Much Ado About Murder (Shakespeare & Smythe 3)

His father pursed his lips and nodded as he glanced around with the air of a courtier who had somehow wandered by mistake into a pigsty. “Aye. You saw fit, it seems, to write to your uncle, but not to me.”

“You had made it plain on more than one occasion that I would be disowned if I decided to go to London and become a player,” Tuck replied. “I merely took you at your word.”

His father sniffed. “And you had made it plain when you left home that being disowned meant nothing to you, since I had nothing left to leave you.”

“So… what? That makes us even? Your bankruptcy cancels out my disobedience, is that it?”

“Do not be insolent. I do not need you to throw my ill fortune into my face. I am quite aware of it, thank you.”

“ ‘Twas not my intention to be insolent, Father, or to dwell upon your ill fortune, as you call it. I intended no offense.”

His father merely grunted in reply. “I heard your friend call you by some other name,” he said. “Is my name no longer good enough for you?”

Tuck sighed. “My name is still the same as yours,” he said. “Tuck is merely what my friends call me. ‘Tis a sort of nickname. I rather like it, actually.”

His father sniffed again. “Suit yourself. ‘Tis your life. You may choose to call yourself anything you wish, I suppose.”

“Did you come all the way to London merely to find further fault with me, Father, as you always did, or was there something that you wished of me? I shall not be coming home, if that was what you came to ask of me. I have my own life now.”

“You presume I came to London merely to ask you to return?” his father said. “Do you suppose it makes a difference to me what you choose to do?”

“I would have thought not,” Tuck replied. “But if you did not come for me, why did you come?”

“ ‘Tis possible, is it not, that I came for myself? To make a new beginning? To rebuild my fortune? Or do all things have to be concerned only with you?”

Tuck frowned. “You mean… you have come here to live?” He shook his head, puzzled. “What of your wife?”

His father looked away. “She ran off.”

“All. Well… I am sorry.”

“No need. I do not require your pity. I could have gone after her, I suppose. Taken a cane to her, as she deserved. But then I thought, why bother? What need have I of an ungrateful and disloyal wench? ‘Tis just as well she left. Good riddance to her, I say. Aye, good riddance, indeed.”

“Indeed,” Tuck said.

There was an awkward silent moment that seemed to stretch uncomfortably. It seemed as if neither one of them quite knew what to say next.

“Have you found a place to stay?” asked Tuck, finally. He dreaded hearing the reply. He could not imagine having to share quarters with his father. There was barely enough room for him and Will. And inflicting his father upon Will would be cruel beyond all measure. But, still, he was his father, after all. “It can be difficult finding a place to stay in London these days,” he added, “what with so many people arriving from the country. Rooms are often scarce and-”

“Oh, I have accommodations,” his father replied, with a dismissive wave. “I may have fallen upon hard times, but I am still not without some influence in London, you know. You need not concern yourself on my account. Besides, I have no intention of staying in some hovel of a tavern, sleeping on some flea-infested mattress, next to some unwashed mountebank.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “Nay, you need not worry. I was quite capable of securing my own lodgings.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Tuck replied, meaning every word. He avoided rising to the bait. He would not have wished to have his father stay at the Toad and Badger, in any case. He did not imagine that Symington Smythe II and his airs would go over very well with Courtney Stackpole. “Well, then, if there is anything else that I can do to help, then you will please be sure to let me know.”

“As it happens, there is,” his father replied. “The move to London, the journey, and finding lodgings and all that, has left me a bit out at the elbows, so to speak. Purely a temporary situation, I assure you, and one that I intend to remedy as soon as possible, but in the meantime, if you could see your way clear to granting me a small loan of a few pounds, I would be grateful.”

“Of course,” said Tuck, reaching for his purse. “How much will you need?”

“Oh, that should be sufficient, I should think,” his father replied, taking the purse out of his hand. “No need to trouble yourself further. I am sure I can manage with this.”

A bit taken aback, Tuck did not quite know what to say.

“Oh, and by the by, your uncle asked me to give you this,” his father added, handing him a letter. “He sends his warmest affections and all that sort of thing. Well, I am grateful for this, son. I shall try to repay it at the earliest opportunity. No need to trouble yourself further on my account. I can find my own way back. I have a carriage waiting.”

“A carriage?” Tuck said.

“Aye. Astonishing what these fellows charge. Bloody brigands. But one simply cannot go about slogging through the mud, now can one? Well, I shall be seeing you, I suppose. Good luck and all that sort of thing.”

He turned and walked away without a backward glance.