A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

“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.