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 He and Portia Mayhew were in love and were going to be married until her father had suddenly withdrawn his consent, while he and Elizabeth had never declared their feelings to each other.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.”