Much Ado About Murder

The wooden sign that hung above the door of the Devil Tavern at a right angle to the street was painted with an image of St. Dunstan tweaking the Devil’s nose, in homage to St. Dun-stan’s Church, which stood nearby. They opened the heavy, wood-planked door and went inside. The interior was not unlike that of the Toad and Badger in general appearance, but the place had a very different sort of atmosphere.

There were rushes strewn upon the wood-planked floor, but they were not fresh, which lent the place a stale sort of smell that Courtney Stackpole never would have tolerated. The furnishings, like those at the Toad and Badger, were much the same-heavy, wood-planked trestle tables, benches, and stools – but they were rough and cracked and stained with spills, not kept oiled and clean, as Stackpole always insisted at his place. The patrons were mainly working-class locals, with perhaps a few merchants and a craftsman or two here and there. The chief difference, however, was that the mood within the place was not nearly as lively as at the Toad and Badger.

The smell of tobacco smoke was heavy in the air as patrons sat and smoked their clay churchwardens while they drank their beer and ale out of pewter tankards or hard leather “black jacks” sealed with pitch. Some played hazard with their dice cups, others played primero, betting noisily on every hand. A few people glanced up at them as they came in, looking them over, but otherwise, no one paid them any particular attention.

They sat down at an empty table and a moment later one of the serving wenches came by to take their order. After conferring with her as to what she recommended, they decided upon a double-strength ale known as “Devil Dog,” apparently a house specialty. It was brought to them in a large jug and they poured it themselves into heavy pewter tankards, discovering that it had a rich, strong, and heady, spicy flavor. They smacked their lips and nodded their approval.

“An excellent ale, my dear,” said Shakespeare, “aye, excellent, indeed.” He nodded to Smythe and Dickens, prompting them.

“ ‘Tis just the thing for a thirsty man at the end of a long day,” said Smythe, thinking that he would actually prefer one of his herbal infusions brewed from rainwater to this thick and heady brew, for although there was no denying it was tasty, strong ale always left him feeling bloated and gassy. He noticed once again that he had never drank ale or beer until he came to London, where the water was undrinkable, and he had lately noticed that his midsection had started getting thicker from this recent addition to his diet.

“So tell me, my lovely, what is your name?” asked Dickens, flashing her a dazzling smile. It nearly undid the poor girl, who was not lovely by any stretch of the imagination, and was cursed with bad skin and a harelip that gave her a thick and pronounced lisp.

“Kate, m’lud,” she replied, blushing and looking down while carefully avoiding the sibilance of “good sir” in her reply.

“Well, Kate,” Dickens went on, charmingly, “ ‘tis a fine, rich brew that you have recommended, and we may have ourselves another jug or two just to see you bring it.”

She gave him an awkward curtsy and a cautious underlook to see if he was making fun of her. Smythe began to worry that he was overdoing it, for what was the likelihood that any young man as handsome and dashing as Ben Dickens had ever paid attention to so homely and scrawny a girl? Surely, he thought, she could never believe he was in earnest. But in addition to his good looks, Dickens had apparently been gifted with a faery glamour, for within moments, he had completely captivated her with compliments that struck Smythe as rather heavy-handed and transparently insincere. Before long, he had her sitting on his knee and giggling as he laughed and joked with her.

“So do you work here every night, Kate?” Shakespeare asked.

“Well, if she does, then I may have to come back more often,” Dickens said, with a wink. It brought forth another giggle from the girl as Smythe winced inwardly. It was almost embarrassing to watch.

“Aye, m’lud, I work here each day an’ every night.”

“Well, then you must know old Budge, who comes to have his suppers here, along with Mary and Elaine,” said Shakespeare.

“Oh, aye, m’lud, I know them. Very kind, they are, never make fun o’ me like what others often do. The way I talk, y’know.” Her hand went to her mouth self-consciously and she looked away from Ben, as if suddenly remembering her deformity for the first time since they began their conversation.

“What of it?” Dickens said. “Methinks you have a charming voice.”

“Aw, now, go on…” she said, giving him a poke, but at the same time, she beamed at him with childlike pleasure.

“They must have been here that night then, when that terrible thing happened at their master’s house,” Shakespeare said. “You have heard about that?”

Her eyes grew very wide. “Oooh, aye! What an awful thing! Poor Cap’n Leonardo!”

“You knew him, then?” asked Smythe.