“And what of the servant, Drummond, whom Gresham had sent on ahead?” asked Smythe. “He saw her in the street.”
“Well, he may present a minor problem,” Burbage said, “but I have been thinking about that. With Gresham dead, the servant is the only one who can place Miss Darcie at the scene of the murder. And he had been sent on to drive ahead, so he was not there when it occurred. When Gresham never came to meet him, what would he have done?”
“I imagine he would have doubled back to see what happened,” Smythe said. “Perhaps he even found the body and called the sheriff’s men.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it had been found already. In any case, we have only his word-the word of a servant-that Miss Darcie was even there. She could either claim he was mistaken and the time was later or else deny that she was ever there at all.”
“And this Granny Meg can be relied upon not to change her story should the sheriff’s men come calling upon her to make inquiries?” Smythe asked.
“She is an old friend of the family,” said Burbage, nodding emphatically. “She can be relied upon. We shall take Miss Darcie there, then drive her home and let her out close to her house, so that she shall not be seen with us.”
“You are all most gallant,” Elizabeth said.
“Thank you. However, much as we appreciate the compliment,” said Burbage, “in truth, I should point out that our motives are not entirely unselfish. Your father and mine are partnered in a business venture that affects all of our lives. Our very livelihoods depend upon it.”
“Nevertheless, you have all been very kind,” Elizabeth said. “And I shall not forget that.”
The carriage pulled up in front of a small apothecary shop on a dark and narrow, winding side street. The small wooden sign that hung out over the street was painted with a mortar and a pestle.
“Granny Meg has an apothecary shop?” Shakespeare asked.
“What did you expect to find in the middle of London?” Burbage asked, with a smile. “Some dotty, wild-haired old woman living in an overgrown and tumbledown, ramshackle cottage hidden in a stand of trees?”
The poet grimaced. “But the apothecaries have a guild, do they not?” he said. “And I have never heard of any guild that would admit a woman.”
“Nor have I,” Burbage replied. “But I never said that Granny Meg was the apothecary, did I?”
They rang the bell and, a moment later, a small eyehole appeared in the heavy, planked front door. Elizabeth gasped slightly as an eye filled it briefly, then the plug was reinserted and the door was opened slowly with a long, protracted creaking sound. Elizabeth convulsively seized hold of Smythe’s arm. He patted her hand reassuringly and they entered.
What struck them first was the heady fragrance of the place, for they could see next to nothing in the darkness. It seemed to be composed of a cacophony of smells all wafting through the air and mixing together, subtly changing from moment to moment, depending upon where they moved.
“What is that smell?” Elizabeth asked.
“Herbs,” said Smythe. “Drying herbs, hanging from the beams up in the ceiling.”
The door behind them creaked shut slowly and now there was almost total darkness in the shop, save for the glow coming from a brass candle holder that looked like a little saucer with a ring attached. The tallow candle stuck in it was nearly burnt down to a stub, with lots of melted wax caked upon it and the holder.
As the man holding the candle came away from the door and moved toward them, his candle brought illumination and they could see in the dim light the bunched, drying herbs hanging from the ceiling. It looked almost like a thatch roof turned inside out. There was vervain and rosemary and thyme, bay and basil and chive, elder, fennel, lemon balm and marjoram and hyssop and many, many more. Earthenware jars of various sizes filled the wooden shelves on all four walls. In front of one row of shelves there was a long wooden counter, laden with mixing bowls and mortars and pestles and scales with weights and measures and cutting boards and knives and scoops and funnels and all the other common tools of the apothecary.
“Good evening, Master Richard,” the old man said as he approached them, in a voice that sounded surprisingly strong and resonant.
If he was the apothecary, as Smythe surmised, then he certainly looked the part. Tall and gaunt, he had an almost sepulchral aspect with his deeply set dark eyes, prominent cheekbones and high forehead. He wore a long black robe and wisps of long and very fine white hair escaped from under the matching, woven skullcap. His beard was also white and wispy, reaching down to the middle of his chest. Smythe felt Elizabeth squeeze his arm and huddle close to him. In the dim candlelight, in the dark and heavily herb-scented shop, the old man seemed the very image of a sorcerer.
“Good evening, Freddy,” said Burbage, dispelling the illusion with the entirely prosaic name. “The hour is growing late, I know, but we have come to see your wife, if we may.”
Freddy, for all the amiability of his name, appeared to have an expression that was perpetually grim and somber. He nodded gravely and replied, “Meg is always pleased to see you, Master Richard. Allow me to light your way.”
They went to the back of the small shop and passed through a narrow doorway covered with an embroidered hanging cloth, the poor man’s tapestry. Freddy had to bend over as he pushed aside the cloth and went through the doorway to lead them up a narrow flight of wooden stairs against the back wall. They climbed single-file behind him as he lit their way. Smythe noticed that Elizabeth was looking more and more apprehensive. Her nerves were already frayed from the day’s events and Freddy’s appearance had unsettled her. The cadaverous apothecary towered over her, as he towered over all of them save Smythe, and Elizabeth was doubtless thinking that if this was Granny Meg’s husband, then what must Granny Meg herself be like?
At the top of the stairs, they came to the private living quarters just above the shop. It was a small, narrow, one-room apartment longer than it was wide, with whitewashed walls and a planked wood floor that was, unusually, not strewn with sweet-smelling rushes, as in the shop below, but swept clean. The straw bed was back near the front window, the only window in the place, and partially hidden by a freestanding wooden shelf that also functioned as a divider and a screen. The furnishings were simple and rough-hewn. There were a couple of plain and sturdy chairs, several three-legged wooden stools and a number of large chests, a wood planked table and a fireplace in which hung several black cauldrons of various sizes on iron hooks over the flames.
Smythe was a bit taken aback by this. He had never before seen a fireplace on a second floor. In a nobleman’s house, perhaps, it would not have been surprising, though he had only been in one such house, Sir William’s, and then only on the first floor. However, he recalled seeing numerous chimney tops sticking up out of the roof. Perhaps Sir William had fireplaces upstairs, too. But in a thatch-roofed house such as the one Smythe had grown up in, a fireplace on a second floor would have been an invitation to disaster. With no wood between the interior and the thickly piled thatch, the fire hazard would have been extreme. When it was dry, bits of thatch-along with bugs and sometimes mice- would often fall upon the occupants, for which reason cloth canopies were usually put up on posts over the beds. And when it rained, domestic animals who often slept upon the soft thatch roof would occasionally slip through and fall into the house, giving rise to the expression that it was “raining cats and dogs.”
The overwhelming impression of the place, though it was very clean, was one of nearly incomprehensible clutter. As below, wooden shelving lined all four walls and each shelf was filled to overflowing with books, earthenware jars, and other bric-a-brac. There were little pieces of statuary on the shelves such as Smythe had never seen, little figures carved from stone, some having shapes vaguely reminiscent of pregnant women and others resembling birds and animals, though of a type that Smythe had never seen. There were little tiny clay pots and great big ones, holding God only knew what, and there were beaded necklaces and amulets and little leather pouches suspended from thongs, apparently meant to be worn around the neck. No matter where one looked, there were a hundred things to draw the eye. Smythe’s gaze was drawn by a strange-looking dagger lying on a shelf in front of a row of jars. Curious, he reached out for it.