“For instance, if Pope were to suddenly turn up dead,” continued Smythe, “then we would all think you had done it, Kemp, for every one of us saw you flinging porridge at him and trying to beat his brains out with the ladle. Well, after all… what more proof do you need?”

Kemp folded his arms and harrumphed.

“In all of this debate, there is one thing you all seem to have forgotten,” Molly said. “The unfortunate Master Leonardo’s murder has now left his daughter orphaned in a strange land, friendless, and with her reputation sullied. What about poor Hera? Whatever shall become of her?”

They all fell silent for a moment, thinking of the shy, beautiful young Genoan girl.

“ ‘Tis a hard thing to be left without a family to care for you,” said Molly, quietly. “Harder still when one is in a foreign land.”

“Well, orphaned she may be,” said Smythe, “but neither alone nor friendless, not if I know Elizabeth. She had given the girl her friendship, and Elizabeth is not one to abandon a friend in need.”

“But what about Corwin’s need?” asked Shakespeare. “Surely, his situation is more dire. Neither Ben nor Master Peters can believe that he is guilty of the murder. They both insist that he would not be capable of such a thing.”

“Any man is capable of murder,” Smythe said. “Any man can lose his head and give in to his baser impulses.”

“You, for instance?” Shakespeare asked.

“I am no different, Will,” Smythe replied. “Under the right circumstances, or given enough provocation, I believe that any man could kill. Even you.”

“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare, “but that still does not mean Corwin did the deed.”

“But if not him, who else?” said Kemp. “He came to the theatre in an agitated state, as you said yourself, Will. ‘He was hot,’ you said. Those were your very words. And he was so incensed that he could not wait for Ben; he had to leave at once for Master Leonardo’s house. And sometime between then and the time the Genoan girl came home that night to find her father slain, the deed was done. Who else could have done it? Who else had the opportunity? And the motive?”

Shakespeare grimaced. “Aye. Who else, indeed?”

“Perhaps we should find that out, Will,” Smythe said. “For if Corwin did not do it, then an innocent man shall be taken to the gallows, and a murderer shall go free.”

8

HENRY DARCIE’S FOUR-STORY, LEAD-ROOFED TOWNHOUSE built of rough-cut gray stone bore stately testimony to his success in business. As with many homes built so close together in the crowded environment of London, the upper floors jutted out over the cobblestoned street, so as to take the maximum advantage of space, and expensive glass windows not only afforded plenty of light to the upper floors, but also showed all passersby that the owner of the house was wealthy enough to afford such luxuries. The servant who opened the door glanced at them as if they were curious insects, heard their names without a word, and closed the door again while he went to announce them to the master of the house. Moments later, Henry Darcie came to the door himself to greet them.

“Ah, Shakespeare, Smythe,” he said, nodding to them curtly. “Come in. I assume that you have come about the news of Leonardo.”

“Indeed, we have, sir,” Smythe replied. “We had hoped to speak with Hera, unless, that is, she is too grief-stricken to entertain a visit at this time.”

“Aye, ‘tis a terrible thing, terrible,” Darcie replied, shaking his head. “Here we were, on the verge of acquiring a prosperous new investor for the Theatre. ‘Twould have neatly taken care of all of the needed refurbishing at once, too. Ah, well. Such a pity. Still, one learns to accept these sort of reverses if one is to survive in business. Such is the nature of things. Life goes on.” And then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Poor Hera is upstairs with Elizabeth.”

As they went through the entry hall and toward the stairs, Shakespeare gawked at their surroundings. The planked floors were covered not with rushes, but with rush mats woven in intricate patterns and handsomely colored. The walls were panelled with wood and hung with tapestries, not the cheaper painted cloths that were used by all except the very rich. The furnishings were carved and inlaid with ivory or pearl, many pieces draped with patterned carpets, and some of the chairs were actually upholstered. There was not a boarded stool or chest in sight.

“Actually, sir, with your permission, before speaking with Elizabeth and Master Leonardo’s daughter, I should like to ask you a question or two, if I may,” said Smythe.

Darcie turned toward him and raised his eyebrows. “Concerning what?”

“Concerning the very matter that you just now mentioned, sir,” Smythe replied. “I merely wanted to make certain that my understanding was correct. Had Master Leonardo already made a firm commitment to you and Master Burbage concerning an investment in the Theatre?”

“Indeed, he had,” Darcie replied, nodding emphatically. “And he was most anxious to proceed. Unlike most people, he did not hesitate to make decisions. I saw that quality in him and was encouraged by it. He would weigh an opportunity, assess the potential advantages and risks, and then proceed without wasting any time. As I have said, ‘tis a great pity that things turned out the way they did. We had discussed the possibility of partnership in several ventures.” He shook his head again, in resignation. “He was excited to be making a new start in London, anxious to take advantage of the opportunity to be a partner in the Theatre, and to explore other avenues, as well. Now, all his hopes and dreams have been snuffed out, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Do you know if Master Leonardo had planned any other business ventures, that is to say, other than those he had discussed as possibilities of partnership with you?” Smythe asked.

“I suppose ‘tis entirely possible he may have had such plans, but if so, he did not mention them to me,” said Darcie. “He did not strike me as the sort of man to limit himself. His interests seemed varied and diverse.” He frowned. “Why, what the devil are you getting at, Smythe?”

“Well, sir, I was merely wondering if he might have been involved with anyone in some venture that might have gone amiss in some way,” Smythe replied. “Something of that sort could possibly have been a motive in his murder.”

“Whatever do you mean? I was under the impression that the murderer had already been placed under arrest,” said Darcie, frowning. “ ‘Twas that young goldsmith who had desired to marry Hera, was it not?”

“Corwin was, indeed, arrested this morning, as you have already heard,” Shakespeare said, “but he did protest his innocence most strenuously. And he has friends who believe firmly in his innocence, as well, among them Master Peters, whom you know.”

Darcie grunted. “Aye, well, the lad was his apprentice, after all, and a valued journeyman in his shop. A skilled artisan, by all accounts, whose work was in considerable demand.”

“Are you suggesting that Master Peters may have a selfish motive for his stated belief in Corwin’s innocence?” asked Shakespeare.

“Why, does that not seem possible to you?” asked Darcie.

“Well, I suppose ‘tis possible,” Shakespeare replied. “Master Peters does seem quite fond of Corwin.”

“Well, there you have it, then,” Darcie said, with a shrug. “The young man wanted the daughter; the father disapproved; tempers ran hot-these Italians often get that way, I understand-and the next thing you know, blades are drawn and blood is spilt.”

“You say the father disapproved of him?” asked Smythe, with some surprise.

“Fathers do not always approve of the young men their daughters choose,” said Darcie, wryly, with a glance at Smythe.

Smythe ignored both the well-placed barb and the pointed look. “How very curious,” he said. “I was under the impression that Master Leonardo had not only approved of Corwin, but had already given his consent to the match,” he said.