Simon Hawke - Much Ado About Murder

She nodded several times as he gently helped her to her feet.

“Listen well and correct me if I stray,” he told her, and then he looked at Ben. “A week’s wages was what Master Leonardo paid them, by their own account,” he said. “And week by week, they would be paid thus until they had proved their suitability, at which point, arrangements more to their advantage would be made. Such was the promise.”

He glanced at Mary for confirmation and she nodded several times, emphatically. “Well,” he continued, “for the first few days, they did endeavor to be most suitable, indeed. ‘Tis not easy, after all, to get good work in London nowadays. But as the week drew near a close, and more wages looked to be forthcoming, they felt the need to celebrate. Their positions seemed secure and excellent. Their master did not seem to demand too much of them; likewise their mistress, who was land to them and asked nothing of them that she would not do herself. A servant could certainly do a great deal worse.

“So then,” he went on, “with the week drawing to a close, they decided, as was their custom of an evening, to go to their suppers in the tavern, where they lingered for a while to drink a toast or two or three to their good fortune. By now, after nearly a week, they had learned the regular habits of their master, who as a seafaring man for many years was no doubt an early riser so went early off to bed. They had also learned that Hera had found herself a friend, Elizabeth Darcie, with whom she often spent her evenings, and that these evenings went so pleasantly that Hera often stayed quite late, returning in a carriage that Henry Darcie had most likely provided for her use. Thus, there was no harm in staying out a little late to have their celebration. They had intended to be back before their mistress had returned.”

All three of the servants were now staring at Shakespeare, speechless with disbelief, as if he were some sort of sorcerer, divining precisely what had happened on that night.

“They left the house just as Corwin was arriving,” Shakespeare continued. “Thus did they know that he had been there. They had, of course, seen him before, and so knew who he was, for he was courting Hera. They admitted him to see Master Leonardo, and told him that they were going off to supper. Doubtless, he told them that he would be letting himself out. Likely, he was glad that they were leaving, for he doubtless wished to speak privately with Leonardo, and thus avoid making a scene before the servants. And so, off they went to supper, and then stayed to celebrate a while. When they returned, the house was quiet, and so they naturally assumed their master had retired for the night. Before long, they knew, Hera would return, and then they would be able to go home. And so it was. Hera returned, then went upstairs to say good night to her father, as was her custom, and they heard her screams when she discovered him dead. The rest you know. She went running through the streets in a panic to the Darcie house, the carriage having already returned. Edward, fearful that some greater misfortune might befall her, followed.

“Thereafter,” Shakespeare concluded, “it did not take him very long to realize how things stood. Clearly, he thought, after Corwin had arrived, he and Leonardo must have quarreled and then Corwin killed him. But they had not seen him depart, for they had not been present. When Hera came home later that night, they were there, having returned, unaware that Leonardo already lay dead upstairs. Corwin must have done it. Who else could it have been? Edward realized that they had to swear they saw Corwin leave the house, and that Leonardo had been alive when he arrived, else they themselves might be suspected of the murder. And therein lies the rub. They all swore that they saw Corwin leave the house, when they were never there to see it. And that means Master Leonardo could still have been alive when Corwin left, and that someone else came here to do the deed and leave unwitnessed.”

“Oh, great merciful Heaven protect my soul, can this be true?” said Edward, going deathly pale. “Have I borne false witness against an innocent man?”

“You have borne false witness, Edward, one way or the other,” Shakespeare replied, “and there are penalties for that in both this life and the next which all three of you may now incur. Your only hope now to extricate yourselves from this terrible predicament is to tell us the entire truth.”

“We shall do just as you say, milord,” said Edward, meekly.

“We need to know everything that occurred that night,” said Shakespeare, his gaze encompassing all three servants. “You must recount to us each thing you saw and did and heard, down to the most minute detail, from the time that you last saw your poor master alive to the time Hera came back and found him dead. And do not leave out anything, no matter how unimportant or insignificant it may seem to you, for somewhere in betwixt those times, the foul deed of murder was done, and we have much to do in order to ferret out the truth, and precious little time in which to do it.”

They walked together down the rain-slicked, cobbled street, heading toward the Devil Tavern. It had started to drizzle and the damp, chilly breeze coming in off the river made them draw their cloaks around themselves and pull their hats down low to avoid having them blown off. It was a gray and gloomy sort of day, an early herald of autumn’s approach. However, despite the dismal weather, their spirits were unclouded. For the first time there was now a faint, tentative ray of hope beaming in on Corwin’s fate.

“I was hoping to hear his version of what happened on that night,” Dickens was saying, “but the prison warders would not allow me in to see him at the Marshalsea, where he is held, awaiting trial. And no one has said how soon that trial may be. For all we know, it could be on the morrow, or a month or more away. ‘Twould seem that once a man’s been thrown in prison, his fate is as chaff upon the wind. No one much cares what may become of him, save for his family and friends, and unless they have some influence, there is nothing much that they can do.”

“Well, we may not be without some influence,” said Smythe, “though I am loathe to use it prematurely. I would prefer to wait until it can truly do some good.”

“You mean Sir William?” Shakespeare said.

Smythe nodded. “Aye. A word from him to his friend, Sir Francis Walsingham, would open nearly any door.”

“Do you mean Sir William Worley?” Dickens asked, with surprise. “But he is one of the richest and most powerful men in England!”

“Indeed, he is,” said Smythe. “For which reason I would hesitate to ask him any favors unless we were absolutely certain of our ground.”

“Odd’s blood! The master of the Sea Hawks, and an intimate of the queen, no less!” Dickens was taken aback. “Do you mean to say that you actually know him?”

“We found ourselves in a position to do him some small service a while ago,” said Smythe, downplaying the relationship. “Since then, he has been kind enough to give me work at his estate upon occasion. He has a passion for well-crafted blades, and has a fine forge of his own at Green Oaks. As you know, I have some small skill in that regard. However, I would not wish to presume on Sir William’s good graces unless we knew for certain that we could prove Corwin’s innocence beyond any shadow of a doubt. I am sorry, Ben.”

“Sorry?” Dickens said. “But this is wonderful news, my friends! It means that Corwin’s fate is not nearly as bleak as it had appeared only this morning!”

“Well, I am very glad you see it that way,” Smythe replied, “but I remind you that we are still a long way from our goal of finding out just what happened on that night.”