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“What is your name?” Shakespeare asked him.
“I am called Edward Budge, milord.”
“And the women?”
“This here is Mary Alastair, milord,” he replied, indicating each with a gesture, “and this is Elaine Howard.”
“You are both English,” Shakespeare said.
“Aye, milord,” they both replied nervously, almost but not quite in unison. They bobbed in a slight curtsy.
“Was there not a Genoan lady in this house?” asked Shakespeare. “A governess or maidservant for Master Leonardo’s daughter?”
“Nay, milord, we was all there is,” replied the one called Mary. “The mistress did for herself, she did.”
“Aye, very good to us, she was, milord,” added Elaine. “A kind soul with a good heart is our Mistress Hera; never spoke a cross word to any of us. Never struck us, neither.”
“Aye, she wouldn’t ask us to do anything she wouldn’t do herself,” added Mary. As they spoke, they both kept glancing at Edward, as if for reassurance. He nodded in agreement.
“How very strange,” said Shakespeare, puzzled. He looked at Ben. “You came to England aboard ship with Master Leonardo and his daughter, did you not?”
“Aye, I did,” said Dickens.
“And did they bring no servants with them from Genoa at all?”
Dickens looked blank for a moment. “Now that you mention it, I do not recall there being any servants attending them aboard ship, although for most of the voyage Hera had remained below, struck with the sea sickness. I may have assumed that there was someone taking care of her, but in truth, I do not believe I ever gave the matter any thought, one way or the other.”
“It never struck you as peculiar that a wealthy man such as Master Leonardo would be traveling without servants?” Shakespeare asked.
Dickens shook his head. “I suppose not. ‘Twas his ship we sailed upon. Doubtless, with his crew, he had no need of servants on the voyage.”
“That could be,” admitted Shakespeare. “But it does strike me as peculiar that he would bring no one along to attend upon his daughter. And that he would maintain only three servants here in London.”
“Perhaps, with a modest house like this, he did not require more,” said Dickens.
“Aye, ‘tis a modest enough house for a wealthy man,” Shakespeare agreed. “We had been discussing that before. I suppose that I understand a man of means choosing to live in a home such as this if his needs were few and simple, or else if he had planned to purchase or build a better house at some point in the near future. Nevertheless, I still find it passing strange that he should choose to live so simply. After all, he had retired from his life at sea to live a more comfortable, settled life on land. And yet, observe these furnishings. Boarded stools and chests, likewise a cupboard, all pegged with wood or nailed… not a single piece of jointed furniture, not one carved or upholstered chair. That chest upstairs, which you had splintered with your boot…’tis the sort of simple, inexpensive, boarded chest that you or I might own. The one good, solid piece here was that old sea chest that was upended in the bedroom, with the clothes all tumbled out of it and strewn about. Everything else here is poor-man’s furniture… made of common boarded oak, left plain, and stained with linseed oil.”
“So what then?” asked Ben. “That only goes to show that Leonardo was a frugal man.”
“Methinks I would say more than frugal,” Shakespeare replied. “I would say he pinched his pennies so tightly that the queen winced.”
“That is often how a man of modest means becomes a wealthy man,” said Dickens. “And old habits die hard.”
“Perhaps,” said Smythe, as a new idea occurred to him. “Or else that is how a man of very little means makes himself out to seem a wealthy man.”
“What, are you suggesting that Leonardo had no money?” Dickens said. “Nonsense! He was the master of his own merchant ship, which he had sold for a handsome profit upon coming to England!”
“Aye, and we may be standing in the midst of those profits,” said Smythe, looking around at their surroundings. “And ‘tis possible that they were not nearly so handsome as you think.”
Shakespeare turned back to the servants. “Edward, tell us, when you hired on with Master Leonardo, did he pay your wages in advance?”
“Aye, milord,” the servent replied. “A week’s wages for each of us.”
“Only a week?”
“Aye,” Edward replied. “ ‘Twas to be a trial period. We were to be paid a week’s wages at a time until the master had decided we were suitable, and then we were promised that arrangements more to our advantage would be made.”
“And your wages included room and board, of course?” asked Shakespeare.
