“Thank you, sir.”
“ ‘Tis I who should be thanking you for the service you performed,” said Middleton, his voice flat and unemotional. “But forgive me, I am being rude. Please, be seated.”
“I think that we should rather stand, for the bitter news that we have to impart,” Worley told him.
Middleton stiffened. “ ‘Tis true, then, about the poison?”
“You knew?” asked Worley, frowning.
“My steward, Humphrey, told me that there was talk of poison among the guests, but he did not know if there was any truth to it.” Middleton hesitated. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Is there?”
“We do not yet know for certain,” Worley replied, “but I have good reason to believe there is. She appeared to have been drinking from a flask to help keep warm upon the river. The flask was found and brought to me by William Shakespeare, another of the players, a young poet who is well known to me. I am nearly certain that the flask contained some sort of poison. I have sent Shakespeare to London with it, to have an apothecary analyze its contents so that we may know for certain. He will notify me of what was found as soon as he returns.”
Middleton swallowed hard. “So then ‘tis true. My daughter killed herself to spite me, rather than go through with a marriage that she did not want.”
Worley frowned. “Good Lord, Godfrey! Is that what you thought?”
“What else should I think, damn you?” Middleton shot back, and then he suddenly caught his breath and paled as comprehension dawned. “Dear God in Heaven! Do you mean to tell me she was murdered?”
“I fear she was, Godfrey,” Worley said. “Smythe, here, overheard two men last night, plotting in the garden, and it very nearly cost him his life. I thought it best if he were to tell you what he heard in his own words.”
Quickly, Smythe recounted the details of what had transpired in the maze the previous night. Middleton listened without saying a word, his features strained, his lips compressed into a tight grimace. When Smythe had finished, Middleton simply stood there, motionless and silent, as if he could find no words to say.
At length, Sir William broke the awkward silence. “Godfrey… are you well? Perhaps you should sit down?”
Middleton blinked several times and looked at him. “My God,” he said, hoarsely. He made a weak, waving sort of gesture towards the sideboard. “There is wine… in the decanter there. Help yourselves, please. I insist.”
Smythe went to pour them all a drink. He handed a goblet to Middleton, one to Sir William, and then took one for himself.
“How is the groom taking it?” asked Worley.
Middleton snorted. “Sir Percival? He is out there somewhere, dithering and acting very put upon. One would think that Catherine died just to inconvenience him.” He grimaced, then raised his goblet in a toast. “To my daughter, Catherine,” he said, somberly. “May merciful Almighty God rest and protect her poor, unhappy and un-shriven soul.”
“Amen,” said Worley, softly.
They drank.
Middleton simply tossed the goblet aside onto the floor. “Now then,” he said, grimly, “what are we going to do about this?”
“We are going to find the guilty parties, Godfrey,” Worley said, “and then they shall hang.”
“Not nearly punishment enough,” said Middleton, with a hard edge to his voice, “but as we are not Spaniards, I suppose that it shall have to do. What do you want from me?”
“Proceed with the funeral and hold the fair, as planned,” said Worley. “Let it be known that it shall be held in Catherine’s memory. In the meantime, we shall begin to ferret out our plotters by paying particular attention to your younger daughter’s present suitors, especially those whose families we do not know. In this regard, Tuck Smythe here will assist us, as will young Shakespeare when he returns. They have assisted me before in a matter of great import and they have my fullest confidence.”
Middleton nodded. “Then that is good enough for me. I shall see to it that they have whatever they require.”
“Do so, but pray, do so with discretion,” Worley cautioned him. “Our quarry shall be brought to ground more swiftly if they do not suspect that they are being hunted.”
“It shall be done as you wish, Sir William,” said Middleton. “I am in your debt.”
“He who strikes out at my neighbor strikes at me,” said Worley. “I am certain that you would do no less if you were in my place. Smythe and Shakespeare shall be our hounds in this regard. For the present, I fear that I must leave and rejoin Her Majesty, who shall be awaiting my return. However, I shall inform her of what has happened here and beg her leave to absent myself from court in order to pursue this matter to its swift conclusion. I feel confident that she shall not refuse me.”
“You honor me in this,” said Middleton.
“Murder does dishonor to us all,” Worley replied. “Now, before I leave, let us sit down and put our heads together, so that Smythe may have the benefit of our common knowledge and proceed in my absence…”
The funeral was held late that afternoon, when the performance of the play had originally been scheduled. Much to everyone’s surprise, however, it was announced that the players would still perform on the afternoon of the following day. This news was as much of a surprise to the Queen’s Men as to anybody else. They had fully expected that their performance would be cancelled because of the bride’s death and were thus quite taken aback by the announcement. They had already returned the Roman togas they were given as costumes for the bride’s arrival and had started packing up their gear to leave. Now, with this unexpected turn of events, it brought about a flurry of unpacking and new preparations.