The Merchant of Vengeance by Simon Hawke

of woman who could leave everything she had and live the life of a humble country blacksmith's wife. Such a step down would be a disgrace to both her and her family. But it was all nothing more than pointless conjecture.
    Thomas Locke's situation was completely different. He and Portia Mayhew were in love and were going to be married until her father had suddenly withdrawn his consent, while he and Elizabeth had never declared their feelings to each other. It was an unspoken thing between them, never openly acknowledged.
    Shakespeare had been right. He had no business meddling in this affair in the first place. It did not concern him and was nothing more than wishful thinking on his part, in which he had suggested a course to Thomas Locke that he wished that he could take himself, but in all likelihood would not, even if such a possibility were open to him. Still, he thought, it was interesting that Elizabeth had coincidentally become involved in this affair, as well, from Portia's side.
    'You are being strangely silent," Shakespeare said as they reached the top of the stairs to the third floor. "Are you thinking about Elizabeth again?"
    Smythe smiled and shook his head. "You know me much too well," he said. "I do not think that I could ever keep a secret from you, Will."
    "'Tis your face that is to blame," said Shakespeare. "Whenever Elizabeth is in your thoughts, it assumes a woeful, maudlin aspect and you look for all the world like a small boy who has dropped his favourite sweet into a drainage ditch."
    Smythe grimaced. "I shall have to cultivate a new expression, then, for that one sounds altogether insufferable."
    "You should see it from my angle," Shakespeare said. "Perhaps we can work on some new ones in the tavern later, when we have finished with this nonsense. Then we can sit in comfort over some bread pudding and tankards full of ale and make faces at each other."
    They came to the door, and Smythe knocked upon it several times. There was no answer. He knocked again, a bit harder.
    "Well, so much for that," said Shakespeare, turning to go back down the stairs.
    "Wait," said Smythe. He had tried the door and it had opened.
    "Look," he said. A sudden and ominous clap of thunder outside announced the arrival of a storm.
    Shakespeare turned and sighed with resignation. "I suppose you simply must go in!"
    "Well, 'tis open," Smythe said with a shrug. He opened the door wider and went inside.
    "Oh, I just know that nothing good can come of this," said Shakespeare, following him in. "Perhaps he has already packed up all this things and left."
    "Nay, he is still here," Smythe replied heavily.
    The body of Thomas Locke lay upon the floor in a puddle of blood, a dagger sticking up out of his back.
    Chapter 5
    True to the wherry-man’s word, it had started to rain within moments after they had found the body. The gray sky had darkened, and the clouds had opened up to disgorge a hard and pelting rain that had forced the cancellation of that day's performance. All the other players in the company had gathered at the Toad and Badger by late afternoon, but Smythe and Shakespeare did not return till after nightfall, because it had been necessary CO report the murder and bring the sheriff's men to the scene, and then remain to answer all of their questions. At the tavern, the rest of the company were waiting for their fellows anxiously, demand-ing to know why they had missed rehearsal.
    They explained about discovering the murder, and how they had narrowly avoided being arrested themselves, which would have made a very convenient solution for the sheriff's men.
    "Bloody laggards," Shakespeare exclaimed with disgust as he described the incident to his fascinated audience in the tavern. "They cared not who had actually done the foul deed so much as they were anxious to have it disposed of neatly and with a minimum of effort. Had we not told them that we could produce witnesses who could account for where we had been all day, then