Shakespeare simply stared at him.
"What, no clever rejoinder" Kemp asked archly. Shakespeare shook his head. "Nay, Kemp, I have none. He leaves me quite speechless."
"Good," said Pope, his mouth still full. "Now pass the beer."
"About this poor lad's murder," Gus Phillips said once more, getting back to the subject at hand, "you do not suppose that this Shy Locke will hold the two of you to blame I mean, with what Kemp said and all… you do not suppose he will?"
"I most certainly hope that he shall not," Shakespeare said uneasily. "Truly, I do not see how he can. after all, we did not have anything at all to do with poor Thomas's murder!"
'That may not be how he shall see it," Kemp replied.
"Well, I doubt very much that he shall even remember our names," said Shakespeare.
"Only You did tell him that we were players with Lord Strange's Men," said Smythe.
Shakespeare frowned. "I did?"
"You did."
"Bollocks. Well, perhaps he shall not remember it. In any event, we were able to convince the sheriff's men that we had nothing to do with it, so I am sure we shall be able to convince him likewise, if need be."
"You had best hope so," Kemp replied. "Else we may be in need of a new book holder, as well as a new…" he waved his hand dismissively, "whatever 'tis you are, Smythe."
"'Hired man,' I believe, is the proper term for my position with the company," replied Smythe tartly.
"'Strewth! Do you mean to say that we actually pay you?"
Kemp replied with mock astonishment.
"'Why not?" asked Pope, masticating furiously as he shoved a wedge of cheese into his mouth, immediately followed by a large chunk of barley bread. "He remembers his lines at least as well as you do."
"Methinks he has you there, Kemp," said Shakespeare.
"You are both impertinent," Kemp said with a disdainful sniff.
"Oh, good Lord," said Smythe, staring toward the tavern entrance with dismay. "As if this day has not brought ill tidings enough."
Shakespeare followed his gaze, looking at the man who had just walked in and now stood just inside the doorway, glancing around the tavern. "I say, Tuck, 'tis your father, is it not?" he said.
"Tuck's father?" Hemings said with surprise. He turned aroun
d on the bench, looking over his shoulder. "Truly?"
At once, everyone else turned toward the door. Smythe sighed wearily and brought his hand up to his forehead, which had suddenly begun to ache fiercely. "Oh, this can bode no good," he said. "No good at all."
Symington Smythe H swept the tavern with an aristocratic gaze, then spotted his son, tossed his dark brown cloak back, and started toward them with a regal air.
"Tuck, you never mentioned having any family in London." Hemings said, turning back toward him. "Did you not tell us that you came from a small village in the country?"
"Aye, I did," Smythe replied. "Unfortunately, my father chose to follow me to London."
"Ah, Symington, my boy, there you are!" his father said in a tone that sounded so jovial, Tuck knew that it was forced.
"'Allo, Father," Smythe said, rising to his feet politely. "Allow me to introduce my father, everyone… Symington Smyrhe II, Esquire. Father, permit me to present the company of Lord Strange's Men." They rose and he quickly introduced them all, noting as he did so that his bluff and hearty, hail-and-well-met manner notwithstanding, his father did not really have the slightest interest in meeting any of them. "And, of course, Father," he added at the end, "you remember my good friend Will Shakespeare."
"A pleasure, sir," said Shakespeare with a slight bow.
"Indeed," replied the senior Smythe, barely even glancing at him. "Son, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private for a moment?"