Much Ado About Murder (Shakespeare & Smythe 3)

“How very strange,” said Shakespeare. “I should think that if my own father were killed, I would be a very torrent of emotions… grief, rage, melancholy, the desire for vengeance, each feeling battling with the other for supremacy.”

“Not all children have so strong an attachment to their parents,” Smythe replied. “And not all parents engender such affection.”

They reached the third floor and proceeded down a short corridor to an open sitting room where they found Elizabeth keeping company with Hera. Both women sat quietly near the windows. Elizabeth was doing some embroidery, while Hera simply sat staring out the window.

“ Elizabeth, we have visitors,” her father said, as she looked up when they entered. To Smythe and Shakespeare, he added in a low tone, “Mark you, do not over-tax the girl with questions, especially concerning the conduct of her father’s business. Make the appropriate expressions of sympathy and so forth, offer condolences and whatever help she may require. Alow her to know that the company shall stand behind her in her hour of need, so that she will know that her fortune is tied to yours and yours to hers. But do not overstate the case. She will need some time, no doubt, to recover from her grief, and then she shall remember who her friends were when she had need of them. I’ll leave you now. Elizabeth can show you out when you are done.”

Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances of disbelief at Darcie’s callousness, but there was no opportunity to discuss it, as Elizabeth was already approaching them.

“Will! Tuck! So good of you to come!” she said, holding out her hands to them both. Her eyes widened at the sight of the bandage on Smythe’s head. “Goodness, Tuck! Were you injured? What happened?”

“Nothing truly worth discussing,” he replied, dismissively, “certainly not in comparison with what happened yesterday.”

“What a dreadful thing,” Elizabeth replied. “And just when things had looked so promising for everyone!”

“You know they have arrested Corwin?” Smythe said.

She nodded. “Aye, like an ill wind, bad news travels quickly,” she replied. “They were crying the news out in the streets before, and thus Hera heard it, whilst sitting at the window and dwelling upon her father’s tragic fate.” She glanced toward the dark-haired girl, who still sat looking out the window. She had not even glanced around when they came in.

“How long has she been thus?” asked Smythe, glancing from Hera to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “Ever since this morning,” she replied. “She simply sits there, saying naught and doing naught in her melancholy humor. I have tried to draw her out, but now she will not even speak to me. ‘Tis as if a veil has been drawn betwixt her and the world. I cannot even tell if she knows that we are here.”

“Has the poor girl lost her reason?” Shakespeare asked with concern.

Elizabeth bit

her lower lip. “I pray not,” she replied. “I fear for her. Father says that ‘tis a melancholy that will pass. I wanted to send for Granny Meg, but he does not wish to hear of it. He says there is no need for witches, and that God shall heal her in time.” She sighed and gazed at Hera anxiously. “I do so want to believe that, but I cannot help feeling afraid for her.”

“How did she come here?” Smythe asked.

“She came last night, on foot,” Elizabeth replied.

“On foot?” said Smythe. “At night? Alone?”

“One of the servants came after her,” Elizabeth said. “ ‘Twas not that he came with her to escort her so much as he followed her, out of concern for her safety. After she had found her father, she cried out and then went running from the house, he said. She came straight here.” Elizabeth sighed. “Indeed, where else would she go? I am her only friend in London.”

“She had been with you earlier that day?” asked Smythe.

Elizabeth nodded. “And what a happy time we had.” She smiled at the memory. “We spoke of English weddings. She wanted to know all about our marriage customs. She was so full of happy expectation… Such a marked contrast to her present, mournful humor.”

“She was happy about the engagement, then?” said Smythe. “Her father had approved?”

Elizabeth nodded. “ ‘Twas all settled save for the setting of the date and the arrangements for the wedding,” she said.

“Were they not Catholic?” Shakespeare asked. “Would that not have posed some impediment to the marriage?”

“I had thought the same,” Elizabeth replied, “but it seems not to have presented any difficulty. Hera had told me that her father said to her, ‘We are in England now, and we shall do things as the English do.’ He was, I believe, content to provide the dowry and leave all the arrangements for the wedding to Corwin and Master Peters.”

“I see,” said Smythe, gazing at the Genoan girl. “But your father seemed to think that Master Leonardo may not have approved of Corwin.”

Elizabeth glanced at Smythe with surprise. “Whatever gave him that idea?”

“Did he have reason to think otherwise?” Smythe asked.

Elizabeth frowned. “I do not know. I have no idea why he would have thought so. I know that he and Master Leonardo spoke at length that day when we came to the Theatre, but I think that they discussed matters of business. I do not recall if they spoke of anything else. I do not know that anything at all was said of Hera and Corwin, one way or the other.”

“Corwin seemed smitten with her,” said Shakespeare. “Was she in love with him?”