Dickens sighed and nodded. “Very well. There is no point in trying to hide it any longer. Leonardo was a Genoan only on his mother’s side. His father was an Englishman and he was born in Bristol. I met him in the Netherlands, when I booked passage on his ship. As we grew to know each other, I discovered that he had grown tired of his life at sea. His ship was old and badly in need of repair and refitting, but he could not afford to have the work done. For several years, his luck had run poorly and he was nearly destitute. He had already decided to sell the ship for whatever he could get for it when we arrived in London and try to find some other trade with which to earn his living. And ‘twas then the scheme occurred to me.
“I had made some money of my own while fighting in the foreign wars,” Dickens continued, as the others all hung on every word, “but not nearly as much as I had hoped, not nearly enough to serve my purposes. I desperately needed more. And so I proposed a scheme to Leonardo whereby we both might profit if we played our cards well and wind up wealthy men. All he needed to do when we arrived in England was to sell his ship, just as he had planned. We would then combine our resources and our efforts in an attempt to make our fortunes. The money from the sale of the ship would go to buy a house. Even if ‘twere just a modest house, ‘twould be enough, for he could always claim ‘twas merely a temporary residence until his business interests in London were established and he could build a larger home. But ‘twas here that Leonardo took the risk, for if he spent most of the proceeds from the sale of the ship upon a home, then he would have next to nothing left with which to set himself up in some trade. And indeed, thanks to the poor condition of his ship, that was just what happened.
“He had enough to buy the house,” Dickens went on, “and hire a few servants and stock his larder for a week or so, but beyond that, his money would soon run out. And here was where I would share the risk. My money would go to help maintain the illusion of Master Leonardo. I purchased several suits of clothing for him, tailored in the height of fashion, bought him a new sword, a fine plumed hat, and paid for the carriages he hired. ‘Twas my money he carried in his purse, to make himself look prosperous, and ‘twas my money he had spent in entertaining the conys that we hoped to catch.”
“You mean us?” asked Burgage. “ ‘Twas us you planned to fleece?”
“Nay, Dick, I never meant to cheat the Queen’s Men. I hoped, instead, to become a shareholder in the company. And I had hoped to gain enough money from our scheme to set Corwin up in his own shop, with myself as an investor, for I knew how talented and skilled he was and had no doubt that he would be successful. Leonardo, too, would need to have more money to begin his life anew, and he would need to secure the future for his lovely daughter, Hera, for whom he did not even have a proper dowry. There, I had the answer, for if I knew my friend, then he would see Hera and quickly fall in love with her. And Corwin would not care much about a dowry. I would provide a token one for her, for appearances’ sake, but I knew that I would quickly make it back in partnership with Corwin once his shop was thriving.”
“But for all of this to work, you still needed more money,” Smythe said. “And that was where Henry Darcie came in, was it not?”
“And Master Peters, of course,” said Shakespeare.
“Aye,” Dickens admitted. “Master Peters was to be our first cony, and as for Darcie, he practically begged to be spitted and placed over the fire. With Master Leonardo’s ‘shipping interests’ and connections, there were great opportunities for them both to invest in trading voyages to the colonies and such, which money would, of course, be used by us to forward our own plans. And then, as happens on occasion when men invest in varied projects, things do not always turn out for the best. There are such things as storms at sea, and pirates. Ships are sometimes lost, and with them, all the capital that had financed their voyages. ‘Twould be a shame, really, but nothing could be done. Any such investment carries certain risks.”
“Did Corwin know about any of this?” Smythe asked.
Dickens shook his head. “Of course not. He is as honest as the day is long, God bless him. He never could have countenanced such a scheme. And quite aside from that, his loyalty to Master Peters would never have allowed him to go through with it.”
“Oh, Ben, how could you?” Molly asked. “Why in the name of Heaven would you do such a thing? What could you have been thinking?”
“He was thinking that he needed the money so that he could marry you,” said Shakespeare.
Molly was struck speechless.
“ ‘Twas why he left, you know,” Shakespeare told her, gently. “He never ran away from you; he went off to find his fortune so that he could return to England, become a gentleman, and provide a better life for you. He had even asked Corwin to watch out for you whilst he was gone.”
Molly shook her head in dismay. “Oh, Ben! Whatever made you think that money mattered to me?”
“I knew that I was not your only suitor, Molly,” he replied. “Corwin wrote and told me of the gentleman you met sometimes, the one who often walked you home at night. Corwin was never able to discover who he was, because he noticed that the man had servants always follow at a distance, armed with clubs and such, and he was afraid to get too close.”
“Oh, good Lord!” said Smythe, as he suddenly realized to whom Dickens must have been referring. “That was no gendeman, Ben! And those were no servants who followed to provide an escort! ‘Twas Moll Cutpurse and her crew of thieves!”
“Moll Cutpurse!” Burbage exclaimed. “Odd’s blood! Why in the world would our Molly have aught to do with the likes of Moll Cutpurse?”
“Because she is my sister,” Molly replied.
“Your sister!” Dickens said.
“Aye, my sister, Mary,” Molly said, sighing and shaking her head in exasperation. “She did not wish anyone to know, for fear that someone might try to get at her through me. Oh, Ben, what a horrid mess you have made of things! I would have told you the truth if only you had come to me!”
Dickens gave a snort of bitter amusement. “Her sister. Fancy that.”
“Well, now at least we know the truth about Master Leonardo,” Shakespeare said. “We may not know for certain how the poor fellow died, though I believe that I can hazard a good guess. ‘Twas a wicked scheme that Ben devised with Leonardo, and I daresay it very nearly worked just as they had planned, save for but one thing. They did not anticipate the involvement of the Steady Boys, in particular Jack Darnley and Bruce McEnery, who wanted to draw Ben back into the fold. When they were rebuffed, however, they became angry and vengeful. And because Tuck refused them also, and had the temerity to stand up to them, he needed to be taught a lesson.”
“And ‘twas a lesson that I shall not soon forget,” Smythe interjected, touching his bandaged head. “I do not know which was worse, getting knocked upon the head or having it itch so damnably. Either way, I hope to return the courtesy very soon.”
“Methinks that you shall have that opportunity before too long,” said Shakespeare. “But bear with me a while longer whilst I proceed to the next act. Our friends, the Steady Boys, were angry with Ben in part for refusing to rejoin them and in part for taking Tuck’s part in the brawl. He now needed to be taught a lesson, as well. To this purpose, they put a watch on Ben and his close friend, Corwin, whom they had little cause to love in any case, as he was becoming a rival to their master and thus to themselves, as well. They found out about ‘Master Leonardo,’ the wealthy Genoan merchant, and discovered that Corwin had become engaged to his daughter. Gossip is a scurrilous thing, my friends, and its source is often difficult, if not impossible to track, but I shall wager that the tale of Hera’s sullied virtue originated with Darnley and McEnery. Corwin would doubtless never have believed it had the tale come from them directly, but they arranged for him to hear of it elsewhere. His own jealousy and passion did the rest. And so they followed him, to see their handiwork come to fruition when he confronted Master Leonardo. And suddenly, a new and unexpected opportunity presented itself.
“I cannot say for certain what transpired between Corwin and Leonardo,” Shakespeare continued, “but I daresay that Leonardo was alarmed at this turn of events, vehemently protested Hera’s innocence, and doubtless let it go at that. There was no danger of them fighting any duel, as Ben knew perfectly well. Leonardo was, in all likelihood, no duelist nor did he wish to see their plans or his daughter’s future jeopardized. He needed to confer with Ben, so that Ben could repair the breach with Corwin. And for that very reason, when I told Ben what had happened, he needed an excuse not to follow Corwin on the instant, for he needed first to go see Leonardo and find out precisely what oc
curred. ‘Twould be best in any event to let Corwin’s temper cool and speak with him upon the morrow. Thus, he went straight from the rehearsal to Leonardo’s house, only he arrived too late and found him dead. Was that not how it happened, Ben?”
Dickens nodded, his lips compressed into a tight grimace. “Aye,” he said. “It all went just as you said. I found Leonardo dead and I believed that in his rage, Corwin must have taken leave of his senses and killed him.” He shook his head. “I did not know what to do. I nearly lost my mind. I could not think. I could not reason it out. No one was at home, so no one saw me come there. In a panic, I fled. I needed time to think, time to decide what I should do.”
“You still felt loyalty to your best friend,” said Shakespeare, “but you also believed him to be a murderer, and at least in part, you believed yourself to be responsible. But once you had some time to think, you realized that with Leonardo dead, your cony-catching scheme was finished. The only thing to do was get back whatever money there was left. And that was what you were doing at the house when Tuck and I came there. In truth, Ben, when Tuck and I found you there that night, I had suspected you of being the murderer. But I soon realized you were not. You were not searching for something to exonerate your friend; you were desperately searching for the money. Your money, that you had given Leonardo to help carry off the scheme. Only it was nowhere to be found, because someone else had been there first.”
Dickens nodded, grimly. “Aye. And I know who now.”