AS if to lend color to Shakespeare’s fears, he was soon to hear disquieting news. Finding himself in the course of the morning in the tavern parlor, he overheard the conversation of those assembled there. A sturdy yeoman, it seemed, was full of information concerning a murder that had been committed during the night at the Grange, the house of Mr. Simon Heriot, along the Banbury Road.
“They do say that Mr. Heriot himself has had his throat cut by his own nephew,” said the bearer of the news.
“What’s that you say?” sharply interposed a man who sat in the corner drinking his morning flagon.
The man was Grisewood. Instantly, he was all attention and alertness.
The countryman repeated his story, to be sure with a number of embellishments that were very wide of the truth. But the essential fact was there, that Simon Heriot had been done to death by his nephew in the course of the previous night.
Grisewood’s interest was very great. He knew as a fact that Gervase Heriot was close at hand, and that he had a powerful motive for taking even a course so desperate as the murdering of his uncle.
“Has the nephew been arrested?” asked Grisewood, with an excitement he did not attempt to conceal.
“No, he’s not taken yet,” said the news-bearer. “But he will be precious soon, else call me a rogue. They do say that young villain lies here in Oxford, but I’ll wager Justice Pretyman and his posse will mighty soon rout him out o’ this home o’ learnin’.”
“Who the devil is Justice Pretyman?”
“The Justice is a great man hereabouts. There’s none better than he at tracking down the evil doer. I passed him and his men along the road as I came up. They are going to search every tavern and alehouse in this city from cellar to attic for this wicked young man, Gervase Heriot.”
“Well, here’s luck to their errand,” said Grisewood, piously, draining his tankard.
In the next moment, plunged in deep thought, he left the tavern parlor. Shakespeare soon left the parlor also.
This news was very disquieting to the player. He was in such a state of grave uneasiness, that he could have wished to start from Oxford immediately. But it would not be possible to do this until the Lord Chamberlain’s men had given their final performance that afternoon. Therefore he must possess his soul in patience until that time, but also he must be fully alive to all contingencies. Of one circumstance he was ignorant, and well it was for his peace of mind that this was the case. He did not know that Grisewood had penetrated the disguise of the Italian music master.
Happily, there was no reason to suppose that the dead man’s steward had associated the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company with the tragedy of the previous night. At least, as yet there was no evidence of this fact. But the playwright felt they must be prepared for all untoward things that might befall.
Fortune was kind, inasmuch that the officers of the law did not pay their visit to the Crown Tavern before the final performance had taken place. Indeed, as luck would have it, they went away at first on a false scent as far as the neighboring town of Banbury, so that by the time they found their way to the Cornmarket the play was over, the audience had dispersed, and the members of the Company were about to sit down to a well-earned meal.
As was sometimes their habit in such circumstances, they had not troubled to change their clothes. The principal players were thus arrayed with the magnificence of gallants and courtiers. And a little group of these sat sunning themselves outside the tavern door, waiting patiently for the summons to the board within, when Justice Pretyman and his posse made their long-expected appearance.
It was well that Shakespeare had already informed Burbage and Kemp, and one or two of the others, that this untoward visit was to be expected. Thus, as soon as the officers of the law came into view, the quick-witted playwright was ready to meet the situation.
A shrewd observer of men and things does not take long to find out what a man is worth. And a glance at Justice Pretyman was enough to assure the dramatist that he might have stood for the prototype of Justice Shallow.
The magistrate arrived with a number of sheriff’s men. And he was armed with an authority to enter and search every likely place in the city and county of Oxford which might harbor the notorious traitor, Gervase Heriot, who had not only broken out of prison, but who had also murdered his uncle the previous night.
John Davenant had been told beforehand of Justice Pretyman’s coming. Therefore he met him at the inn door. And the demand that a house of such repute should be searched for so dark a purpose appeared to fill the heart of the worthy vintner with grief and consternation.
“You may search my tavern, sir,” he said, “but I would have you to know that, upon my honor as a licensed victualler, this is the most reputable tavern betwixt here and The Pump in Aldgate.”
“That I don’t doubt, sir,” said Justice Pretyman, with official asperity.
He was a pompous, overbearing little man, very conscious of the dignity to which it had pleased Providence to call him.
“As custos rotulorum of this country, as one armed with the Queen’s authority——”
“Aye, God protect her,” suddenly interposed a man who stood by in a voice of fervent piety. “But I would beg you, sir, to abate all instancy of demeanor and likewise all of the same on the part of your bumpkins, whom I doubt not are excellent fellows in the right place and season, but who at this moment will best serve the Queen by bearing themselves with all the modesty they can command.”
The man who had ventured these somewhat haughty remarks was dressed in a cloak of plum-colored velvet and a feathered hat, of such style and dimension as is seldom seen out of a court. He had come up with an air of nonchalant ease, and had interposed his remarks in a manner which seemed to claim for them the highest possible consideration.
At the opprobrious term “Bumpkin,” it had been on the tip of Justice Pretyman’s tongue to retort, “Bumpkin yourself, sir.” He was a hotheaded little man, also he was vain, also he was very self-important. But he was thwarted in this natural desire by the very patent fact that whatever else this haughty personage was, he was evidently not a bumpkin.
Now Justice Pretyman was a small gentleman, who would like to have been thought a great gentleman. And those who are thus afflicted, however much they may browbeat their inferiors, however much they may ruffle it among their equals, are of all men particularly wary when it comes to a question of their superiors.
By the courtesy of Providence, it chanced that before Justice Pretyman was able to make the proper, necessary and entirely satisfactory rejoinder of “Bumpkin yourself, sir!” his small, birdlike eye lit upon the plum-colored cloak and the hat with the feather, and further, it caught a glimpse of a wonderful doublet of black satin barred with yellow. Therefore, was his rejoinder reduced from “Bumpkin yourself, sir!” to “I beg your pardon, sir,” with as little in the way of asperity and as much in the way of dignity as he could command.
The personage in the plum-colored cloak smiled with a benign gravity.
“If you are upon the Queen’s business, sir,” he said, “heaven forefend that I of all men should come between you and your high and honorable occasions. But, to be plain with you, I am bound to say you and your ragged robins have come here in a plaguy ill season.”
“Od’s life, sir!”
The hand of Justice Pretyman strayed involuntarily to the hilt of his sword. But again his eye caught the plum-colored cloak, and he thought the better of the matter.
“I have written and signed authority,” he said, “to search this house for one Gervase Heriot, a notorious traitor, and that is a course I am determined to follow.”
The man in the plum-colored cloak lowered his voice.
“If such is your intention, sir, by all means pursue it,” he said. “But, before you do so, there is a matter of grave concern with which you will do well to make yourself acquainted. Perhaps, Master Davenant”—he turned to the innkeeper—“you will have the goodness to inform this gentleman of the matter in question?”
Mine host demurred in a manner of obsequious reverence.
“God forbid, sir, that I should expound the matter to the worshipful justice when you yourself are by,” he said, in a tone of awe.
“As you will,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak. “The fact of the matter is, sir,” he said, turning to Justice Pretyman, who by this time was fully primed for some startling announcement, “a certain lady who is of the highest—I may say of the very highest—consideration has just arrived at this inn on her way to the north, and is lying here one night.”
Justice Pretyman nodded with the gravity of a man who fully grasps the significance of such a piece of news.
“Indeed, sir,” he said. “Is that the case? And may I presume, sir, to ask the name of this personage?”
The man in the plum-colored cloak laid a finger to his lip.
“Forgive me, Master Prettyfellow,” he said, “but your style and assemblance assure me that you are not unacquainted with the Court. Correct me if I err.”
Justice Pretyman did not correct him.
“And that being the case, I have the less compunction in withholding the name of the high personage who, at this moment, sheds upon this humble roof-tree the lively radiance of her presence. Master Prettyfellow, you take me, I trow and trust. You understand me, Master Prettyfellow?” The man in the plum-colored cloak laid a confidential hand upon the Justice’s sleeve.
“By God’s life, I take you, sir.” A subtle but delightful sense of flattery had been engendered in the little peacock’s brain. “That is, I think I take you. It is—that is—she is—”
The man in the plum-colored cloak checked the threatened indiscretion of Justice Pretyman with an uplifted and much-bejeweled hand.
“For heaven’s sake, Master Prettyfellow!” He gazed around him apprehensively. “We are in danger of being overheard.”
For this surmise, the man in the plum-colored cloak had full warrant without a doubt. Others, attired with a flamboyance and a glitter that went well with his own, were standing a little apart. And their almost excessive gravity of manner could not disguise the fact that they had both ears and eyes for all that was going forward.
There was one, however, who watched this play with a sour smile. He was a man more sober in dress, but whose attire was yet that of a person of quality. He stood quite apart from all the rest, and carried his arm in a sling. The look on his face clearly showed that he, too, had ears and eyes for all that was taking place. Moreover, he stroked his chin with an air of grim but deeply pensive satisfaction.
“If you are determined to have search made of this tavern, Master Prettyfellow,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “it is not for me to gainsay you. But I am sure you will readily understand how necessary it is that this matter should be pursued with the utmost decorum.”
“Sir, that I do promise,” said Justice Pretyman.
“That is well,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “with the utmost decorum. And as I understand, you have figured at Court, Master Prettyfellow”—here the voice was raised to a level that drew the attention of the group near by—“And, as I understand, you have figured at Court, Master Prettyfellow”—the words were impressively repeated.
“You may take it, sir, that I have.” The tone of Justice Pretyman was full of dignity.
“I am very glad indeed to hear that.” The man in the plum-colored cloak spoke with a sudden accession of feeling. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that. Now there will not be the least difficulty about the whole matter. I will send in your name at once to this most distinguished lady, who must remain without one. My lord——”
George Taylor and William Kemp, arrayed in the robes of the theater, stepped forward together in answer to this summons. Such zeal, however, in nowise embarrassed the man in the plum-colored cloak.
“My lord duke”—he turned to William Kemp—“will you have the good kindness to take in the name of Master Prettyfellow——”
“Pretyman,” corrected the justice, beginning, however, to perspire freely.
The officious provincial was not a little uncertain as to the ground upon which he stood. Judging by the demeanor of these gayly-attired gentlemen and the high tone that went with it, he began to fear that the Queen herself had arrived at the Crown Tavern. And his vanity having allowed him to claim a familiarity with the Court when he had never been there in his life, he had merely to be received in audience by her to incur the risk of a grave exposure.
“One moment, sir,” he said, desperately. “If this unknown lady is the high personage I take her to be, I have no desire——”
But William Kemp, in his ducal trappings, was already away on his errand.
Justice Pretyman felt the situation to be growing desperate. And, to make matters worse, the man in the cloak was fain to misread his attitude of mind.
“I have not the least doubt, sir,” he said, “that if this lady—whom we shall both do well not to name more explicitly—is informed that you are familiar with the Court, she will gladly give you an audience, although you must please remember she travels incognito.”
By this time Justice Pretyman was fully convinced that it was the Queen herself who was lying one night at the Crown Tavern.
“You mistake me, sir,” he said, desperately. “I never said that I was familiar with the Court.”
“You never said you were familiar with the Court, sir!” The man in the plum-colored cloak was the picture of polite indignation. “But, ods my life, sir! this is a very grave matter.”
Justice Pretyman thought so, too. At least, his perspiring red face belied him if he did not.
“How I wish, sir,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “you had had the grace to make yourself more explicit. This lady is a bad one to cross, as all the world very well knows.”
“Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” said Justice Pretyman, beginning already to wish himself well out of the affair.
The richly caparisoned figure of William Kemp emerged with slow dignity from the tavern interior. He bent to the ear of the man in the plum-colored cloak. A good deal of confidential whispering followed, of which Justice Pretyman could only catch the ominous words, “Her Grace.”
But it was the man in the plum-colored cloak who addressed the uneasy magistrate.
“The fact of the matter is, sir,” he said, “this lady does not remember your name, but she hopes she may remember your face. She is not unwilling to grant you an audience of five minutes, but—strictly between ourselves—if you will take the advice of a friend, you will think twice before you run any risk of incurring her august displeasure.”
Justice Pretyman’s mind certainly seemed to recognize the wisdom of this sage counsel. And the result of a very little deliberation on his part was that he gathered his men and made off down the street with the least possible delay, leaving the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company to enjoy the triumph of their audacity.
To be sure, they little knew on how slender a thread it hung. Not ten yards from them, during the whole time in which this comedy had been played, a man stood marking sourly every phase of the proceedings. He could have undone them with a word.
The word, however, was not spoken. Grisewood judged the hour to be not yet. Still, he had marked very closely all that had passed. And he had been at pains to make himself fully acquainted with the matter in all its details. There and then, he could have laid his finger on the man these blundering rustics sought. But that would not have suited his purpose at the moment. For he was too astute not to realize the immense advantage his knowledge gave him, and far too cunning not to be fully determined to take some high profit out of it.