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.
He needn’t have worried. From inside the coach, they could not see who was behind them, and Drummond had no reason to suspect that anyone would follow, so he never turned around. When they reached the congested streets of the city, Smythe closed the distance between them so as not to lose them. He followed the coach back to the Darcie residence, then reined in, keeping back out of sight around a bend as Gresham dropped off Henry Darcie and Elizabeth. When the coach drove on, Smythe hesitated only for a moment and then followed. He decided he could double back and try to see Elizabeth later, if he had the chance, but for now, there was a more important task at hand. He wanted to find out where Gresham lived and see what sort of opportunities, if any, might present themselves.
Curiously, instead of going home, Gresham drove from the Darcie residence straight to Bishopsgate Street, where he stopped at the inn known as The Strutting Gamecock. The large, painted wooden sign outside the inn depicted a pair of fighting birds within a ring. It was one of the inns in London where sporting games were held and plays were often staged, and like The Toad and Badger, it was frequented by actors, musicians, bards, balladeers, and artists, along with other somewhat less reputable types. Smythe was unaware of any productions being staged here at the moment, so perhaps Sir Anthony had decided to take in an evening of some sport and wagering. But it was still a little early for that sort of thing and Smythe could not imagine what other business a gentleman like Gresham would have in such a place. On the other hand, he thought again, perhaps he could.
Gresham went inside the inn, but Drummond remained waiting for him with the coach, rather than driving in to stable it. It seemed that Gresham would not be staying very long. A brief assignation with some strumpet, perhaps? The corners of Smythe’s mouth turned down. If that were so, then he could not say much for Gresham ’s taste. The sort of women he would find in there would certainly be of the more common, coarser sort. Sir Anthony had not struck him as the type who would consort with harlots, but then appearances could often be deceiving. Sir William was certainly a case in point.
Smythe wondered if he could presume on his acquaintance with Sir William to ask some pointed questions about Gresham. They moved in the same circles and doubtless knew each other. But then, what exactly would he ask? He could not very well ask Sir William if Gresham was the sort of man who would stage his own murder to take advantage of an innocent girl for personal gain. Or could he? No, he thought, not really. On the face of it, the notion seemed quite daft. And suppose the two of them were friends? He needed something more. But he was not yet sure what that could be.
He waited, debating with himself whether or not to risk stabling the horse and going in to see what he could learn. What if Gresham spotted him? For that matter, would Gresham even recognize him?
He thought back to the times they’d seen each other. The first time had been at that roadside inn outside of London, The Hawk and Mouse. When Gresham had come in, he hadn’t even glanced at him. There had been no reason for him to have noticed him. He was, after all, just another poor, common traveler sitting at a table with a friend and Gresham had been intent on getting rooms. The only time they had actually confronted one another, if indeed it could be called a confrontation, had been a short while later, when Smythe had carried a nearly insensible Will Shakespeare up the stairs and, paralyzed with drink, the poet had directed him to the wrong room. There had been that moment when Smythe had opened the door and briefly seen Gresham standing in his room, in conversation with a young woman, and Gresham and the woman turned and glanced toward him, then Drummond had quickly stepped up and closed the door right in his face.
Aside from that, the only other time he had actually seen Gresham had been just a short while ago, back at the Theatre. And though their gazes had met briefly across the playhouse yard, Gresham had shown no sign of having recognized him. Might his memory be jogged if he saw him yet again? Or did he simply not remember him at all from that night at the inn? And what of Drummond? The servant had seen him close up, at least once, the night he had met Elizabeth at the Theatre. And Andrew Drummond had, of course, been there at The Hawk and Mouse that night, as well. But Smythe felt fairly certain that neither Gresham nor Drummond had noticed him that night.
He decided to take the chance. He rode up to the inn, right past Drummond waiting with the coach. The servant did not even glance toward him. Smythe turned his mount over to a burly ostler at the inn and went inside. Inside the tavern, he looked around. The place was reasonably full, with men drinking and eating and, in some cases, consorting with the women. The atmosphere was fairly noisy and pipe smoke filled the air from the long, clay churchwardens that were all the rage. Someone was playing on a cithern, brushing the wire strings with a plectrum and singing some new ballad that was making the rounds. Some of the other patrons joined in on the chorus and Smythe suddenly realized that the ballad was about none other than Black Billy the brigand, whom he knew better as Sir William Worley. He wondered what these good, working class tradesmen, artists, and apprentices might think if they knew that the bold outlaw who had captured their imaginations was, in reality, one of England ’s wealthiest noblemen. In all likelihood, he thought, they never would believe it.
There was no sign of Gresham. He went up to the bar and bought a pint of ale. He drank it slowly, not wishing to become tipsy when he needed to have his wits about him. If Gresham was not in the tavern, then he had to be in one of the rooms. He had obviously come to see someone here. But if he had not come to sport with some strumpet in one of the rooms upstairs, then for what purpose had he come?
A moment later, he spotted Gresham coming down the stairs near the entrance to the tavern. And there was someone with him, someone in a black, full-length, hooded cloak. The hood was up, covering the entire head and face, so Smythe could not see who it was. They headed outside. Smythe followed.