“No one is going to prison,” Shakespeare said. “None of us has done anything wrong. Smythe, admittedly, looks to be somewhat at risk, but the rest of us have not broken any laws.”

“It makes no difference,” Kemp said. “Henry Darcie has influential friends. Powerful friends. He shall have the playhouse shut down and we shall all be out of work!”

“As a principal investor, if he has the Theatre shut down, then he only ends up taking money out of his own pocket,” Shakespeare said. “And I have never known a merchant willing to do that.”

Before long, Fleming and young Burbage both arrived. When they’d heard what happened and whose daughter was involved, they had wasted no time in getting there. They were quickly informed of what had transpired in their absence. By that time, Smythe rejoined them. He was alone. No sooner had he come into the tavern than they all surrounded him, peppering him with questions and accusations.

“Enough!” Stackpole shouted at them all. “Leave the lad alone! Give him a chance to speak!”

Smythe glanced at the burly innkeeper gratefully and thanked him.

“First things first,” said Shakespeare. “How is she?”

“She has calmed down a bit and is resting,” Smythe replied. “I gave her some wine. She will sleep now, I think. She has had quite a fright, indeed.”

Stackpole brought him an ale. “There ya go, lad. On the house.”

“Thanks, Court.”

“What happened?” Speed asked.

Smythe related everything Elizabeth had told him, from the time they first met when she came to the Theatre in Gresham ’s coach to her report of Gresham ’s murder.

“Oh, God!” said Kemp, running his fingers through his hair. “Now we have a murdered nobleman! This just keeps getting worse and worse!”

“Be quiet, Will,” said Burbage, with an annoyed glance at Kemp. “Did she see who did it, Tuck?”

Smythe shook his head. “She does not recall seeing or hearing anyone or anything. They were engaged in an argument, it seems, and she was furious with Gresham for the way he’d treated her and wished that he would be struck down. The very next moment, he was.”

“Good Lord!” said Fleming.

“She said he gave a sort of grunt and fell against her. She almost went down herself, trying to support his weight, and then noticed a dagger protruding from between his shoulder blades. She quite understandably panicked and took to her heels. She ran straight back here.”

“The poor girl!” said Fleming.

“I do not understand,” said Burbage, frowning. “How could he have been stabbed and she not have seen who did it?”

“I was a bit confused about that, too,” said Smythe. “It took a while to calm her down and she does not seem to remember what happened very clearly. But she does recall that there was an alleyway behind them, so my conjecture is that someone threw the dagger from within the alleyway.”

“Threw it!” Fleming said. “Lord! It might have hit the girl!”

Smythe shook his head. “I doubt it. She said it had gone in up to the hilt. That much, she remembers vividly. Whoever threw that dagger knew what he was about.”

“What do you mean?” asked Burbage.

“He means the man was an assassin,” Shakespeare said.

“What!”

“An assassin!”

“But how could you know that?” asked Burbage.

“It only stands to reason,” Shakespeare replied. “There seems to have been no attempt at robbery. And Gresham ’s clothes alone would have fetched a tidy sum, to say nothing of his jewelry and what he must have had in his purse. Elizabeth certainly would not have deterred a robber who was willing to kill to get what he wanted. So, if the man was not killed for what he had, then he was killed for who he was. Somebody wanted Anthony Gresham dead.”

“But there is no way you can know any of this for certain,” Kemp said.

“No, not yet, anyway,” Smythe replied. “But for the moment, I can think of no other explanation.”

“So then she simply left the body lying in the street?” asked Kemp.

“What did you expect her to do, pick it up and carry it back here?” said Speed, with a grimace.

“Well, I merely meant that someone would certainly have discovered it by now,” said Kemp.

“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.