Читаем A Mystery Of Errors полностью

“You are quite right, Will. ‘Tis really very simple. Just that I cannot seem to get it right. I do not know why. My head is all muddled.”

“See here, Elizabeth will be fine,” said Shakespeare, placatingly. “Her troubles, for the most part, are now over. All the portents were quite favorable. What you need to do now is get her out of your mind completely. Move on. She is much too far above your station. So stop mooning over the wench. ‘Twill only drive you to drink.”

“You speak from experience, do you?”

“Oh, sod off! Just learn your one damned line, come on at the right time, and say it right; ‘tis all I ask.”

“I know. And I am grateful, Will. I truly am. I greatly appreciate this chance.”

“Then stop cocking it up, for God’s sake!”

“I shall, Will. That is, I shall get it right, I promise.”

“You had damn well better, or you will be back to holding horses at the gate.”

“Well, I shall have to do that anyway, both before and after I complete my scene.”

“Oh, your scene, is it? One line, and now ‘tis an entire scene. Tell you what, I shall settle for one line, and then we shall see about a scene, all right?”

“You needn’t be so peevish about it!”

“No, Kemp is peevish. I, on the other hand, am exasperated! I am trying my best to help you, Tuck. I am trying to help us. We have a chance here, both of us. We must not muck it up. All you need to do is walk onstage and say, ‘Milord, the post horses have arrived.’ And Kemp shall say his line and then you shall walk off with him. And that is really all you need to do! Is it not simple?”

Smythe exhaled heavily and nodded his head. “I know. ‘Tis very simple, truly. I do not know why I cannot get it right.”

“Because you have got your mind fixed upon that damned girl! Forget about her, will you please? She is not for you and never shall be. The odds are you shall not even be seeing her again.”

“I say, Smythe,” said Fleming, from the entrance to the tiring room, “is that not your lady from last night?”

They both looked in the direction he was indicating and, sure enough, there was Elizabeth Darcie, standing at the entrance to the playhouse, together with Dick Burbage and his father, James, along with another older gentleman and a younger, well-dressed man who looked vaguely familiar. Smythe frowned. And suddenly, it came to him.

“Good God! Gresham !”

“What, the man Elizabeth said was murdered?” Shakespeare said.

“Aye!”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Aye, we both saw him at the inn the night we met, remember?”

“In truth, I remember very little of that night,” said Shakespeare. “I do seem to recall a gentleman arriving, but I do not believe I’d know him if I laid eyes on him again. And you are saying this is he?”

Smythe nodded, dumbstruck.

“How curious,” said Shakespeare, turning back to look at the group. “I have heard it said that ghosts walk at the witching hour, but I have never heard of one who went abroad in daylight.”

Smythe jumped down off the stage to the ground. “I do not understand this. Elizabeth said she saw him killed last night!”

Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, he seems to have recovered nicely.”

Elizabeth spotted them and glanced in their direction. She did not say anything, nor did she gesture, but Smythe saw a look of desperate panic on her face. Gresham appeared hale and hearty, but she was the one who looked white as a ghost.

“I shall soon get to the bottom of this!” Smythe said.

Shakespeare grabbed him by the arm. “Hold off a moment,” he said, in a level tone, “before you go making a complete fool of yourself.”

At the same time, Dick Burbage saw them and quickly detached himself from the group and hurried toward them, gesturing to Smythe to stay where he was.

“What the hell is going on here?” Smythe muttered.

“1 suspect we are about to find that out,” Shakespeare replied.

<p>12</p>

“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!”

Перейти на страницу:

Похожие книги

Все жанры