Simon Hawke - A Mystery Of Errors

“So that leaves us with Gresham,” Smythe said.

“It does, indeed. On the face of it, Miss Darcie’s actions seem quite clear and understandable. At least, to me. She does not wish to marry a man she does not love, his social standing notwithstanding, so to speak, and thus far, her comportment in this matter seems consistent. Mr. Gresham, on the other hand, if we are to accept Miss Darcie’s version of events, is something of a puzzle.”

“And we have reasons of our own to dislike Mr. Gresham,” added Smythe, with a sour grimace.

“True. All the more reason to make sure those reasons do not interfere with reason,” Shakespeare said, holding up an admonishing forefinger.

“That does it. Enough ale for you. We had better cut you off before you start tripping over your own tongue.”

Shakespeare chuckled. “For all your considerable bulk, my friend, the day I cannot drink three of you under the table is the day I go back to lapping mother’s milk. Meanwhile, I shall have another pot as we contemplate this matter further.” He waved over the serving wench for a refill. “Now then… as to our friend, Mr. Gresham…” He frowned. “Have you seen the fellow?”

“He was the one at the inn that night, remember? He took the last available rooms. And the next day nearly ran us down.”

“Ah, quite so, but I caught merely a glimpse of him as he came in. I remember a tall man, dark hair, wide-brimmed hat, and traveling cloak and not much else.”

“I am surprised you remember that much, considering how much you drank that night,” said Smythe, with a grin.

Shakespeare grunted. “You had a better look at him, in any case. He was well spoken, as I recall, but then one would expect that from a gentleman.”

“He does not strike me as much of a gentleman if he makes a woman out to be a liar,” Smythe said.

“A woman who has just allowed you to kiss her, and therefore raised herself considerably in your esteem,” Shakespeare replied.

“You think a pretty face would make all of my sound judgement take sudden flight?” Smythe countered, irritably.

“Perhaps not. But add to the face an ample bosom, a saucy waist, and a pretty pair of legs wrapped around your middle and I suspect you could become quite addle-pated.”

Smythe shook his head. “You do the lady a disservice, Will. You make her out to be a strumpet, and she is most assuredly not that.”

“Of course not,” Shakespeare replied. “Look, Tuck, I am not trying to disparage the lady or upset you. But you are my friend, and I feel it is my duty to play the Devil’s advocate and point out some things you may have failed to consider. To wit, what do you suppose would happen if Gresham were to learn what just transpired upstairs?”

Smythe stifled his initial response, which was to protest once again that nothing happened. He had been alone with her in a room that had a bed in it, and he had kissed her. To a man like Gresham, that would have been enough. “Well, I should think he would surely call the marriage off. At the very least. I suppose that he might also choose to engage me in a duel.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Shakespeare said, with a dismissive wave. “One can only duel with equals and a gentleman would not duel with an ostler. ‘Tis much more likely that Gresham would simply have you killed. You have placed yourself in a precarious position by promising to help her.”

“What would you have me do, turn her away?” asked Smythe.

“ ‘Twould be a practical consideration,” Shakespeare said, “but then if we were practical, we would not have joined a company of players.” He took a drink, pondered for a moment, and then nodded. “I am inclined to take the lady at her word, I think, and accept what passed between you as a brief and innocent romantic interlude with no ulterior motives on her part, except perhaps a reaching out to form a bond and gain some sympathy. ‘Tis even possible that, upon reflection, she now regrets what she has done. Either way, you seem to have become involved now. If she no longer wants your help, why then, she will doubtless say so.”

“But until she does, I am inclined to help her, if I can,” said Smythe.

“Which brings us back to Gresham once again,” said Shakespeare.

Smythe nodded. “What motive could he have for lying?”

“Difficult to say. If, as the lady claims, he truly did tell her that he does not desire the marriage any more than she does, then his actions seem a mystery.”

“She believes his purpose in dissembling with her mother was to make it seem as if she had lied about their meeting at the Theatre, made up the whole story in an effort to get out of the marriage.”

“That seems rather foolish,” Shakespeare said. “I mean, ‘twould seem a foolish thing for her to do. If one is going to tell a lie, then it behooves one to tell it in a manner that prevents one from being easily found out. And in this case, ‘twould have been a very simple matter for her to have been found out. All her parents would have had to do was ask Gresham if they had ever met.”

“Which was precisely what he had denied.”

“Except that we know that she was here,” said Shakespeare. “We both saw her.”

“But we both could have been paid to bear false witness in her favor, and that is what Gresham will doubtless claim,” said Smythe. “No one would take the word of a couple of ostlers over that of a gentleman.”

“Quite so. An excellent point. In all likelihood, our testimony would not resolve the problem, especially if her parents are predisposed to disbelieve her because they want the marriage to take place. But the important thing is that we know that she is telling the truth, at least insofar as having met Gresham at the Theatre goes. I suppose ‘tis possible he might not have told her that he does not want the marriage, but then, if that were so, then why not simply deny that? Why deny meeting her at all?”

Smythe nodded. “I think the more we look at it, the more it becomes self-evident that Mr. Gresham is a liar.”

“And I do not like him, anyway,” said Shakespeare. “I can still remember having my arse turned into a pincushion from diving into those thorn bushes when he nearly ran us down.” He winced. “I am still sore from that, damn his eyes. Arrogant bastard.”

“Fine. We are agreed then that he is a liar and a worthless bastard,” Smythe said. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Well, we try to find a way to prove he is a liar,” Shakespeare said. “Or, failing that, ‘twould serve your lady’s purposes as well if we could devise some way to thwart the marriage.”

“Agreed. But we have yet to determine what his motives may be. If we knew that, it might help us to devise a plan of action.”

“Perhaps. You say the lady’s parents are well off?”

“Her father is a wealthy merchant who desires to advance himself socially.”

“Hmmm. A lot of that going around these days. ‘Tis all rubbish if you ask me. If you have a lot of money, society eventually comes to you. There is no need to go fawning upon them.”

“That is what Sir William said, though not in so many words,” Smythe agreed. “In the old days, he said, a man won his spurs upon the battlefield. Nowadays, he simply buys them.”

“Which is what Elizabeth Darcie’s father hopes to do,” said Shakespeare. “She is the bait with which he hopes to snare a gentleman of rank. And, of course, the bait is made more tempting with a dowry, which as a wealthy merchant, he can easily afford. But suppose our Mr. Gresham happens to be particularly greedy?”

“What do you mean?”

“We were talking earlier about how Miss Darcie seemed distressed, but not unbalanced,” Shakespeare said. “But what if she did seem to be unbalanced?”