Worley frowned. “Good Lord, Godfrey! Is that what you thought?”
“What else should I think, damn you?” Middleton shot back, and then he suddenly caught his breath and paled as comprehension dawned. “Dear God in Heaven! Do you mean to tell me she was murdered?”
“I fear she was, Godfrey,” Worley said. “Smythe, here, overheard two men last night, plotting in the garden, and it very nearly cost him his life. I thought it best if he were to tell you what he heard in his own words.”
Quickly, Smythe recounted the details of what had transpired in the maze the previous night. Middleton listened without saying a word, his features strained, his lips compressed into a tight grimace. When Smythe had finished, Middleton simply stood there, motionless and silent, as if he could find no words to say.
At length, Sir William broke the awkward silence. “Godfrey… are you well? Perhaps you should sit down?”
Middleton blinked several times and looked at him. “My God,” he said, hoarsely. He made a weak, waving sort of gesture towards the sideboard. “There is wine… in the decanter there. Help yourselves, please. I insist.”
Smythe went to pour them all a drink. He handed a goblet to Middleton, one to Sir William, and then took one for himself.
“How is the groom taking it?” asked Worley.
Middleton snorted. “Sir Percival? He is out there somewhere, dithering and acting very put upon. One would think that Catherine died just to inconvenience him.” He grimaced, then raised his goblet in a toast. “To my daughter, Catherine,” he said, somberly. “May merciful Almighty God rest and protect her poor, unhappy and un-shriven soul.”
“Amen,” said Worley, softly.
They drank.
Middleton simply tossed the goblet aside onto the floor. “Now then,” he said, grimly, “what are we going to do about this?”
“We are going to find the guilty parties, Godfrey,” Worley said, “and then they shall hang.”
“Not nearly punishment enough,” said Middleton, with a hard edge to his voice, “but as we are not Spaniards, I suppose that it shall have to do. What do you want from me?”
“Proceed with the funeral and hold the fair, as planned,” said Worley. “Let it be known that it shall be held in Catherine’s memory. In the meantime, we shall begin to ferret out our plotters by paying particular attention to your younger daughter’s present suitors, especially those whose families we do not know. In this regard, Tuck Smythe here will assist us, as will young Shakespeare when he returns. They have assisted me before in a matter of great import and they have my fullest confidence.”
Middleton nodded. “Then that is good enough for me. I shall see to it that they have whatever they require.”
“Do so, but pray, do so with discretion,” Worley cautioned him. “Our quarry shall be brought to ground more swiftly if they do not suspect that they are being hunted.”
“It shall be done as you wish, Sir William,” said Middleton. “I am in your debt.”
“He who strikes out at my neighbor strikes at me,” said Worley. “I am certain that you would do no less if you were in my place. Smythe and Shakespeare shall be our hounds in this regard. For the present, I fear that I must leave and rejoin Her Majesty, who shall be awaiting my return. However, I shall inform her of what has happened here and beg her leave to absent myself from court in order to pursue this matter to its swift conclusion. I feel confident that she shall not refuse me.”
“You honor me in this,” said Middleton.
“Murder does dishonor to us all,” Worley replied. “Now, before I leave, let us sit down and put our heads together, so that Smythe may have the benefit of our common knowledge and proceed in my absence…”
The funeral was held late that afternoon, when the performance of the play had originally been scheduled. Much to everyone’s surprise, however, it was announced that the players would still perform on the afternoon of the following day. This news was as much of a surprise to the Queen’s Men as to anybody else. They had fully expected that their performance would be cancelled because of the bride’s death and were thus quite taken aback by the announcement. They had already returned the Roman togas they were given as costumes for the bride’s arrival and had started packing up their gear to leave. Now, with this unexpected turn of events, it brought about a flurry of unpacking and new preparations.
A lively debate ensued among them about which play from their repertoire should be performed. Burbage was strongly of the opinion that Shakespeare’s new play, being a broad and rather bawdy comedy, would now be completely unsuitable for the occasion, and most of the players agreed. Kemp, of course, was the notable exception, for any comedy with a good deal of physicality and broad humor played mostly to his strengths as a dancer and a clown. John Fleming argued that a tragedy should be performed instead, for that would be more in keeping with the funereal occasion.
Part of the problem was that with Shakespeare still away in London, the man who would be most adept at making any last minute alterations in any of their plays to render them more suitable was gone, and they could not seem to agree on which play should be performed or whether any changes should be made. The one thing they all seemed able to agree on was that, under the circumstances, the success of their performance would almost certainly be doomed from the beginning. However, they could not very well refuse to perform. It simply was not done, aside from which, they had already been paid; their audience would be an illustrious one; and their host was a good friend of one of their principal investors. It was a situation that none of them were pleased with and their mood was petulant and sullen.
After explaining that he and Shakespeare had both been directed by Sir William to perform some special tasks for their bereaved host, Smythe left them arguing amongst themselves. As he was not one of the principal actors, or even a significant supporting player, Smythe thought wryly that he would not truly be missed unless there was a need to move any heavy objects. It occurred to him, in passing, that here was probably the single greatest opportunity for him as a player to make a good impression on some of the most important people in the city, and it now looked as if he would not even be setting foot upon the stage. But then again, the few times that he had set foot upon it, he had not distinguished himself for anything save his maladroitness.
“Face it, Smythe,” he mumbled to himself, as he left the others arguing in their quarters, “as a player, you make an admirable blacksmith.”
In the months since he had arrived in London together with Will Shakespeare, whom he had met upon the road, they had accomplished much together. They had managed to find jobs, for one thing, which in itself was a significant accomplishment, considering the vast numbers of people arriving in London every day from small towns and villages across the country. And not only had they found jobs, but they had found positions with one of the most illustrious companies of players in the land, which had been the dream they shared in common.
Granted, they had started out as ostlers, tending to the horses and carriages of playgoers, but Shakespeare had quickly demonstrated his value to the company as a poet and adapter of existing plays, while he, at least, had managed to move up to stagehand and occasional spear carrier, though he was still expected to perform his duties as an ostler when not otherwise engaged. And considering his appalling lack of talent as an actor and his disastrous clumsiness on stage, Smythe knew that he should consider himself fortunate not to have been summarily dismissed from the company. In all likelihood, he thought, he would have been let go already, were it not for Shakespeare, whose abilities were highly valued by the Queen’s Men and for whose sake they had kept him on.