The Merchant of Vengeance (10 page)

"Aye, she was the one," the tailor replied. "A pretty young thing, if you like that sort. A bit on the coltish side, if you ask me, but with the right style of clothing, in a fuller cut, she could present a decent figure, I suppose. I know not who her tailor is, and did not presume to ask, but she could certainly do better. The other one was not all that much different. Antonia, I think she said her name was, a bit more brassy looking, but well dressed in silks and damasks in dark hues that set off her colouring to good advantage. However, the flaxen-haired one, Mistress Elizabeth, now, there was a woman who knew how to wear clothes. The moment I saw that exquisite green velvet cloak, I told myself this was a woman of excellent taste and sensibility."

"Elizabeth?" said Smythe, interrupting him abruptly. "Do you mean Elizabeth Darcie?"

"Aye, Darcie was her name, indeed. Master Henry Darcie's daughter. Now there is a gentleman I would be proud to count among my customers. Mistress Darcie admired some of my bolts of cloth and said she might return and order a dress or two. Aye, she had excellent taste. Excellent taste, indeed. My most expensive silks and velvets were what caught her eye. In my humble opinion, Thomas would have done himself a deal of good had he set his cap at her rather than that other one."

"Oh, good Heavens!" Shakespeare said, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "How has Elizabeth managed. to become mixed up in this business? Is there nothing the two of you do not stick your noses into?"

"Mixed up in what business?" the tailor asked, frowning. "Thomas has not done anything wrong, has he?"

"Nay, I am certain he has not," replied Smythe. "'Tis only that his father was most anxious to speak with him concerning some family matter and, as we have just come from him, he asked us to convey the message to him."

"Well, if you see him, you may convey another one to him from me," the tailor said. "You may tell him that Master Leffingwell is not in the habit of employing journeymen who do not show up for work. He never behaved this way when he was my apprentice, and if he thinks that becoming a journeyman means that he may now come to work only when it pleases him, then he is very much mistaken. And you may tell him that I shall expect him here tomorrow, promptly, and I shall want a full accounting from him concerning where he was today, indeed I shall!"

"We shall be sure to tell him, Master Leffingwell," said Smythe. "But we are not certain where he may be found. Perhaps you could assist us. Did he not reside somewhere nearby?"

"I can only tell you what I told the three young ladies," the tailor replied. "Thomas has a. room he rents above the mercer's shop across the street. However, as I had already sent one of my apprentices there earlier today, to see if perhaps Thomas had fallen ill, I can of a certainty tell you that he is not there. As to where he may be found, I fear I cannot say. 'Tis not my habit to keep track of everyone who works for me. I merely expect them to be here on time and to do their jobs properly."

"Well, thank you just the same, Master Leffingwell," said

Smythe. 'We shall endeavour to find him on our own."

'Well, that would seem to be that," said Shakespeare, as they left the tailor's shop. "We have done our best to deliver Locke's message to his son, but his son was simply nowhere to be found. Certainly, no one can hold us to account for that."

Smythe frowned. “I am rather more concerned about Elizabeth," he said. "I cannot think what she and Antonia were doing here with Portia, unless 'twas their intention to help the two of them elope."

"Well, of course, that is their intention," Shakespeare replied irately. "That should seem obvious. Elizabeth is simply incapable of resisting the urge to meddle, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. She is a decent and good-hearted soul, but she has not the sense God gave a goose. I tell you… wait, where are you going?"

"Across the street," said Smythe.

"But Leffingwell has already told us that Thomas is not there."

Shakespeare replied.

"He has told us that he sent an apprentice there earlier today, to see if perhaps Thomas had fallen ill," said Smythe, recalling the tailor's words exactly.

"Well then?" said Shakespeare. "Did you not believe him?"

"Oh, I believed him. But what do you suppose that apprentice must have done when he went over there?" asked Smythe. "He knocked on the door and waited for an answer, and then when there was none, he returned. But suppose that Thomas was there and did not answer to the knock?"

"'Tis possible," said Shakespeare. "But why would he fail to answer?"

"What if he were packing his things as he prepared to run away with Portia? Or perhaps he was not there at the time the apprentice was sent, but has returned since. In any event, I should like to go and see for myself."

Shakespeare sighed. "Oh, very well, if you insist. But I should not like to spend the remainder of the day questing for Thomas all over the city. This has already taken up too much of our time to no good purpose."

They crossed the courtyard at the end of the cul-de-sac and went into the mercer's shop, where they learned that Thomas Locke's room was on the third floor. With people from all over the countryside flocking to London in search of work, accommodations were often difficult to come by, and people with rooms to rent could make a handsome profit. It was not unusual for one room to be shared by a number of unrelated people splitting the rent among them, and with such crowded conditions, rooms were often used only for sleeping. That Thomas Locke was able to afford a room all to himself, albeit a small one, already said something about his success as a new journeyman tailor.

Perhaps he had made some arrangement with the mercer in which he bartered his tailoring skills in exchange for part of the rent. Either way, thought Smythe, he certainly had a comfortable arrangement: his own room in a reasonably decent section of the city, where he only needed to walk across the street to get to work in a job where he was doing well. A great many people in London had to make do with a great deal less, Smythe thought, himself included. And yet, Thomas Locke was apparently willing to leave it all behind for an uncertain future in some unknown place. He would gain the woman that he loved, but he would lose everything else. And, Smythe thought with some self-recrimination, he was the one who had given him the idea in the first place.

He could not help wondering if he would do the same if Elizabeth were willing to run off with him. He did not delude himself that she would ever agree to do such an incredibly foolish thing, but nevertheless, he had to wonder. Would he have the courage to do the same in Thomas Locke's place? He discovered, with somewhat mixed feelings, that the answer was not immediately forthcoming.

Perhaps it was not entirely a question of courage. He loved Elizabeth, of that he had no doubt, but then he also loved being a player, something he had dreamed of all his life. When he had left home and set off for London to pursue his dream at last, he had nothing but the clothes upon his back and a few personal possessions. On the way, he had met Will Shakespeare at a roadside inn, a chance encounter of two strangers who, by coincidence, were both in pursuit of the same goal. They had achieved that goal, when so many others who came to London following their dreams were doomed to bitter disappointment. Smythe knew that he had been very fortunate, indeed. Would it not be wrong to turn his back on his good fortune when others had been so much less fortunate than he?

Aside from that, he had good friends now. Shakespeare and the other players in the company were all like brothers to him, even Kemp, cantankerous and quarrelsome as he was; they all seemed like family. He had never had such friends as these. And then there was the old smith Liam Bailey, who in many ways had taken the place of his beloved Uncle Thomas, not to mention the illustrious and adventuresome Sir William Worley, the knight who had befriended him and trusted him with secret knowledge. He had a life here now, a life that meant something to him. He did not think that he could simply walk away and leave it all behind, even if Elizabeth were somehow willing to run off with him.

For that matter, even if she was—not that he could ever ask her—what sort of life would he be able to offer her? Her father was a gentleman. She could never be a player's wife, and the only other trade he knew was that of a smith and farrier. Elizabeth Darcie was simply not the sort of woman who could leave everything she had and live the life of a humble country blacksmith's wife. Such a step down would be a disgrace to both her and her family. But it was all nothing more than pointless conjecture.

Thomas Locke's situation was completely different. He and Portia Mayhew were in love and were going to be married until her father had suddenly withdrawn his consent, while he and Elizabeth had never declared their feelings to each other. It was an unspoken thing between them, never openly acknowledged.

Shakespeare had been right. He had no business meddling in this affair in the first place. It did not concern him and was nothing more than wishful thinking on his part, in which he had suggested a course to Thomas Locke that he wished that he could take himself, but in all likelihood would not, even if such a possibility were open to him. Still, he thought, it was interesting that Elizabeth had coincidentally become involved in this affair, as well, from Portia's side.

'You are being strangely silent," Shakespeare said as they reached the top of the stairs to the third floor. "Are you thinking about Elizabeth again?"

Smythe smiled and shook his head. "You know me much too well," he said. "I do not think that I could ever keep a secret from you, Will."

"'Tis your face that is to blame," said Shakespeare. "Whenever Elizabeth is in your thoughts, it assumes a woeful, maudlin aspect and you look for all the world like a small boy who has dropped his favourite sweet into a drainage ditch."

Smythe grimaced. "I shall have to cultivate a new expression, then, for that one sounds altogether insufferable."

"You should see it from my angle," Shakespeare said. "Perhaps we can work on some new ones in the tavern later, when we have finished with this nonsense. Then we can sit in comfort over some bread pudding and tankards full of ale and make faces at each other."

They came to the door, and Smythe knocked upon it several times. There was no answer. He knocked again, a bit harder.

"Well, so much for that," said Shakespeare, turning to go back down the stairs.

"Wait," said Smythe. He had tried the door and it had opened.

"Look," he said. A sudden and ominous clap of thunder outside announced the arrival of a storm.

Shakespeare turned and sighed with resignation. "I suppose you simply must go in!"

"Well, 'tis open," Smythe said with a shrug. He opened the door wider and went inside.

"Oh, I just know that nothing good can come of this," said Shakespeare, following him in. "Perhaps he has already packed up all this things and left."

"Nay, he is still here," Smythe replied heavily.

The body of Thomas Locke lay upon the floor in a puddle of blood, a dagger sticking up out of his back.

Chapter 5

True to the wherry-man’s word, it had started to rain within moments after they had found the body. The gray sky had darkened, and the clouds had opened up to disgorge a hard and pelting rain that had forced the cancellation of that day's performance. All the other players in the company had gathered at the Toad and Badger by late afternoon, but Smythe and Shakespeare did not return till after nightfall, because it had been necessary CO report the murder and bring the sheriff's men to the scene, and then remain to answer all of their questions. At the tavern, the rest of the company were waiting for their fellows anxiously, demand-ing to know why they had missed rehearsal.

They explained about discovering the murder, and how they had narrowly avoided being arrested themselves, which would have made a very convenient solution for the sheriff's men.

"Bloody laggards," Shakespeare exclaimed with disgust as he described the incident to his fascinated audience in the tavern. "They cared not who had actually done the foul deed so much as they were anxious to have it disposed of neatly and with a minimum of effort. Had we not told them that we could produce witnesses who could account for where we had been all day, then 'tis certain that Tuck and I would both have been thrown into the Clink upon the spot."

Smythe felt his stomach knotting at the thought. The Clink. was notorious for being one of the worst prisons in London, and from all that he had heard and read, none of London's prisons could boast conditions that were anything less than nightmarish.

"Who do you suppose killed the poor fellow?" asked John Hemings, as he cut off a thick slice of the hearty Banbury cheese they were all enjoying, tore off a large chunk of barley bread, took a big bite out of each, and then washed it all down with beer, a relatively new beverage that had recently become available in London. It was not quite as rich tasting or as hearty as ale, but it had the virtue of being considerably cheaper. Between the wheel of cheese upon the table, loaves of rye and barley bread baked with beans and oats mixed in, and several large clay pitchers full of beer, the players were having themselves a filling and satisfying supper, spiced now by news of the murder.

"I have not the foggiest notion who murdered the poor lad," Shakespeare replied after taking a long drink. "I am just grateful that we were able to convince the sheriff's men not to blame the devilish deed on us!"

"Do you suppose the girl's father may have had it done?" asked

Augustine Phillips. "To prevent the elopement, I mean."

"'Twould not have been much of an elopement had the girl's father known about it in advance, now, would it, Gus?" Will Kemp observed sarcastically.

"Well… he could have found out about it, somehow."

Phillips replied defensively.

"Oh, really? How?" asked Kemp. "As Shakespeare tells the tale, there was not even any plan of an elopement until sometime late this morning, when Smythe here put the foolish notion into the unfortunate boy's head."