A Mystery Of Errors

10

Elizabeth did not know from whence came this sudden, exhilarating boldness, and it both alarmed and pleased her at the same time. As she made her way home, she thought about what she had done and it seemed difficult to believe that she had really done it. She wondered what her father would do if he discovered that she had been at an inn, alone with a man, and a lowly ostler, no less. She could just imagine his reaction.

If he called her a slut, beat her bloody, and drove her out of the house, no one would question his right to do so. By any decent person’s standards of morality, she had disgraced herself and she had disgraced her family. But she did not feel disgraceful and she did not feel like a slut. She felt like a woman who had suddenly seized control of her own destiny and made her own choice about something. For far too long, all her choices had been made for her. For once, she had chosen for herself. And whether it had been a wise choice or not, it made her feel marvelously free.

She did not feel very close to either of her parents. Like many other children, she had been sent to live with another family when she was very young and did not return until she was nearly thirteen. This was considered a sound practice, for it kept parents from forming too close a bond with their children and thereby suffering from too much grief in the event those children should not thrive. And a great many children did not survive the first few years of infancy. Even adulthood was not without its risks, as the Plague demonstrated all too grimly every summer, so emotional attachments within families were best kept within reasonable bounds.

Still, though she had grown to know and understand all this, when she finally came home again, Elizabeth felt as if she had come home to strangers. She had seen the family resemblance, particularly with her mother, but the similarities between them seemed to go no further. And as Elizabeth grew older, she and her mother had continued to grow even farther apart. When she considered her mother now, she saw a vapid, vain, and foolish creature, a woman with whom she felt no real kinship, who cared much more about appearances than the way things truly were. And when her mother looked at her, Elizabeth knew she saw a daughter she could not even begin to understand.

Elizabeth wondered if there had ever been a time when her mother had felt the same way about things as she did. Had there ever been a time when she was young? There must have been, but it seemed difficult to credit. Sometimes, when she was looking at her mother, Elizabeth tried to imagine what she must have been like when she was young. She must have been a great deal like me, Elizabeth often thought, at least in her outer aspect. But inside, Elizabeth could not believe that they were anything alike. If she were to accept that her mother could have ever been anything like her, then it would have also meant accepting that something must have happened to change her into the woman she had now become. And that was a disturbing, even a frightening thought, because it implied that she might wind up the same way.

Elizabeth could not imagine being married to a man like her father. Although her father had never mistreated her in any way, and had provided a good home for her and seen to all of her material needs, neither had he shown her any affection. He seemed to care more for his sports, his fighting dogs, than he did for either her or for her mother. He was hardly ever home, tending to business during most of each day, and at night he went out socializing, ostensibly also to increase his business and make new contacts and connections with people who might help him advance himself. On those nights when he came home at a reasonable hour, all he did was issue orders to her mother and herself. And he was always finding fault and never seemed to have any shortage of complaints.

Elizabeth had never heard him exchange a tender word with her mother. She had never seen any sign of physical affection pass between them. She had never seen them kiss, or caress, or hold hands, or even hug. And yet, for all that, her mother seemed to consider it a good marriage. Well, Elizabeth thought, if theirs was a good marriage, she would hate to see a bad one! Whatever became of love? Beyond romantic poetry, it seemed to have no currency. From what Elizabeth could see, a good marriage was really nothing more than a sound business transaction. And Elizabeth was not interested in going into business.

As she walked through the cobbled London streets, all around her, she saw people whose lives were a constant, desperate struggle merely to survive. These were the honest, working class people of London, skinners and saddlers, cutlers and tanners, ropemakers and weavers, coopers and costermongers, and cobblers and simple unskilled laborers mingling with beggars and trollops and cut-purses and alleymen… all of whom people like her father and Anthony Gresham never even deigned to notice as they drove through the city streets in their fancy, curtained coaches. These people were the lifeblood of the city, and yet, they did not impinge upon the world of her father and of the upper classes, which gave them no more thought than a carter would give his dray horse. And even there, she thought, the dray horse would fare better, because the carter knew his livelihood depended on the animal and thus he cared for it, whilst the prosperous middle and upper classes cared nothing for the lowly worker, save for how they could use him most profitably, and with the least amount of inconvenience to themselves.

Her tutor had been right, she thought. We have forgotten how to feel. The poets were the only ones who knew the true depth of the human soul. There was no honor in the upper classes, but only avarice and selfishness and sloth. The true beauty of the human struggle was to be found within the breast of the working man, those tireless toilers all around her who would wither and grow old before their time, assuming they survived the next Plague season. Elizabeth sighed. Her father had discovered what sort of things her tutor had been teaching her-doubtless, one of the servants had been directed to report to him-and the man had been dismissed. She missed him. He was the only one who had ever truly understood her.

“ Elizabeth!”

She glanced up at the sound of her name and saw the open carriage that had just passed her stopped in the middle of the street. And standing up in it was Anthony Gresham!

“ Elizabeth? It is you! What are you doing there, walking through the streets unescorted?”

“And pray tell what business would that be of yours?” she asked, as she approached the carriage.

“Well, quite aside from looking out for a lady’s welfare, as any gentleman should do, I could say that as your intended, it is very much my business, since it would appear that I am still your intended. And this despite the agreement we had made.”

“ ‘Twas not I who did not honor my agreement,” Elizabeth replied, tersely. She resumed walking, holding her head high.

“Indeed? Well, ‘twas certainly not I.” He stepped down from the coach and caught up to her. “As it happens, I was just on my way to see you to demand an explanation.”

“Demand’?” She could feel the color rushing to her face. She wanted to throw herself upon him and pummel him to the ground for the insufferable way that he had treated her, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper and act like the very shrew that he was trying to make her out to be. “Demand an explanation? You dare, sir, to take such a tone with me after the dishonorable way that you have acted?”

“My dear lady, if anyone has acted dishonorably in this matter, then ‘twas certainly not I!”

“Oh, indeed? Are you implying then that I am the one who has acted dishonorably?” She simply could not believe the sheer gall of the man! She was so angry, it was all that she could do to hold herself in check.

“Well, what do you call it when someone makes an agreement with you and you break it?”

“I? ‘Twas I who broke the agreement?” She stared at him with disbelief. “You astonish me, sir. You truly do. Your arrogant effrontery seems to know no bounds!”

The carriage, driven by the despicable Drummond, followed them slowly down the street. Within moments, however, a carter and a coach had come up behind them, both drivers shouting angrily at being blocked. Drummond immediately started shouting back at them and a furious argument ensued.

“Drive on, Andrew!” Gresham waved Drummond on before a fight could erupt. “I shall escort Miss Darcie home and meet you there!”

“I may not wish to be escorted by the likes of you, sir!”

“Be that as it may, I shall escort you nonetheless,” Gresham replied, taking her by the arm as Drummond used his whip and the carriage passed them, pursued by the oaths of the following drivers. “ ‘Tis neither safe nor proper for a young woman to be abroad all by herself.”

“Please let go of me, Mr. Gresham,” she said, twisting her arm out of his grasp. “You are entirely too familiar for a man who impugns my integrity.”

“As you wish,” he said, holding up his hands as if in a gesture of surrender. “However, if my familiarity offends you so, I must admit to being somewhat puzzled as to why you would wish to marry me.”

“Marry you!” She stopped, staring at him wide-eyed. For a moment, her mouth simply worked as if of its own accord as she struggled vainly to find speech.

“Aye, marry me. The very thing you had told me that you wanted to avoid, if you will recall our discussion at the playhouse.”

“Indeed, I do recall it very well, Mr. Gresham! Good day!” She turned and walked away from him, forcing him to run several steps to catch up to her again.

“It would be good evening,” he replied, “and the hour grows much too late for you to be walking home alone, howsoever undesirable my company may seem to you.”

“Rest assured that it is as undesirable as it is possible for it to be.”

“So you say. Nevertheless, I fear that I must inflict my company upon you for a while longer, long enough, at least, to see you safely home and perhaps receive the explanation that I came for.”

“An explanation? You ask me for an explanation?” Elizabeth replied, in a tone of outrage. She felt so furious she was trembling.

“You think that an unreasonable request?”

“Unreasonable, unwarranted, and utterly unfathomable!” she replied.

“Understood,” he replied. “Which is to say, I understand that you feel that way. What I do not understand is why.”

“Why?” She rounded on him with astonishment, startling him so that he almost tripped. Involuntarily, he stepped back away from her, apparently genuinely puzzled by the intensity of her response.

“Indeed,” he replied, looking confused. “Why?”

“You dare to ask me why?”

“Apparently, I do,” he said, wryly. “I wonder if you dare to answer.”

She shook her head and took a deep breath, then lit into him like an alley cat pouncing on a rat. “Oh, this is intolerable! This is simply not to be borne! You make me out to be a liar, come to my home and utterly humiliate me, deny the agreement you have made, and pretend that we had never even met, so that even my own mother is convinced that I have made the whole thing up, and then you have the unmitigated gall to act as if I were the one who broke faith with you\ How in God’s name can you stand there and look me in the eye and pretend to be an innocent when ‘twas you all along who set out to undermine my honor and my reputation, to make me out to be some shrewish liar and manipulative prevaricator whom no man in his right mind would wish to marry, so that my father, fearing to see all his efforts come to naught, would then increase the size of my dowry, paying you a small fortune to take me off his hands!”

As she railed at him, she kept advancing, backing the astonished man away from her, until they had approached a narrow alleyway. She didn’t even notice. She simply could not hold her temper anymore and she kept at him relentlessly.

“But, milady… but… Elizabeth!” he kept saying, over and over, vainly trying to get a word in edgewise as he kept backing away from the unexpected onslaught.

“You knave! You worm! You miserable cur dog! You lying… faithless… dishonorable… misbegotten… loathsome guttersnipe! If there were any justice in the world, then by God, you would be struck down where you stand this very instant!”

Gresham gave a sudden, sharp grunt and his eyes went very wide. He gasped and fell forward into her arms, dragging her down. She cried out with alarmed surprise and fell to her knees, unsuccessfully trying to support his weight. Then she noticed the dagger sticking up out of his back, the blade buried to the hilt between his shoulder blades. Shocked, she released him and he dropped lifeless to the ground. Elizabeth screamed.

The insistent hammering on the door and the shouting woke them both from a sound sleep they had only recently fallen into, aided by copious celebratory pints of ale. Shakespeare was the first to rouse himself, though he could not quite manage to raise his body off the bed. It seemed to take a supreme effort just to raise his eyelids.

“God’s wounds,” he moaned, “what is that horrifying row? Tuck? Tuck!”

There was no response from the inert form beside him in the bed.

“Tuck, roast your gizzard! Wake up! Wake up!” He elbowed his roommate fiercely. Just outside their door, the noise was increasing.

“Wha’? Whadizit?” came the slurred and querulous response.

“There is a woman shrieking at the door,” said Shakespeare.

“Tell her we don’ want any,” Smythe said, thickly, without even opening his eyes.

“What?”

Smythe grunted and rolled over. “Tell her t’ go ‘way.”

“You damn well tell her!”

“Wha’? Why the hell should I tell her?”

“Because she is screeching your damned name!”

“Wha’?”

“Get out of bed, you great, lumbering oaf!”

It began to penetrate through Smythe’s consciousness that he was being beaten with something. It took a moment or so longer for him to realize that it was Shakespeare’s shoe, which the poet was bringing down upon his head repeatedly.

“All right, all right, damn you! Stop it!”

He lashed out defensively and felt the satisfying impact of his fist against something soft. There was a sharp wheezing sound, like the whistling of a perforated bellows, followed by a thud.

“Will?”

There was no response. At least, there was no response from Shakespeare. From without, there was all sorts of cacophony. Smythe could hear frenzied hammering on the door, voices, both male and female now, raised in angry shouts, running footsteps, doors slamming open…

“Will?”

He sat up in bed and the room seemed to tilt strangely to one side. “Ohhhhh…” He shut his eyes and brought his hand up to the bridge of his nose. Somewhere right there, between his eyes, someone seemed to have hammered in a spike while he’d been sleeping.

“Tuck! Tuck! Oh, wake up, Tuck, please!“

He recognized the voice. It was Elizabeth Darcie. And she sounded absolutely terrified. He shook off the pain in his head, not entirely successfully, and lurched out of bed.

“I’m coming!” he called out.

“Ruaghhhh!” The growling sound from the floor on the opposite side of the bed scarcely seemed human.

“Be quiet, Will! And get up off the floor!”

“Oh, bollocks! I shall stay right here. ‘Tis safer.”

Smythe unbolted the door and opened it. Elizabeth came rushing into his arms. “Oh, Tuck! You must help me! ‘Twas terrible! Terrible!”

There was a crowd gathered just outside his door. Several members of the company were there, or what little was left of the original company since Alleyn had departed. Dick Burbage was not present, for he did not lodge at The Toad and Badger, but stayed at his father’s house. Will Kemp, however, was there in his nightshirt, as were Robert Speed and several of the hired men who had rooms at the inn.

“What the devil is going on?” asked Kemp, in an affronted tone. “What is all this tumult?”

Elizabeth was sobbing against Smythe’s chest and clutching at him desperately.

“What is this?” demanded the inn’s proprietor, the ursine Courtney Stackpole, elbowing his way through the onlookers. “What is the cause of all this noise?”

“I do not know… yet,” Smythe replied, holding Elizabeth protectively.

“He’s dead!“ Elizabeth sobbed. “Oh, Tuck! He’s dead! Murdered!”

“Who is dead?” asked Speed. “Who was murdered?”

“Murdered?” Kemp drew back. “Good Lord! Who? Where? Here?“

Everyone started talking at once.

“Silence!” Stackpole bellowed. “Go on and get back to your rooms, all of you! We shall determine what has happened here.” He turned to Smythe. “Who is this lady?”

“Her name is Elizabeth Darcie,” Smythe replied. “And I am going to take her inside where she may sit for a moment and compose herself.”

“We still have some wine, I think,” said Shakespeare, from behind him. “A drink might do her good.”

“Darcie?” Speed said. “Not Henry Darcie’s daughter?” He took a closer look. “Good Lord, it is! God save us!”

“Who is Henry Darcie?” Stackpole asked, as Smythe led the distraught Elizabeth back inside the room and shut the door.

“Only one of the principal investors,” Speed replied.

“What, in the company?” said Shakespeare.

“In the playhouse itself,” Speed replied. “Henry Darcie is one of the principal investors in the Burbage Theatre.”

Shakespeare groaned. “Oh, no.”

“Wait a moment,” said Kemp. “I remember now! That was the same girl who was here before. She was the one with Smythe in… oh, no!”

“Will,” said Speed, “Sweet Will, pray tell us he did not bed the daughter of one of the Theatre’s principal investors.”

“He did not bed the daughter of one of the Theatre’s principal investors,” Shakespeare replied.

“Oh, no,” said Speed, shutting his eyes. “And now he’s got her mixed up in some murder?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Speed!” Shakespeare replied. “She was here earlier this evening and left calmly, with her virtue intact, I am assured, without any talk of death or murder, and since then, Smythe has been in our presence all night long! Use your head, man! This is something that has happened only since she left!”

“But who is it that’s been murdered?” Kemp asked. “And where? And how? And what has she to do with it? More to the point, what have we to do with it?”

“I imagine Tuck is attempting to ascertain those very things even as we speak,” said Shakespeare. “In any event, we are not going to learn anything by congregating in the corridor. I suggest we all repair downstairs until Tuck can speak with her and then tell us what has transpired.”

They all trooped downstairs, where Stackpole opened up the bar and, behind shuttered windows, they sat anxiously, drinking ale by candlelight and discussing what to do. They decided that Dick Burbage should be informed as soon as possible, and John Fleming, too, since both were shareholders of the company and Dick’s father was in business with Henry Darcie. A couple of the hired men were at once dispatched to their homes. Otherwise, they did not yet know anything about the murder that Elizabeth had spoken of, such as who has been killed or how or where, but foremost in all their minds was the singular fact that one of their ostlers, and to all intents and purposes, one of their company, for Shakespeare had arranged a part for Smythe as a hired man, had become involved with the daughter of one of the principal investors in the Burbage Theatre.

Save for Smythe and Shakespeare, who were still new with the company, Hency Darcie was well known to them all. A wealthy merchant who, along with James Burbage’s in-laws, had invested heavily in the construction of the playhouse, he received as a shareholder of the Theatre, as opposed to of the company, a portion of the profits. Before any of them got paid, Hency Darcie got paid and as such, he was a very important person in all of their lives. James Burbage, Richard’s father and the owner of the playhouse, owed a great deal to Henry Darcie, and if-as it certainly appeared to all-Smythe had indeed ruined his daughter, who was, as Speed seemed to recall, betrothed to some nobleman, there would certainly be hell to pay.

“Oh, of all the bloody wenches he could have pronged, why in God’s name did he have to choose Henry Darcie’s daughter?” Kemp moaned, putting his head in his hands and overacting, as usual. “We are undone! We are all undone!”

“Well, for one thing, ‘tis not so certain that ‘twas Smythe who did the choosing,” Shakespeare said. “Remember, I was there when she arrived. ‘Twas she who came knocking on our door in search of him, and insisted upon waiting for him to return while I went to deliver my rewrite of the play.”

“And you let her stay?” Kemp said, in a tone of outrage. “Alone in an inn, in a room shared by two men, unchaperoned?”

“Well, if she were alone, then she would be unchaperoned, wouldn’t she?” Shakespeare replied.

“You can save your poet’s word games, you know damned well what I mean!” said Kemp, angrily. “ ‘Twas your fault, then, that this whole miserable event happened in the first place!”

“How exactly do you arrive at that ridiculous conclusion?” Shakespeare countered. “How was I supposed to know whose daughter she was? I had never even heard of Henry Darcie. On the other hand, when she first arrived here and went up to our room, every single one of you was right here, wassailing and gorging yourselves on bread and cheese and meat pasties, toasting the success of the last performance. Which, I might add, would have been a miserable failure had I not doctored up your play for you.”

“Oh, I see! So now ‘tis you who are the savior of the company, is that it?” replied Kemp. “Why, you insolent young puppy-”

“Be quiet, Kemp, for Heaven’s sake!” interrupted Speed. “This is getting us nowhere. For one thing, the play was not working, and he fixed it. And I, for one, did not hear anyone disputing that fact after the performance. For another, our friend, Shakespeare, is absolutely right. We were all here, Dick and John included, when the girl arrived and asked for Smythe and none of us paid her any mind. ‘Twas not as if Elizabeth Darcie had never attended the Theatre before. She had been to many of our performances together with her father and she had met us all. We simply were not paying attention. We all saw her, but we did not notice her, because we were all much too busy celebrating.”

Kemp snorted. “Well, I cannot go paying attention to every wench who happens to pass by!”

“You pay no attention to any of them,” Speed replied, wryly, “and we all know why.”

“The question is, what are you lot going to do now?” asked Stackpole. “The girl’s parents are going to be concerned that she is missing. The sheriff’s men may be called out.”

“Oh, that is all we need!” wailed Kemp. “We shall all wind up in the Marshalsea!”

“No one is going to prison,” Shakespeare said. “None of us has done anything wrong. Smythe, admittedly, looks to be somewhat at risk, but the rest of us have not broken any laws.”

“It makes no difference,” Kemp said. “Henry Darcie has influential friends. Powerful friends. He shall have the playhouse shut down and we shall all be out of work!”

“As a principal investor, if he has the Theatre shut down, then he only ends up taking money out of his own pocket,” Shakespeare said. “And I have never known a merchant willing to do that.”

Before long, Fleming and young Burbage both arrived. When they’d heard what happened and whose daughter was involved, they had wasted no time in getting there. They were quickly informed of what had transpired in their absence. By that time, Smythe rejoined them. He was alone. No sooner had he come into the tavern than they all surrounded him, peppering him with questions and accusations.

“Enough!” Stackpole shouted at them all. “Leave the lad alone! Give him a chance to speak!”

Smythe glanced at the burly innkeeper gratefully and thanked him.

“First things first,” said Shakespeare. “How is she?”

“She has calmed down a bit and is resting,” Smythe replied. “I gave her some wine. She will sleep now, I think. She has had quite a fright, indeed.”

Stackpole brought him an ale. “There ya go, lad. On the house.”

“Thanks, Court.”

“What happened?” Speed asked.

Smythe related everything Elizabeth had told him, from the time they first met when she came to the Theatre in Gresham ’s coach to her report of Gresham ’s murder.

“Oh, God!” said Kemp, running his fingers through his hair. “Now we have a murdered nobleman! This just keeps getting worse and worse!”

“Be quiet, Will,” said Burbage, with an annoyed glance at Kemp. “Did she see who did it, Tuck?”

Smythe shook his head. “She does not recall seeing or hearing anyone or anything. They were engaged in an argument, it seems, and she was furious with Gresham for the way he’d treated her and wished that he would be struck down. The very next moment, he was.”

“Good Lord!” said Fleming.

“She said he gave a sort of grunt and fell against her. She almost went down herself, trying to support his weight, and then noticed a dagger protruding from between his shoulder blades. She quite understandably panicked and took to her heels. She ran straight back here.”

“The poor girl!” said Fleming.

“I do not understand,” said Burbage, frowning. “How could he have been stabbed and she not have seen who did it?”

“I was a bit confused about that, too,” said Smythe. “It took a while to calm her down and she does not seem to remember what happened very clearly. But she does recall that there was an alleyway behind them, so my conjecture is that someone threw the dagger from within the alleyway.”

“Threw it!” Fleming said. “Lord! It might have hit the girl!”

Smythe shook his head. “I doubt it. She said it had gone in up to the hilt. That much, she remembers vividly. Whoever threw that dagger knew what he was about.”

“What do you mean?” asked Burbage.

“He means the man was an assassin,” Shakespeare said.

“What!”

“An assassin!”

“But how could you know that?” asked Burbage.

“It only stands to reason,” Shakespeare replied. “There seems to have been no attempt at robbery. And Gresham ’s clothes alone would have fetched a tidy sum, to say nothing of his jewelry and what he must have had in his purse. Elizabeth certainly would not have deterred a robber who was willing to kill to get what he wanted. So, if the man was not killed for what he had, then he was killed for who he was. Somebody wanted Anthony Gresham dead.”

“But there is no way you can know any of this for certain,” Kemp said.

“No, not yet, anyway,” Smythe replied. “But for the moment, I can think of no other explanation.”

“So then she simply left the body lying in the street?” asked Kemp.

“What did you expect her to do, pick it up and carry it back here?” said Speed, with a grimace.

“Well, I merely meant that someone would certainly have discovered it by now,” said Kemp.

“That would be a reasonable assumption,” agreed Burbage. “Men are killed on the streets of London every night, but they are not often noblemen. The sheriff’s men will surely be asking questions.”

“But not necessarily of us,” said Speed.

“And why not?” asked Fleming.

“Well, Gresham was killed a considerable distance from here,” Speed replied. “And none of us had anything to do with it. We were all right here, in the tavern. All night long. So why, then, would the sheriff’s men want to question any of us about anything?”

“But the girl came here,” said Fleming. “She came here straight afterward.”

“And she was here before,” said Kemp.

“And the less said about that, the better,” Speed replied. “If she knows what’s good for her, then she will keep her mouth shut about the whole thing.”

Smythe frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Just this, my lad,” Speed replied, “that she should not have been here with you in the first place, and in the second place, if everything she told you about this Gresham chap was true, then this neatly solves her problem for her, does it not? Gresham ’s dead.” He shrugged. “His body will be found, if it has not been found already, and the sheriff’s men will ask their questions, and it shall turn out, as it always does, that no one has seen anything or heard anything. And even if anyone did, why then, they heard no more than a woman screaming and they saw no more than a woman running. It is highly unlikely that anyone will ever connect her with any of this.”

“You are forgetting the servant, Drummond,” Smythe said. “He was driving Gresham in the carriage. And he saw Elizabeth.”

“What of it?” Speed replied. “You said she told you that Gresham told him to drive off. So he was not there when it happened. Elizabeth will simply say they spoke on the street and then they parted and he must have been killed afterward. The point is, there is no reason to drag any of us into this. And if she does, then it shall only make things worse for her. If it comes out that she has been with you, then her reputation will be ruined and Henry Darcie will certainly hold you to blame, if not all of us. There is simply nothing to be served in her being honest here. ‘Twill certainly not bring Gresham back. ‘Twill only bring disaster down on one and all.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Stackpole broke the silence. “He has a point, you know-”

“Aye, he does,” agreed Burbage, nodding. “I cannot say that I like it, but it does make sense.” “Makes sense to me,” said Kemp.

Smythe looked from one to the other of them. Finally, his gaze fell on Shakespeare. “Will?” he said.

The poet pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I hate to admit it,” he said, “but Speed does have a point. I cannot see where honesty in this case would be the best policy at all. Quite the contrary, ‘twould only hurt everyone concerned. Especially the two of you.”

“The question is,” said Burbage, gazing at Smythe intently, “can you make her see that?”

Smythe exhaled heavily. “I suppose that I shall have to try. For her sake, and for all of yours, if not for my own.”

“Then we are all agreed?” said Burbage, glancing around at his comrades. “Elizabeth Darcie was never here at all. Not tonight, not earlier today… not at all. We never saw her. None of us. We do not know anything about this. Is that quite clearly understood?”

Everyone agreed.

“But what shall she tell her parents she was doing tonight?” Shakespeare asked. “If she does not have a good story for them, one that they would easily accept, then if they pressed her for the truth, she would probably break down and tell them.”

“Is there not some friend she could say she was visiting?” asked Speed.

“Perhaps,” said Smythe. “But whereas a friend might lie for her, the others in the household probably would not. Parents, servants, any of them could give her away.”

“True,” said Shakespeare. “We would need a rather more convincing fiction, I should think.”

Burbage glanced at Stackpole. “Granny Meg?” he said.

The innkeeper grinned and nodded. “Granny Meg,” he agreed.