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“Well… they would, in a month’s time,” said Edward. “Once we had proved our suitability.”
Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances. “So then you did not sleep here?” Smythe asked.
“Why… no, milord.”
“Neither did you eat here?” Shakespeare asked.
“No, milord,” Edward replied, a bit more tentatively. He suddenly looked uncomfortable.
Shakespeare immediately followed up, watching the man carefully. “Where did you dine?”
“Why… we all dined together at the nearby tavern,” Edward said, glancing at them nervously, his eyes darting back and forth. “The ordinaries are very reasonable there.”
“And the ale too, no doubt,” said Smythe.
Before the man could reply, Shakespeare quickly asked, “How long we
re you gone to supper the night Master Leonardo was killed?”
They noticed that the women had gone very still. They both looked pale and Mary’s lower lip had started trembling. They both looked frightened as they clutched each other’s hands tightly. Edward did not look much better.
“Why… why, not long at all,” stammered Edward. “No longer than usual, I am quite certain…”
“You were out drinking and carousing,” said Smythe, fixing him with a hard look.
“Nay, milord, we were not!” protested Edward, blinking. “We only went to supper! Honest!”
“You are lying, Edward,” Smythe said, stepping up close and looming over him. “You were out drinking.”
“Nay, ‘tisn’t true! We only went to supper!” Edward protested, but he swallowed hard and retreated back against the wall, looking panicked.
“You were in the tavern, drinking and carousing,” Shakespeare said, “all three of you.” He turned to the women, who were now both trembling and crying. “We shall go to the Devil Tavern and inquire of the tavernkeeper. I am quite certain that he will recall what transpired that night, as everyone has heard of it by now. No doubt he will remember you. And then you three shall all be going to the devil!”
“We didn’t kill him! We swear!” wailed Mary, sinking to her knees and clutching at Shakespeare’s doublet. Elaine simply started blubbering.
“Shut up, you fools!” shouted Edward.
Smythe grabbed him by the front of his doubtlet and slammed him back against the wall, hard enough to stun him momentarily and silence him.
“We didn’t do it! I swear we didn’t!” Mary sobbed. “I swear, so help me God!”
“Please, sir! Please!” was all that Elaine was able to manage.
“Bloody hell!” said Dickens. “ ‘Twas the servants murdered him! They murdered him to get his money!”
“We never did! I swear we never did!” cried Mary, desperately.
“Nay,” said Shakespeare, shaking his head as he looked down at Mary, “they did not kill him. He was already dead when they returned.”
She looked up at him with disbelief and awe, as if he were her guardian angel suddenly descended from on high. “Oh, God be praised, sir, ‘tis true! ‘Tis true! God bless you, sir, ‘tis true, I swear it on my life!”
“You are swearing it on your life, you slattern,” Dickens told her. “And ‘tis a life that will be forfeit!” He looked at Shakespeare. “Surely, you do not believe this lying wench?”
“Aye, I do believe her,” Shakespeare said, quietly, looking down at her with pity. “Think you that they would have remained within this house until Hera had returned, all the while knowing that their master was lying dead upstairs?”
Edward glanced from Smythe to Shakespeare and then back again. He had the look of a drowning man who had just been thrown a rope. “ ‘Twas just how it happened, milords, ‘tis true! Honest! We never knew that he was dead! We never did!”
“And you became convinced you would be blamed,” said Shakespeare, “unless you all swore to it that you were here when Corwin left the house.”
