A Mystery Of Errors

“As an innkeeper, sir, I am held responsible solely for losses that travelers may sustain while they remain as guests under my roof. That, sir, is the law, and the full extent of the law. Whatever happens while they are not beneath my roof is quite out of my control; thus, I cannot be held responsible.”

Before the angry rider could reply, there came the sounds of a coach pulling up outside and the servants at once ran out to greet it. The man looked toward the door, his lips compressed into a tight grimace, then apparently decided not to pursue the argument. “Well… we shall need four of your best rooms for the night,” he said, curtly.

“Very well, sir. And how, if I might ask, sir, shall you be paying for them?”

“What the devil do you mean, how shall we be paying for them?”

“Well, sir, you did say you had been robbed.”

The man turned beet red and his eyes bulged with outrage. “Why, you impertinent, cheeky bastard! I ought to thrash you!”

The red-faced man pulled out his riding quirt and looked quite prepared to make good on his threat, but the innkeeper countered by reaching down to his boot and pulling out a dagger. At the same time, he called out, “Duff!“ and a man the size of an oak tree appeared in the doorway behind him. The bearded giant wore an apron, but he did not look terribly domestic, Smythe thought.

“Trouble, Master Martin?” the giant said, in a voice that sounded like the crack of doom.

“No trouble,” said a new voice, and Smythe turned to see a group of men who had just come through the door. There were three of them, two apparently servants, for they were not as well-dressed and were carrying bags. The man in front wore a brown velvet hat with a large red plume and a floppy brim, which he removed as he came toward them with a steady, purposeful stride, his long cloak hanging open and fanning out behind him slightly. A gentleman, by his look and his demeanor, Smythe thought. Elegant hose and boots and a dark brown damask doublet of a shade to match his dark brown hair, worked with gold and silver that looked rather too frail and expensive for traveling. “Put away your pigsticker, innkeeper,” he said, “and call off your colossus. There will be no bloodletting here tonight.”

“Your man here threatened to thrash me,” the innkeeper replied, truculently. But the commanding demeanor of the new arrival had its effect. He put away the knife, albeit reluctantly.

“Did you do that, Andrew?” the gentleman inquired casually, as he removed his lace-trimmed and gauntleted calfskin gloves.

“The scoundrel is impertinent, milord. He presumes to question our ability to pay.” At the mention of the word “milord,” the innkeeper instantly assumed a more respectful posture.

“Did you inform him that we were robbed back there on the road?”

“Indeed, I did, milord, and the wretch refused to send men in pursuit of that damned brigand.”

“Doubtless because he had nothing to gain by it. And if you told him we were robbed, then it seems entirely understandable that he might assume we lack the means to pay for our accommodations. You can scarce blame the man for reaching that conclusion.”

“His manner was offensive.”

“Well, if you went around thrashing everyone who offended you, Andrew, you would be bloody well exhausted all the time. Now put away your quirt, there’s a good lad, and go see to our belongings, or what remains of them.” He turned to the innkeeper. “As it happens, the highwayman did not make off with all our money, though he did manage an uncomfortably good take for his trouble. We are quite able to pay, thanks to some judicious foresight, and in good English gold, at that. As soon as Andrew sees to your servants bringing in the remainder of our baggage and mine making proper disposition, we shall then be able to secure our accommodations for the night. I trust that will be acceptable?”

“Oh aye, of course, certainly, milord,” the innkeeper replied, all sudden subservience. “Four of our best rooms, as your man said. It will be done. They shall be prepared for you at once.” He clapped his hands and another servant appeared. The innkeeper barked orders and the gentleman was led upstairs, with Andrew and the rest of his retinue following.

Smythe cleared his throat. “If ‘twould not be too much trouble, innkeeper, I would like a room as well. And an ordinary for my supper.”

“I have no rooms left,” the innkeeper replied.

Taken aback, Smythe assumed that it was his appearance that made the man balk at giving him accommodation, so he held up the coin the brigand gave him. “But I can pay,” he said.

“It matters not. I have no rooms left to give you. That gentleman took the last. We are now full up. I can let you make a bed of some clean straw in the barn and I shall let you sleep there without charge if you pay for your supper. That is the best that I can do.”

Smythe sighed. “Well, I shall take your offer, then. A bed in the barn is better than no bed at all.”