Much Ado About Murder (Shakespeare & Smythe 3)

“I assume so,” Phillips replied, with a shrug, as Kemp tried in vain to escape from underneath Pope’s bulk. He squirmed and yelped as the larger man took hold of his nose and began twisting it painfully.

“You mean you do not know for certain?” Smythe asked.

“How am I know a thing like that for certain?” Phillips asked. “I have never been in the man’s house, now have I?”

“And yet you know that he was found all cut to ribbons, with blood spilled everywhere?” Smythe asked.

“Well, that was how I heard it,” Phillips said.

“From whom did you hear this?”

“S’trewth, I cannot say for certain,” replied Phillips, with a shrug. “Everyone has been talking about it, it seems.”

“Amazing,” Smythe said. “The man was only killed last night, and this morning, everyone in London seems to know all the details of the crime. If Sir Francis Walsingham had intelligence this good, then the Armada would have been destroyed before it ever even sailed from Spain.”

“What are you picking on me for?” Phillips asked, with an aggrieved air. “I was merely telling you what I had heard. You asked me, after all!”

“Aamaahhhhh! Let me go, you stinking pile of offal!” Kemp wailed.

“ ‘Allo, ‘allo, what’s all this then?” Stackpole demanded, as he came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “Get off him, you great, slobbering dungheap!” He gave Pope a kick that sent him sprawling with a yelp.

“Thank heavens, Stackpole!” Kemp said, clutching at his chest. “The big oaf nearly crushed me! You are a godsend!”

“You’ll not think so when I start mopping up all this mess with your face,” said Stackpole, grabbing him by the shirtfront and glowering at him as he pulled him to his feet. “Who is going to clean this up then?”

“He started it!” cried Kemp, pointing an accusatory finger at Pope.

“I never did, you lying pustule!” protested Pope. “You berated me!”

“Enough!” Stackpole thundered. “I have had my fill of you both! Now clean up this mess or so help me I shall hang you both from the rafters and have Molly beat you with a stick!”

“Have a care now, Stackpole, Kemp might like that,” Bryan said.

“And you be quiet, else I shall have you helping them!” said Stackpole, glaring at him. “I shall have peace in my own house or I shall have you all in pieces! Players! I would have done better to open up my inn to a gang of wandering gypsies!”

The door opened at that moment and Shakespeare came bustling in. “They have taken Corwin!” he announced. “He has been arrested for the murder of Master Leonardo!”

“What?” said Smythe.

Immediately, everyone surrounded Shakespeare and began peppering him with questions. “Patience! Patience!” Will cried out, holding up his hands. “I shall answer one and all, to the fullest extent of my knowledge, but I pray you, my friends, give me room to breathe!”

They backed off and Stackpole pulled out a bench for him. Molly came out, too, along with the cook and the scullery maid, as everyone gathered around Shakespeare to hear the latest news. But before he spoke to that, Shakespeare turned to Smythe.

“ Tis good to see you up and about, Tuck. How does your head feel?” he asked with concern.

“A bit sore, still, and the poultice itches, but otherwise, I am feeling better,” Smythe replied. “Never mind about me, however. Tell us what happened, Will, and begin at the beginning. But first of all, does Ben know about what has transpired?”

“Aye,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “I have just left him with Master Peters, where I had gone upon an errand. The gentleman who has been good enough to buy my sonnets and then have them bound for distribution to his friends has been a boon not only to me, but his generosity has helped us all in these difficult times, and so I had thought, what with Ben now being one of us and Corwin being his friend and ours, perhaps I might presume on that acquaintaince to have Corwin craft some small piece of jewelry at a price I could afford, as a token of my appreciation to our patron, as it were. I had arranged with Ben to meet at Master Peters’s shop and Ben was to ask him the favor for me, but even as we arrived, the sheriffs men were talking Corwin away.”

“Do you mean to say ‘twas Corwin who killed Master Leon-ado?” Molly asked, wide-eyed.

“He was crying out, protesting his innocence as they took him away,” Shakespeare replied, “but then ‘tis said that killers oft’ protest their innocence, even to the gallows.”

“But why would he kill the father of the girl he wished to marry?” Molly asked.

“Perhaps because the father would not give his consent,” ventured Gus Phillips. “Think you ‘twas the reason for the crime, Will?”

“Nay, the consent to wed was given freely,” Shakespeare said. “Stay your questions for a while, my friends, and I shall tell you all the tale as I know it. As most of you must surely know by now, Cupid’s arrow did strike Corwin from the moment that he first laid eyes on Hera, Master Leonardo’s daughter, whereupon he had resolved to end his bachelor days and marry. To this end, he asked his friend and ours, Ben Dickens, to speak on his behalf to Master Leonardo, whom Ben knew well from having traveled aboard ship with him to England. Ben did speak with Master Leonardo, and the latter did readily consent to the proposed match, as Ben’s word bore weight with him and, quite aside from that, he perceived the advantages to both his daughter and himself in Hera’s marriage to a successful young journeyman well on his way to becoming a prosperous master goldsmith.”