Much Ado About Murder (Shakespeare & Smythe 3)

They walked side-by-side along the cobblestoned street, keeping near the buildings so as to avoid all the muck that drained down into the declivity at the center. Traffic flowed by in a constant stream, horses and pedestrians, two-wheeled carts and four-wheeled open carriages, coaches and caroches with their curved roofs and ostentatious, plumed ornaments, all creating a cacophany of jingling and creaking, clopping and splashing, shouting and neighing that filled the air with constant noise during the daylight hours.

“Do you suppose she could have known that Corwin was going to break off the engagement?” Smythe asked.

Shakespeare shook his head. “I do not see how she could have known,” he said. “I suppose the only possibility would be if perhaps one of the servants overhead whatever had transpired between Corwin and her father, and then mentioned it to her when she came home, but that seems very unlikely.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, for several reasons,” Shakespeare replied. “Servants who eavesdrop on their masters and then gossip about what they had overheard are certainly not rare, but then they usually gossip amongst one another, certainly not with the daughter of the master of the house.”

“Good point,” said Smythe, nodding.

“And for another matter,” continued Shakespeare, “if any of the servants had overheard whatever passed between Corwin and Master Leonardo, then one would think they surely would have known that something was amiss. One would think they would at least have looked in on their master when Corwin left the house. However, we are told ‘twas Hera who had found her father’s body, and not any of the servants. Either the murder had occurred without any of the servants being alerted, or else they all turned a deaf ear and ignored it. Does that seem very likely to you?”

“It does not,” said Smythe.

“Nor does it to me,” said Shakespeare, emphatically. “What we know thus far about the murder only raises further questions. If Corwin had gone to Master Leonardo’s house to kill him, then surely he would not have stopped first at the Theatre to tell us he was going there. ‘Twould be absurd. So then if Corwin is truly guilty of the crime, then ‘twould only seem reasonable to suppose that he did not go there with the intent of killing Master Leonardo, and that what happened came about in a spontaneous manner. They argued, perhaps a blow was struck, then blades were drawn-”

“Or at least one blade,” Smythe said. “Master Leonardo may have been unarmed for all we know.”

“Quite so,” said Shakespeare. “We must find that out, as well. If he was unarmed, then ‘twas clearly murder. If not, then Corwin could have merely been trying to defend himself. Either way, if the two men fought, then it seems unlikely that there would have been no noise. How could the servants have failed to hear the sounds of such a struggle?”

“ ‘Tis a question we must try to answer,” Smythe replied, “for unless we can find someone who was there to witness it or even hear what happened, the only one who knows the truth of it is Corwin. And I do not know if we shall be permitted to put the question to him.”

“Aye, and even if we could be allowed to speak with him, how would we know if what he told us were the truth?” asked Shakespeare. “Neither of us truly knows him well. If he is guilty of the crime, he could dissemble with us, and if he is a practiced liar, then we would never be the wiser.”

“One thing is for certain,” Smythe said, “we are not going to discover what occurred by questioning Hera any further. For the present, at least, the girl is much too grief-stricken to be of any use. We shall have to seek out Master Leonardo’s servants to see what we can learn.”

“I agree,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “That is the very next thing we must do. And there is one more thing we must discover. Who told Corwin that Hera was not chaste?”

“Who in London could know her well enough to say such a thing and make Corwin believe i

t?” Smythe asked.

“We are proceeding, then, on the assumption that the tale is a lie?” said Shakespeare.

“Do you doubt it even for a moment?” Smythe asked, with surprise.

“Does it seem impossible there could be truth in it?” Shakespeare countered.

“How can you say such a thing? You have met the girl!”

“Aye, and I have had no words with her other than to give her greeting when we were introduced the other day. To all outward appearances, she seems modest and demure, as Henry Dar-cie said, but what do we truly know of her?”

“Will! I am surprised at you!” said Smythe.

“Why?” asked Shakespeare, puzzled. “Does the question not seem reasonable to you? And if not, then why not?”

“Oft’ it seems to me that you have little love for women,” Smythe replied. “Perhaps your own marriage was not everything you hoped ‘twould be-”

“My marriage has naught to do with it,” Shakespeare said, irritably. “If we are to pursue the truth, Tuck, then we must not presume. Regardless what we think, we must find things out for certain, so that we know them to be true beyond any shadow of a doubt. You are moved to sympathy for Hera, perhaps because of your own feelings for Elizabeth. You know that Henry Darcie only tolerates your friendship with her because he owes you a debt of gratitude, and because he trusts that you would do nothing to dishonor her, nor would she do aught to bring dishonor to herself or to her family. You look at Hera, and what I suspect you see is Elizabeth in a similar situation. You look at Corwin, and I suspect that in some ways, you see yourself. Tis a bad situation altogether, Tuck. You must divest yourself of prejudice and sympathy if you intend to find the truth. What do you truly know of Hera?”

“I know that when I look into her eyes, I see an innocent,” said Smythe with conviction.

Shakespeare stopped and turned to face him. “When I look into your eyes, I see a bloody innocent,” he said. “You, my lad, are a great, hulking, soft-hearted, and besotted fool and if you do not season your romantic notions about women with a pinch of caution and a dash of doubt, then someday some sweet and pretty face is going to ruin you and leave you gutted like a dressed-out stag.”

“Oh, that was rather nicely put,” Smythe said. “You must be a poet.”

“You know, if you did not have that bandage on your head, I would slap you.”