A Mystery Of Errors Page 17

  “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.

  11

  “WHO IS GRANNY MEG?” ASKED Elizabeth, as they rode through the nearly deserted streets together in the small carriage Burbage had arrived in.

  “She is what some people call a ‘cunning woman,’ “ Burbage replied.

  “In other words, she is what other people would call a witch,” Shakespeare said, wryly.

  “A witch!“ Elizabeth ’s eyes grew wide. “You are not taking me to see a witch?”

  “My dear Mistress Darcie,” Burbage said, “you have just, by your own account, witnessed a murder. Surely you are not going to quail before the notion of visiting a harmless old woman?”

  “But a witch!” Elizabeth replied. “They are said to be in league with the Devil!”

  “They are no such thing at all,” Burbage said, calmly. “Cunning women such as Granny Meg have been around long before your doctors and apothecaries. For hundreds of years, in fact. They are folk healers and charmers and diviners whose knowledge is passed on from mother to daughter throughout the generations.”

  “But they practice sorcery and black magic, do they not?” Elizabeth asked, apparently not quite reassured.

  “There are some who would say that sorcery and black magic were one and the same thing,” Burbage replied. “And there are others who would differentiate between sorcerers and witches. Yet still others who would claim that magic is simply magic, neither white nor black, just as intent can be either good or evil. If you ask me, most of the talk one hears about magic, white or black, is all a lot of arrant nonsense. But call it what you will, I can attest that there is something to be said for the skills of cunning women.”

  “As can I,” added Smythe. “We had a cunning woman in our village, an old and well-respected woman named Mother Mary McGee. If a farm animal fell ill, or if someone were to have need of a poultice to help cure an injury or else an infusion to quell a fever, why, old Mother Mary was the one they went to, always. And no one ever thought that Mother Mary had any dealings with the Devil, to be sure. She was a kindly old soul who would never hurt a fly.”

  “As is Granny Meg,” said Burbage, nodding.

  Elizabeth looked dubious. “And why must I go to see this Granny Meg? You have still not made that clear.”

  “Well, in this particular case, ‘tis to save your reputation,” Burbage replied. “ ‘Tis not the sort of request that Granny Meg would ordinarily receive, but we are old friends and she will do me the kindness of helping you, I have no doubt.”

  “What will she do?” asked Elizabeth, with an uncertain, worried look.

  “We shall merely ask her to vouch for you,” said Burbage. “Specifically, we shall ask her to vouch for your whereabouts today. We do not wish it known that you were ever at The Toad and Badger. That is not at all the sort of place a young woman of your standing should go to, unescorted. And I might add that there are many who would call it an unsuitable environment for a proper young woman even if she were escorted. ‘Tis a place known to be frequented by actors and bear wards and jugglers and minstrels and the like, and ‘twould cast a certain pall upon your character if ‘twere known that you had been there, especially alone.”

  “I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Elizabeth protested, with a sidelong glance at Smythe.

  “And I, for one, would be inclined to agree with you,” Burbage replied. “However, I am quite certain that your parents would not. You have spoken of concerns that you have had about this proposed union with the late and apparently unlamented Mr. Gresham. Well, you went to Granny Meg with those concerns, upon someone’s recommendation, we shall refine the details of our story later, and then you were with Granny Meg for most of the afternoon and evening, in an attempt to learn your future and what it held in store.”

  “And what of the servant, Drummond, whom Gresham had sent on ahead?” asked Smyt
he. “He saw her in the street.”

  “Well, he may present a minor problem,” Burbage said, “but I have been thinking about that. With Gresham dead, the servant is the only one who can place Miss Darcie at the scene of the murder. And he had been sent on to drive ahead, so he was not there when it occurred. When Gresham never came to meet him, what would he have done?”

  “I imagine he would have doubled back to see what happened,” Smythe said. “Perhaps he even found the body and called the sheriff’s men.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps it had been found already. In any case, we have only his word-the word of a servant-that Miss Darcie was even there. She could either claim he was mistaken and the time was later or else deny that she was ever there at all.”

  “And this Granny Meg can be relied upon not to change her story should the sheriff’s men come calling upon her to make inquiries?” Smythe asked.

  “She is an old friend of the family,” said Burbage, nodding emphatically. “She can be relied upon. We shall take Miss Darcie there, then drive her home and let her out close to her house, so that she shall not be seen with us.”

  “You are all most gallant,” Elizabeth said.

  “Thank you. However, much as we appreciate the compliment,” said Burbage, “in truth, I should point out that our motives are not entirely unselfish. Your father and mine are partnered in a business venture that affects all of our lives. Our very livelihoods depend upon it.”

  “Nevertheless, you have all been very kind,” Elizabeth said. “And I shall not forget that.”

  The carriage pulled up in front of a small apothecary shop on a dark and narrow, winding side street. The small wooden sign that hung out over the street was painted with a mortar and a pestle.

  “Granny Meg has an apothecary shop?” Shakespeare asked.

  “What did you expect to find in the middle of London?” Burbage asked, with a smile. “Some dotty, wild-haired old woman living in an overgrown and tumbledown, ramshackle cottage hidden in a stand of trees?”

  The poet grimaced. “But the apothecaries have a guild, do they not?” he said. “And I have never heard of any guild that would admit a woman.”

  “Nor have I,” Burbage replied. “But I never said that Granny Meg was the apothecary, did I?”

  They rang the bell and, a moment later, a small eyehole appeared in the heavy, planked front door. Elizabeth gasped slightly as an eye filled it briefly, then the plug was reinserted and the door was opened slowly with a long, protracted creaking sound. Elizabeth convulsively seized hold of Smythe’s arm. He patted her hand reassuringly and they entered.

  What struck them first was the heady fragrance of the place, for they could see next to nothing in the darkness. It seemed to be composed of a cacophony of smells all wafting through the air and mixing together, subtly changing from moment to moment, depending upon where they moved.

  “What is that smell?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Herbs,” said Smythe. “Drying herbs, hanging from the beams up in the ceiling.”

  The door behind them creaked shut slowly and now there was almost total darkness in the shop, save for the glow coming from a brass candle holder that looked like a little saucer with a ring attached. The tallow candle stuck in it was nearly burnt down to a stub, with lots of melted wax caked upon it and the holder.

  As the man holding the candle came away from the door and moved toward them, his candle brought illumination and they could see in the dim light the bunched, drying herbs hanging from the ceiling. It looked almost like a thatch roof turned inside out. There was vervain and rosemary and thyme, bay and basil and chive, elder, fennel, lemon balm and marjoram and hyssop and many, many more. Earthenware jars of various sizes filled the wooden shelves on all four walls. In front of one row of shelves there was a long wooden counter, laden with mixing bowls and mortars and pestles and scales with weights and measures and cutting boards and knives and scoops and funnels and all the other common tools of the apothecary.

  “Good evening, Master Richard,” the old man said as he approached them, in a voice that sounded surprisingly strong and resonant.

  If he was the apothecary, as Smythe surmised, then he certainly looked the part. Tall and gaunt, he had an almost sepulchral aspect with his deeply set dark eyes, prominent cheekbones and high forehead. He wore a long black robe and wisps of long and very fine white hair escaped from under the matching, woven skullcap. His beard was also white and wispy, reaching down to the middle of his chest. Smythe felt Elizabeth squeeze his arm and huddle close to him. In the dim candlelight, in the dark and heavily herb-scented shop, the old man seemed the very image of a sorcerer.

  “Good evening, Freddy,” said Burbage, dispelling the illusion with the entirely prosaic name. “The hour is growing late, I know, but we have come to see your wife, if we may.”

  Freddy, for all the amiability of his name, appeared to have an expression that was perpetually grim and somber. He nodded gravely and replied, “Meg is always pleased to see you, Master Richard. Allow me to light your way.”

  They went to the back of the small shop and passed through a narrow doorway covered with an embroidered hanging cloth, the poor man’s tapestry. Freddy had to bend over as he pushed aside the cloth and went through the doorway to lead them up a narrow flight of wooden stairs against the back wall. They climbed single-file behind him as he lit their way. Smythe noticed that Elizabeth was looking more and more apprehensive. Her nerves were already frayed from the day’s events and Freddy’s appearance had unsettled her. The cadaverous apothecary towered over her, as he towered over all of them save Smythe, and Elizabeth was doubtless thinking that if this was Granny Meg’s husband, then what must Granny Meg herself be like?

  At the top of the stairs, they came to the private living quarters just above the shop. It was a small, narrow, one-room apartment longer than it was wide, with whitewashed walls and a planked wood floor that was, unusually, not strewn with sweet-smelling rushes, as in the shop below, but swept clean. The straw bed was back near the front window, the only window in the place, and partially hidden by a freestanding wooden shelf that also functioned as a divider and a screen. The furnishings were simple and rough-hewn. There were a couple of plain and sturdy chairs, several three-legged wooden stools and a number of large chests, a wood planked table and a fireplace in which hung several black cauldrons of various sizes on iron hooks over the flames.

  Smythe was a bit taken aback by this. He had never before seen a fireplace on a second floor. In a nobleman’s house, perhaps, it would not have been surprising, though he had only been in one such house, Sir William’s, and then only on the first floor. However, he recalled seeing numerous chimney tops sticking up out of the roof. Perhaps Sir William had fireplaces upstairs, too. But in a thatch-roofed house such as the one Smythe had grown up in, a fireplace on a second floor would have been an invitation to disaster. With no wood between the interior and the thickly piled thatch, the fire hazard would have been extreme. When it was dry, bits of thatch-along with bugs and sometimes mice- would often fall upon the occupants, for which reason cloth canopies were usually put up on posts over the beds. And when it rained, domestic animals who often slept upon the soft thatch roof would occasionally slip through and fall into the house, giving rise to the expression that it was “raining cats and dogs.”

  The overwhelming impression of the place, though it was very clean, was one of nearly incomprehensible clutter. As below, wooden shelving lined all four walls and each shelf was filled to overflowing with books, earthenware jars, and other bric-a-brac. There were little pieces of statuary on the shelves such as Smythe had never seen, little figures carved from stone, some having shapes vaguely reminiscent of pregnant women and others resembling birds and animals, though of a type that Smythe had never seen. There were little tiny clay pots and great big ones, holding God only knew what, and there were beaded necklaces and amulets and little leather pouches suspended from thongs, apparently meant to be worn around
the neck. No matter where one looked, there were a hundred things to draw the eye. Smythe’s gaze was drawn by a strange-looking dagger lying on a shelf in front of a row of jars. Curious, he reached out for it.

  “Please do not touch that, young man.”

  The voice was unmistakably feminine, soft and low, yet with a melodious richness that at the same time somehow managed to soothe and command authority. Startled, Smythe jerked back his hand. He felt a bit embarrassed. He, of all people, should have known better. His uncle had taught him the significance of having respect for other people’s properly, especially their blades.

  “Forgive me,” he said, uncomfortably. “I did not mean to offend. I… that is, I was…”

  “Drawn to it?” She came into the firelight.

  “Aye,” Smythe said, softly. He blinked. He was not even entirely certain where she had come from. He had not noticed anyone come from behind the shelves dividing the main portion of the room from the sleeping area, but neither had he seen her in the room before. Yet, suddenly, there she was, as if she had somehow suddenly appeared from out of nowhere. Smythe felt Elizabeth shrink behind him, as if trying to conceal herself.

  Yet, as he beheld Granny Meg, Smythe realized that she did not look anything like what he might have expected. She was of average height, with long, thick, silvery gray hair that fell in waves down past her shoulders to her waist. Her eyes were large and luminous, the sort of eyes that it was difficult to look away from. They were a pale shade of blue-gray, like cracked ice on a pond in early winter. Her features were sharp and elfin, bringing to mind some nocturnal forest creature. Her chin came almost to a point, her cheekbones were high and pronounced, and her nose had a delicate, almost birdlike sharpness. Her pale, flawless skin was practically translucent. It almost seemed to glow with vibrancy. Smythe could not begin to guess her age.

  Clearly, she was no longer young, but her skin, while faintly lined in places, had no wrinkles and there were no liver spots upon her hands, neither moles or blemishes upon her face. She was slim, girlishly so, and willowy, with a figure most young women would have envied. She wore a simple homespun gown of dark blue cloth with some vine-like embroidery around the low-cut neck. The skin at her throat also belied her age. Smythe would have put Freddy’s age at around sixty-five or even seventy or more. In any case, he was obviously a man well advanced in years. Granny Meg, how ever, did not truly live up-or perhaps down-to her name. She could have been in her fifties, or her sixties, or her seventies… it was impossible to tell. She was certainly not young. But she was the most singularly beautiful older woman Smythe had ever seen.