Much Ado About Murder

As for Ben Dickens, Smythe could not see how he could have failed to notice the way Elizabeth had watched him. In fact, he thought that Ben had made a point of flirting with her a little during the rehearsal, not that he could blame him. It was not Ben’s fault. Elizabeth Darcie was a breathtakingly beautiful young woman and Ben had absolutely no way of knowing how Smythe felt about her, a feeling he had thought, up til that point, had been reciprocated, if not in the same degree, then at least to some degree. Now, it seemed as if Elizabeth no longer felt anything for him at all. How could she? She had not even looked at him once.

Smythe watched morosely as they left, heading back toward their carriages, then he turned and set about helping to put everything away after the rehearsal. It was not until a short while later that he noticed there was still someone standing in the yard, toward the back, near the entrance. It was a man, and the man appeared to be watching him.

Shakespeare came up beside him. “Anyone you know?” he asked, casually.

Smythe frowned. And then he caught his breath. “Good God!” he said.

“What is wrong? Who is it?” Shakespeare asked.

“The last man I ever expected to see here,” said Smythe.

“Who?”

“My father,” Smythe replied.

6

YOUR FATHER?” SHAKESPEARE SAID, STARING at Smythe with surprise. “You mean that man there? But I thought you said that he threatened to disown you if you became a player.”

“He did,” said Smythe, “and so he would have, I believe, if he had anything left of which he could disown me when I set out for London with nothing save the clothes upon my back. And even had I stayed, I doubt ‘twould have made much difference to him, one way or the other. From the time he sent me off to live with my uncle, we scarcely even saw each other. For all that he is my father, there never has been any love between us. When I left home, I felt certain that I would never set eyes on him again.”

“And yet there he stands,” said Shakespeare. “Aye. There he stands.”

Shakespeare glanced at him. “You are quite certain ‘tis your father?”

“Aye, ‘tis he.”

“There can be no mistake?”

“I should think that I would know my own father, Will.”

“Aye… well… perhaps, but…”

“What?”

Shakespeare bit his lower lip. “Well… meaning no offense, you understand, but, ah… you told me that your father was a gentleman and that man there does not look much like a gentleman.”

“He never was,” said Smythe, with a shrug, “save in his name and his attire. The name he kept. The attire he appears to have lost, along with his fortune.”

As they stood there, looking out across the yard at him, Symington Smythe II stood there, looking back, dressed in a coarse green woolen cloak and cap, a plain brown doublet, homespun breeches, and worn boots. He carried a walking staff and little else. He did not even seem to have a sword. It was a far cry from the rich apparrel that he once habitually wore, although no matter what he wore, how costly or well-tailored, clothes had never seemed to sit well on him. Thomas Smythe had once remarked that for all the money his older brother spent on his varied and expensive wardrobe, it was like trying to caparison a dray horse. Those words came back to Tuck as he stood there, staring at his father, thinking that he now looked more like a bedraggled tenant farmer than a man with his own family coat of arms. Indeed, he thought, as Will had observed, he did not look much like a gentleman. But then, he had never really acted like one, either.

“Do you not think that you should go and greet him?” Shakespeare asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I was hoping to find some excuse to avoid it,” Smythe replied, with a sigh. “However, I suppose ‘twould be the proper thing for a dutiful son to do.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Smythe moistened his lips as he thought about it for a moment. Finally, he made up his mind. “I am grateful for your offer of support, Will, but methinks that this is something I had best see to myself,” he replied.

“Would you like me to wait for you?” Shakespeare asked.

“Nay, Will, go on. S’trewth, I am not sure what he could want with me, and if there is an argument, I should not wish for you to witness it. I shall see you when I get back.”

“If that is what you wish.”

“I do. Go on. I shall go and speak with him.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Aye, Will.” Smythe clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks. Go on. I will follow before long.”