Much Ado About Murder

Without really thinking about why, he followed them for several blocks, at a discreet distance. If Molly had a paramour, then it was certainly none of his concern, but now that he found his curiosity aroused, he felt reluctant to stand off and let them go, as he knew he probably should. Especially since Molly’s companion was carrying a sword and he had not troubled to bring his.

Smythe knew that sort of forgetfulness was bound to get him into trouble one of these days, but he still found it difficult to think about buckling on his sword each time he went out somewhere. It was second nature to him to carry his uncle’s dagger with him everywhere, for he had carried it since he was a boy. However, until he came London, there had never been any real need to go about armed with a sword. Most of the men in London wore swords, though often more as fashion accessories than as practical weapons. An elegant rapier was considered an essential item of apparel for a proper gentleman, even if he did not have much idea how to use one. But although Smythe was a competent fencer, he had yet to fall into the habit of wearing a sword on a daily basis and unlike the typical London fop, who had mastered the art of posturing rakishly with one hand on his hip and the other resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, when Smythe did wear one, he found that it was always getting in his way.

A few more blocks and Molly had arrived safely at her door, escorted by the dark-cloaked stranger. Smythe watched from a distance as they lingered, speaking for a few moments in the street, then they embraced and exchanged chaste losses on the cheek before Molly went inside and the stranger went off down the street alone. Well, whoever the fellow was, Smythe thought, he at least appeared to be behaving properly. But it did seem as if Ben Dickens may have lost his charm for Molly Beatrice O’Flannery.

He debated for a moment whether or not to follow the stranger and perhaps find out who he was, but then decided against it. It was truly none of his concern whom Molly chose to see. So long as she was not in any sort of trouble and the man was not a villain or a bounder who was trying to take advantage of her. For all he knew, perhaps the stranger was her brother or an uncle or some other relative. She had reached home safely and that was really all that mattered. He decided that he might as well head back toward the inn. Whatever vague apprehension had been troubling him before seemed to have gone now, which suggested that it must not have been of any true concern.

He had gone about a block or so when two men stepped out in front of him from a dark side street, blocking his way. There was no mistaking their confrontational demeanor. Both men carried clubs. Remembering what he had read in Greene’s pamphlets about how alleymen waylaid their victims, Smythe stopped and backed up slightly, then quickly spun around, drawing his knife as he turned… only to find the tip of a sword point pressed lightly up against his Adam’s apple.

“Quick, laddie, very quick. But not quite quick enough, eh?”

The voice was husky, raspy, and low, and not in the least bit apprehensive. The tone was soft, relaxed, and confident. And the sword point held at his throat bespoke an excellent control. It could easily have pierced him through, but as it was, it exerted just the right amount of pressure to make him lift his chin. In the darkness, he could not quite make out his assailant’s features, but by the clothes, he recognized the stranger who had escorted Molly home. He was also uncomfortably aware of the two men standing very close behind him.

“You’ve been following my friend and me ever since we left the Toad and Badger,” said the stranger. “Now be a good lad, drop the dirk, and tell us why, eh?”

Moving quickly, Smythe used his knife to bat away the sword point from his throat, then in almost the same motion, struck out behind him with his leg, lacking back as hard as he could. He heard one of the men behind him cry out. Without pausing, he lowered his shoulder and slammed into the stranger in front of him, seized him, and then swung him around to use him as a shield, holding the knife to his throat.

“Bloody hell!” the second alleyman swore, standing there and holding his club, uncertain what to do. In an instant, the tables had been turned, and the cony had turned out to be not quite such a helpless rabbit after all.

“Now you drop your blade, my friend,” said Smythe. And as he spoke, he suddenly became aware that the dark-garbed stranger was not a man at all, but unmistakably female. Her hat had fallen off and long, raven tresses tumbled to her shoulders. However, it was soft fullness in his grasp that gave the game away.

“Gently, laddie,” she said, in her husky, raspy voice. “ ‘Tis not a cow’s udder that you’re milking, you know.” Her sword dropped to the cobbles.