A Mystery Of Errors

12

“You are, ‘twould seem, as surprised by this turn of events as I was,” Burbage said, as he approached them. He shook his head and beckoned to one of the hired men, who came running up to the edge of the stage. “Miles, tell the others that we are sticking to our story about last night. And to betray no surprise, whatever they may hear. I shall explain all in due course.”

As Miles ran to pass the word, Smythe turned to Burbage and said, in a low voice, “Dick, what the devil is going on? That man with Elizabeth is Anthony Gresham, is he not?”

“Indeed, he is,” said Burbage, with a wry expression. “And you may well imagine my surprise when my father introduced me to him. Fortunately, my training as a player stood me in good stead. I think I managed to conceal my astonishment, for the most part. I clearly saw yours written on your face when we came in.”

“But… how does he come to be alive?” Smythe asked, utterly perplexed.

“By the simple expedient of not having died yet,” Shakespeare said, dryly. He put his hand on Smythe’s shoulder. “ ‘Tis painfully self-evident, my friend. The wench has lied to you.”

Smythe shook his head. “No. No, I cannot believe it. She was in earnest. You were there, you heard!”

“The proof stands yonder,” Burbage said. “Together with her father, who has brought Mr. Gresham here to meet with my own father about investing in the playhouse. Mr. Gresham, ‘twould seem, is most interested in the arts. In plays, especially.”

“But… but I simply cannot believe she lied to me!” said Smythe, shaking his head as he stared at the group talking by the entrance to the playhouse. He saw Elizabeth looking toward him, desperately trying to catch his eye without seeming too obvious about it. Their gazes met and she shook her head, very slightly, but emphatically.

“Tuck, my friend, you would not be the first man lied to by a woman,” Shakespeare said, gently.

“You do her an injustice, Will,” said Smythe. “Look at her. She looks absolutely terrified.”

“Aye, she had much the same look when she saw me,” said Burbage. “The look of a surprised deer. She is afraid, all right. Afraid that we shall give her game away.”

“What game?” asked Smythe, frowning.

“Her lie about the supposed murder of her intended, who now stands before us. Aye, she played us for a bunch of fools. She had her fun sporting with you and then we kindly provided her with the perfect alibi to avoid any suspicion of wrongdoing or impropriety.” He snorted with derision. “All she had to do was ask our help and we would have done it anyway. Lord, the last thing Henry Darcie needs to know is that one of our players bedded his daughter. His very much betrothed daughter.”

“But I did not…” Smythe broke off in exasperation and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The other players would never believe he had not bedded the girl and all his protestations would only serve to make them more convinced. “Look, how was I to have any way of knowing who her father was?” he asked. “I had never even heard of Henry Darcie.”

“Nevertheless, you still should have known well enough to realize that she was well beyond your station,” Burbage said, in a tone of reproof. “And therefore, liable to be trouble. If Gresham ever found out about you, he could easily have you killed, you know. The whole thing is a bad business all around. If you ask me, the woman’s touched, and I do not envy Gresham if he marries her. But then again, Henry Darcie has a lot of money, and money can buy no small amount of solace. Do yourself and all the rest of us a favor, Tuck, and keep well away from her. She will only bring you trouble. And that may bring us trouble, and I would prefer to avoid trouble, if at all possible. Now, Will, would you do me the courtesy of coming to see Sir Anthony? He would very much like to meet you.”

Shakespeare frowned. “Why on earth would he want to meet me?”

“As I said, he is interested in plays,” Burbage replied. “And I have told him that we have found a bright young poet who is just about to make his mark as one of England ’s greatest playwrights. A bit of an exaggeration, perhaps, but when dealing with investors, it never hurts to oversell.”

“I’d like to make my mark, all right,” said Shakespeare, in a surly tone. “Right on his damned jaw. I still remember all those thorns in my bum from when his coach ran us off the road that day!”

“Now don’t you be giving me any trouble,” Burbage said, sharply. “The man has come with money to invest. And we could all benefit from that. Aside from that, if you play your cards right, you never know, you might even get yourself a wealthy patron. ‘Twould be well worth taking a few stickers up the arse, I should think. Now come on, put on your best fawning, servile manner and make a decent leg. This is business, my friend, business.”

Smythe stood there and watched them head off toward the others. Dick waved to them and his father gave a jaunty wave back. Henry Darcie stood there with his arms folded, looking pompous, as if he owned the place-which, to some degree, he did-and Sir Anthony had his hands upon his hips and stood looking about like the cock of the walk. Elizabeth, however, looked on the verge of tears. She looked at Smythe and once again shook her head slightly, in jerky little motions, back and forth, like a tremor going through her.

No, thought Smythe, something here was decidedly not right. All the evidence of his senses pointed toward the explanation that Dick Burbage gave as being the only logical answer, but in his gut, Smythe could not accept it.

He did not delude himself that Elizabeth Darcie loved him or that they could ever have any sort of future together. That wasn’t how he thought of her in any case, and he knew it certainly wasn’t how she thought of him. But he recalled how terrified she had been and could not believe it was a lie, as both Shakespeare and Burbage thought.

Clearly, she had not seen Gresham killed, for here he was, in the too, too solid flesh, not even remotely ghostlike and very much alive. So then, if he was to assume she had not lied, what had she seen? She was not a girl given to the vapors. She had been apprehensive last night at Granny Meg’s, even frightened at first, and yet, she had gone through with it, with neither fainting nor faint-heartedness. And when she came to him and told him what she’d seen, she had seemed very much in earnest. Not even the great Ned Alleyn, he thought, could act a part so well. Therefore, assuming that she had been telling him the truth, she must have seen what she had only thought was Gresham being murdered.

Could she have been mistaken? He thought back to her words. They had been most definite. She had said that Gresham fell against her, so heavily that he had dragged her down with him, as if he were dead weight. Dead weight, indeed. With a dagger plunged to the hilt between his shoulder blades. Which meant it had been thrown with considerable force, and by someone who knew what he was doing. She had left him then, a corpse upon the ground. Except here he was, alive. So if Elizabeth had told the truth, then it must have been a trick, an elaborate deception. And if that was the case, then Gresham must have been behind it.

But why?

What could be his motive? Elizabeth had said that Gresham had already been toying with her, making her out to be a liar and a shrew, the better to seem undesirable for wedlock, even in her parents’ eyes. With the arrangement already made, a daughter who suddenly began to act erratically, to the point of lying or having flights of fancy she could not control, could certainly induce a wealthy father to increase the dowry, thereby making the prospective husband more eager for the marriage and perhaps more likely to overlook the daughter’s faults.

According to Elizabeth, Gresham had even gone to the extent of using his servant, Drummond, to lie for him. Smythe remembered Drummond from that night back at the inn, and again the day that he had met Elizabeth for the first time, outside the Theatre. An officious, unpleasant, arrogantly boorish man. Smythe had disliked him from the start. And according to Elizabeth, Drummond had denied that he had even been there.

Elizabeth had said that Drummond had been driving the carriage when she had met Gresham on the street, and that Gresham had sent him on ahead, supposedly because by following them slowly in the carriage, he had blocked the way. A convenient ruse, perhaps? If he had slowed the carriage to the pace of two people walking, he would have blocked the street, of course. There were more and more carriages and coaches on the streets of London every day, so much so that they were causing blockages all over. So Gresham could have had Drummond follow until someone came up behind him and started to cause a commotion about it, then Gresham would wave him on ahead… Meet me at the Darcie residence. And Drummond drives on, out of sight, then has ample time to leave the carriage somewhere and double back on foot… so that the two of them could stage a little drama of their own?

As if he could feel Smythe’s gaze upon him, Gresham turned and glanced toward him. For a moment, their eyes met. Smythe did not look away. Gresham arched an eyebrow, frowned faintly, and then turned back to the others in the group. “No,” Smythe said softly, to himself, “by God, Elizabeth is not the liar here.”

He met her gaze again and nodded. She saw it. And she understood.

The remainder of the rehearsal was no improvement over his previous performance. If anything, it was even worse. He kept forgetting his one line, or else he came in on the wrong cue and stepped on Kemp’s line, or else missed the cue entirely, or came in on cue only to miss his mark and move too far downstage, thereby unintentionally upstaging Kemp, which only served to further infuriate the irritable comedian. Nor did it do very much to improve Shakespeare’s disposition. Since Shakespeare had punched up the old play with a new rewrite, he was, naturally enough, the logical person to function as the bookholder and prompter during the production, and therefore, the responsibility of the production running smoothly from start to finish had set-tied largely on his shoulders. It was an important job, and Shakespeare knew it represented an equally important opportunity for him in the company. Consequently, he was less than pleased with Smythe’s performance.

Smythe knew the only reason he had his small role was because Shakespeare had recommended him for it. By botching it thoroughly, he was making his roommate look bad. He hated that, but he couldn’t seem to help it. He just couldn’t get it right, no matter how hard he tried. It was almost as if he were under some sort of a curse.

They finally decided to abandon the scene altogether and move on, though Kemp had kept demanding that Smythe be replaced with someone who had more intelligence, such as one of the mules from the stable. Smythe held his temper in check in the face of Kemp’s relentless and abusive sarcasm, in large part because he knew that in the present circumstance, Kemp’s remarks were thoroughly well deserved. For almost as long as he could remember, Smythe had dreamed of being a player, and now that he had his opportunity at last, he was making a complete mess of it.

He kept telling himself that it was because he could not get his mind off the situation with Elizabeth, but deep down inside, he was beginning to wonder if that truly was the reason. Perhaps the truth was that he was never meant to be a player. He pushed that thought aside. It was his dream. This was what he’d always wanted. He would get the hang of it. He was still new to it and he was nervous, overanxious, and… preoccupied. He could not do justice even to his one miserable little line so long as he kept thinking of Elizabeth.

It certainly did not help that she had been right above him, looking down from the gallery seats, where James Burbage had taken them to watch the company rehearse and give them a good overview of the entire theatre. And every time they had run through his scene… well, his line, in any case… and he had bungled it, he had heard their laughter from the upper gallery. Gresham ’s laughter, in particular. The miraculously resurrected Sir Anthony had one of those throw-your-head-back, arch-your-back, and roar-out-to-the-heavens laughs that rang throughout the Theatre. It was booming and infectious, and Henry Darcie and James Burbage both joined in, as did many of the players. Each time, Smythe could feel his ears burning… and each time, he could feel the burning gaze of Will Kemp searing scorn into him like a branding iron.

When they became exasperated and decided to stop working on that scene and move on, Smythe left the playhouse quickly, before anyone could have a chance to speak to him. In part, it was his embarrassment and anger with himself that made him seek escape, but at the same time, it was his overwhelming desire to learn the truth about what truly had transpired the previous day. The only problem was, he was not quite sure just how he was going to go about it.

His first instinct was to follow Gresham and the Darcies when they left the Theatre, and then observe them from a distance until he could have a chance to speak with Elizabeth alone. Unlike Shakespeare and Burbage, he could not accept that she had lied to them. Her terror had been all too real. She had truly believed that she had seen Sir Anthony Gresham murdered. So what must she be thinking now? To see a man slain right before your eyes, to be convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was dead, only to have him apparently come back to life and act as if nothing had happened… to someone already driven to distraction by people questioning her motives and veracity, it had to seem as if she were descending into madness.

A chill ran through Smythe at the thought, as if someone had walked over his grave. Here was yet another frightening possibility. If Elizabeth could be convinced that she were going mad, or more significantly, if everyone around her, including even her parents, could be convinced of that, then once the marriage had taken place and the dowry was safely in Gresham’s hands, she could be confined to what had once been the priory of St. Mary of Bethlehem, now better known as St. Mary’s Hospital, or Bedlam, an asylum for lunatics.

Compared to that, thought Smythe, even death would be a preferable fate. And if that was Gresham ’s plan, then the man was much worse than an unprincipled scoundrel. He was absolutely diabolical. But the more Smythe thought about it, the more the details seemed to fit. He could not allow something like that to happen. He had to stop it somehow. He would follow Gresham and, one way or another, he would find out for certain what the man was up to.

He did not have very long to wait. They did not bother to stay for the entire rehearsal. James Burbage walked them to the front gate of the Theatre, where they got into their coach-the same coach as the one that nearly ran them down that day not long ago, when Smythe and Shakespeare were on the road to London. By the time they left the playhouse, Smythe had already saddled one of the post horses from the stable, a privilege he was abusing, since it was not an ostler’s due to borrow horses anytime he chose, but he had promised old Ian Banks, the stablemaster, that he would make it up to him somehow. When Gresham, Henry Darcie, and Elizabeth drove off, with Drummond at the reins, Smythe was right behind them, keeping far enough back that he could keep the coach in sight without alerting them that they were being followed.

He needn’t have worried. From inside the coach, they could not see who was behind them, and Drummond had no reason to suspect that anyone would follow, so he never turned around. When they reached the congested streets of the city, Smythe closed the distance between them so as not to lose them. He followed the coach back to the Darcie residence, then reined in, keeping back out of sight around a bend as Gresham dropped off Henry Darcie and Elizabeth. When the coach drove on, Smythe hesitated only for a moment and then followed. He decided he could double back and try to see Elizabeth later, if he had the chance, but for now, there was a more important task at hand. He wanted to find out where Gresham lived and see what sort of opportunities, if any, might present themselves.

Curiously, instead of going home, Gresham drove from the Darcie residence straight to Bishopsgate Street, where he stopped at the inn known as The Strutting Gamecock. The large, painted wooden sign outside the inn depicted a pair of fighting birds within a ring. It was one of the inns in London where sporting games were held and plays were often staged, and like The Toad and Badger, it was frequented by actors, musicians, bards, balladeers, and artists, along with other somewhat less reputable types. Smythe was unaware of any productions being staged here at the moment, so perhaps Sir Anthony had decided to take in an evening of some sport and wagering. But it was still a little early for that sort of thing and Smythe could not imagine what other business a gentleman like Gresham would have in such a place. On the other hand, he thought again, perhaps he could.

Gresham went inside the inn, but Drummond remained waiting for him with the coach, rather than driving in to stable it. It seemed that Gresham would not be staying very long. A brief assignation with some strumpet, perhaps? The corners of Smythe’s mouth turned down. If that were so, then he could not say much for Gresham ’s taste. The sort of women he would find in there would certainly be of the more common, coarser sort. Sir Anthony had not struck him as the type who would consort with harlots, but then appearances could often be deceiving. Sir William was certainly a case in point.

Smythe wondered if he could presume on his acquaintance with Sir William to ask some pointed questions about Gresham. They moved in the same circles and doubtless knew each other. But then, what exactly would he ask? He could not very well ask Sir William if Gresham was the sort of man who would stage his own murder to take advantage of an innocent girl for personal gain. Or could he? No, he thought, not really. On the face of it, the notion seemed quite daft. And suppose the two of them were friends? He needed something more. But he was not yet sure what that could be.

He waited, debating with himself whether or not to risk stabling the horse and going in to see what he could learn. What if Gresham spotted him? For that matter, would Gresham even recognize him?

He thought back to the times they’d seen each other. The first time had been at that roadside inn outside of London, The Hawk and Mouse. When Gresham had come in, he hadn’t even glanced at him. There had been no reason for him to have noticed him. He was, after all, just another poor, common traveler sitting at a table with a friend and Gresham had been intent on getting rooms. The only time they had actually confronted one another, if indeed it could be called a confrontation, had been a short while later, when Smythe had carried a nearly insensible Will Shakespeare up the stairs and, paralyzed with drink, the poet had directed him to the wrong room. There had been that moment when Smythe had opened the door and briefly seen Gresham standing in his room, in conversation with a young woman, and Gresham and the woman turned and glanced toward him, then Drummond had quickly stepped up and closed the door right in his face.

Aside from that, the only other time he had actually seen Gresham had been just a short while ago, back at the Theatre. And though their gazes had met briefly across the playhouse yard, Gresham had shown no sign of having recognized him. Might his memory be jogged if he saw him yet again? Or did he simply not remember him at all from that night at the inn? And what of Drummond? The servant had seen him close up, at least once, the night he had met Elizabeth at the Theatre. And Andrew Drummond had, of course, been there at The Hawk and Mouse that night, as well. But Smythe felt fairly certain that neither Gresham nor Drummond had noticed him that night.

He decided to take the chance. He rode up to the inn, right past Drummond waiting with the coach. The servant did not even glance toward him. Smythe turned his mount over to a burly ostler at the inn and went inside. Inside the tavern, he looked around. The place was reasonably full, with men drinking and eating and, in some cases, consorting with the women. The atmosphere was fairly noisy and pipe smoke filled the air from the long, clay churchwardens that were all the rage. Someone was playing on a cithern, brushing the wire strings with a plectrum and singing some new ballad that was making the rounds. Some of the other patrons joined in on the chorus and Smythe suddenly realized that the ballad was about none other than Black Billy the brigand, whom he knew better as Sir William Worley. He wondered what these good, working class tradesmen, artists, and apprentices might think if they knew that the bold outlaw who had captured their imaginations was, in reality, one of England ’s wealthiest noblemen. In all likelihood, he thought, they never would believe it.

There was no sign of Gresham. He went up to the bar and bought a pint of ale. He drank it slowly, not wishing to become tipsy when he needed to have his wits about him. If Gresham was not in the tavern, then he had to be in one of the rooms. He had obviously come to see someone here. But if he had not come to sport with some strumpet in one of the rooms upstairs, then for what purpose had he come?

A moment later, he spotted Gresham coming down the stairs near the entrance to the tavern. And there was someone with him, someone in a black, full-length, hooded cloak. The hood was up, covering the entire head and face, so Smythe could not see who it was. They headed outside. Smythe followed.

They walked out to Gresham ’s coach and stood there talking for a few moments. Smythe had to keep far enough back so as not to be noticed, so unfortunately, he could not hear what was said. After a moment or two, Gresham got back into the coach, alone.

Smythe had a quick decision to make. Follow Gresham, or try to find out who the mysterious stranger in the hooded cloak was? He hesitated, then decided just as Drummond whipped up the horses and the coach drove away. He could find out where Gresham lived easily enough. The ominous-looking stranger in the hooded cloak was the greater mystery for the moment.

The stranger turned and headed not back toward the tavern, but the stables. Smythe followed at a distance. From the courtyard of the inn, he could observe the entrance to the stables, where he saw three big, rough-looking men approach the stranger from inside. One of them was the very ostler to whom Smythe had given his horse. They spoke briefly, then Smythe frowned as he saw the black-cloaked stranger take out a purse and shake it out into a gloved hand. He saw the glint of the gold. The money exchanged hands.

Clearly, these tough-looking men were being paid for something. And whatever it was, Smythe had the feeling it was not for the care and feeding of some horses. Smythe tried to move in closer, to see if he could hear what they were saying. But at the same time, the three men and the stranger went inside the stables. Smythe moved quickly toward the entrance. The men were back inside, in the stalls. He could hear movement, the clinking of tack, the whickering of horses, and the creak of saddle leather. He tried to listen over the sounds.

“… so then it makes no difference to you how we do it, eh? Right, then. We are your men. Consider it as good as done. This Will Shakespeare fellow is a dead man.”

The words fell upon Smythe’s ears like hammer blows. Thunderstruck, he leaned back against the wall, eyes wide with disbelief. Shakespeare! What in God’s name had Will to do with any of this? And why in heaven would Gresham want him dead? For it was clearly Gresham who had to be behind it all for some reason he simply could not fathom.

But Gresham had only met Shakespeare that very morning! Burbage had introduced them merely hours earlier! And yet, after pausing only long enough to drop off the Darcies at their home, Gresham came straight here to meet with the dark-cloaked stranger and, apparently, to give him money. Money which had now been used to hire these blackguards to help kill his friend! Smythe knew he had to get back to the Theatre as quickly as possible and warn Will of the danger. But his horse was in the very stable where the men were standing even now.

In the next instant, he heard the sound of hooves on the hard-packed dirt floor in the stable and he just had time to duck back out of the way as four riders came trotting out, led by the dark-cloaked stranger. They spurred up to a canter and headed off down the street… in the direction of the Burbage Theatre.

Smythe bolted into the stable and ran to get his horse. He did not even know which stall the murderous ostler had put his horse in. Desperately, he started checking all the ones that weren’t empty. The fourth one he checked held his mount, still saddled, fortunately. The ostler had merely loosened up the girth to let the animal breathe more easily. As Smythe quickly cinched up the girth, he felt a hand upon his shoulder. Startled, he spun around, raising his fist… and came face-to-face with a masked man, holding a dagger to his throat.

“Easy there, Tuck,” he said, pulling down the black scarf covering the lower portion of his face. “You wouldn’t want to hit your old friend, Black Billy, would your”

“Sir William! Good Lord! What the devil are you doing here?”

“I might well ask you the same thing, sport.”

“Damn it, sir, there is no time for explanations, they have gone to kill him!”

Worley frowned. “Kill whom?”

“Will! Will Shakespeare!”

“Shakespeare? You mean your poet friend?”

“Aye! I heard them! The stranger in the cloak has paid those men to go help murder him! ‘Twas all done on Gresham ’s orders, I am certain of it!”

“Bloody hell!” Sir William swore. “They are after the wrong man.”

“What?”

“They have mistaken your friend Shakespeare for Chris Marlowe.”

“What? But why would they want Marlowe dead?”

“Because he works for me. Now come on, get on your horse! There is no time to lose if you wish to save your friend.”

Smythe needed no encouragement. He quickly backed the horse out of the stall and swung up into the saddle. Sir William had already gone outside. As Smythe came out, Sir William was running across the courtyard. Near the entrance, a man was holding two horses. Sir William spoke to him quickly as he mounted one of them and Smythe saw the man nod emphatically, then mount the other and set spurs, kicking up into a gallop.

As Smythe came riding up, Sir William shouted, “I have sent for help. But we shall get there first. Come on! Bide like the Devil himself is on your heels!”