Much Ado About Murder (21 page)

"Precisely where I had intended to remain," Shakespeare replied.

They went up the steps cautiously, with Smythe leading the way. The rummaging noises grew louder as they drew closer. Someone was ransacking the house, and from the sound of it, being none too gentle about it.

"Be careful, Will," said Smythe, when they reached the top of the stairs.

"You
be careful," Shakespeare replied. "If anything should happen to you, I would be next."

"Your concern for my safety is touching," Smythe said with a grimace. He reached out and placed his hand on a door that stood slightly ajar. The noise was coming from within. "Get ready…"

He shoved the door open hard, slamming it against the wall, and came into the room fast, his sword held out before him. The man ransacking the room spun around, immediately drawing his own blade.

"Tuck!"

Smythe's eyes grew wide.
"Ben!
What the devil are you doing here?"

Dickens lowered his sword, then sheathed it as he spoke. "I might well ask you the same thing," he replied. He glanced over Smythe's shoulder. "Is that you, Will?"

" 'Allo, Ben," said Shakespeare, coming into the room sheepishly after having peeked around the corner.

Smythe sheathed his blade, as well. "We came to question Master Leonardo's servants, to see what we could learn about what had transpired here the night that he was killed." He looked around. "God's body, Ben! You have bloody well torn the place apart! What in Heaven's name are you searching for?"

Dickens shook his head, looking around helplessly. " 'Twas not me, Tuck. I came to look for something… anything… that could help Corwin prove his innocence, but the house had already been ransacked when I got here."

"Did you find anything?" asked Shakespeare.

Dickens shook his head in frustration. "Nothing. Save only that there seems to be no money left anywhere in the house."

"He may have had it all cubbyholed away somewhere," said Smythe.

"If he did, then I cannot find it," Dickens replied. "And I have looked everywhere. But I tell you, there is not a tuppence nor a halfpenny in this house. Not anywhere. It must have all been stolen."

"Did you question the servants?" Smythe asked.

"Aye, I have already spoken with them. They swear that they did not ransack the house. They have no idea where Leonardo kept his money. They are worried. They say that they have not received their wages, but despite their claim that they have not even ventured upstairs since the crime, I suspect they have already looked through everything."

"You think they might have taken it?" asked Shakespeare.

Dickens shook his head. "I cannot say. I would have thought that if there was money in the house for them to take, they would have found it and absconded with it. Then they would be far away by now. Instead, they are still here; there is little in the larder, and they do not even seem to know where their next meal is going to come from." He shook his head again. "Methinks that there was nothing here for them to find."

"Perhaps he had his money deposited with some merchant banker," suggested Shakespeare.

Dickens shook his head again. "I had thought the same, but then there would have been letters of credit, or else bills of exchange, and I have discovered none. I thought perhaps that he might have devised some clever hiding place in which to store such things, but if so, then I have failed to nose it out." He sighed with exasperation as he looked around at the mess. " 'Tis a mystery to me, I tell you. Leonardo was a wealthy man, and yet, there is not one coin to be found in this entire house. If his money was not stolen, then where is it?"

Shakespeare scratched his chin. "A thought occurs to me," he said, "and yet, I hesitate to speak it for fear that it might give offense."

Dickens glanced at him. "Go on, Will. Be forthright. Say what is on your mind."

Shakespeare cleared his throat. "Well… if there were such documents as letters of credit or bills of exchange, do you suppose that Corwin could have taken them?"

For a moment, Dickens did not speak. The corners of his mouth drew tight. "After he murdered Leonardo, do you mean to say?"

Shakespeare cleared his throat once more. "To find the truth, must not one consider
all
the possibilities?"

Dickens stared him down.

"Ben," said Smythe, placatingly, "we know that Corwin is your friend and that you are loyal to him. But if we do not ask these questions, others shall. Corwin has already been arrested. Soon he shall be tried. He is in dire straits and your loyalty, however honorable or well-intentioned, cannot help him now. Only our diligence and perseverence in searching out the truth can be of any aid to him. And if he is truly innocent, then the truth shall set him free."

"Or else condemn him," Dickens said, tightly.

Smythe stared at him as comprehension suddenly dawned. "Odd's blood. You think he might have done it," he said, softly.

Dickens looked down at the floor and then savagely kicked out at a chest that had been overturned. "Aye, damn it, I think he may have done it. Beshrew me, a fine friend I have turned out to be to suspect him guilty of so vile a deed!" He kicked the chest again, splintering it. "Bloody hell! What keeps going through my mind again and then again is the thought that had I only followed him that night, then I may have arrived in time to prevent…" His voice trailed off.

"There may have been nothing to prevent, Ben," said Smythe, "at least insofar as Corwin is concerned. Had you followed him, then you may or may not have arrived in time to prevent him from breaking off his engagement, but if that was
all
he did that night, then you would doubtless have left the house together, and the murderer would have arrived after you had gone."

"Aye, but then at least I would have been able to swear to Corwin's innocence," said Dickens. "And as matters stand, I cannot say that I know in my heart that he could
not
have done it. Fie upon me for a false friend! Never would he have doubted me!"

"Perhaps not, but you cannot truly know that, Ben," said Smythe. "Were your roles reversed, Corwin might well be blaming himself even now for suspecting
that you
could be a murderer. Can any man truly know what another man may do when the blood runs hot and overwhelms his reason? Perhaps no man even knows what he may do himself in such a circumstance. Either way, it makes no difference. Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that you
had
followed him that night, and that when the two of you left here together, Master Leonardo was still alive. Then you could swear to that at Corwin's trial, of course. But everybody knows that for the price of only a few crowns, men can be bribed to bear false witness. They can be found in Paul's Walk every day, waiting to sell their honor for the price of a meal and a few drinks. And 'tis well known that you are Corwin's friend, and a mercenary, to boot. I mean you no offense, Ben, but 'tis doubtful that your word would bear much weight in his defense."

"The only thing that matters is that we find out what truly happened here that night," said Shakespeare. "You said that you have spoken with the servants?"

"Aye, and they could tell me nothing."

"But they
were
here that night?" said Shakespeare.

"They say so."

"And they saw
nothing?
They heard
nothing?"

Dickens merely shrugged and shook his head.

"How is that possible?" asked Shakespeare, frowning. "Servants commonly know everything that goes on inside the house wherein they work. I would like to speak with them myself."

"Do as you wish," said Dickens. "If you discover aught, then I shall stand a ready listener."

They went back downstairs, where the servents waited anxiously, as if not knowing what else to do.

"Where are the other servants of the house?" asked Shakespeare, speaking to the wispy-haired man who'd let them in.

"We are all here, milord," the man said, glancing around nervously.

"What, just the three of you?" asked Shakespeare, frowning again. The two women stood close together, clutching their aprons anxiously.

"Aye, milord," the man replied. "We are all the servants in this house."

"What is your name?" Shakespeare asked him.

"I am called Edward Budge, milord."

"And the women?"

"This here is Mary Alastair, milord," he replied, indicating each with a gesture, "and this is Elaine Howard."

"You are both English," Shakespeare said.

"Aye, milord," they both replied nervously, almost but not quite in unison. They bobbed in a slight curtsy.

"Was there not a Genoan lady in this house?" asked Shakespeare. "A governess or maidservant for Master Leonardo's daughter?"

"Nay, milord, we was all there is," replied the one called Mary. "The mistress did for herself, she did."

"Aye, very good to us, she was, milord," added Elaine. "A

kind soul with a good heart is our Mistress Hera; never spoke a cross word to any of us. Never struck us, neither."

"Aye, she wouldn't ask us to do anything she wouldn't do herself," added Mary. As they spoke, they both kept glancing at Edward, as if for reassurance. He nodded in agreement.

"How very strange," said Shakespeare, puzzled. He looked at Ben. "You came to England aboard ship with Master Leonardo and his daughter, did you not?"

"Aye, I did," said Dickens.

"And did they bring no servants with them from Genoa at all?"

Dickens looked blank for a moment. "Now that you mention it, I do not recall there being any servants attending them aboard ship, although for most of the voyage Hera had remained below, struck with the sea sickness. I may have assumed that there was someone taking care of her, but in truth, I do not believe I ever gave the matter any thought, one way or the other."

"It never struck you as peculiar that a wealthy man such as Master Leonardo would be traveling without servants?" Shakespeare asked.

Dickens shook his head. "I suppose not. 'Twas his ship we sailed upon. Doubtless, with his crew, he had no need of servants on the voyage."

"That could be," admitted Shakespeare. "But it does strike me as peculiar that he would bring no one along to attend upon his daughter. And that he would maintain only three servants here in London."

"Perhaps, with a modest house like this, he did not require more," said Dickens.

"Aye, 'tis a modest enough house for a wealthy man," Shakespeare agreed. "We had been discussing that before. I suppose that I understand a man of means choosing to live in a home such as this if his needs were few and simple, or else if he had planned to purchase or build a better house at some point in the near future. Nevertheless, I still find it passing strange that he should choose to live so simply. After all, he had retired from his life at sea to live a more comfortable, settled life on land. And yet, observe these furnishings. Boarded stools and chests, likewise a cupboard, all pegged with wood or nailed… not a single piece of jointed furniture, not one carved or upholstered chair. That chest upstairs, which you had splintered with your boot…'tis the sort of simple, inexpensive, boarded chest that you or I might own. The one good, solid piece here was that old sea chest that was upended in the bedroom, with the clothes all tumbled out of it and strewn about. Everything else here is poor-man's furniture… made of common boarded oak, left plain, and stained with linseed oil."

"So what then?" asked Ben. "That only goes to show that Leonardo was a frugal man."

"Methinks I would say more than frugal," Shakespeare replied. "I would say he pinched his pennies so tightly that the queen winced."

"That is often how a man of modest means becomes a wealthy man," said Dickens. "And old habits die hard."

"Perhaps," said Smythe, as a new idea occurred to him. "Or else that is how a man of very little means makes himself out to
seem
a wealthy man."

"What, are you suggesting that Leonardo had no money?" Dickens said. "Nonsense! He was the master of his own merchant ship, which he had sold for a handsome profit upon coming to England!"

"Aye, and we may be standing in the midst of those profits," said Smythe, looking around at their surroundings. "And 'tis possible that they were not nearly so handsome as you think."

Shakespeare turned back to the servants. "Edward, tell us, when you hired on with Master Leonardo, did he pay your wages in advance?"

"Aye, milord," the servent replied. "A week's wages for each of us."

"Only a week?"

"Aye," Edward replied. " 'Twas to be a trial period. We were to be paid a week's wages at a time until the master had decided we were suitable, and then we were promised that arrangements more to our advantage would be made."

"And your wages included room and board, of course?" asked Shakespeare.

"Well… they would, in a month's time," said Edward. "Once we had proved our suitability."

Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances. "So then you did
not
sleep here?" Smythe asked.

"Why… no, milord."

"Neither did you eat here?" Shakespeare asked.

"No, milord," Edward replied, a bit more tentatively. He suddenly looked uncomfortable.

Shakespeare immediately followed up, watching the man carefully. "Where
did
you dine?"

"Why… we all dined together at the nearby tavern," Edward said, glancing at them nervously, his eyes darting back and forth. "The ordinaries are very reasonable there."

"And the ale too, no doubt," said Smythe.

Before the man could reply, Shakespeare quickly asked, "How long were you gone to supper the night Master Leonardo was killed?"

They noticed that the women had gone very still. They both looked pale and Mary's lower lip had started trembling. They both looked frightened as they clutched each other's hands tightly. Edward did not look much better.

"Why… why, not long at all," stammered Edward. "No longer than usual, I am quite certain…"

"You were out drinking and carousing," said Smythe, fixing him with a hard look.