“Darnley must have formed the plan right there in the tavern. Or perhaps they had already conceived of it and merely awaited the proper opportunity. Two of them stayed to keep watch on Leonardo’s servants in the tavern. The other three went back to Leonardo’s house. The plan was to rob and murder the wealthy Genoan merchant and have the blame fall upon Corwin, for he was the last one seen coming to the house, and the word had already been spread about how he had been deceived. Thus would two birds be killed neatly with one stone. Corwin, a rival to their master and themselves, would be eliminated, and Ben would suffer as his closest friend went to the gallows, the very same friend who had once persuaded him to quit the Steady Boys. And so the deed was done. They lolled Leonardo, ransacked the house, stole whatever they could find, and made good their escape before the servants could return. Then Ben arrived, found Leonardo dead, and assumed that Corwin must have flown into a rage and killed him. Frantic with despair and guilt, he fled the house.”
“And then the servants returned,” said Smythe.
“Aye,” said Shakespeare, “but they had been drinking, and so they failed to realize that their master had been slain. They never ventured upstairs, never saw the body, never realized the house had been ransacked. They knew that Hera would be coming home soon and most likely awaited her return in the kitchen. And when she came home, she doubtless went straight upstairs to say good night to her father and found him slain. Her cries brought the servants running, then in a madness of grief, she fled the house, running out into the night. Budge, fearing for her safety, gave chase as best he could, growing more sober by the moment, until he saw that Hera had reached the safety of the Darcie house, whereupon he reported to Henry Darcie what had happened. Or, more to the point, what he believed had happened. And the very next day, poor Corwin was arrested for the murder of Master Leonardo.”
“One moment, I could not believe that he had done it,” Dickens said, “but the next moment, it seemed certain that he had. What other explanation could there be?”
“And so you gave up on him and went looking for your money?” Molly asked, bitterly.
“I went looking for the money, aye, but I never gave up on Corwin,” Dickens said. “Without the money, I would be able to do nothing for him. With it, I could hire a lawyer to plead on his behalf, find witnesses to swear he had been elsewhere in their company that night.” He sighed. “But whatever money had been left was gone. Those miserable, murdering bastards took it all.”
“Which brings us to this sorry pass,” said Shakespeare. “We know what must have happened, and how it must have happened, for we have used reason to deduce it. The trouble is, we cannot prove any of it. And without proof, poor Corwin swings.”
“Surely, there must be
“Methinks there is,” said Smythe, thoughtfully. “Ben is not the only one who knows something of the art of cony-catching. As it happens, I have been reading up on it myself, of late. And I believe a trap set for a cony may catch a rat, as well. I have in mind a new production, Will, one eminently suited to your craft. And yours, too, Ben, and yours, my friends,” he added, glancing round at all the players. “That is, if you are game for it?”
“We are!” said Burbage.
“Tell us, Tuck!” said Fleming.
“Aye, tell us!” Speed said. “What have you in mind?”
“If I, too, may help, I shall,” said Liam Bailey.
“You may, indeed, Liam,” Smythe replied. “But most of all, we shall have need of Molly.”
“Me?” she said. “What can I do?”
“Once before we met,” said Smythe. “Now you may reacquaint me with your sister.”
THE BROOM AND GARTER WAS the sort of tavern that attracted a rough and tumble crowd and notable among them were the Steady Boys, a congregation of apprentices from various crafts and trades who all had in common the aggressive unruliness of youth and a desire to cause mischief. Here, among the wherrymen and dockworkers and drovers, they held court like young lords of the streets and presiding over them were Jack Darnley and his chief factotum, Bruce McEnery.
On this occasion, the Steady Boys were spread out among several tables in one section of the tavern, shouting and drinking and carousing, playing cards or games of mumble-de-peg with their daggers or bouncing young wenches on their knees and pawing at them greedily. Most of them worked hard during the day, from before sunup to nearly sundown, and this was their time to play. When they played, they liked to play hard and often, and the games they played were at other people’s expense.
“Cheer up, Jacko,” Bruce McEnery said, punching his comrade in the shoulder. “You have been glum for nigh on several days now. What troubles you, mate?”
“The money,” Darnley said, with a scowl. “There should have been more bloody money.”
