A Mystery Of Errors

by Simon Hawke

  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.�
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  “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!”

  13

  THOUGH SMYTHE WAS THOROUGHLY PERPLEXED about Sir William’s part in these events, there was no time for any questions as they galloped through the streets of London, scattering all those before them. Sir William led the way on a bay barb, riding switch and spurs as he set a breakneck pace, his cloak billowing out behind him. Smythe was hard pressed to keep up. He had grown up around horses and could ride almost as soon as he could walk, but he was no match for Sir William, who rode as if he were a centaur. As they galloped like berserk cavalrymen in a charge, Smythe knew that on these often slippery, refuse-strewn city streets, if either of their horses fell at this pace, chances were that neither horse nor rider would survive. As for anyone who happened to be in their way, Lord help them if they did not move quickly enough.

  As they approached Shoreditch, Smythe realized that it was later in the day than he had thought. He could hear the final trumpet blowing from the Theatre, and it struck him that he had been so intent upon following Gresham that he had lost all track of time. He had completely forgotten about that afternoon’s performance… the very performance that was to have been his debut upon the stage with his one line.

  It made no difference anymore, he thought with resignation. It was much too late to worry about that now, and missing his first performance was now the least of his concerns. Those killers had a head start on them, though it was doubtful they had ridden as quickly. Smythe wondered if there was any chance that they could catch them. And for that matter, if they did, Smythe wasn’t sure how much help he would be. Like a fool, he had left his sword back at the Theatre, in the tiring room. Carrying his dagger was second nature to him. He simply tucked the sheath into his belt without even thinking about it. But having never worn a sword before coming to London, he could not seem to get into the habit and he kept forgetting it. And even if he had remembered it, he was under no illusion that he was any kind of swordsman. He had received instruction from his uncle, but he would be no match for a trained mercenary, an assassin. He recalled that set-to in the tavern with those drunks during the street riot. If Marlowe hadn’t been there, things might have gone quite badly. These were not taproom bravos they would be up against, but sober and clear-headed killers. Sir William had his own fencing master. All Smythe had were some lessons from his uncle… and no sword.

  As they raced across the field toward the Theatre, in the distance, Smythe could see the people gathering for the play. By now, most of the audience would have already gone inside. The groundlings would be packing the yard and the galleries would be almost full. Ahead of them, he thought he saw the four riders they were chasing, but he wasn’t certain.

  “There they are!” Sir William shouted, pointing.

  Yes, it was them! Smythe could see the long black cloak on the lead rider. But they would never catch up to them before they reached the Theatre. Even now, Smythe could see that the four riders had reached the gate and were dismounting, handing their horses over to the ostlers by the gate. Once they got inside, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find them in the crowd. He had not been able to get a good look at any of them, save the one ostler to whom he gave his horse back at the inn. That one man, whom he had seen only briefly, was all that he would have to go by, aside from the black cloak of the leader, whose face he had never even caught a glimpse of. Smythe felt his heart sink. His best chance would be to reach Will first and warn him of the danger.

  As they came galloping up to the Theatre, a couple of the ostlers came running up to meet them, doubtless thinking they were late arrivals hurrying to catch the opening of the performance. They recognized Smythe at once and reacted with surprise.

  “Smythe! Odd’s blood! Where have you been? You’re late!”

  “Aye, Will’s been asking everybody if they’d seen you. The play’s already started!”

  “Never mind that,” Smythe said. “There were four riders who arrived ahead of us, big, tough-looking rufflers, led by a man in a long black cloak. Who took their horses?”

  “Dunno. Never saw them.”

  “Wait, I think I did! Tommy got one of them, I think.”

  “Where’s Tommy?”

  “In the stables, I should imagine. Why?”

  “Those men came here to kill Will.”

  “What, Kemp?”

  “No, no! Shakespeare! They are going to kill Will Shakespeare!”

  “What? Are you joking?”

  “I am in deadly earnest! Run and get Tommy, right away! Find out who got their other horses. We have to find those men in there before they get to Will!”

  “God blind me!”

  “Go!” said Smythe. “Get all the other ostlers, too! And tell them to get weapons! These men are killers! Hurry!”

  “Wait!” Sir William said, sharply, as both ostlers started off. “Not both of you, for God’s sake! You, stay here and hold the horses. Now, listen to me. There will be men arriving shortly. Tell them that Sir William gave strict instructions to close off the playhouse and make certain no one leaves until I give the word. And then to stand by for further orders. Understand?”

  “Aye, milord!”

  “Good man,” Sir William said. He turned to Smythe. “Now, did you get a good look at any of them?”

  “I caught a glimpse of one of them,” said Smythe. “I think I would recognize him if I saw him again.”

  “For your friend’s sake, you had damn well better hope so. Where is he now? Is he in the production?”

  “He is the book-holder for this play,” said Smythe. “He will be inside, backstage, in the wings.”

  “Would these men know that?”

  Smythe thought quickly, then nodded. “Aye, ‘tis very likely. Dick Burbage brought Will over to meet Sir Anthony this morning at rehearsal. Dick said that he was interested in plays and was a possible investor, and so he puffed things up a bit and told Sir Anthony that Will was about to make his mark as one of England’s greatest playwrights.”

  “And he signed his death warrant in the process,” replied Sir William. “ Gresham has your friend confused with Marlowe.”

  “But… why would Sir Anthony make such a mistake?”

  “Because he is not Sir Anthony!”

  “What? Not Sir Anthony? What do you mean? You called him Gresham.”

  “Aye, Alastair Gresham. Anthony’s twin brother.”

  “His twin brother?”

  “I shall explain later. There is no time now, we have to find those men. The guard will be arriving shortly. We need to get to your friend, Shakespeare, in the meantime, and keep him out of sight. ‘Tis doubtful that they shall try anything during the play, but afterward, when everyone is leaving, would
be the perfect time for them to make their move. Or perhaps during the break between the acts. Then they could slip away in the confusion. How long is the first act? When does the break come?”

  Smythe was at a loss. “I… I cannot remember! After the second act, I think. Aye, after the second act. But as to the time…”

  “Never mind. Get to your friend. Warn him and tell him to stay out of sight. When your ostler friends arrive, have several of them stay with him to protect him, then take the others and get out among the groundlings in the yard. ‘Tis where those men will be. If you recognize the one you saw, point him out discreetly and have your ostler friends get as close to him as they can. Watch to see with whom he speaks, that will help us to spot the others. I will look for the one in the black cloak. With any luck, we shall have them before they can make their move.” He glanced down and frowned. “Where the devil is your sword?”

  “I… I left it in the tiring room.”

  “Well, there’s a useful place for it,” Sir William said, wryly. “Be a good lad and get it, will you? I suspect you may have use for it before too long.”

  As they went into the crowded yard, they separated and Sir William made his way around to the far side, heading toward the stairs leading to the upper galleries. Smythe made his way along the railing of the lower gallery toward the stage, which projected out into the yard.

  The groundlings, those members of the audience who had paid the cheapest rate of admission and stood in the dirt yard to watch the play, had packed the yard so completely that there was scarcely any room to move. Under any other circumstances, Smythe would have been pleased to see that, for it meant more money for the ostlers, more revenue for the company, more profit for the Theatre, and a boost in Shakespeare’s reputation for having so improved the play that the size of the audience had nearly tripled. The groundlings stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the yard and as Smythe looked up, it seemed to him that every seat in the upper galleries was filled, as well. Good news for the company, bad news for anyone trying to pick out four men amongst this crowd… four men who could easily have split up by now.