Simon Hawke - The Slaying Of The Shrew

“All the more reason we should avoid making his close acquaintance,” Shakespeare said.

“I thought you just said that you wanted to solve these murders,” Smythe replied.

“I do, insofar as ‘tis an exercise intended as a challenge to the mind, only I would prefer to do so at a safe distance. I find it interesting to puzzle out a killer’s motives and attempt to deduce who he might be, but when it comes to chasing him about with swords and things, I find that my enthusiasm wanes.”

Smythe stopped. “Well, we have now made a complete circuit of the hall and all the lower rooms,” he said. “If Braithwaite and Camden are not outside on the fairgrounds, they must be upstairs, asleep.”

“Perhaps we should follow their example,” Shakespeare said.

“What, and miss all the excitement? I should think that scarcely anyone will sleep this night.”

“I would make a liar of you in an instant.”

“Oh, come on, Will! You have spent many a night at The Toad and Badger, carousing until dawn. Are you going to start yawning on me now?”

“The very mention of it tempts me.”

“Well, fine then. Go sleep, if you must. I shall carry on alone.”

“And catch a dagger or an arrow in your back without me there to watch it for you? I should never sleep a wink again. Your ghost would haunt me, I am certain.”

“Aye, my shade would stand over your bed each night, all horrible and bloody, and would wail piteously until dawn. ‘ Willlllllllll … Willlllllllll… ‘twas all your fault! ‘Twas all your fault!’ “

“You know, I do believe that you would do just that, to spite me.”

“I would.”

“You, sir, are a bounder and a scoundrel.” “And you, sir, are a lily-livered goose.”

A muffled high-pitched giggle stopped them as they went past the library. The door stood slightly ajar. Shakespeare glanced at Smythe. “Surely, you do not suppose…?”

“Two of the guests, perhaps, emboldened by the night’s events?”

“Should we make sure, you think?”

“Perhaps not. ‘Tis really none of our concern…”

They opened the doors to the library together. Hughe Camden scrambled to his feet from the floor as if he had been stung. Blanche Middleton, on the other hand, remained lying where she was, in a tangle of silks and taffeta, revealing a great deal more shapely feminine leg than Smythe had ever seen before, and looking up at them with insolent amusement.

“Uh… we were… uh… just talking and… uh… the lady fell,” said Camden, hastily, his face beet red. “Aye, she fell… that is to say… she swooned, doubtless from the strain of all tonight’s events…”

“No doubt,” said Shakespeare, with a perfectly straight face. “With all of the activity tonight, it must have been quite a strain for her.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Camden, hastily, regaining some of his composure. “I was merely trying to help her up, you see, and I misjudged her weight…”

“I beg your pardon!” Blanche said, from the floor.

“That is to say, the angle, you see, I misjudged the angle, and we both fell, and so now…”

“Now you are back up again,” said Shakespeare.

“Um, precisely. Well. Well, then.” He turned back to Blanche and bent over slightly, holding out his hand to help her up. “Milady…”

She simply gazed up at him, wide-eyed, saying nothing. She made no move to take his hand. “Perhaps these two gentlemen could assist me,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I am sure that between the two of them, they could certainly manage the weight.”

Camden straightened up and cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Ah, well, to be sure, if milady would prefer…” He bit his lower lip, flustered, searching for the proper exit line. “Well, uh…”

Blanche saved him, after a fashion. “Thank you, Master Camden, for your concern and your attentions.”

“My pleasure, milady. Uh… that is to say… you are most welcome. Most welcome, indeed.” He cleared his throat once more. “Gentlemen…”

Shakespeare gave him a small bow and Smythe followed his example. Camden made haste to leave the room.

“I think perhaps I should go after him,” said Shakespeare, “and see if he has heard the news.”

“Aye, perhaps you should,” said Smythe. “I shall be along shortly.”

“No hurry,” Shakespeare said, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. He turned and left the room.

“May I assist you, milady?” Smythe said, offering his hand to Blanche, trying not to be distracted by the fetching sight of all that leg.

“Thank you, good sir,” she said, taking his hand. He gently helped her to her feet and she quickly readjusted her clothing, brushing herself off. “I am really not sure what came over me,” she said. “I suddenly felt so faint, I must indeed have swooned.”

“It must have been a very trying day for you, milady. You should get some rest.”

“I think you are right,” she replied. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your arm and escort me up the stairs? I fear that I might swoon again and lose my footing.”

“Of course,” said Smythe. He offered her his arm. “Tuck Smythe, milady, at your service.”

She took his arm, her fingertips resting lightly on the back of his hand. She smiled at him as they left the library and headed towards the stairs. The hall was deserted now and quiet.

“What news was your friend speaking of just now?” she asked, as they approached the stairway.

“Oh, uh… well, perhaps now is not the time,” said Smythe. “You are unwell and perhaps tomorrow would be better.”

“I want to know,” she said, as they began to climb the stairs.

“Milady, truly, I would not wish to disturb you.”

“Is it disturbing news then?” she asked, her eyes wide. “You have to tell me now. I insist. I could not sleep without knowing. I would stay awake all night and wonder.”

They had reached the landing. “There has been another murder,” Smythe said.

She stopped and gasped. “No! Who?”

Smythe moistened his lips. “Daniel Holland.”

She almost fell. Smythe grabbed her around the waist, thinking she was really going to swoon this time. “Milady!”

She clutched at him. This time, not surprisingly, perhaps, her distress seemed quite genuine. She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath, which made her breasts swell very visibly in her low-cut bodice. Smythe caught himself and quickly looked away. He felt his face flushing.

“Daniel is dead? But…” she hesitated. “When? How did it happen?”

“Milady, perhaps we should not discuss this now-” “I shall be all right. Now tell me!”

Smythe felt her closeness acutely and released her, but she retained a hold on his arm as they continued up the stairs. “He was murdered in the garden maze tonight. Run through with a rapier.” He paused a moment, then added, “ ‘Tis not entirely clear what he was doing there, but it seems that someone must have followed him who meant to do him harm. I do not suppose you would have any idea who might have wished him ill?”

She shook her head. “No. No, not at all. Goodness, to think that…” She caught herself. “To think that he is dead! First my sister, and now this! Poor Daniel!”

“It must have happened very quickly,” Smythe said. “He could not have suffered.”

“Well, that is some small consolation, perhaps. But just the same…” He felt her trembling. He could well understand why, though she, of course, had no idea that he knew. “How very frightening,” she said. “To think that there is a vicious murderer amongst us… I feel so very vulnerable all of a sudden. This corridor is so empty… would you please escort me to my rooms?”