Any of them, Smythe thought, could be the plotters he had overheard in the maze, though some seemed more likely candidates than others. There seemed to be no way, at least for the present, to verify their true status or their claims, and Smythe was certainly in no position to question their veracity. To his immense frustration, he was not able to recognize any of their voices. Dubois’ voice seemed the most unlike those that he had overheard, as did his accent, but then again, the accent could be something he was faking, although if he was, he was certainly convincing, and his father spoke not at all, which Smythe found a bit suspicious. Of the remaining three, Daniel Holland seemed, perhaps, the least likely to be one of the plotters, as both Worley and Middleton had thought, as well. He neither looked nor acted like a rogue, and if Smythe were casting for the part, Daniel Holland would probably have been the last one that he would pick. He looked like a student at the Inns of Court, and he seemed very well educated. He quoted poetry and wrote it. Yet since Sir William had departed, Smythe had noticed something else about young Holland that had given him some pause.
Most well-dressed gentlemen went armed, and the guests at Middleton Manor were no exception, especially the young, fashionable men who vied for Blanche Middleton’s attention. Dubois, as might be expected of a French chevalier, had a very showy blade, a rapier with a curvaceous basket hilt and jewelled crossguards. It seemed quite well made, though Smythe was unable to make a close inspection. However, it made sense that a man who could afford the sort of elegant clothing Dubois wore would also be able to afford a first-class blade. Whether or not he knew how to use it was another matter entirely. He wore it in a rakish hanger, but beyond that, Smythe had his doubts that the blade had ever been drawn in practice, much less combat. Likewise, Braithwaite and Camden both wore blades, and if they were not as showy and expensive looking as the Frenchman’s, they were nevertheless quite handsome. Daniel Holland, on the other hand, who looked as if wearing a blade would suit him about as well as a silk dressing gown would suit a horse, wore a rather plain-looking rapier with a cup hilt and hooked cross-guards. It was of Spanish design, and it was most certainly not the blade of a courtier or fop or roaring boy. It was the purposeful blade of a duelist. It was, of course, quite possible that Holland had purchased it cheaply in the city from some down-on-his-luck soldier and had no more idea how to use it than Smythe had of writing poetry. But Smythe found it interesting, just the same.
Until he knew more, Smythe could not eliminate any of them from consideration. Sir William had the best chance of uncovering any possible deception with a few inquiries at court, but until he could return, Smythe was on his own. The trouble was he did not know what, if anything, he could accomplish. He wished that Shakespeare would return from London soon, for the poet had a clever way of thinking through things and looking at situations from all sides that doubtless came from plotting out his plays. His mind was quite adept at doing that. However, as the day wore on towards evening and Shakespeare still did not return, Smythe could but observe the suspects from a distance and attempt to guess which, if any of them, had tried to kill him in the maze.
At the same time, he could not help but notice that Elizabeth kept right on avoiding him. At the funeral, she had wept openly and unashamedly, and was more demonstrative in her grief than anyone, even Blanche, who dabbed daintily at her eyes with a handkerchief and kept her gaze downcast. Elizabeth had been escorted by her father, who had left for London shortly thereafter, promising to send a carriage for her on the following day, for she had seemed much too distraught to travel. Since then, Smythe had not even seen her. He told himself that she had every reason to feel upset and had probably retired to one of the upstairs rooms. But something told him there was more to it than that.
Elizabeth simply did not seem herself, and some instinct told him there was more to it than grief over a murdered friend, however unlikely that may have seemed. He simply could not shake the feeling. He had learned to trust his instincts. Therefore, when he saw Elizabeth come furtively down the stairs that evening as the sun was going down and head outside, he followed her once more.
8
He was cold and wet and there was mud all over his clothing from helping the coachman wrestle with the wheel of the carriage in the pouring rain. The fool had been as reckless with his breakneck speed on the return trip as he had been going out to London, but this time, instead of worrying about a wreck, Shakespeare had urged him to go even faster.
Shortly after they set out, it began to rain and he had held on for dear life, gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the way the light carriage careened and bounced along the rutted road. He could think of nothing else but what Granny Meg had told him and he knew he had to get back to Middleton Manor as soon as humanly possible. And so, of course, they had a wreck.
The wheel had come off after the carriage had bounced up and come down particularly hard, and Shakespeare was very nearly thrown from the seat. He and the driver had both somehow managed to hang on as the carriage slewed to a stop, further damage prevented only by the fact that the road had completely turned to mud where a creek had overflowed its banks and washed across their way, thereby softening the surface. Fortunately, the wheel had not been damaged and together they were able to replace it, effecting a barely workable repair. However, that was not until they had sworn and shouted at each other and pretty much exhausted their entire repertoire of epithets, at which point the driver, exasperated to the point of sheer blind fury, had launched himself at Shakespeare and together they tumbled down into the mud, where they grappled and pummelled one another until the utter absurdity of their situation struck them and they had started laughing, which ended the fight and induced a spirit of mutual cooperation in the face of adversity.
“Come on, now, Ian, God blind you,” Shakespeare urged the coachman, from his seat beside him, “can you not go any faster?”
“Not unless you want that poxed wheel to come off again,” Ian replied. “Now sit still, damn you, and stop pestering me!”
“Tis growing dark,” said Shakespeare, with concern. “How much farther?”
“God!” Ian rolled his eyes. “Not far. Only a few miles. Have patience!”
“We wasted too much time back there.” “Well now, whose fault was that, eh?”
“You dissentious scoundrel! You dare suggest ‘twas mine? The reins were in your hands!”
“Aye, but you distracted me!”
“Odd’s blood, you were born distracted, you simpleton!”
“Sod off!”
“You bloody well sod off!”
“One more word and God be my judge, ‘tis walking back ye’ll be!”
The carriage lurched suddenly and skewed sharply to the left, coming down with a jarring impact and skidding to a halt as the hoses neighed and reared in protest.