A Mystery Of Errors

They finally decided to abandon the scene altogether and move on, though Kemp had kept demanding that Smythe be replaced with someone who had more intelligence, such as one of the mules from the stable. Smythe held his temper in check in the face of Kemp’s relentless and abusive sarcasm, in large part because he knew that in the present circumstance, Kemp’s remarks were thoroughly well deserved. For almost as long as he could remember, Smythe had dreamed of being a player, and now that he had his opportunity at last, he was making a complete mess of it.

He kept telling himself that it was because he could not get his mind off the situation with Elizabeth, but deep down inside, he was beginning to wonder if that truly was the reason. Perhaps the truth was that he was never meant to be a player. He pushed that thought aside. It was his dream. This was what he’d always wanted. He would get the hang of it. He was still new to it and he was nervous, overanxious, and… preoccupied. He could not do justice even to his one miserable little line so long as he kept thinking of Elizabeth.

It certainly did not help that she had been right above him, looking down from the gallery seats, where James Burbage had taken them to watch the company rehearse and give them a good overview of the entire theatre. And every time they had run through his scene… well, his line, in any case… and he had bungled it, he had heard their laughter from the upper gallery. Gresham ’s laughter, in particular. The miraculously resurrected Sir Anthony had one of those throw-your-head-back, arch-your-back, and roar-out-to-the-heavens laughs that rang throughout the Theatre. It was booming and infectious, and Henry Darcie and James Burbage both joined in, as did many of the players. Each time, Smythe could feel his ears burning… and each time, he could feel the burning gaze of Will Kemp searing scorn into him like a branding iron.

When they became exasperated and decided to stop working on that scene and move on, Smythe left the playhouse quickly, before anyone could have a chance to speak to him. In part, it was his embarrassment and anger with himself that made him seek escape, but at the same time, it was his overwhelming desire to learn the truth about what truly had transpired the previous day. The only problem was, he was not quite sure just how he was going to go about it.

His first instinct was to follow Gresham and the Darcies when they left the Theatre, and then observe them from a distance until he could have a chance to speak with Elizabeth alone. Unlike Shakespeare and Burbage, he could not accept that she had lied to them. Her terror had been all too real. She had truly believed that she had seen Sir Anthony Gresham murdered. So what must she be thinking now? To see a man slain right before your eyes, to be convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was dead, only to have him apparently come back to life and act as if nothing had happened… to someone already driven to distraction by people questioning her motives and veracity, it had to seem as if she were descending into madness.

A chill ran through Smythe at the thought, as if someone had walked over his grave. Here was yet another frightening possibility. If Elizabeth could be convinced that she were going mad, or more significantly, if everyone around her, including even her parents, could be convinced of that, then once the marriage had taken place and the dowry was safely in Gresham’s hands, she could be confined to what had once been the priory of St. Mary of Bethlehem, now better known as St. Mary’s Hospital, or Bedlam, an asylum for lunatics.

Compared to that, thought Smythe, even death would be a preferable fate. And if that was Gresham ’s plan, then the man was much worse than an unprincipled scoundrel. He was absolutely diabolical. But the more Smythe thought about it, the more the details seemed to fit. He could not allow something like that to happen. He had to stop it somehow. He would follow Gresham and, one way or another, he would find out for certain what the man was up to.

He did not have very long to wait. They did not bother to stay for the entire rehearsal. James Burbage walked them to the front gate of the Theatre, where they got into their coach-the same coach as the one that nearly ran them down that day not long ago, when Smythe and Shakespeare were on the road to London. By the time they left the playhouse, Smythe had already saddled one of the post horses from the stable, a privilege he was abusing, since it was not an ostler’s due to borrow horses anytime he chose, but he had promised old Ian Banks, the stablemaster, that he would make it up to him somehow. When Gresham, Henry Darcie, and Elizabeth drove off, with Drummond at the reins, Smythe was right behind them, keeping far enough back that he could keep the coach in sight without alerting them that they were being followed.