Much Ado About Murder (10 page)

"I merely made it as my Uncle Thomas taught me," Smythe said, though he was pleased by the compliment, coming from a man who knew his steel.

"Do you know that I have had nearly a dozen requests already for ones just like it?" Bailey asked.

"You have?" Smythe said, with surprise. "From who?"

"From my customers," said Bailey. "Each one of them a craftsman in his own right, mind, men who know good work when they see it. And even though you are still unseasoned, yours is more than merely good. ‘Tis fine work, indeed. Any man who knows can see that."

"Well…" Smythe said, somewhat sheepisly. He was a bit taken aback. "I do not quite know what to say to that."

"Say that you shall make them, and I shall take the orders," Bailey said. He drew the quenched steel from the fire. "You can start with this. I am not saying you should leave your mincing players," he added, wryly, "but as you know only too well, the playhouses are still closed, and I know you need the money."

"There is word that they may reopen again soon," said Smythe.

"And then again, they may not. If so, then you will have some honest work that honest men may then appreciate. And if the playhouses do reopen, why then, you may work here on the knives whenever you can find the time. My customers shall wait. They know that good work is worth waiting for."

Smythe looked at him. "I see what you are trying to do, Liam."

The smith looked back at him directly. "I am trying to please my customers and make us both some money in the bargain. If you prefer to act out silly daydreams on the stage, that is your business and none o' my concern. To each his own, I say. But I can offer you no work as a player, Tuck.
This
is the work I have. You either want it, or you do not. The choice is yours."

"I do need the work, Liam," Smythe replied. "And I did not intend to sound ungrateful. Forgive me. You have been naught but kind to me and 'tis not my place to go putting on airs."

"Aah, I would never say you had done that," said Bailey. "You're a good lad, Tuck, an' you have a place here anytime you wish. Now, you get to working on those knives, eh? That should keep you busy for a while."

Later on that afternoon, just as Smythe was getting ready to leave Liam Bailey's smithy for the playhouse, Ben Dickens stopped by.

"Why, Ben! I did not expect to see you here," said Smythe. "What errand brings you?"

"I was coming to see you," Dickens replied. "I recalled you spoke of picking up some work here and, since 'twas on my way, I thought I might stop by on my way to the Theatre and walk with you. That is, of course, if you do not spurn my company?"

"Not at all," said Smythe. "You are most welcome, Ben. Liam, do you know Ben Dickens?"

"Dickens…" Bailey furrowed his brow thoughtfully, staring at him with a vague glimmer of recognition. "You look familiar…"

"I was once apprentice to Master Moryson, the armorer," said Dickens. "You may remember me, sir."

"Ah. Indeed, I do remember you," Bailey said gruffly, with a frown. "You gave up a perfectly good trade to go off and be a soldier. Damned foolishness."

"Aye, well, perhaps, but it seemed like a good idea at the time," said Dickens, lightly.

"So now yer back, then?"

"So 'twould seem."

"For how long this time?" the old smith asked, sourly.

"For good, I hope," said Dickens. "That is, for good or ill, I have returned to England, but 'tis my hope that 'twill be for good."

Bailey frowned and grunted, then turned his back upon them and resumed his work.

"Come on, Ben," Smythe said, taking off his apron and hanging it up on its hook, anxious to be off before Dickens irritated Bailey any further. "Good night to you, Liam. I shall return upon the morn."

"Suit yourself," said the smith, without turning around.

Dickens chuckled as they left. "Sour as a green apple, is he not?" he said as they stepped out into the street.

" 'Tis just his way," said Smythe. "Liam Bailey is a good man. He is honest and good-hearted."

"I know he is," Dickens replied. "My old master would never have had aught to do with him else. But unlike a green apple, Bailey sours even further as he ripens. He does not approve of me, I fear."

"He seems like that to everyone," Smythe replied. "Besides, methinks he does not truly know you."

"Nay, he knows all he needs to know, or else thinks he needs to know," said Dickens, good-naturedly, "and that is that I left a good apprenticeship to become a mercenary soldier. And for that sort of 'damned foolishness,' as he called it himself, I do not think that Liam Bailey could ever forgive anyone, least of all an ungrateful apprentice who left the service of a friend of his."

"I have never heard him speak of your Master Moryson," said Smythe. "What became of him? Does he still pursue his craft?"

"He died," said Dickens. The joviality left his tone. "He fell to the sweating sickness the year after I left."

"I am sorry," Smythe said.

"So am I," said Dickens. "He was a good man, and a fair master. He taught me much. Bailey was right, you know. 'Twas ungrateful of me to have left him."

"You did what you felt you had to do," said Smythe. "You wanted adventure, and you knew that you would never find it working in an armorer's shop."

"True," Dickens agreed. "I did want adventure. Very much so. And I found it. Very much so. And now, looking back on it all, I am sorry that I ever left."

"Was it so bad then?"

Dickens shrugged. "'Twas all very different from what I had expected. But then, enough of that. I should not wish to have you thinking 'tis my wont to wallow in melancholy. As I have said before, had I known then what I now know, methinks I would have made some different choices, but there is little to be served in regreting what is past."

"Indeed," said Smythe. "There is much to be said for looking forward."

Dickens smiled. "And to what do you look forward, Tuck?"

"At the moment, I merely look forward to the playhouses opening once more," said Smythe. "S'trewth, we all desperately need the money. And not all the players are able to find other work, as I have been fortunate to do."

"I doubt that fortune has very much to do with it," said Dickens. "I saw what you were doing there. You seem to know what you are about."

"My Uncle Thomas was a smith. He taught me," Smythe replied.

"I would say he taught you well," said Dickens. "And I daresay he was more than just a smith. You were not forging horseshoes back there. You were working on a blade."

" 'Twas his true passion," Smythe replied, adding with pride, "and in the craftsmanship of blades, I never saw him have an equal. Truly, I would put his blades against the finest of Toledo."

Indeed? Thomas Smythe, you say? Mind you, now, I intend no offense toward you nor toward your uncle, but if his blades are truly of such superior craftsmanship, how is it I have never head of him?"

Smythe saw that the question came from curiosity, rather than from skepticism of his claim, so he did not take umbrage. "Our village was a small one," he replied, "and no main thoroughfare ran through it. 'Twas tucked away upon the boundary of a wood, and we received few visitors. When the players came through on tour once in my youth, 'twas a momentous event. The arrival of each itinerant peddlar was regarded as a great occasion." He smiled. "I recall how I used to dream of going to the city to become a player. Naught else did I desire. But not Uncle Thomas. He liked his quiet life. He is a simple man who keeps his own company and keeps it well. He works for the love of the craft, and the pride he takes in it, not for wealth nor fame. And if he had those things, why, I do not believe that he would quite know what to do with them."

"Well, I should much like to see one of your uncle's blades someday," said Dickens.

"You might be disappointed," Smythe replied. "They are rather plain and ordinary looking, not at all showy in appearance… but then again, as a soldier and one who was an armorer's apprentice… Well, here then…" He unsheathed his simple knife. "He made this for me years ago, when I was just a boy. It bears his maker's mark."

Dickens took the knife and examined it. "It balances exceedingly well, and the design, while simple, looks quite strong." He lightly tested the blade. "It holds a fine edge, too. Very fine, indeed." He held it hilt downwards, point up alongside his inner forearm, as if concealing it, and then flipped it around in his grasp, blade held outward, ready to stab or throw. He turned it back around once more, holding his arm down by his side, to try the maneuver once again. It was, thought Smythe, a good way to carry a knife openly, yet unobtrusively, in the event that one expected trouble. Trust a mercenary, he thought, to know that sort of clever trick.

" 'Allo, Ben," said Jack Darnley, suddenly stepping out in front of them from a side street. His fellow apprentice, Bruce McEnery, was right behind him.

" 'Allo, Jack," said Dickens, coming to a halt. "I see you brought your ill-humored shadow with you," he added, smirking at McEnery's perpetual sneer.

"And I see you brought yours," Darnley replied, with a smile. "Tuck is your friend's name, if I recall aright."

"It is," said Smythe. "Tuck Smythe, at your service."

"Fancy running into you again so soon, Jack," Dickens said casually. "One might almost think 'twas more than happenstance."

"As well one might," said Darnley. "We have been keeping an eye on you, you know."

"Have you, now? And what would be the reason for such concern, I wonder?"

As Ben spoke, Smythe became aware of movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see half a dozen apprentices spread out behind them. He groaned inwardly. What pernicious fortune had befallen him that it was the second time in as many days he was being accosted by a street gang? People around them in the street, seeing the congregation, gave them a wide berth, crossing over to the other side and hurrying past without a backward glance.

"We only wanted to make certain that you were all right, Ben," Darnley replied.

"How very land of you and the boys, Jack. And tell me, what made you think that I might not be?"

"The city has changed whilst you have been away, Ben," Darnley said. "London is very different now. 'Tis no longer the same place you remember from the old days."

"Indeed? How very odd," said Dickens. "Why, it still looks much the same to me. S'trewth, and it smells the same as I remember, too," he added, wrinkling his nose. "The heady perfume of Fleet Ditch on the breeze is just as I recall it. Or mayhap 'tis just the fragrance of unwashed 'prentices upon the wind. What think you?"

"You may jest, Ben, but that does not change the truth of what I tell you," Darnley said. "London is now in many ways a different city than the one you left, and few of the changes have been for the better."

"I have an intimation that you intend to educate me as to those changes, Jack," said Dickens, with a smile.

"Indeed, methinks there is a need for it. You see, you left us, Ben, to go off adventuring and seek your fortune in some foreign land, whilst we all stayed here in London to make the best of things, because this is our home.
Our
home," he repeated, thumping his chest for emphasis.
"Our
city." He swept out his arm in an expansive gesture, encompassing all their surroundings.
"Our
streets. And yet, with each and every passing day, we have found our home invaded, as much as any conquering army might invade a country it has vanquished. Only
this
foreign army marched in piecemeal, coming in dribs and drabs… a few Flemish craftsmen here, some Italian merchants there, German traders, Egyptian fortune-tellers and the like, til now you can scarce spit on a street in London without hitting some damned foreigner. Take a look around you, Ben. On any day, a man can see countless good English working men and women out begging in the streets, desperate for a job, a warm place to sleep, a meager crust of bread with which to stave off hunger, and amongst them all go aloof Italian merchants in their silks, snobbish Flemish craftsmen in their three-piled velvet finery, arrogant German shopkeepers stuffed fat with ale and sausages, shifty gypsy moonmen ever ready to cozen some poor and honest working man out of the few brass farthings he has left. 'Tis not the same city that you left at all, Ben. 'Tis a city that the bloody damned foreigners are taking over. And someone has to stop it."

"And that someone would be you?" said Dickens. "You and the Steady Boys, of course."

"Who better?" Darnley asked. "They are driving our people out into the streets, Ben, leaving them homeless, starving, desperate. These damned foreigners should all go right back to where they came from!"

"And if they do not wish to go, why then, you shall drive them out, is that it?" Dickens said.

"Bloody right I will! Me and the boys. And what is more, the other 'prentice gangs are all getting behind us in this venture!"

"Indeed? Well, then really I must congratulate you, Jack," said Dickens. "You seem to haven taken a disorganized bunch of rakehell roaring boys who have all been at one another's throats and given them a common enemy against whom to unite in opposition. 'Tis an astonishing achievement, truly. And to think that I went abroad to learn the trade of soldiering whilst here you were all of this time, turning yourself into a general completely on your own. I doff my cap to you, Jack. I must say, I am full of admiration at what you have accomplished. Truly, I could not even imagine what a man of your inestimable abilities would ever want from me."

"I want you to join us, Ben," said Darnley, either ignoring Dickens's sarcasm or else missing it completely. " 'Twould be just like the old days once again! You and me, leading the Steady Boys at the forefront of it all… Think of it! We could rouse all the 'prentices in concert and clean out the vermin from this city! And you, as well, Tuck. You can be a part of it. The Steady Boys will always have a place for a strapping, big brawler like youself. Come and join us!"

"I thank you kindly for the offer," Smythe replied, "but I always try my best to avoid brawls whenever possible."