“Well… have you not noticed that there are no signs of age on any of them?” Smythe paused and approached one of the paintings, examining it more closely. He stretched out a finger and gently touched the canvas. “The canvas is still quite taut, stretched tight as a drum, and the colors are all so fresh and vivid, they look as if they have scarcely had the time to dry. Most of these portraits have only been painted fairly recently, unless I miss my guess.”
Shakespeare shrugged. “And so what of it? The house is still relatively new, is it not? ‘Tis no more than a few years old. So Middleton had commissioned a few score portraits to hang upon his walls. I suppose he could have purchased older paintings, but then why not commission new ones? After all, he can certainly afford them.”
“Oh, I do not dispute that,” Smythe replied. “ ‘Twas not my point, Will. Middleton is very rich, I grant you that. ‘Tis just that I was thinking… if most of these paintings are supposed to be portraits of his ancestors, then do you not find it curious that they were only painted recently?”
“Perhaps he merely had some older portraits copied,” Shakespeare said.
“But why would anyone do that?” persisted Smythe. “A portrait of an ancestor becomes more valued and more meaningful with age. It conveys a sense of history, of lineage. Making copies of old portraits so that new ones could be hung would be rather like opening a cask of fine, aged wine and spilling it all out, only to refill it with juice from newly ripened grapes. It simply makes no sense.”
“No… I suppose not,” said Shakespeare, with a puzzled look. “I had not considered it that way. In truth, I had not considered it at all. I was, in fact, considering the murders that took place at this house, not the paintings that are hung within it.”
“Well, I am not sure why it struck my notice, only that it did,” said Smythe. “Does it not make you wonder how genuine the likenesses may be?”
“What are you going on about?” asked Shakespeare, frowning. “We have two murders we must solve! What is all this about the blasted paintings? What have they to do with anything?”
“I am not certain,” Smythe replied. “Perhaps nothing at all.” He shook his head. “I cannot say why I notice such things, only that I do, you see. You observe people closely, I suppose because you write about them and thus need to understand them better. I simply observe things, perhaps because I have been taught to make them well. I notice if a sword is crafted well or if ‘tis simply flashy, ornamented to no purpose save to disguise the fact that the blade is not made very well. The blade the Frenchman carries, for example, seems to be a fairly good one from what little I could see of it, and young Holland carried a simple, albeit first-class duelist’s rapier. What was more, he knew how to use it. If we were to make inquiries, I would wager we would find that he had studied with a fencing master.”
“Well, whoever killed him must have studied harder,” Shakespeare said, wryly.
“Precisely,” Smythe replied. “You may jest, but I could tell from the cadence of the strokes that both combatants knew what they were about. That it went so quickly also tells me that the killer was either very lucky or else he was a first-rate swordsman. Holland had skill, yet despite that, he never stood a chance. For my money, our man is the very devil with a blade.”
“All the more reason we should avoid making his close acquaintance,” Shakespeare said.
“I thought you just said that you wanted to solve these murders,” Smythe replied.
“I do, insofar as ‘tis an exercise intended as a challenge to the mind, only I would prefer to do so at a safe distance. I find it interesting to puzzle out a killer’s motives and attempt to deduce who he might be, but when it comes to chasing him about with swords and things, I find that my enthusiasm wanes.”
Smythe stopped. “Well, we have now made a complete circuit of the hall and all the lower rooms,” he said. “If Braithwaite and Camden are not outside on the fairgrounds, they must be upstairs, asleep.”
“Perhaps we should follow their example,” Shakespeare said.
“What, and miss all the excitement? I should think that scarcely anyone will sleep this night.”
“I would make a liar of you in an instant.”
“Oh, come on, Will! You have spent many a night at The Toad and Badger, carousing until dawn. Are you going to start yawning on me now?”
“The very mention of it tempts me.”
“Well, fine then. Go sleep, if you must. I shall carry on alone.”
“And catch a dagger or an arrow in your back without me there to watch it for you? I should never sleep a wink again. Your ghost would haunt me, I am certain.”
“Aye, my shade would stand over your bed each night, all horrible and bloody, and would wail piteously until dawn. ‘Willlllllllll… Willlllllllll… ‘twas all your fault! ‘Twas all your fault!’ “
“You know, I do believe that you would do just that, to spite me.”
“I would.”
“You, sir, are a bounder and a scoundrel.” “And you, sir, are a lily-livered goose.”
A muffled high-pitched giggle stopped them as they went past the library. The door stood slightly ajar. Shakespeare glanced at Smythe. “Surely, you do not suppose…?”
“Two of the guests, perhaps, emboldened by the night’s events?”
“Should we make sure, you think?”
“Perhaps not. ‘Tis really none of our concern…”