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The Vavasour Macbeth

Page 30

by Bart Casey

Detective Harris put them at ease with the offer of tea and the same obligatory small plate of biscuits that Rowe had served them back in September. He repeated that he was angry about them continuing their freelance investigation, but he decided he wasn’t going to lecture them about that now, as long as they knew they had been stupid and almost gotten themselves killed.

  So he explained what he knew. “The professor left a suicide note, and the ending is quite personal to you, Miss Hamilton,” said Harris. “So I’ll read you a few lines.” He slipped on his glasses and read out the words Professor Rowe had left behind: “At this point I have decided not to face earthly interrogations and punishments for my crimes of filching antique treasures from oblivious modern keepers. Instead, I will face my judgment in the next world. And I am taking my accomplice with me, to prevent any more victims being added to our case file.”

  “Oh my god,” said Margaret. “He seems so calm about it all. It’s eerie.”

  “Perhaps he was,” said Harris. “He then left a short list of their conquests. It’s a kind of ‘greatest hits’ going back five or six years. Most we had absolutely no idea about. They were very good at what they did. Here’s the end of his note, with his message to you. He wrote: ‘Please return the attached papers of Anne Vavasour to Margaret Hamilton, with our sincerest apologies.’ Then he signed it, and that’s it.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes before Harris continued to give his own commentary. Both Rowe and Soames Bliforth had been at the epicenter of a long trail of thievery and deceit. Soames had been the driving force, feeding an insatiable hunger for more and more wealth, needing much more than even the riches that had come to him from his inheritance. The detective had seen it all before—the same frenzy that drove an art thief to risk all for an impressionist painting to hang in a dark corner of his bedroom. It was a disease that somehow perverted the appreciation of beauty and rarity into an all-consuming need to hoard the artwork itself.

  Professor Rowe was only the besotted lover who relished the pleasure he could give to Soames by providing the treasures—certainly something he could never achieve in other forms of lovemaking they might try. He didn’t value the art himself—only the reaction the fine things provoked in young Soames. That at least was something he could be sure of; and yet he was only as good as his last theft, so he had to keep stealing at an ever escalating rate just to keep up the attentions of Soames, who could have gone in many other directions at any time.

  Margaret’s Vavasour papers were just the sort of miracle that might have kept Soames interested in Rowe for another ten minutes. And perhaps Rowe had underestimated just how desperate Soames would become in his quest to own and control them. Past treasures had only justified danger and theft, but the Vavasour trove allowed murder as well. And that had been

  their undoing.

  About two months before, Scotland Yard had been alerted about this unlikely couple—the avaricious former student and the smitten professor—by complaints from two victims, who had come forward, by chance almost simultaneously.

  The first to complain was a librarian at a small college up in Northumberland. Professor Rowe had visited there for several days last winter, evaluating a collection of local manuscripts from the medieval monastic period and, although there was no formal catalogue of the library’s holdings, two choice items had seemed to go missing. One was an illuminated manuscript sheet with a particularly randy illustration of devils tempting an abbot, and the other was a fifteenth-century map of the northern coastline facing Ireland, replete with dragonlike sea monsters threatening some bold mariners afloat. The librarian missed them only because she had been planning to feature them in a lobby exhibition to tempt the students into using the library this fall.

  The second victim was a man working to tidy up his grandfather’s country house before an estate sale to benefit the heirs. The young man couldn’t locate certain treasures in the library, ones that he had often looked at as a boy on his grandfather’s knee. He thought some mischief might be involved because his grandfather had written him about his excitement at the visit of Professor Rowe of Oxford, who actually deemed to stay for an entire weekend some months earlier, studying in the library for an upcoming book he was preparing. Now those items

  had disappeared.

  Detective Harris had then worked behind the scenes and discovered links between these missing treasures and the sales of Soames Bliforth, bookseller. Over the last few weeks, the detective had found additional grieved librarians and manuscript owners to come forward, and a significant ironclad case against the pair was being developed.

  When Bliforth seemed to be about to run out of the money he needed to fuel his bookshop, mews house, and country house in Gloucestershire, his actions took a much more desperate turn, and sadly that first manifested itself in the incident at the vicarage that involved Stephen and Margaret in this whole affair. Ironically, the police were just about to move in when Margaret’s background checks came up. Of course, telling them all this was ‘off the record,’ as they could understand, but the detective thought they deserved to have the full story.

  Once Harris and his team were aware of the Vavasour papers, they were willing to delay arresting the pair slightly, in the hope that taped conversations might reveal some of the international connections Soames had been using to launder his stolen goods through a worldwide stolen-documents network. And that delay had almost turned fatal for Margaret and Stephen.

  Now the police and judiciary would simply proceed to recover damages from the estates of both Soames and Rowe for all of the documented earlier thefts and transactions. Because of that, there really was no need to include the Vavasour papers in the legalities going forward—which otherwise would mean the police would have to retain possession of the papers stolen from Margaret and Stephen indefinitely. So the detective was happy to slide across the table a stack of papers and journals recovered from Soames and Rowe; these simply would not be needed as exhibits in the proceedings.

  Margaret and Stephen had a few questions, which caused them to linger another ten minutes. For example, they learned the theft of the church crucifix and candlesticks turned out to be totally separate from the assault on Vicar Hamilton. One of the workmen drying the vaults had just been caught trying to

  sell them.

  Once the ninety-minute interview was over, they exited the building and with the bundle of papers under his right arm, Stephen hailed a taxi with his left to drop off their bundle at Margaret’s flat.

  Spreading the recovered items out on Margaret’s table behind the sofa, Stephen’s eyes went right to the thickest manuscript, which was indeed the maximal copy of Macbeth that Heminge referred to in his letter—with all the crossing outs that made it ‘the cut that woke the Dane.’ Stephen hadn’t even been sure he’d ever seen it, because it was one of the things taken by Soames on the night he assaulted the vicar, long before Stephen had any sort of handle on the full list of what they actually had found. Heminge had not had the time to rebuild the full play for placement into the First Folio, so he just used the cut-down version, telling the typesetters to ignore all the crossed-out sections of the longer version it contained. Perhaps he planned to include a longer one in the next edition of his Folio, if there was to be one. Sadly, his own death intervened, along with the loss of any other copy of the full version of the play. Only the short version survived, as printed in the First Folio—until now, when the Vavasour trove could reintroduce the public to Shakespeare’s complete telling of the play.

  What exactly to do with all this would be Margaret’s decision—after she had the time to consider all of her options properly, and now that she was almost clear of the BBC. Meanwhile, Stephen would be happy to carry the returned papers back to the village, add them to his inventory, and deliver them to the safety deposit boxes of the local bank.

  ~

  Later the same day, Margaret heard bad news from the BBC team in Sarajevo, which the Bosnian embassy in London confir
med at the end of the afternoon. Mister Juric’s remains were identified in the rubble near the Bosnian government building in Sarajevo that had been the target of repeated shelling by the besieging forces attacking the city. And the BBC team were tracking reports that Mrs. Juric had probably never connected with her husband before his death. She might have traveled towards her family’s village to the south, near Mostar, and travel anywhere now was very dangerous. So she might have been caught up in something during the journey. They would keep going on that lead.

  That left Margaret and Stephen with the task of telling the children and making some plans for keeping them safe in the village for the foreseeable future, at least until they discovered the fate of Mrs. Juric.

  “All right,” said Margaret. “We should telephone Mrs. Quick with a heads-up, and then go over and tell the children.”

  “Bloody hell, that is going to be awful.”

  “You know, Stephen, what if I just moved them over into the vicarage with me now for a while? I have it until the end of the year and have to be out there going through things anyway. I mean, I don’t think the BBC will need me to come in and work out my transition very long—not after my boss hears all this about the Jurics. Everyone on the team there will all want me to be with the children. And Mrs. Quick, or even another family in the village, wouldn’t be the right answer for the first few days and weeks after news like this. I mean, I want to do it. They at least know me a little and I want to take them through this.”

  Looking over at her, Stephen knew she had already decided and that was that. And besides she was right. “Yes, Margaret,” he said. “That is actually the right thing to do, and I will back you up with it—all the way. They know me a little, too.”

  ~

  The next few weeks were a heartbreak. The final word came in that Mrs. Juric was dead, along with several others who had been taken off a bus with her at a roadblock just outside her home village. The embassy organized a funeral and memorial in London, and a special interfaith service was held in the village at St. Mary’s, with the St. George’s schoolchildren attending, as well as Mia’s classmates and teachers from the village junior school. Denis and Mia were out of school for two weeks, spending all their time with Margaret, but then they began to carve out a new routine.

  Stephen was never very far away from those three, and he began to spend less time at his school, encouraging Mrs. Boardman to gradually take over. He had been thinking he could do a better job with his inventory. In fact, after he added the stolen items just returned, it could be the core of a catalogue for the whole collection, along with a note about its discovery and significance. And, quite frankly, he was thinking a new book about Sir Henry Lee and Anne Vavasour might be another good project for his literary debut. He already was the world’s leading living expert on the pair, so how much trouble could it be to simply tell their story properly to the world? Besides, all that would keep him busy as he gave up his teaching career. Then the book about Byron, Keats, and the Shelleys might come next.

  As for the Vavasour papers themselves, Margaret thought, they had sat comfortably next to Anne and Sir Henry for almost 350 years, so there really wasn’t any need to rush them to market. She would have Maggs and Company appraise them. Stephen could consult the papers while writing his book, and when the moment was right, she could make sure they went to some place that could provide access to any curious scholars and the public. Actually, it was almost a certainty she would choose the British Museum—or its coming spin-off, the new British Library, which had been under construction forever. Perhaps displaying the trove could be part of the new library’s launch?

  All of these things suddenly were less of a headache for the couple and just fantasy fodder for thinking about what their future together might bring.

  Long term, Stephen thought finishing the school year in the village, followed by a quiet summer in the English countryside would be right for them all, with some excursions around the country to help heal Denis and Mia.

  After all, Anne and Sir Henry had lots of choices and found a simple life in the country was just right for them, didn’t they?

  Epilogue

  Anno Domini 1654 was a dour time in England, with King Charles I having been executed five years before and Oliver Cromwell presiding. All forms of religious worship were tightly regulated. Even the everyday prayers in the beloved Book of Common Prayer were banned in favor of a dry new text called A Directory for the Public Worship of God.

  For burials especially, simplicity was mandatory, even if the deceased was a colorful Elizabethan.

  Yet, in spite of all that, a ninety-year-old widow named Anne Vavasour was about to be buried in the old style. Decades before, she had prepared her vault under the village church floor in front of her memorial. Ever since, she had been the primary patron of the parish, contributing mightily.

  As a result, once again, Anne Vavasour was about to have her way. Lady Frances, Anne’s dutiful great-niece, was ready to oversee her interment according to her wishes, with the old, familiar Catholic prayers, and making sure her ebony boxes with her papers were sealed up along with her and Sir Henry Lee, who was already there waiting.

  Anne died at an unheard-of age, and none of her own generation, and few of her children’s generation, were still living. But Lady Frances was determined to make sure everything went smoothly and was now waiting for her brother and sister to arrive with their families before the church ceremony at five o’clock in the evening.

  Earlier that day, Frances visited the minister and walked with him to the church to make sure all was ready for the burial. In this blustery January, it was a blessing the interment was taking place inside the church and not in the windswept churchyard. Anne built her memorial and vault more than forty years before, on a wall of the Lady Chapel, off the Norman nave of the church. After construction, and after Sir Henry went in, it was never reopened. Above, the memorial stood like an altar, decorated on its long lower front panel with a sculptured image of Anne, painted in a white cap and red dress, kneeling in humble prayer before a lectern with an open book. Armorial crests adorned either side of this tableau, and the top was marble. Just in front, three large slabs of the church’s stone floor had been taken up and stacked to one side, exposing the entrance to the burial vault.

  Later that afternoon, when the full funeral party gathered, the minister led the small procession of about twenty souls by torchlight on the short walk across the green and churchyard into the softly lit church. By four thirty, it was already dark, and the timing gave a privacy that was a deliberate choice by Lady Frances. No tolling of bells was needed to attract the attention of the village for these private rites. Also, without a crowd of onlookers, there would be no need to explain the special service, the Catholic prayers, or to provide a public funeral feast and costly gifts. This was to be a simple family affair, just for their matriarch, her living kin and longtime servants. After the burial, all would return to Lady Frances’s house for the private funeral feast.

  Finally, at the right moment, the minister was bold enough to lead the small gathering in the old prayer Anne had requested. “Almighty and everlasting God, we humbly entreat thy mercy, that thou wouldest commend the soul of thy servant, for whose body we perform the office of burial, to be laid in the bosom of the patriarch Abraham; that when the day of recognition shall arrive, she may be raised up, at thy bidding, among the saints of thy elect.” More scandalous still, some holy water was even dripped lightly onto the coffin, although any hint of incense was suppressed. Prayers ended, the family and servants watched as the workmen angled Anne’s coffin down into position on the northern side of the vault, next to the other coffin already there. In her final duty, Lady Frances then gestured for two hall boys from the house to bring forward the small ebony chests to be placed next to Anne. Such boxes were no surprise to anyone. Indeed, there were similar sad small caskets in all of the other vaults inside the church.

  By five fifteen, the fami
ly was following the torches, retracing their steps back to the house for the feast as Lady Frances’s steward watched the workmen rebrick the manhole, shovel the rubble back into place, and position the slabs back onto the floor. The adults chatted quietly, and the children whispered excitedly with their cousins.

  That night, inside Lady Frances’s home, there was good food and fine wine, along with family stories about Anne’s long life—stories that surprised the youngest of the family who learned their old “black sheep” was not as dull as they’d thought.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE ABOUT THIS STORY

  To make people and places from the past “come alive,” historical novels often blend fact and fiction. So, what is “real,” and what is “made up” in The Vavasour Macbeth?

  I’ve written the answers in three sections: first, for the modern-day action; second, for the story of Sir Henry Lee and Anne Vavasour; and, third, for a brief discussion of some facts and problems around Shakespeare and his much-loved play Macbeth.

  Fact or Fiction?

  1. About England in 1992. Although Stephen and Margaret never existed, their characters and backgrounds are composites of bits and pieces from real world people whom I encountered or knew well during the many years I spent in England.

  The village where Vicar Hamilton, Margaret, and Stephen all lived is based on the commuter town where my family and I stayed for several years, and Stephen’s school is very like the one I attended as a boy in Hampstead in the 1950s and 1960s, including the cricket practice in the batting nets.

  Since my job in the ’80s and ’90s was based in London’s Soho Square, travel from the village by train to King’s Cross was a regular event for me, as was walking in the neighborhoods near the BBC’s Broadcasting House and the British Museum. Although The Pillars of Hercules pub where Stephen and Margaret chatted has recently closed, you can still enjoy memorable high-priced dining on Surrey Snails at Soames’s favorite perch, L’Escargot on Greek Street, or sample the pea and mint risotto at Sir Terence Conran’s posh riverside restaurant Pont de la Tour over by Tower Bridge.

 

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