Much Ado About Murder

“I was hoping to hear his version of what happened on that night,” Dickens was saying, “but the prison warders would not allow me in to see him at the Marshalsea, where he is held, awaiting trial. And no one has said how soon that trial may be. For all we know, it could be on the morrow, or a month or more away. ‘Twould seem that once a man’s been thrown in prison, his fate is as chaff upon the wind. No one much cares what may become of him, save for his family and friends, and unless they have some influence, there is nothing much that they can do.”

“Well, we may not be without some influence,” said Smythe, “though I am loathe to use it prematurely. I would prefer to wait until it can truly do some good.”

“You mean Sir William?” Shakespeare said.

Smythe nodded. “Aye. A word from him to his friend, Sir Francis Walsingham, would open nearly any door.”

“Do you mean Sir William Worley?” Dickens asked, with surprise. “But he is one of the richest and most powerful men in England!”

“Indeed, he is,” said Smythe. “For which reason I would hesitate to ask him any favors unless we were absolutely certain of our ground.”

“Odd’s blood! The master of the Sea Hawks, and an intimate of the queen, no less!” Dickens was taken aback. “Do you mean to say that you actually know him?”

“We found ourselves in a position to do him some small service a while ago,” said Smythe, downplaying the relationship. “Since then, he has been kind enough to give me work at his estate upon occasion. He has a passion for well-crafted blades, and has a fine forge of his own at Green Oaks. As you know, I have some small skill in that regard. However, I would not wish to presume on Sir William’s good graces unless we knew for certain that we could prove Corwin’s innocence beyond any shadow of a doubt. I am sorry, Ben.”

“Sorry?” Dickens said. “But this is wonderful news, my friends! It means that Corwin’s fate is not nearly as bleak as it had appeared only this morning!”

“Well, I am very glad you see it that way,” Smythe replied, “but I remind you that we are still a long way from our goal of finding out just what happened on that night.”

“Aye, I know that,” Dickens said, “nevertheless, this still means that there is hope. S’trewth, I had been half convinced myself that he had done it, shamed as I am by it. Now that I know the servants were not in the house that night, their testimony of what happened becomes absolutely meaningless. Why, they never even saw him leave! I wanted to seize that rascal Budge right by his throat and throttle him for his base and cowardly lie!”

“He was afraid,” said Shakespeare. “And he was absolutely convinced that Corwin was the murderer. It had never even occurred to him that anyone else could have come to the house after Corwin had left.”

“That still does not excuse the foulness of his lie!” said Dickens, savagely.

“Indeed, it does not,” Shakespeare agreed, “although it may at least explain it. The poor man was stricken with remorse when it dawned upon him that he may have condemned an innocent man. And that is very fortunate, for it means he has a conscience. We should be thankful for that, otherwise he would be packing his things even as we speak and preparing to flee London.”

“He may still do just that,” said Smythe, “if he grows frightened enough. They may all run off once they have had time to think about it.”

Shakespeare shook his head. “I do not think so, Tuck. I think you convinced them that ‘twould look very bad for them indeed if they fled London now, for with our testimony, they would then become the chief suspects in the crime. Never fear, they shall not be going anywhere. Guilt, remorse, and misery shall surely root them to the spot as firmly as if we had put chains upon them.”

“All the more so now that they know we shall be making inquiries at the tavern to gather further proof of how long they were there that night,” said Dickens. “I am growing ever more hopeful by the moment, my friends. Once we free Corwin from prison, I shall be ever in your debt.”

“Well, we have not freed him yet,” said Shakespeare. “And once again, Ben, I do not mean to cast gloom upon your spirits, but simply knowing that Corwin had departed without the servants seeing him and that Leonardo was alone inside the house for some period of time does not tell us that someone else came there and killed him. It only means that someone else could have done it.”

“By Heaven, why do you persist in wanting to see only the worst, Will?” Dickens asked, irritably.

“Because I do not think ‘tis wise to hold out any false hope,” Shakespeare replied. “Nor do I think it prudent for us to assume things that we do not yet know. Also, in all fairness, I feel bound to remind you that while Corwin seemed to me an amiable young man of excellent character, you know him better than either of us do. You may well know in your heart that he could not have done this deed, but Tuck and I do not, for our acquantance with him is but slight.”