“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.”
“Aye, I know that,” Dickens said, “nevertheless, this still means that there is hope. S’trewth, I had been half convinced myself that he had done it, shamed as I am by it. Now that I know the servants were not in the house that night, their testimony of what happened becomes absolutely meaningless. Why, they never even saw him leave! I wanted to seize that rascal Budge right by his throat and throttle him for his base and cowardly lie!”
“He was afraid,” said Shakespeare. “And he was absolutely convinced that Corwin was the murderer. It had never even occurred to him that anyone else could have come to the house after Corwin had left.”
“That still does not excuse the foulness of his lie!” said Dickens, savagely.
“Indeed, it does not,” Shakespeare agreed, “although it may at least explain it. The poor man was stricken with remorse when it dawned upon him that he may have condemned an innocent man. And that is very fortunate, for it means he has a conscience. We should be thankful for that, otherwise he would be packing his things even as we speak and preparing to flee London.”
“He may still do just that,” said Smythe, “if he grows frightened enough. They may all run off once they have had time to think about it.”
Shakespeare shook his head. “I do not think so, Tuck. I think you convinced them that ‘twould look very bad for them indeed if they fled London now, for with our testimony, they would then become the chief suspects in the crime. Never fear, they shall not be going anywhere. Guilt, remorse, and misery shall surely root them to the spot as firmly as if we had put chains upon them.”
“All the more so now that they know we shall be making inquiries at the tavern to gather further proof of how long they were there that night,” said Dickens. “I am growing ever more hopeful by the moment, my friends. Once we free Corwin from prison, I shall be ever in your debt.”
“Well, we have not freed him yet,” said Shakespeare. “And once again, Ben, I do not mean to cast gloom upon your spirits, but simply knowing that Corwin had departed without the servants seeing him and that Leonardo was alone inside the house for some period of time does not tell us that someone else came there and killed him. It only means that someone else could have done it.”
“By Heaven, why do you persist in wanting to see only the worst, Will?” Dickens asked, irritably.
“Because I do not think ‘tis wise to hold out any false hope,” Shakespeare replied. “Nor do I think it prudent for us to assume things that we do not yet know. Also, in all fairness, I feel bound to remind you that while Corwin seemed to me an amiable young man of excellent character, you know him better than either of us do. You may well know in your heart that he could not have done this deed, but Tuck and I do not, for our acquantance with him is but slight.”
“So then you do believe he did it!” Dickens said.
“Nay, I do not believe he did,” Shakespeare replied, patiently. “But what I believe and what I know are not the same. I shall endeavor to find out the truth, Ben, but I may not find it if I only look in some places and turn a blind eye to others.”
“And you did suspect yourself that Corwin may have done it,” Smythe reminded Dickens gently. “You were so distraught at the possibility that he may truly have been guilty that now you have seized upon the mere possibility that he may be innocent. And ‘tis only a possibility at this point, Ben. We do not yet know it for a certainty, although things do look brighter for him than they did this morning.”
“The two of you seem very close,” said Shakespeare.
“Aye, Corwin is, indeed, my very closest friend,” said Dickens. “If he were my own brother, Will, we could not be closer. We have known each other since we were children. I had only just begun my apprenticeship with the Queen’s Men and was living with the Flemings, as you know. Corwin was then apprenticed to Master Peters, who lived nearby. We often played together when we were not busy with our duties. In time, when my voice began to change and I could no longer play the female roles convincingly, ‘twas Corwin who helped arrange my new apprenticeship by asking Master Peters to speak with Master Moryson the armorer on my behalf. I then asked to be released from my apprenticeship to the company and John Fleming let me go, although he said that he was loathe to do so, but he understood that I was young and chafed for something more, another sort of life, some manner of adventure similar to that which we portrayed upon the stage. Afterwards, for a while, I thought that I had found that sort of adventure with the Steady Boys, but once again, ‘twas Corwin who came and convinced me of the folly of running with a bunch of wild, roaring boys who were just as likely to wind up in prison as they were to break one another’s heads. I saw that he was right, but without the Steady Boys, I still felt a need for some adventure. I had met some soldiers of fortune through my work at Master Moryson’s shop and they seemed to live the sort of life I yearned for. Once more, ‘twas Corwin who tried to dissuade me, but my hunger for adventure was too strong. Afterwards, when I was gone, ‘twas Corwin once again who…” And then his voice trailed off abruptly as he caught himself. He gave them a quick, sidelong glance. For a moment, he looked like a guilty boy caught stealing a steaming, fresh-baked pie from a windowsill where it was cooling.
“He kept an eye on Molly for you,” Smythe said, “did he not?”
Dickens looked at him with astonishment. “However did you know?”
“ ‘Twas not very difficult to guess, Ben,” Smythe told him, with a chuckle. “If the love you have for one another is a secret, then ‘tis very poorly kept, indeed, for anyone can see how you two feel about each other. For all the verbal fencing the two of you engage in, for all the barbed remarks, the biting comments, and retorts, ‘tis clear to one and all you are in love. What is not clear is why you ever left her. I do believe you broke the poor girl’s heart.”
“Is that what she believes?” asked Dickens. “That I had left her?”
“Have you ever given her any reason to believe aught else?” asked Shakespeare.
“ ‘Twas never so,” protested Dickens. “I did not leave Molly. Instead, I left one life to make another. I had heard tales of mercenaries who had made their fortunes fighting in foreign wars, and how some had even gained rank and titles from grateful sovereigns. I had hopes that I, too, could make my fortune as a soldier and come back as a gentleman. Then I would have had the means to offer Molly a better life, the sort of life that she deserved. Alas, ‘twas not to be. The glamour of a mercenary soldier’s tale is only in the telling. The truth is that he does well if he loses neither life nor limb. I did well, I suppose, in that I did not come back a cripple. But I came back with nothing I could offer Molly.”
Shakespeare sighed and shook his head. “Ah, Ben,” he said, shaking his head. “Why is it that we men never learn? ‘Tis not a better life that a good woman wants a man to give her; she only wants to share the life he has. A woman like Molly does not want your money. Faith, she only wants your heart.”
“If you are so full of wisdom about women, Will, then where is the woman who shares your life and has your heart?” asked Dickens, irritably.
For a moment, Shakespeare looked stung, but he recovered quickly. “Alas, the one who had my heart was not, as it turned out, the one who shared my life, and shares it still, if only at a distance,” he replied. “Had I not been such a fool… well, never mind, what’s done is done. There is little to be served in dwelling in the past. ‘Tis what lies ahead that matters.”