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“Hell and damnation. Come on, then, shake it off. Give me your hand… Help me, Will, he weighs more than a bloody ox.”
Together, they helped Smythe to his feet.
“Forgive me, Tuck,” Sir William said. “Are you badly hurt?”
“I… I shall live… I think,” Smythe managed, his voice strained and constricted.
“Sir William, we had not realized ‘twas you,” said Shakespeare. “We thought you might have been the killer! Whatever were you doing out here at this time of night?”
“I might well ask you lot the same thing,” Worley replied.
“We were attempting to deduce who murdered Catherine tonight,” said Shakespeare.
“You mean this morning,” Worley said.
“No, I mean tonight,” said Shakespeare. “She was stabbed to death sometime this evening in her tomb.”
“A moment,” Worley said, frowning. “I could have sworn that you just said she was stabbed to death this evening in her tomb.”
“Aye, she was slain within her tomb, milord,” said Smythe.
“Presumably, one must already be dead before one is laid to rest within a tomb,” said Worley. “I mean, ‘tis customary, is it not?”
“Under ordinary circumstances, ‘twould indeed be so,” Smythe replied, “but in this case, things were far from ordinary. Catherine was not dead when she was laid to rest within her tomb, you see, but merely drugged with a potion so as to feign death.”
“You see, milord, ‘twas all a plot conceived by Catherine and Elizabeth,” Shakespeare added, “to enable Catherine to escape the marriage to Sir Percival and instead run off with John Mason.”
“John Mason? It so happens I have a young groom by that name.”
“And it so happens Catherine had a young lover by that name,” said Shakespeare.
“ ‘Twas the very same man, milord,” said Smythe.
“My groom was Catherine’s lover?” Worley glanced from Smythe to Shakespeare to Elizabeth. “Can this be true?”
“Aye, Sir William,” she replied. “ ‘Tis true.”
“Zounds! Where is he now?”
“Middleton has him locked away somewhere, p
resumably,” said Shakespeare. He quickly brought Sir William up to date on what had happened.
“Astonishing!” said Worley, when the poet had finished. He shook his head. “What a terrible and tragic twist of fate. The poor, unfortunate girl.”
Smythe had, by now, largely recovered from the effects of the blow, though he still stood a bit bent over. “We were going to question the carpenter, Sir William. We think the killer might have been young Holland. No one has seen him since the funeral, it seems.”
Worley shook his head. “Not so. Holland was surely not the killer,” he said. “I, for one, have seen him.”
“When, milord? And where?” asked Smythe.
“Just now, back there,” said Worley, jerking a thumb back toward the maze.
“In the maze?” Elizabeth said, with surprise. “Why, whatever would he be doing in there?”
“Blanche Middleton,” said Worley, dryly, “with apologies for my indelicacy, milady. But within moments after I returned, I saw young Holland skulking about suspiciously and so decided to follow him. The two of them met within the maze, in an arbor at its center, and were still… actively engaged… when I departed. Needless to say, they did not see me. They were quite preoccupied.”
“Well, thus is my report of Blanche’s character borne out, as you can see,” Elizabeth said, with distaste. “And by no less impeccable a witness than Sir William. That she could so disgracefully disport herself on the very day of her own sister’s funeral… Heavens, need any more be said?”
