“You may see him for yourself,” the servant said. “He is within.”
Shakespeare and Smythe exchanged glances, then quickly pushed past the distraught servant and entered the house. They saw two female servants in their aprons standing near the stairs, huddled together like frightened chickens in a corner of the coop, and at once they could hear the sounds of someone rummaging about upstairs. As they exchanged glances once again, they heard a loud crash, as if something heavy had been overturned.
“This time, I have brought my sword,” said Smythe, drawing it from its scabbard.
“I shall be right behind you,” Shakespeare said.
“With what, your quill?”
In response, Shakespeare pulled out a knife from inside his boot, a bone-handled stiletto with a six-inch blade.
“Good Lord!” said Smythe. “Where did you get that?”
“I brought it from the Theatre,” Shakespeare said.
“Do you know how to use that thing?”
“I understand one pokes at people with it,” Shakespeare replied, wryly. “I have done some fencing on the stage, you know.”
“On the stage,” repeated Smythe, rolling his eyes. “God help us. Just keep behind me.”
“Precisely where I had intended to remain,” Shakespeare replied.
They went up the steps cautiously, with Smythe leading the way. The rummaging noises grew louder as they drew closer. Someone was ransacking the house, and from the sound of it, being none too gentle about it.
“Be careful, Will,” said Smythe, when they reached the top of the stairs.
“You be careful,” Shakespeare replied. “If anything should happen to you, I would be next.”
“Your concern for my safety is touching,” Smythe said with a grimace. He reached out and placed his hand on a door that stood slightly ajar. The noise was coming from within. “Get ready…”
He shoved the door open hard, slamming it against the wall, and came into the room fast, his sword held out before him. The man ransacking the room spun around, immediately drawing his own blade.
“Tuck!”
Smythe’s eyes grew wide. “Ben! What the devil are you doing here?”
Dickens lowered his sword, then sheathed it as he spoke. “I might well ask you the same thing,” he replied. He glanced over Smythe’s shoulder. “Is that you, Will?”
“ ‘Allo, Ben,” said Shakespeare, coming into the room sheepishly after having peeked around the corner.
Smythe sheathed his blade, as well. “We came to question Master Leonardo’s servants, to see what we could learn about what had transpired here the night that he was killed.” He looked around. “God’s body, Ben! You have bloody well torn the place apart! What in Heaven’s name are you searching for?”
Dickens shook his head, looking around helplessly. “ ‘Twas not me, Tuck. I came to look for something… anything… that could help Corwin prove his innocence, but the house had already been ransacked when I got here.”
“Did you find anything?” asked Shakespeare.
Dickens shook his head in frustration. “Nothing. Save only that there seems to be no money left anywhere in the house.”
“He may have had it all cubbyholed away somewhere,” said Smythe.
“If he did, then I cannot find it,” Dickens replied. “And I have looked everywhere. But I tell you, there is not a tuppence nor a halfpenny in this house. Not anywhere. It must have all been stolen.”
“Did you question the servants?” Smythe asked.
“Aye, I have already spoken with them. They swear that they did not ransack the house. They have no idea where Leonardo kept his money. They are worried. They say that they have not received their wages, but despite their claim that they have not even ventured upstairs since the crime, I suspect they have already looked through everything.”
“You think they might have taken it?” asked Shakespeare.