Much Ado About Murder (Shakespeare & Smythe 3)

“Kate, m’lud,” she replied, blushing and looking down while carefully avoiding the sibilance of “good sir” in her reply.

“Well, Kate,” Dickens went on, charmingly, “ ‘tis a fine, rich brew that you have recommended, and we may have ourselves another jug or two just to see you bring it.”

She gave him an awkward curtsy and a cautious underlook to see if he was making fun of her. Smythe began to worry that he was overdoing it, for what was the likelihood that any young man as handsome and dashing as Ben Dickens had ever paid attention to so homely and scrawny a girl? Surely, he thought, she could never believe he was in earnest. But in addition to his good looks, Dickens had apparently been gifted with a faery glamour, for within moments, he had completely captivated her with compliments that struck Smythe as rather heavy-handed and transparently insincere. Before long, he had her sitting on his knee and giggling as he laughed and joked with her.

“So do you work here every night, Kate?” Shakespeare asked.

“Well, if she does, then I may have to come back more often,” Dickens said, with a wink. It brought forth another giggle from the girl as Smythe winced inwardly. It was almost embarrassing to watch.

“Aye, m’lud, I work here each day an’ every night.”

“Well, then you must know old Budge, who comes to have his suppers here, along with Mary and Elaine,” said Shakespeare.

“Oh, aye, m’lud, I know them. Very kind, they are, never make fun o’ me like what others often do. The way I talk, y’know.” Her hand went to her mouth self-consciously and she looked away from Ben, as if suddenly remembering her deformity for the first time since they began their conversation.

“What of it?” Dickens said. “Methinks you have a charming voice.”

“Aw, now, go on…” she said, giving him a poke, but at the same time, she beamed at him with childlike pleasure.

“They must have been here that night then, when that terrible thing happened at their master’s house,” Shakespeare said. “You have heard about that?”

Her eyes grew very wide. “Oooh, aye! What an awful thing! Poor Cap’n Leonardo!”

“You knew him, then?” asked Smythe.

“Aye, m’lud, he came in now and again,” said Kate. “Nice gentleman, he was. Never had but one drink, an’ off to home. ‘A touch o’ grog,’ he called it. Poor man, to be murdered like that! What a terrible thing!”

“They stayed late that night, did they?” Shakespeare asked. “I mean, his servants?”

“Aye, they did,” replied Kate. “I remember because they drank so much and got all tipply.” She giggled again. “That old Budge! Who’d have thought it, the way he carried on with them two women! A man his age! And them laughing and encouraging him! Aye, they had a right grand old time, they did. An’ they kept right at it, til I said ‘twas time for them to leave.”

“You said ‘twas time for them to leave?” asked Smythe. “Were they so drunk and rowdy, then?”

“Oh, ‘twasn’t like that at all,” she replied. “Old Budge asked me to tell him when it got near nine o’the clock, for ‘twas when the mistress come back home in her carriage and they had to be back by then. He promised me a farthing if I would remind him. I mean, they was all tipply, but not no trouble, mind. Not like them roaring boys what come by being all mean an’ horrible.”

“Roaring boys?” said Shakespeare.

“Aye, all loud and full o’themselves,” she said. “Puttin’ on airs like they was young lords instead o’ ‘prentices. I didn’t like them. Made fun o’ me, they did. Not nice at all, like you good gentlemen.”

“How many of these boys were there, Kate?” asked Dickens, casually, though Smythe noticed that his eyes had narrowed slightly as he watched her reply.

“Four or five, methinks. Nay, ‘twas five. I remember now. One o’ them tripped me an’ made me fall an’ drop two jugs! He had a mean laugh, he did, an’ a cruel way o’mockin’ me lip, makin’ a face like a cony…” She demonstrated, twitching her lip like a rabbit. “An’ him with his pockmarked face and his own lip all droopy and twisted like. Nasty, evil bugger.”

Smythe and Dickens exchanged glances. “Bruce McEnery,” said Smythe.

“Aye! ‘Twas his name, all right! One o’ the others called ‘im Bruce!” In her agitation as she lisped the name, she doused both Smythe and Shakespeare with a spray of spittle.

“What was his name again?” asked Dickens, innocently.

“Bruce! Bruce!” She repeated, even more wetly and emphatically, making Smythe and Shakespeare recoil from the shower.

“Methinks the roof is leaking,” Shakespeare said, wryly, wiping his face with his handkerchief.

Smythe leaned f

orward, took hold of Ben’s hand, fixed him with a glare, and squeezed hard enough to make Dickens catch his breath. “We got the name, all right?” he said.

“Right,” said Dickens, gritting his teeth against the pain. When Smythe released him, he took a deep breath and flexed his fingers experimentally, to see if any of them were broken.