,” Smythe replied. “Do you think you are immune because, as a poet, you are a great observer of human nature and its foibles? Well, with all due respect, by comparison, you are but an apprentice at the art of observation. A good cozener is a master of observing human nature and its foibles. If I have learned nothing else since I have arrived in London, I have at the very least learned that!”
“I suppose you have a point,” said Shakespeare, “although my instincts still tell me that he is no more and no less than what he represents himself to be. What do you know of him, Elizabeth?”
“No more than you,” she replied. “He seems like a nice young man, and he has good manners. ‘Twould seem that he has breeding. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing more. I have not had much to do with him.”
“Well, what of Dubois?” asked Smythe. “You seemed to have had rather more to do with him,” he added, and immediately regretted it. Still, he could not prevent himself from going on. “You seemed quite taken with him when I saw the two of you out walking.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Monsieur Dubois is very charming. His manners are exquiste and his sense of fashion is impeccable. He is capable of learned discourse on such things as poetry and history and philosophy. I cannot imagine that he could be some sort of criminal.”
“I find it even more difficult to imagine that he could be searching for a wife,” said Smythe.
“The ladies here all seem to find him very handsome,” said Elizabeth.
“And how do you suppose he finds the ladies? Or does he even bother looking?”
“Such pettiness does not become you,” said Elizabeth. “You could do well to emulate Monsieur Dubois.”
“I do not think I could quite manage the walk,” said Smythe, dryly.
“Oh, but I should like to see you try,” said Shakespeare.
“I think that you are both being very rude,” Elizabeth said. “Phillipe Dubois is a gentleman in every sense of the word.”
“Well, be that as it may,” said Smythe, “I think we can probably agree that Dubois is not a very likely suspect. Still, one never knows. I should like to see what Sir William makes of him, but regretably, he has not returned. What about Camden?”
“I do not like him,” Shakespeare said.
“Excellent,” said Smythe. “We shall hang him on the strength of that. The crime is solved. We may now get on with our tour.”
“Spare me your sarcasm,” Shakespeare said. “There seems to be no pleasing you tonight. You criticize me for liking one man and then mock me for disliking another. What would you have of me? We know next to nothing of these people. Well, we know enough of Dubois, at least, to know that he can at least impress a lady with his manners and his erudition. But then, he is French, and a Frenchman learns to impress women from the time he learns his hornbook. Do you have any opinion of young Camden, Elizabeth, that you would like to share?”
“The barrister? He seems amiable, but rather full of himself,” she replied. “But then if that were a crime, they would doubtless have to arrest at least half the men in England. I know he was tutoring Blanche in poetry and literature. Beyond that, I have scarcely spoken with him. Blanche’s suitors, for the most part, seem to have had eyes only for Blanche, which should not be surprising.”
“That leaves Daniel Holland, then,” Smythe said.
“Which one is he?” asked Shakespeare.
“Sir Roger’s son, blond, bearded, stocky, handsome, but a bit of a dullard-talks of little else save breeding horses.” “I have not seen him tonight.”
“Nor have I, come to think of it. I have not laid eyes upon him since the funeral,” said Smythe.
“Did he attend the funeral?” asked Shakespeare.
“Aye, he did,” said Smythe. “But he has been conspicuous by his absence since you have returned. I wonder why. It seemed as if almost everyone had gathered at the tomb tonight. And yet, I did not see him.”
“Nor did I,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head.
They had reached the stairs leading down to the garden and the maze. Elizabeth walked between them, holding onto their arms as they descended. Their torch had sputtered out by now and the stone steps were wet, so they went slowly in the darkness, watching where they walked.
“Are you thinking what I am thinking?” Smythe asked Shakespeare.
“He could have been the one who took a shot at you tonight,” said Shakespeare.
“And whilst everyone else was at the wake up at the house,” said Smythe, “he could easily have gone back to the tomb and murdered Catherine.”
They felt Elizabeth tense between them.
“Forgive us, Elizabeth,” Smythe said. “If this is upsetting to you, then we could escort you back to the house.”
“No, I would rather stay with you,” she said. “I wish to do anything I can to help.”
“You are quite certain?” Shakespeare said. “I can see how this could be difficult and painful for you.”
“Do not worry about me. Go on.”
“Well, that is just the point,” said Smythe. “Where do we go from here? The murderer could be any one of them.”
“Aye, it could, indeed, but the more I think on it, the more I am troubled by the motivation,” said Shakespeare.
Smythe frowned. “How so?”
“Well, ‘twould seem to me to be taking a significantly greater risk in order to divert attention from a much smaller one. Our impostor and his confederate, whoever they may be, are thoroughly unscrupulous men. That much, we already know. What you had overheard them planning was a brazen bit of cozenage, indeed, one that would require fortitude, quick-thinking, and an appalling lack of shame and conscience. Men such as that would easily be capable of murder, I suppose.”
“Indeed,” Smythe said. “They have already tried to kill me twice in order to safeguard their plan. So why should they hesitate to kill another?”
“Why, indeed?” said Shakespeare. “Save only that it does not seem to have been truly necessary. Everyone already believed Catherine was dead. That her death had been intended as a ruse was known only to Catherine, Elizabeth, John Mason and Granny Meg, if I am not mistaken. There was not anyone else who knew about the planned deception, was there? At least, not until I had returned from London and revealed it?”
“No, there was not,” Elizabeth said. “Catherine was most adamant that the secret be kept strictly between ourselves. John disliked the plan, but he loved Catherine and would never have told anyone about it. Indeed, if he had told anyone, he would have revealed the truth about their love, which he knew he could not do. And as for Granny Meg, I find it difficult to believe that she could have betrayed us.”
“As do I,” said Shakespeare. “She told me the truth of it only when she learned everyone believed that Catherine had been poisoned. And in so doing, she placed herself at considerable risk, I might add. Godfrey Middleton is a very wealthy and influential man. He could make things quite unpleasant for her if he wished to. She most certainly did not have to tell me that she was the one who had mixed the potion. She could easily have pretended to examine the contents of the flask and then revealed her findings to me without ever revealing the part that she had played in the deception. She could have kept the secret, save that she knew if everyone believed it to be murder, then a murderer would be sought. Tis one thing to concoct a potion that would enable a girl to escape a loveless marriage and run off with the man she truly loved, and ‘tis yet another thing entirely to keep silent about a murder that was not a murder.”
“I agree,” said Smythe. “Granny Meg is not a woman without scruples, whatever anyone else may say of her. I know there are many who fear witches and believe them to be evil, but the truth is that a witch will not knowingly do harm, for she believes that ‘twill return to her thricefold.”
“Well, then, we are agreed upon that score,” said Shakespeare. “Yet there is still something that gnaws at me about all this, some small detail, something that it seems we are overlooking…”
“The carpenter!” said Smythe, snapping his fingers.
“Odd’s blood! Of course!” said Shakespeare. “ Elizabeth, you had forgotten all about the carpenter!”
She bit her lower lip. “Indeed, I had. But then he was richly paid to keep his silence.”
“Aye, which only goes to prove he could be bribed,” said Shakespeare.
“An excellent point,” said Smythe. “And if the man could be bribed once, then why not twice?”
“But then his own part in the deception would have been revealed,” said Elizabeth. “He could not betray us without leaving himself vulnerable, too. ‘Twas why Catherine and I felt certain that we had securely bought his silence.”
“Ah, but suppose that he betrayed you to someone who did not care about his part in it and could profit from the information, thus posing no threat to him?” asked Shakespeare.
“Who?” Elizabeth asked, frowning.
“What say we go and ask him?” Smythe suggested.
“You mean… right now?” Elizabeth asked.
“Why not?” asked Shakespeare. “ ‘Tis a capital idea! We shall all three go and confront him and find out what he has to say for himself. I think we should go at once.”
Suddenly, Smythe pulled them both off the garden path and back into the wet shrubbery. Elizabeth gasped and started to cry out, but Smythe quickly clapped his hand over her mouth.
“What in-”
“Hush, Will! Be still!” said Smythe, softly, but with urgency. “Look over there, by the maze!”
Their eyes, by now, had grown accustomed to the darkness, but at a distance, it was still difficult to make anything out. However, after a moment, they could perceive some movement near the entrance to the maze. A dark figure became evident as it moved away from the hedges and came out into the open, on the path, moving quickly and furtively.
“Do you think he saw us?” Shakespeare whispered, as they watched from their hiding place in the shrubs.
Smythe shook his head. “I do not believe so,” he replied, very softly.
“Who is it?” whispered Elizabeth.
“I cannot tell,” said Smythe. “Be very still. We shall find out in a moment. He is coming this way…”