Much Ado About Murder

“You mean that he could have been killed merely so that Corwin would be accused of his murder and thus destroyed?” said Smythe. “Odds blood! ‘Tis a cold heart that could conceive of such a deed!”

“Aye, a cold heart,” repeated Shakespeare, “with cold blood coursing through it, as opposed to hot. Mayhap ‘twas not a crime of passion, after all, but of opportunity.”

“We have much to do,” said Smythe, grimly. “And little time in which to do it. The noose for Corwin’s neck is being plaited even as we speak.”

9

THE TOWNHOUSE WHERE MASTER LEONARDO had all too briefly lived was not nearly as ostentatious or as large as Henry Darcie’s. Situated in a tidy row of houses near the Devil Tavern and the Thames, it was a modest-looking residence built of lathe and plaster, with nothing to set it apart from any of the other row houses on the street. It certainly did not look like the home of a wealthy man. Perhaps, thought Smythe, it might have been intended merely as a temporary residence, meant for use only until such time as Master Leonardo had established himself and found a better home or else had built one just outside the city, as some successful tradesmen were now doing. But on the other hand, he may have been a man of relatively simple tastes who did not require much out of a home that was not functional, comfortable, and practical, rather than elegant, ostentatious, and luxurious.

In a city where the members of the new, rising middle class were constantly competing to show off whose rise was faster, and where the nobles were always trying to outdo one another in elaborate displays of wealth and fashion, a frugal man who spent his money wisely on his business interests rather than on expensive homes or carriages or suits of clothes that he could change as many as three times a day could quietly build up his wealth and become a rich man without fanfare. And that seemed like just the sort of thing an unassuming, former seafaring man would do.

“This seems like the kind of place where a retired ship’s captain would drop anchor,” Shakespeare said, echoing Smythe’s thoughts. “A nice, solid, comfortable place to live on dry land, within walking distance of the river, where he could stroll on the bankside and observe the wherrymen and the ships beyond the bridge. A man could do much worse.”

“And many do,” said Smythe.

“Someday, I shall have a fine house of my own in town,” said Shakespeare. “You know, I could be well satisfied with something similar to this. I need no cut stone or brick to look like some archbishop’s residence. A good, solid, English home of lathe and plaster will do me nicely, the sort of place befitting a gentleman, rather than a marquis or a viscount.”

“ Tis good to know that your ambitions are merely modest ones,” said Smythe, with a straight face. “ ‘Twouldn’t do at all for a humble poet to overreach himself.”

“You think?” said Shakespeare.

“Aye. How many poems or plays, do you suppose, would one have to write in order to be able to afford a modest place like this?” asked Smythe, giving him a sidelong look.

“Do you mock me, you pernicious rascal?”

“What, I?” Smythe said, feigning surprise. “Nay, ‘twas merely an idle question. Three or four score, do you think? Well, perhaps less, if you are made a shareholder. Aye, two score or so should do it. So long as they are all as popular as Marlowe’s. That should not present too great a difficulty, not to a fellow as industrious and talented as yourself. How many have you written thus far?”

Shakespeare glowered at him.

Smythe blithely went on. “Well, let us see… there is that one about the drunken lout who falls asleep and is then found by a noble and taken to his house… oh, no, wait, you never finished that one, did you? Ah, but then there is the one about the war… no, you still have not got past the first act, have you? Oh, hold on, there was that idea you had about the twins, from the time we helped Elizabeth and encountered that fiendish foreign plot… did you ever actually do anything with that?”

“You cankerous, flea-infested, mocking dog! See who nurses you the next time you are brought home with a broken head, you ungrateful, prating wretch!”

“Ah, well, thus am I justly chastised,” Smythe replied, hanging his head in mock shame. “Ungrateful wretch I am, indeed. I am a rude fellow. You may beat me. Here, let me find a stick…”

“Oh, cease your foolishness,” Shakespeare said, with a snort. “Come along, let us go and question Master Leonardo’s servants.”

The household servant who opened the door to them had the look of a man whose future was uncertain. Tall, thin, and balding, with wisps of white hair sticking out in all directions, as if he habitually ran his hands through what little of it was left, he reminded Smythe of a horse that had been spooked.