The Merchant of Vengeance by Simon Hawke Page A

'tis certain that Tuck and I would both have been thrown into the Clink upon the spot."
    Smythe felt his stomach knotting at the thought. The Clink. was notorious for being one of the worst prisons in London, and from all that he had heard and read, none of London's prisons could boast conditions that were anything less than nightmarish.
    "Who do you suppose killed the poor fellow?" asked John Hemings, as he cut off a thick slice of the hearty Banbury cheese they were all enjoying, tore off a large chunk of barley bread, took a big bite out of each, and then washed it all down with beer, a relatively new beverage that had recently become available in London. It was not quite as rich tasting or as hearty as ale, but it had the virtue of being considerably cheaper. Between the wheel of cheese upon the table, loaves of rye and barley bread baked with beans and oats mixed in, and several large clay pitchers full of beer, the players were having themselves a filling and satisfying supper, spiced now by news of the murder.
    "I have not the foggiest notion who murdered the poor lad," Shakespeare replied after taking a long drink. "I am just grateful that we were able to convince the sheriff's men not to blame the devilish deed on us!"
    "Do you suppose the girl's father may have had it done?" asked
    Augustine Phillips. "To prevent the elopement, I mean."
    "'Twould not have been much of an elopement had the girl's father known about it in advance, now, would it, Gus?" Will Kemp observed sarcastically.
    "Well… he could have found out about it, somehow."
    Phillips replied defensively.
    "Oh, really? How?" asked Kemp. "As Shakespeare tells the tale, there was not even any plan of an elopement until sometime late this morning, when Smythe here put the foolish notion into the unfortunate boy's head."
    'Thank you so much for the thoughtful reminder, Kemp," said Smythe with a sour grimace. "It makes me feel ever so much better about how everything turned out."
    "Well, it serves you right for poking your nose into other people's business," Kemp replied testily. "Instead of coming to rehearsal, as you were supposed to have done, you chose to spend the day in profitless and pointless gallivanting about town, dragging our book holder to some low-class alehouse only to have him be insulted by some drunken lout of a poet, and then convincing some poor lad you did not even know that he should run off with some wench you also did not know, only to have this boy turn out to be the son of a man who could easily have both of you sewn up into sacks weighted down with stones and then thrown into the river… which he might very well do when he discovers his beloved son was murdered. Does that about sum it up, you think?"
    Smythe pressed his lips together and nodded glumly. "Aye, 'twould about sum it up, indeed."
    "Well done, Kemp," Shakespeare said dryly. "Now if you could only manage to remember your lines as well as you recalled every last detail of our story, then we would all be infinitely better off."
    "Perhaps if you wrote lines that were more memorable, I
    might find that I remembered them more easily," riposted Kemp.
    "'Strewth, I do not know if I would be capable of writing anything that you would find easy to remember," Shakespeare said. "Perhaps if I were to rhyme it with some sound that is cherished by thine ear. Speed, old fellow, pray tell, what rhymes with fart?"
    "Art," Bobby Speed replied at once, and belched profoundly. "Hark, methinks we have here the makings of some truly memorable poetry for Kemp," said Shakespeare. "Indeed, 'tis a veritable epic. Now then, what rhymes with belch?"
    "Smelch," said Thomas Pope, with his mouth full.
    "Smelch? Smelch?" Shakespeare frowned. "Preposterous! There is no such word."
    "Is so."
    "Is not!" said Shakespeare. "You are being quite ridiculous, Pope. Go on and use it in a sentence, then, you knave."
    "Kemp farted and the smelch was terrible," said Pope.
    "Odd's blood! You know, I do believe I rather