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Shakespeare did not respond, however. He was already running towards the door, for he saw that it stood open. Braithwaite was right on his heels, having had enough presence of mind to pause only long enough to grab a torch from one of the servants. They ran past Middleton, who stood rooted to the spot with the others in the vanguard, and Shakespeare was almost to the door when he felt his arm seized from behind.
“Wait, Will!” Braithwaite said. “Have a care!” He handed him the torch and drew his rapier. “You are unarmed. Stay close behind me.”
Shakespeare hesitated, then followed him through the door.
The scene that greeted them within the vault was startling, to say the least. There stood Smythe, holding Elizabeth in his arms. She was sobbing against his chest as he held her close and tried to comfort her. Next to the carved stone pedestal where Catherine’s shrouded body had been placed, awaiting the completion of the coffin, stood a young man Shakespeare had never seen before. He appeared to be about the same age as Smythe, but of a slighter build, cleanshaven, with blonde hair and strong, handsome features that were contorted with misery as he bent over Catherine’s now un-shrouded body, holding it in his arms as he wept unashamedly. But as dramatic a sight as that presented, even more striking was the stark red blood all over Catherine’s snow white gown and the dagger protruding from her chest.
“Tuck!” said Shakespeare, as soon as he recovered from his initial shock and found his voice. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us! What deviltry is this?”
“Treachery and murder, Will,” Smythe said, looking shaken. “Murder most foul.”
Braithwaite stood there with rapier drawn and held ready, looking both stunned and uncertain. Behind them, Middleton and several others came into the chamber.
“God’s mercy!” Middleton exclaimed, as he beheld the startling tableau before him. “What foul, horrible and loathesome desecration is this! Seize that man!”
Several of the servants rushed forward and grabbed hold of the young man, prying him away from Catherine’s body. For a moment, he resisted them, holding onto her corpse as if with desperation, then he seemed to resign himself and simply went limp, allowing them to pull him away.
Middleton’s eyes widened even further as he recognized Elizabeth, who had turned around at the sound of Shakespeare’s voice and now stared at them all with desolation, her ashen face streaked with tears. “ Elizabeth! Dear God in Heaven, what are you doing in here?”
Her mouth opened as if she were about to reply, but no sound issued forth. It was as if she had lost the power of speech. She could simply find no words.
“We came in and found her thus,” said Smythe, indicating Catherine’s body, which now lay sprawled at an awkward angle, her head hanging down, the dagger protruding starkly. “ ‘Twas Elizabeth who screamed. Catherine was already dead.”
“Is this some ill-conceived notion of a joke?” asked Middleton, his face pale and drawn. “My God, man, what else should she be but dead in her own tomb?”
“That dagger was not there when she was laid to rest earlier this day,” said Smythe.
“Of course that dagger was not there, you imbecile!” said Middleton, his voice trembling with fury. “Because this… this… foul, perfidious, evil fiend has violated both her tomb and body and thus desecrated my poor dead girl by plunging it within! Oh, horrors! Horrors! What manner of vile beast would mutilate the dead?”
“Methinks that was not what happened here,” said Braithwaite slowly, gazing at the body curiously. He put away his rapier and approached Catherine’s corpse. “I truly mean no disrespect by what I am about to say, Master Middleton, but as any hunter would readily attest, blood does not gush forth from a carcass as ‘twould from a body freshly slain. And what we have here, I would hazard from my experience at tracking, is blood that seems but freshly spilled within the hour. ‘Twould seem Will Shakespeare spoke the truth in what he told us all tonight. Without a doubt, your daughter was still alive when she was stabbed.”
“Can this be possible?” said Middleton, his voice strained. “Am I to bury the same daughter twice within the same day? Oh, Heaven! Oh, monstrous spite! Then this foul villain has slain her!”
“No!” Elizabeth shouted. “No, ‘tis not true! He loved her!”
“Then from whence came that dagger buried in her breast?” Middlete
on demanded.
“ Tis mine,” Mason said, dully.
“John, no!” Elizabeth shouted.
“There! You see? Convicted out of his own mouth!” cried Middleton, pointing at him. “Venomous wretch! Who are you, that you would visit such vile treachery upon me? What is your name, villain? Speak!”
“My name is John Mason,” he replied, emptily. “I am… or I have been a groom at Green Oaks. Now… now I am nothing.”
“A groom! A groom, by God! And at good Sir William’s estate! Incredible! And you…” He turned his wrathful gaze on Elizabeth. “My best friend’s daughter, and I had treated you as if you were my own! Thus do you repay my kindness towards you, by conspiring with this deceitful rogue to seduce my poor daughter and lead her to her ruin! You are as guilty of her death as he is!”
“Oh, that was base!” Elizabeth said, flushing red with anger. “In your spiteful eagerness to place the blame, you put it everywhere save where it belongs, squarely upon your own shoulders! Had you not tried to force her into a farcical and loveless marriage intended solely to advance your own ambitions, there would have been no need for Catherine to resort to the deception that has led to this sad end! John Mason is no murderer. Look at him! See his face! So utterly undone is he by Catherine’s death that he will not even speak out to defend himself! He did not do this awful thing! If you have him arrested for this crime, then the true criminal shall go free! And God Himself shall judge you for it!”
“Enough!” said Middleton. “You go too far! This is what comes of too much tolerance and too soft a hand with children! You have said quite enough, Elizabeth! Had you been born a man, so help me, I would seek my satisfaction, but as you are a woman, I will leave you to your father. Let him decide what is to be done with you. Henceforth, you are no longer welcome in my house. You may stay the night, until your father comes for you in the morning, but I shall suffer neither your impertinence nor your presence any longer. Now get out of my sight!”
“Tuck,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice from breaking, “would you be so kind as to escort me?”
“Of course,” said Smythe. He glanced at Shakespeare. “Will?”
Shakespeare nodded and started to walk out with them.
