The Merchant of Vengeance Page 8

  "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."

  'Thank you so much for the thoughtful reminder, Kemp," said Smythe with a sour grimace. "It makes me feel ever so much better about how everything turned out."

  "Well, it serves you right for poking your nose into other people's business," Kemp replied testily. "Instead of coming to rehearsal, as you were supposed to have done, you chose to spend the day in profitless and pointless gallivanting about town, dragging our book holder to some low-class alehouse only to have him be insulted by some drunken lout of a poet, and then convincing some poor lad you did not even know that he should run off with some wench you also did not know, only to have this boy turn out to be the son of a man who could easily have both of you sewn up into sacks weighted down with stones and then thrown into the river… which he might very well do when he discovers his beloved son was murdered. Does that about sum it up, you think?"

  Smythe pressed his lips together and nodded glumly. "Aye, 'twould about sum it up, indeed."

  "Well done, Kemp," Shakespeare said dryly. "Now if you could only manage to remember your lines as well as you recalled every last detail of our story, then we would all be infinitely better off."

  "Perhaps if you wrote lines that were more memorable, I

  might find that I remembered them more easily," riposted Kemp.

  "'Strewth, I do not know if I would be capable of writing anything that you would find easy to remember," Shakespeare said. "Perhaps if I were to rhyme it with some sound that is cherished by thine ear. Speed, old fellow, pray tell, what rhymes with fart?"

  "Art," Bobby Speed replied at once, and belched profoundly. "Hark, methinks we have here the makings of some truly memorable poetry for Kemp," said Shakespeare. "Indeed, 'tis a veritable epic. Now then, what rhymes with belch?"

  "Smelch," said Thomas Pope, with his mouth full.

  "Smelch? Smelch?" Shakespeare frowned. "Preposterous! There is no such word."

  "Is so."

  "Is not!" said Shakespeare. "You are being quite ridiculous, Pope. Go on and use it in a sentence, then, you knave."

  "Kemp farted and the smelch was terrible," said Pope.

  "Odd's blood! You know, I do believe I rather like the sound of that," said Shakespeare. "Pity there is no such word. Perhaps there ought to be."

  Go on and use it, then," said Pope. "Put it into one of your plays."

  "Indeed! The very thought of it! And by what right would you have me take such license with our language?"

  "The right of every bard and poet to coin whatever words or phrases please him," Pope replied.

  Shakespeare raised his eyebrows. "The devil you say! And what do you call this marvellous right of linguistic libertinage?"

  "Urm I call it .. poetic license," Pope mumbled around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

  Shakespeare simply stared at him.

  "What, no clever rejoinder" Kemp asked archly. Shakespeare shook his head. "Nay, Kemp, I have none. He leaves me quite speechless."

  "Good," said Pope, his mouth still full. "Now pass the beer."

  "About this poor lad's murder," Gus Phillips said once more, getting back to the subject at hand, "you do not suppose that this Shy Locke will hold the two of you to blame I mean, with what Kemp said and all… you do not suppose he will?"

  "I most certainly hope that he shall not," Shakespeare said uneasily. "Truly, I do not see how he can. after all, we did not have anything at all to do with poor Thomas's murder!"

  'That may not be how he shall see it," Kemp replied.

  "Well, I doubt very much that he shall even remember our names," said Shakespeare.

  "Only You did tell him that we were players with Lord Strange's Men," said Smythe.

  Shakespeare frowned. "I did?"

  "You did."

  "Bollocks. Well, perhaps he shall not remember it. In any event, we were able to convince the sheriff's men that we had nothing to do with it, so I am sure we shall be able to convince him likewise, if need be."

  "You had best hope so," Kemp replied. "Else we may be in need of a new book holder, as well as a new…" he waved his hand dismissively, "whatever 'tis you are, Smythe."

  "'Hired man,' I believe, is the proper term for my position with the company," replied Smythe tartly.

  "'Strewth! Do you mean to say that we actually pay you?"

  Kemp replied with mock astonishment.

  "'Why not?" asked Pope, masticating furiously as he shoved a wedge of cheese into his mouth, immediately followed by a large chunk of barley bread. "He remembers his lines at least as well as you do."

  "Methinks he has you there, Kemp," said Shakespeare.

  "You are both impertinent," Kemp said with a disdainful sniff.

  "Oh, good Lord," said Smythe, staring toward the tavern entrance with dismay. "As if this day has not brought ill tidings enough."

  Shakespeare followed his gaze, looking at the man who had just walked in and now stood just inside the doorway, glancing around the tavern. "I say, Tuck, 'tis your father, is it not?" he said.

  "Tuck's father?" Hemings said with surprise. He turned aroun
d on the bench, looking over his shoulder. "Truly?"

  At once, everyone else turned toward the door. Smythe sighed wearily and brought his hand up to his forehead, which had suddenly begun to ache fiercely. "Oh, this can bode no good," he said. "No good at all."

  Symington Smythe H swept the tavern with an aristocratic gaze, then spotted his son, tossed his dark brown cloak back, and started toward them with a regal air.

  "Tuck, you never mentioned having any family in London." Hemings said, turning back toward him. "Did you not tell us that you came from a small village in the country?"

  "Aye, I did," Smythe replied. "Unfortunately, my father chose to follow me to London."

  "Ah, Symington, my boy, there you are!" his father said in a tone that sounded so jovial, Tuck knew that it was forced.

  "'Allo, Father," Smythe said, rising to his feet politely. "Allow me to introduce my father, everyone… Symington Smyrhe II, Esquire. Father, permit me to present the company of Lord Strange's Men." They rose and he quickly introduced them all, noting as he did so that his bluff and hearty, hail-and-well-met manner notwithstanding, his father did not really have the slightest interest in meeting any of them. "And, of course, Father," he added at the end, "you remember my good friend Will Shakespeare."

  "A pleasure, sir," said Shakespeare with a slight bow.

  "Indeed," replied the senior Smythe, barely even glancing at him. "Son, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private for a moment?"

  "Of course," said Tuck, somewhat awkwardly. He excused himself and allowed his father to lead him away to an empty table in the corner. He sighed as they took their seats. "'Twas rather rude of you to treat them so curtly, Father, if I may say so. These are my friends. The very least you could have done was to exchange a pleasantry or two, instead of treating them all as if they were nothing but dirt underneath your feet."

  "They arc nothing but dirt underneath my feet," his father replied with a disdainful grimace. "Bounders, louts, and scallywags, every last man jack of them. Gypsies, moon-men, vagabonds." He snorted. "A fine lot you have taken up with, I can see that."