“Aye, well, Ben is an old, accomplished hand at charming serving wenches,” Molly said laconically, as she set down their ale.
“Molly, let me explain…” Dickens began, but she did not allow him to continue.
“Nay, do not explain, Ben,” she said, airily, “for there is no need. I know just how it went. You smiled at her with that special way you have, cocking your head over to one side and looking up at her…” she mimicked the gesture as she spoke, precisely capturing the way he did it, “… called her your ‘lovely’ and told her what a charming voice she had and how pretty her hands were and how you would simply have to have another drink, just to watch her bring it, and then you sat her down upon your knee and gave her a drink or two or three from your tankard-”
“Molly, ‘twas not like that at all,” Dickens protested.
“In truth, ‘twas just like that, precisely,” Shakespeare said. “I say, Molly, were you there?”
“Will!” Dickens exclaimed.
“Nay, Will, I was not, but I have seen that performance so many times before that I could play the role myself. What disappoints me is that in all this time, he has not changed it in the least. Any good player knows to make a few changes in his performance here and there, to keep it fresh.”
“He did promise her that she could attend the next performance as his guest,” said Smythe.
“Tuck!” Dickens said, turning toward him with a wounded expression.
“I am merely trying to be helpful,” Smythe said.
“Well, I do not require your help, thank you very much!”
“Ah. Indeed,” said Smythe, nodding. “You had said that before. I recall now that you prefer to fight against superior odds. Well, then, have at it. I shall not interfere.”
“I thought you two were my friends!” said Dickens.
“Why, we are, Ben,” Shakespeare replied, “but you know, it strikes me that ‘tis a dangerous thing to be your friend. John Fleming here was your friend, and you left him and his good wife after they had grown as fond of you as if you were their own son. Molly was your friend, and you went off and broke her heart. Corwin was your friend, and now he languishes in prison, awaiting execution. Master Leonardo was your friend, and now he is in his grave. Tuck here became your friend, and was very nearly beaten to death for his trouble. I shudder to think what fate may lie in wait for me.”
Dickens stared at him with openmouthed astonishment. The others all fell silent, completely taken aback by his remarks. Only Smythe remained unsurprised. He had caught a certain look from Will that he had seen before, and his thoughts had already been running in a somewhat similar vein.
“Why, you scoundrel,” Dickens said, quietly. “How dare you?”
“Truly, Will,” said Fleming, “that was unconscionable! Wit is one thing, but this time you have stepped over the line!”
“Have I, John?” Shakespeare replied. He poured himself a tankard of ale. “A touch o’ grog,” he said, raising the tankard and looking at it contemplatively, then taking a drink from it. He smacked his lips. “Indeed. The very thing for a thirsty man. Was that not what our young Kate said back at the Devil Tavern, Tuck? Did she not tell us that Master Leonardo often came by for a ‘touch o’ grog’?”
“Aye,” said Smythe, “she did say that.”
“One drink and off to home he went, like a good abstemious soul. A touch o’ grog,’ he called it.” Shakespeare furrowed his brow. “A most peculiar expression for a Genoan to use, would you not say?”
“Now that you mention it,” said Smythe, “it does seem a bit peculiar.”
“Of course, I suppose he might have heard it somewhere,” Shakespeare continued. “Still… ‘tis not the sort of thing that simply trips off an Italian tongue, eh? And now that I think on it, that serving wench never did refer to him as Master Leonardo. Cap’n Leonardo was what she said.”
“What of it?” Dickens asked. “So she called him Cap’n Leonardo. What is the significance of that?”
“By itself, it has no great significance, perhaps,” Shakespeare replied. “But when taken together with a few other things, a sort of significance does seem to emerge.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” asked Dickens. “What other things?”
“Well, a gentleman who owns his own merchant ship would doubtless call himself ‘Master’ of that ship,” said Shakespeare, “and so use it as his title, so to speak, as in ‘Master Leonardo.’ But a man who was not a proper gentleman of rank would call himself ‘Captain’ as opposed to ‘Master,’ I should think. He might shorten that somewhat as ‘Cap’n’ if he were English, but if he were a Genoan, I should think he would say ‘Capitan.’ Of course, Kate might have head ‘Capitan’ and rendered it as ‘Cap’n.’ That could be. But then I also wonder at how we found no money anywhere in Leonardo’s house.
“And again, ‘twas not really the sort of house that one might expect a wealthy merchant from Genoa to buy,” Shakespeare continued, taking another sip from his tankard. “We had discussed that, as you will recall. We had thought, perhaps, it may have been only a temporary residence, meant to serve until such time as he could build himself a better one, or mayhap ‘twas only that he was a simple man who did not require much m
ore than a simple house. That could be, as well. But why no coach or carriage? Why no Genoan governess for his lovely and eminently marriageable young daughter? Why only three servants? And why only engage those servants for one week at a time? Good servants are not that difficult to come by, and ‘tis customary for the better classes to engage them for a month or more, at least. Should they not prove suitable, they can always be dismissed. There is no need to tell them that their initial period of employment is probationary; that sort of thing is taken as a matter of course. On the other hand, if a man does not have very much money, but wishes to appear as if he does, then he might well conceal his poverty ‘neath the cloak of practical frugality. And he would drink beer or ale in the local tavern, as opposed to wine.”
“None of this makes any sense to me,” said Molly, looking confused. “What does Ben have to do with any of this?”
“Ben created Master Leonardo,” Shakespeare said. “Or at least, he created him in the sense in which we knew him, as a wealthy merchant trader from Genoa who desired to retire from the sea and settle down in London with his riches. But ‘twas all an elaborate scheme of cony-catching, a very clever and ambitious scheme, indeed. And it very nearly worked, save for one small problem. Along the way, somewhere a mistake was made. A mistake that, sadly, cost a man his life and may yet cost Corwin his, unless we are able to move swiftly. Ben, the time for dissembling is past. We need the truth, and we need it now if we are ever to help your friend, Corwin.”