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"Hey, you, down there! Shaddap!" A stream of odoriferous slop came pouring down from a second-story window above them as somebody threw out the contents of a chamberpot, just barely missing them.
"Why, that miserable, misbegotten—"
"Never mind, never mind," interrupted Shakespeare, pulling on Smythe's arm to hurry him along. "We really do not have time for this. I should very much like to complete our errand and return in enough time to attend at least part of today's rehearsal. Henslowe has said that he would be fining us from now on if we did not attend."
"Well, I suppose you are right," Smythe grumbled, allowing himself to be led away. He shot a venomous glance back toward the building from whence the excrementory assault had come. 'We should be nearing Leffingwell's shop, in any event."
"I believe 'tis right around the corner," Shakespeare said, as they came around a bend in the curving street and entered a small, cobblestoned cul-de-sac containing a number of shops with painted wooden signs hanging out over their doors.
Several of these shops had display windows in the front with one large wooden shutter that was hinged at the bottom, so that it swung down to open and swing up to close, then was latched from the inside. When swung down in the open position, this shutter, supported by chains or ropes, functioned as a display table upon which the craftsmen could show their wares to passers-by in the street. Of course, it was often necessary to fasten the goods down or have someone there to watch them; otherwise a thief could make off with something without even entering the shop. Here, however, such a snatch-and-grab would be rendered more difficult, since these shopkeepers had all joined forces to hire a couple of burly, rough-looking men armed with clubs and daggers to act as guards. They sat upon wooden kegs at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, leaning back against the building walls with their thick arms folded across their massive chests, giving everybody who came past them a close scrutiny.
Smythe and Shakespeare entered the tailor shop where Thomas Locke had served his apprenticeship and now worked as a journeyman. The owner of the shop, a lean and severe-looking master tailor, approached them, looked them over quickly, and did not quite manage to mask his purse-lipped disapproval of their attire, which was neither very fashionable nor very expensive. Still, there was always the possibility that they might be looking to upgrade their appearance, and so he put on a polite smile and asked them if he could be of any assistance.
"In truth, sir, we came in search of Thomas Locke, who we were told is employed here as a journeyman," said Smythe. "We have a message for him from his father."
The tailor sighed and rolled his eyes. "Indeed, everyone seems to be looking for Thomas today," he replied with irritation. "I, too, would very much like to know what has become of him. He should have been here hours ago. 'Tis most unlike him to be so late."
"What do you mean, everyone seems to be looking for him?" Shakespeare asked. "Has someone else been here asking for him, as well?"
"Aye, three women came by in a carriage a little while ago," the tailor replied. "They were asking about him, too. One of them was his betrothed, or so she claimed."
"Did she give her name as Portia?" Smythe asked.
"Aye, she was the one," the tailor replied. "A pretty young thing, if you like that sort. A bit on the coltish side, if you ask me, but with the right style of clothing, in a fuller cut, she could present a decent figure, I suppose. I know not who her tailor is, and did not presume to ask, but she could certainly do better. The other one was not all that much different. Antonia, I think she said her name was, a bit more brassy looking, but well dressed in silks and damasks in dark hues that set off her colouring to good advantage. However, the flaxen-haired one, Mistress Elizabeth, now, there was a woman who knew how to wear clothes. The moment I saw that exquisite green velvet cloak, I told myself this was a woman of excellent taste and sensibility."
"Elizabeth?" said Smythe, interrupting him abruptly. "Do you mean Elizabeth Darcie?"
"Aye, Darcie was her name, indeed. Master Henry Darcie's daughter. Now there is a gentleman I would be proud to count among my customers. Mistress Darcie admired some of my bolts of cloth and said she might return and
order a dress or two. Aye, she had excellent taste. Excellent taste, indeed. My most expensive silks and velvets were what caught her eye. In my humble opinion, Thomas would have done himself a deal of good had he set his cap at her rather than that other one."
"Oh, good Heavens!" Shakespeare said, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "How has Elizabeth managed. to become mixed up in this business? Is there nothing the two of you do not stick your noses into?"
"Mixed up in what business?" the tailor asked, frowning. "Thomas has not done anything wrong, has he?"
"Nay, I am certain he has not," replied Smythe. "'Tis only that his father was most anxious to speak with him concerning some family matter and, as we have just come from him, he asked us to convey the message to him."
"Well, if you see him, you may convey another one to him from me," the tailor said. "You may tell him that Master Leffingwell is not in the habit of employing journeymen who do not show up for work. He never behaved this way when he was my apprentice, and if he thinks that becoming a journeyman means that he may now come to work only when it pleases him, then he is very much mistaken. And you may tell him that I shall expect him here tomorrow, promptly, and I shall want a full accounting from him concerning where he was today, indeed I shall!"
"We shall be sure to tell him, Master Leffingwell," said Smythe. "But we are not certain where he may be found. Perhaps you could assist us. Did he not reside somewhere nearby?"
"I can only tell you what I told the three young ladies," the tailor replied. "Thomas has a. room he rents above the mercer's shop across the street. However, as I had already sent one of my apprentices there earlier today, to see if perhaps Thomas had fallen ill, I can of a certainty tell you that he is not there. As to where he may be found, I fear I cannot say. 'Tis not my habit to keep track of everyone who works for me. I merely expect them to be here on time and to do their jobs properly."
"Well, thank you just the same, Master Leffingwell," said
Smythe. 'We shall endeavour to find him on our own."
'Well, that would seem to be that," said Shakespeare, as they left the tailor's shop. "We have done our best to deliver Locke's message to his son, but his son was simply nowhere to be found. Certainly, no one can hold us to account for that."
Smythe frowned. “I am rather more concerned about Elizabeth," he said. "I cannot think what she and Antonia were doing here with Portia, unless 'twas their intention to help the two of them elope."
"Well, of course, that is their intention," Shakespeare replied irately. "That should seem obvious. Elizabeth is simply incapable of resisting the urge to meddle, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. She is a decent and good-hearted soul, but she has not the sense God gave a goose. I tell you… wait, where are you going?"
"Across the street," said Smythe.
"But Leffingwell has already told us that Thomas is not there."
Shakespeare replied.
