Simon Hawke - Much Ado About Murder

Elizabeth did not seem to have an answer.

Shakespeare tried another tack. “Did she know that Corwin had gone to her house to see her father and break off the engagement?” he asked, softly.

Elizabeth gasped and her eyes grew wide. “Is this true?” she asked with astonishment.

“He told me so himself,” Shakespeare replied.

“But… why?”

“It seems he believed she had deceived him about her virtue,” he replied.

“What!” Elizabeth said, with disbelief.

“I do not know precisely what Corwin had heard, or from whom,” Shakespeare said, “for he was in a fever of outrage and indignation when he came to the Theatre, but it seems that someone had convinced him that Hera was not… chaste.”

Elizabeth brought her hands up to her face. “Who would do such a vile thing?”

“We do not know,” said Shakespeare. “But we intend to do our utmost to find out.”

“She sits there as if she does not even hear us,” Smythe said, staring at Hera where she sat by the window on the other side of the room. “I know that we are speaking softly, so perhaps she cannot tell what we are saying from over there, but just the same, you would think that she would respond to our presence in some way, at least.”

Elizabeth ’s eyes were glistening with tears. “I have tried speaking to her,” she said, “but she simply does not answer.”

“Let me try,” said Smythe.

“Be gentle with her,” said Elizabeth.

He crossed the room and knelt on the floor by her side. She did not respond to his approach. “Hera…” he said, softy.

She did not respond.

“Hera?”

She kept on staring out the window, as if she hadn’t heard him.

“Hem” he said, more firmly and emphatically, though without raising his voice. He reached out and gently placed two fingers on her cheek, carefully turning her face toward his.

He was not certain if she really saw him, although she seemed to. Her gaze met his and, for a moment, it was as if she were looking through him. Then her eyes focused on his. He wanted to say something to her, but suddenly, he could not seem to find the words. The look in her eyes was one of unbearable pain and sadness, a grief that ran so deep it went down to her very soul. She blinked, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.

“What did you see when you gazed into her eyes?” asked Shakespeare, as they left the Darcie house.

“Unutterable sadness,” Smythe replied. “A grief so deep and all-encompassing that there was no room within her for aught else. It filled her to the very brim.”

They walked side-by-side along the cobblestoned street, keeping near the buildings so as to avoid all the muck that drained down into the declivity at the center. Traffic flowed by in a constant stream, horses and pedestrians, two-wheeled carts and four-wheeled open carriages, coaches and caroches with their curved roofs and ostentatious, plumed ornaments, all creating a cacophany of jingling and creaking, clopping and splashing, shouting and neighing that filled the air with constant noise during the daylight hours.

“Do you suppose she could have known that Corwin was going to break off the engagement?” Smythe asked.

Shakespeare shook his head. “I do not see how she could have known,” he said. “I suppose the only possibility would be if perhaps one of the servants overhead whatever had transpired between Corwin and her father, and then mentioned it to her when she came home, but that seems very unlikely.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, for several reasons,” Shakespeare replied. “Servants who eavesdrop on their masters and then gossip about what they had overheard are certainly not rare, but then they usually gossip amongst one another, certainly not with the daughter of the master of the house.”

“Good point,” said Smythe, nodding.

“And for another matter,” continued Shakespeare, “if any of the servants had overheard whatever passed between Corwin and Master Leonardo, then one would think they surely would have known that something was amiss. One would think they would at least have looked in on their master when Corwin left the house. However, we are told ‘twas Hera who had found her father’s body, and not any of the servants. Either the murder had occurred without any of the servants being alerted, or else they all turned a deaf ear and ignored it. Does that seem very likely to you?”

“It does not,” said Smythe.

“Nor does it to me,” said Shakespeare, emphatically. “What we know thus far about the murder only raises further questions. If Corwin had gone to Master Leonardo’s house to kill him, then surely he would not have stopped first at the Theatre to tell us he was going there. ‘Twould be absurd. So then if Corwin is truly guilty of the crime, then ‘twould only seem reasonable to suppose that he did not go there with the intent of killing Master Leonardo, and that what happened came about in a spontaneous manner. They argued, perhaps a blow was struck, then blades were drawn-”

“Or at least one blade,” Smythe said. “Master Leonardo may have been unarmed for all we know.”

“Quite so,” said Shakespeare. “We must find that out, as well. If he was unarmed, then ‘twas clearly murder. If not, then Corwin could have merely been trying to defend himself. Either way, if the two men fought, then it seems unlikely that there would have been no noise. How could the servants have failed to hear the sounds of such a struggle?”

“ ‘Tis a question we must try to answer,” Smythe replied, “for unless we can find someone who was there to witness it or even hear what happened, the only one who knows the truth of it is Corwin. And I do not know if we shall be permitted to put the question to him.”

“Aye, and even if we could be allowed to speak with him, how would we know if what he told us were the truth?” asked Shakespeare. “Neither of us truly knows him well. If he is guilty of the crime, he could dissemble with us, and if he is a practiced liar, then we would never be the wiser.”

“One thing is for certain,” Smythe said, “we are not going to discover what occurred by questioning Hera any further. For the present, at least, the girl is much too grief-stricken to be of any use. We shall have to seek out Master Leonardo’s servants to see what we can learn.”

“I agree,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “That is the very next thing we must do. And there is one more thing we must discover. Who told Corwin that Hera was not chaste?”

“Who in London could know her well enough to say such a thing and make Corwin believe it?” Smythe asked.

“We are proceeding, then, on the assumption that the tale is a lie?” said Shakespeare.

“Do you doubt it even for a moment?” Smythe asked, with surprise.

“Does it seem impossible there could be truth in it?” Shakespeare countered.

“How can you say such a thing? You have met the girl!”

“Aye, and I have had no words with her other than to give her greeting when we were introduced the other day. To all outward appearances, she seems modest and demure, as Henry Dar-cie said, but what do we truly know of her?”

“Will! I am surprised at you!” said Smythe.

“Why?” asked Shakespeare, puzzled. “Does the question not seem reasonable to you? And if not, then why not?”

“Oft’ it seems to me that you have little love for women,” Smythe replied. “Perhaps your own marriage was not everything you hoped ‘twould be-”

“My marriage has naught to do with it,” Shakespeare said, irritably. “If we are to pursue the truth, Tuck, then we must not presume. Regardless what we think, we must find things out for certain, so that we know them to be true beyond any shadow of a doubt. You are moved to sympathy for Hera, perhaps because of your own feelings for Elizabeth. You know that Henry Darcie only tolerates your friendship with her because he owes you a debt of gratitude, and because he trusts that you would do nothing to dishonor her, nor would she do aught to bring dishonor to herself or to her family. You look at Hera, and what I suspect you see is Elizabeth in a similar situation. You look at Corwin, and I suspect that in some ways, you see yourself. Tis a bad situation altogether, Tuck. You must divest yourself of prejudice and sympathy if you intend to find the truth. What do you truly know of Hera?”