The Slaying of the Shrew (Shakespeare & Smythe 2)

“But… the funeral…” Shakespeare said.

“I was assured that there would be no burial,” said Granny Meg, “but that she would be laid to rest within her family vault, where she could sleep in safety until the effects of the potion had worn off.”

“Of course!” said Shakespeare. He remembered then Elizabeth ’s insistence that the funeral should take place as soon as possible, while the guests were still assembled, so that Catherine could be laid to rest inside the family vault, the better to ease her father’s grief… and aid in the deception. “So there has been no murder after all!”

“And yet,” said Granny Meg, as she reached out slowly and picked up the flask, “I have a strong presentiment of death.” Her brow was deeply furrowed and her eyes had an unfocused, distant look. “Something is very wrong. I see death where there should be no death.” She looked at him. “Go back,” she said. “And ride with all due haste. Death comes; there is no time to waste.”

7

THE NEWS OF THE BRIDE’S death had cast a pall over the festivities, but not quite to the extent that Smythe might have expected. For one thing, rather to his surprise, it had not brought the festivities to an end. Quite the contrary, it seemed to add a morbid stimulation to them. Instead of offering their condolences to their host, or at least sending them through servants and then leaving quietly, as Smythe had expected most of them to do, the guests had all, without exception, chosen to remain, no doubt out of curiosity to see what would develop and because there was still a fair they could attend, with the added spice of new rumors and gossip to exchange.

None of the merchants had packed up and left, mainly because no one had told them to go and the fair was still on so far as they were concerned. There were still good profits to be made and they continued to do a brisk business as the day wore on. When Godfrey Middleton’s steward came out to announce formally that Catherine’s funeral would be held that very afternoon, and that banqueting would follow for the guests, then anyone who might have considered leaving chose instead to stay. As Shakespeare had remarked wryly just before he left for London, “ ‘Tis thrift, Tuck, thrift. The baked meats of the wedding feast shall now coldly furnish forth the tables for the wake.”

Smythe thought that was rather cold of his friend to make the observation in such bitter terms, yet he had to admit that it was accurate. His eldest daughter had just apparently been murdered on the very day of her wedding, and Godfrey Middleton, however distraught he might have felt, was nevertheless allowing the fair to continue. Was it because he had already made a commitment to the merchants, who had indeed gone to some trouble and expense to come out to Middleton Manor from London, or did he have more mercenary motives because he would, as owner of the grounds on which the fair was held, pocket a percentage of the merchants’ profits?

“If ‘twere my daughter,” Smythe said to Sir William, “I would have shut down the fair and asked everyone to leave, albeit kindly, so that I could be left alone with my grief. Instead, the fair proceeds as planned, even with Catherine lying dead upstairs in the house.” He shook his head. “I simply cannot see how Middleton can continue with it.”

“ ‘Tis said the rich are different, Tuck,” Sir William replied, “and having started out in life quite poor, I have seen both sides of fortune, good and ill. There is, indeed, a lot of truth to what they say. A poor man may not have a rich man’s luxuries, but then neither does he have his obligations. And while ‘tis true that money may beget more money, ‘tis also true that it takes money to maintain money. Godfrey Middleton is a rich man, but his estate is frightfully expensive to keep up, as is his business and his home in London, too. All must be staffed, provisioned and supplied, and otherwise maintained. There are many people who depend upon him for their livelihoods. Just because a man is rich, Tuck, does not mean that he is without care or duty.”

“I can see your point, Sir William,” Smythe replied. “And yet, I still cannot help but think that there are times when a man can simply be past caring, and when duty can just be damned.”

Worley nodded. “I can see your point, as well, lad. And ‘tis well taken, too. For my own part, I have no children, so I cannot say for certain that I know how I would feel were I in Godfrey’s place. But I have known what it is to love, and then to lose that love, and if such pain can in any measure be akin to the pain of a lost child, then I believe that I would feel much the same as you.”

Smythe glanced at Sir William briefly, but Worley seemed to be looking off into the distance somewhere. Smythe had never before heard Sir William speak of any romances in his past. Indeed, there was much about Sir William Worley’s life he did not know- although in some respects, he knew a great deal more than most- and it would have been much too presumptuous of him to ask.

“Howsoever that may be,” Worley continued, “it serves our purpose that the fair has not closed down and the guests have not been asked to leave, for we can now proceed to run our murderer to ground.”

“Or murderers, if there be more than one,” said Smythe, mindful of the two men whose plotting he had overheard.

“Indeed,” said Worley. “And the first order of business shall be to inform Godfrey Middleton of how things stand. That, I fear, must be my sad duty to perform, as he is my friend and neighbor.”

“And yet, he is your rival,” Smythe observed.

“That, too. However, truth be told, ‘tis a rivalry more keenly felt by him than me. I am aware of it, of course, but I do not pay it any mind. I know he envies me my privilege of playing host to Her Royal Majesty each year when she sets out for her progress through the country, but I shall tell you frankly-and in strict confidence, mind you-that ‘tis a privilege I would gladly cede to him. Her Majesty alone can be a handful at the best of times, but together with her sycophantic pilot fish at court, she becomes much more of a vexation than a privilege. Each year, I play the gracious host to them and spend a small fortune on their entertainment. And each year after they have gone, it takes yet another small fortune to clean up the mess they leave behind. If Godfrey wishes to contend with that, believe me, he is more than welcome.”

“Well, after what has happened, I should think there would be little chance that the queen would ever wish to lodge here.”

Worley gave a snort. “After what has happened here, you could not beat the old girl off with a stick,” he replied, in a manner rather more befitting his rough demeanor as Black Billy than the elegant Sir William. “There is no dish quite as piquant to the nobility as a good serving of scandal, and murder makes for the most savory morsel of them all. The queen is no exception. I love the old girl, and ‘tis my honor and my duty both to serve her, but at heart she is as bloodthirsty as her father was before her. Godfrey wanted this to be a memorable occasion that all of London would talk about for months or even years to come. Well, he has paid a very high price for it, I fear, but he has gotten precisely what he wanted. Come on, then. Let us go and pay our respects to him.”

“You wish me to go with you to see him?” Smythe said, with surprise.

“Of course,” Worley replied. “He shall want to hear from you, in your own words, what you overheard those two men say out in the garden.”

“But do you really think, that at such a time… that is, with his daughter’s death as yet so fresh…”

“Godfrey Middleton is not a man who is ruled by sentiment, believe me,” said Worley. “However grief-stricken he may be, he shall still want justice, rest assured. So let us go and speak with him.”

They found Middleton alone in his own chambers, standing and staring impassively out the window at the river. They were admitted by his steward, Humphrey, who quietly withdrew, leaving them alone with him.

“Godfrey… I am so very sorry for your loss,” said Worley.

Middleton slowly turned to face them. He nodded. “Thank you, Sir William. And my thanks to you for coming. I only wish that it were for my daughter’s weddi

ng rather than her funeral.” His gaze settled upon Smythe. “You are the young man who brought my daughter up from the barge. Forgive me, but I do not believe I know your name.”

“Tuck Smythe is one of the players, Godfrey,” Worley said. “He is also my friend and protege.”

Middleton’s eyebrows went up. “Indeed?” He looked at Smythe with new interest. “That is not a claim that many men can make. It speaks very highly of you, young man.”