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uch 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.
Darcie raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Where did you hear that?”
Smythe turned to Shakespeare. “Where did we hear that?”
“We have it on the word of Master Peters,” Shakespeare said.
“Is that so?” said Darcie. “Hmm. I had not known that.”
“Betimes, fathers do approve their daughters’ choices,” Smythe said with a straight face, unable to resist.
“Well, then I cannot imagine why the young fool would have killed him.”
“ ‘Twould seem that there was some sort of accusation concerning the young lady’s virtue,” Shakespeare said. “When he came to the theatre, looking for Ben Dickens, Corwin had informed me that he was going to Master Leonardo’s house to break off the engagement.”
“Odd’s blood!” said Darcie. “I had heard none of this at all! I had not even known that there was a formal engagement, much less any question concerning Hera’s virtue!”
“Had she said nothing to you about the matter?” Smythe asked, frowning.
“I should say not!” Darcie said. “S’trewth, the girl scarcely speaks at all. She speaks only to Elizabeth and keeps her eyes so downcast, ‘tis a wonder she can see where she is going. Not that I can fault her for her modesty. ‘Tis a manner most demure and most becoming in a woman. I would not find it amiss if some of it should rub off on Elizabeth. Why, the very thought of such a girl having her virtue brought into question…” He snorted with derision. “ ‘Tis an absurdity! I simply cannot credit it.”
“Yet ‘twould seem that Corwin could,” said Shakespeare.
“If so, then his love for her was fickle,” Darcie said.
“Perhaps. Or else so overwhelming that it overcame his reason,” Smythe said.
“Aye, friendship is constant in all other things save in the office and affairs of love,” mused Shakespeare.
“Yet one more argument in favor of marriages being arranged, as by tradition,” Darcie said with a sniff, as he led the way up the stairs, past portraits of the queen and her most celebrated courtiers. The portraits all looked fairly new, and among them were no relatives, thought Smythe. The mark of the new man was that he had no illustrious antecedents with which to grace his walls. “This peculiar notion of allowing young people to make their own choices in marriage, as if they were no better than working class,” continued Darcie, “is arrant nonsense, if you ask me. Such foolish, bardic sentiments are best left to romantic balladeers and poets. Marriage is much too serious a matter to be cluttered up with feelings.”
“I do not know that I could argue with you there,” said Shakespeare, wryly. Smythe gave him a look.
“And how is poor Hera bearing up under this woeful tragedy?” asked Smythe. Thus far, Darcie had said nothing whatever of her state.
“As well as could be expected, one supposes,” Darcie replied, with a shrug. “She is a quiet girl, and does not seem given to any loud displays of lamentations. Her comportment has been the very model of decorum and restraint. Elizabeth seems more upset about it all than she does.”
