“So they drank small beer, then, and not ale?” Shakespeare said. Then he nodded to himself. “ ‘Twould make sense, of course. ‘Tis a cheaper brew, and so they could drink more. And it sounds as if they drank rather a lot. So then while they were drinking and having themselves a fine old time, three of the Steady Boys left, while two remained behind.”
“To act as lookouts, perhaps, and keep an eye on the servants?” asked Smythe.
Shakespeare nodded. “It could be. That way, if Budge and the women started back before the other three returned, then one of the two remaining would run to give his comrades warning, while the other lingered to delay them.”
“The devil gnaw their bones!” Dickens exclaimed. “So they killed Leonardo!”
Kate gasped and her hand went to her mouth.
“We cannot yet say for certain,” Shakespeare said, “but methinks something is rotten here.”
The others frowned and sniffed at their clothing.
“I meant something smells fishy,” Shakespeare said.
Smythe, Kate, and Dickens smelled their armpits.
“Oh, for God’s sake! I meant it seems suspicious, too much of a coincidence!” exclaimed Shakespeare, in exasperation. “Odd’s blood! I know that I am speaking English! Why is it so difficult to understand my meaning?”
“Not a word of this, Kate, you understand?” said Smythe. “Especially if you should see any of those boys again, although I rather doubt you will. Methinks they shall go out of their way to avoid this place for a good long while.”
Her eyes were wide with fear as she nodded mutely and clung to Ben’s arm for support, glancing around at all of them with alarm.
“Hola! You! Wench! Get yer skinny body over here!” called out one of the patrons at a table across the room.
Kate started to get up, but Dickens held her back. “Wait,” he said.
“But, m’lud…”
“Wait, I said. You need not respond to such rudeness.”
“Hola! Wench! You deaf? We need more ale, girl!”
She glanced at Dickens with consternation. “Stay,” he said, calmly.
Shakespeare glanced over at the table where the shouting was coming from. “There are three of them,” he said.
“And there are three of us,” said Smythe.
“One of us with a bandage on his nearly broken head and another with but a dagger for his weapon,” Shakespeare replied, dryly, “while all three of those gentlemen are wearing swords, in the event you have not noticed.”
“You there!” one of the men called angrily to Dickens. “Stop mucking about with that skinny, harelipped wench and send her over here! She’s here to work, not be your bloody doxy!”
“My friends,” said Dickens, easing Kate gently off his knee, “allow me. I shall be but a moment.”
“Right,” said Smythe, with a sigh, as he started to get up, but Dickens stayed him with a hand upon his shoulder.
“Nay, Tuck, I beg you, keep your seat. This dance is mine.”
With a scraping of stools, the three men got to their feet, reaching for their blades.
“Ben, do not be foolish,” Smythe said. “There are three of them, for God’s sake. And they have the look of men who know their business.”
“Then that should make the odds just about even,” Dickens replied, as he stepped forward and drew his sword.
“Why is it that this happens every time I go to some strange tavern?” Shakespeare asked, throwing up his hands. “And where are you going?” he asked Smythe as he started to get up.
“To help Ben, of course,” Smythe said, putting his hand on his sword hilt.