Much Ado About Murder

“Who speaks ill of me?” persisted Smythe. “Someone in the company?”

“Well, now, I did not say that…”

“Not in the company? Then who… surely not Elizabeth!”

“Nay, not Elizabeth. What have I to do with her or she with me? It matters not. Forget I even mentioned it.”

“But I do not even know what was mentioned!”

“So much the better, then. Let sleeping dogs lie. ‘Tis for the best.”

“Will!”

“Nay, I have said all that I shall say. Thus let there be an end to it.”

Smythe folded his arms and gazed at him truculently. “Ah. So I see. No one has said anything, is that not so? You are but baiting me again, as is your wont.”

“Just so, Tuck. You have found me out. See, you are much too clever for me. I cannot outwit you.”

“Nay, you throw in your cards too quickly. Someone truly said something about me, did they not?”

“Not at all. ‘Twas all in jest, I tell you. You had it right the first time. I did but bait you, as I so often do.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Smythe lay back on the bed and put his hands behind his head, frowning as he stared up at the ceiling. He gave an irritated, sidelong glance toward Shakespeare, who had turned back to the sheets of parchment spread out on his writing desk. Smythe took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He cleared his throat. He wiggled his foot back and forth. He tried hard to lie still. He clicked his teeth together. Finally, he could stand it no longer.

“Will, honestly, tell me the truth. Who was speaking ill of me?”

Shakespeare ignored him.

“Will? Did you hear me?”

There was no response.

Shakespeare reached for his quill and held it poised over the parchment.

“Oh, very well, then,” Smythe said, irritably, as he got to his feet and reached for his boots and short woolen cloak. “Be a stubborn jade! See if I care! I can find better things to do than waste my time with your nonsense!”

He slammed the door on his way out.

Without looking up, Shakespeare chuckled softly to himself. “Ah, would that ‘twere all so simple and predictable,” he said. And then he sighed. “Now then, where was I? Act I, Scene I. Enter funeral…”

3

THERE WERE STILL PEOPLE DRINKING in the tavern as Smythe came back downstairs, carrying his boots and cloak. Bobby Speed was among them, as well as George Bryan and several other members of the company, although they would not have much coin left among them to divide for drinking. Will’s largesse notwithstanding, Smythe knew they would all have to make some money very soon, or else many of them would stand in danger of being thrown out into the street. Most of the players saved money by sharing quarters, as he and Will did, but things were getting tight, and with the shortage of rooms in London these days, if it came down to a choice, then it was better to starve and have a place to sleep than placate a growling stomach and risk losing a roof over one’s head. With the recent setbacks they had suffered, even before the playhouses had been closed, they all needed to have the Theatre reopen very soon or else it might well spell the end of the Queen’s Men.

Sitting on the bottom steps, Smythe pulled on his boots. He did not particularly feel like going back into the tavern. Drinking held little fascination for him. Until he came to London, he had never used to drink spirits at all. For a cool drink, he prefered spring water, and for a hot beverage, he had often enjoyed a healthful herbal infusion that a local cunning woman in his village had taught him to brew. He was still able to get the ingredients from Granny Meg’s apothecary shop, but now he mostly drank it cold, after brewing it in an earthen jar on his window. More and more, however, he found himself drinking small beer or ale, primarily because it was what everybody else drank. Londoners had ale for breakfast, ale for dinner, ale for supper, and ale in between. Those who could afford it drank imported wine, but absolutely no one in the city drank water and the idea of brewing an infusion from “weeds” seemed very peculiar to most people.

Smythe had learned to drink ale in order to be sociable, but he was careful not to drink too much, because he knew he had no head for it. Shakespeare, on the other hand, indulged heavily, sometimes to the point of near insensibility, though that point for him was reached long after most people had become utterly paralyzed with drink. There were few players in the Queen’s Men who could keep up with him and Smythe knew better than to try. He had learned that it was best to nurse his ale and drink sparingly, otherwise his head would pay the price.