“I suppose it does,” said Smythe.
Shakespeare shook his head. “ ‘Tis only that he seems so unlike a killer. He seems so… amiable.”
“Where is it writ that a murderer cannot be amiable?”
“Would that villainy were clearly written on the countenance,” said Shakespeare, sourly. “ ‘Twould make our task ever so much simpler.”
“You like the fellow.”
“I suppose I do. He is not without his charm. He has wit and is the sort that grows upon you.”
“The sort that makes for the most dangerous kind of cozener and scoundrel,” Smythe said. “The sort who may smile and smile and yet still be a villain.”
“Well put. You argue well and soundly. I can say but little in the way of dispute.”
“I find I do not share your favorable opinion of him,” Smythe replied, dryly. “He strikes me as a cocky sort, like the roaring boys who often cause mischief at the theatre. He swaggers when he walks and I suppose he thinks himself a young Apollo. Where is Braithwaite, anyway? I have not seen him.”
“I do not know,” Shakespeare responded. “I have not seen him since we all left the tomb.”
“And what of Camden?”
“I have not seen him, either.”
“Well, let us hope for his sake that Blanche does not next choose to favor him with her attentions,” Smythe said. “That could bode ill for his chances of living to a ripe old age.”
“Two of our original suspects left,” Shakespeare said. “One of whom Sir William vouches for, at least in terms of being who he says he is, the other still an unknown quantity. And both seem unaccounted for as of this time. Do you want to see if we can find them?”
“Aye,” Smythe replied. “Let us see how they respond to the news of Holland ’s murder. And let us also see if either of them have any witnesses who can vouch for where they were when Holland died.”
They decided to make a quick tour of the lower floor, but saw no sign of either Braithwaite or Camden, which suggested that either both had retired to their rooms for the night and had heard nothing of Holland’s murder or else had gone out to the fairgrounds, as had many of the guests-in which case, they would undoubtedly soon learn what had transpired as word spread.
Rather alarmingly, many of the guests had obtained torches and gone out to the garden to visit the maze, presumably to see if they could find the spot where the murder had taken place. Smythe thought it quite macabre, imagining them wandering about in there, looking down at the ground and holding their torches low to see if they could spy any traces of spilled blood, but Shakespeare did not find it at all surprising or unusual.
“We are bloodthirsty creatures, Tuck,” he said, as they walked down the great hall of the mansion, past portraits of Godfrey Middleton’s ancestors and illustrious figures from England ’s history, including, of course, the queen. It would not do at all for her to visit at some point and not see a portrait of herself in a place of honor in the great hall. “We think of ourselves as being a civilized people, and yet, in truth, we are still little more than savages. We all flock to a good hanging or a drawing and quartering, and the more the unfortunate victim screams and blubbers, the more we seem to like it.”
“I thought you said before that such sights were meant to horrify and caution us,” Smythe replied.
“Oh, indeed they are,” said Shakespeare. “But even so, there is some savage part of us that hearkens back to those ancient times when we painted our bums blue and smashed one another’s heads in with stone axes, and ‘tis that part which finds the horror curiously stimulating. We discover that it thrills the blood and invigorates the humors. If we should see a carriage wrecked up by the roadside as we ride by, what do we do? Why, we slow down to a walk, thus the better to observe the carnage. And if we happen by when two men are fighting in the street, pummeling each other into bloody pulp, why then we stop and watch, we pick a favorite and cheer him on, perhaps even lay wagers. Our own mortality is sport to us and we play it with a vengeance. Thus, the ground upon which a murder victim falls becomes a sort of playing field.”
“I must say, you see things in a curious way sometimes,” said Smythe, looking around the long hall as they went.
“ ‘Tis because I observe people,” replied Shakespeare, “and people are often very curious.”
As they walked, Smythe noticed their surroundings. They had the great hall almost entirely to themselves. There were a few guests promenading up and down, talking amongst themselves, and every
few moments a servant would hustle by with an annoyed expression, because of the lateness of the hour. Night had turned into day at the Middleton estate, and while some of the guests were sleeping, most were still up, though by now they had moved out to the torch-lit fairgrounds to gather round the stalls or at the campfires and discuss the day’s events. The festival had taken a dark turn and no one wanted to miss out on hearing any gossip or miss seeing anything else that might occur.
Smythe had not been to many rich people’s homes. This was only the second one he’d seen. He had been honored to have been invited to Sir William’s handsome and sprawling estate, Green Oaks, on several occasions and he could tell that Godfrey Middleton had taken pains to see that Middleton Manor did not suffer greatly by comparison.
As at Green Oaks, the great hall of Middleton Manor was built with a long gallery, and the walls were panelled with imported woods. The ceilings were an intricate pattern of shallow plaster ribs in geometrical forms, ornamented with arabesques and figures of birds and fishes and beasts, as well as flowers and scrollworks of vines. The staircases were ornate, with solid oak block steps and landings with massive hand rails and newel posts that were all elaborately carved and ornamented with small statues. No expense was spared anywhere in the construction of this house.
Likewise, the decorations in the hall were all expensive and ornate. Several gleaming and enamelled suits of armor stood about, every one of them apparently brand new and doubtless never worn, and there were various weapons hanging on the walls in display arrangements, among them broadswords, rapiers, maces and halbreds, battle axes and, Smythe especially noted, several crossbows with pouches full of bolts.
There were large, richly woven tapestries, with not a painted cloth among them, and of course, large, gilt-framed ancestral portraits and paintings of historical personages. It was these which had caught Smythe’s eye as they walked. There was something curious about them, somehow, something which had troubled him vaguely, and for a while he could not quite put his finger on it, but abruptly, it occurred to him exactly what it was.
“Speaking of observing people, have you noticed anything strange about these portraits?” Smythe asked.
“Strange?” Shakespeare frowned. He had not been paying attention to them. “The portraits? How so?”