SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET

by Elise Broach

  “I’m Nobody! Who are you?

  Are you—Nobody—too?

  Then there’s a pair of us?

  Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!

  How dreary—to be—Somebody!

  How public—like a Frog—

  To tell one’s name—the livelong June—

  To an admiring Bog!

  “Do you know that one?”

  Hero shook her head, smiling. “If anything gets quoted at our house, it’s usually Shakespeare. But I like that.”

  “I do, too,” Mrs. Roth said. She rested her head against the post again and looked out into the garden. “All right, then. Why would Arthur and Eleanor Murphy hide a diamond?”

  Hero waited in the warm silence, eager for her to continue.

  Finally she spoke again. “Two years ago, Eleanor became ill. It was cancer, very advanced; no one had any hope. But there was a treatment in Mexico, something experimental and very expensive. It wasn’t covered by their health insurance. Arthur was certain it was the only thing that would save her.”

  Mrs. Roth seemed to be talking to herself now. “They couldn’t afford it. Arthur wanted her to sell the necklace. Eleanor refused. She thought the necklace might have some sort of historical importance. The Vere family was descended from British nobility apparently.”

  “But if it was the only way to pay for the treatment she needed,” Hero protested, “wouldn’t she do it to save her own life?”

  “I don’t think she had any confidence she could be saved,” Mrs. Roth said. “She wasn’t a young woman. She seemed to accept it, that she was going to die.”

  “Really?” Hero couldn’t imagine that. “She just gave up?”

  “I don’t think it was giving up. Her health declined noticeably about a year ago. It was a terrible thing to watch. She’d always been such a vibrant person, full of interests and curiosities. She became very weak. She couldn’t read. We couldn’t do the crosswords anymore. Arthur was just desperate. I’d never seen him like that.” Mrs. Roth hesitated.

  Hero sunk her chin into the hollow between her kneecaps, breathing the salty, grassy smell of her own skin. “So you think he did it? You think Mr. Murphy took the diamond himself?”

  Mrs. Roth nodded. “I do, yes. I think the police were right. I think Arthur reported the diamond stolen for the insurance money. He thought it was the only way to save his wife.”

  “Did he get the money? Did he take her to Mexico?”

  Mrs. Roth straightened, seeming to come out of her reverie. “No, not in time. Because of the investigation, the insurance people delayed payment for months and months. Eleanor died last fall. So it was all for nothing. And Arthur couldn’t bear to live here without her.”

  Hero stared at the ordinary shingled profile of her family’s house. It looked so much like the other houses on the street, with its peaks and dormers, its aging shutters and bay windows. Who would have thought it had such a history?

  “But why does anyone think he hid the diamond in the house?” she asked. “It would make more sense for him to take it with him, or give it to someone. Or at least to hide it someplace else.”

  “True,” Mrs. Roth agreed. “But the investigation was very thorough. The Murphys didn’t have many close friends, other than myself. And Arthur did finally receive the insurance settlement, which was nearly a million dollars. So if he’d turned up with the diamond, it would have been a serious matter legally.”

  Hero hugged her legs against her chest. What if the diamond were still in the house somewhere? Or buried in the yard? It could be tucked under a floorboard in the hallway, or pushed deep into the soft dirt beneath the azaleas.

  “But Mr. Murphy moved out awhile ago, right?” Hero said suddenly. “And you said the whole town knows about the diamond. Someone might have already found it.” She felt a stab of disappointment.

  Mrs. Roth tilted her head, smiling at Hero. “Arthur did move out a few months ago. But the house has been locked up, empty. And the police searched it quite thoroughly. Wherever the diamond is, it isn’t easy to find.”

  She rested her hand on Hero’s shoulder. “You know, I think Arthur chose your family quite deliberately. He told me all about your father and his job at the Maxwell.”

  Hero looked at her curiously. She couldn’t imagine what her father’s job had to do with this. “Have you talked to Mr. Murphy? Since he left, I mean?”

  Mrs. Roth shook her head. “I last spoke to him in June, when he decided to sell the house to your parents. He hasn’t been in touch since. I think he’s in Boston, but I’m not sure.”

  Hero glanced at her watch. “Oh!” she cried. “It’s almost five o’clock. I have to go.” She reached for her backpack reluctantly. “So you think the diamond’s still there?”

  Mrs. Roth stood slowly, using the porch column for support. “Indeed I do. I have good reason to think so. Arthur—” she stopped. “You should go. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  “What?” Hero asked, unable to leave the porch. “What is it?”

  Mrs. Roth smiled. “Tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Hero burst through the back door into the kitchen, where the rich, garlicky smell of tomato sauce filled the air. Her mother stood at the stove, a dripping spoon in one hand.

  “Hero, where have you been? I was worried.” “Sorry.” Hero unzipped her backpack and began sorting through it, dropping homework sheets on top of a stack of her mother’s work papers in the middle of the kitchen table.

  “Honey those are invitations for an event at the Maxwell. Please don’t make a mess. Why are you so late?”

  “I stopped at Mrs. Roth’s on the way home.”

  Her mother looked at her more closely. “Mrs. Roth’s? Really? What were you doing over there?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Hero paused. “She was working on a crossword puzzle, and I helped her.”

  Hero’s mother returned to her stirring, but her lips pursed skeptically. “How did school go today?” she asked.

  Again, Hero hesitated. She wouldn’t have minded her mother’s sympathy, but often these things seemed to upset her parents more than they upset her. And then, in addition to worrying about her own problems, Hero had to worry about the two of them worrying about her problems, which was more exhausting than coping with the problems all by herself.

  “School was okay” she said.

  “Really?” her mother asked eagerly, searching Hero’s face. “Everything went okay today?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so glad. The first day is always the hardest.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Hero agreed.

  She sank into a chair and crossed her arms over her homework, resting her head in the crook of her elbow. She could see the smooth ivory invitations her mother had been working on. They had ornate crimson script curling across them.

  “Those are pretty,” she said.

  “Thank you. They’re for the opening reception of that Hamlet exhibit your father’s been talking about.” Her mother glanced out the window. “Speak of the devil.”

  Hero heard the sound of her father’s car in the driveway. A minute later he came through the door, scattering car keys and loose change right in front of her.

  He ruffled her hair. “Hello, ladybird! How was the day?”

  “Fine,” Hero answered promptly, hoping to cut off further questions. She thought of Mrs. Roth’s comment about her father’s job. “Hey Dad,” she said. “Mrs. Roth told me the guy who sold us the house was really interested in what you do. You know, that you study Shakespeare and everything. She said it’s why he sold the house to us.”

  “Mrs. Roth?” Her father looked at her blankly.

  “The lady next door.”

  “Oh, right. Well, yes, that’s true. It’s an odd connection, isn’t it? The wife’s relationship to Edward de Vere, of all people.”

  Now it was Hero’s turn to look blank. “What do you mean? Who’s Edward de Vere?”


  Her mother clucked in mock disapproval. “You girls never pay attention to your father. He told you about this when we went through the house after the closing.”

  “He did?” Hero had no recollection of any story about an Edward de Vere. But her father often digressed into long-winded literary lectures that she and Beatrice were in the habit of ignoring.

  “Indeed I did,” her father protested. “Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, the man who might be Shakespeare. Ring a bell?”

  The Earl of Oxford did vaguely ring a bell. But what did he have to do with Shakespeare, or with the Murphys for that matter? “Tell me again,” Hero said.

  Her father pulled a chair away from the table and sat down next to her. He ran his hand over the short scruff of his beard and leaned forward intently. “Apparently, Arthur Murphy’s late wife was a descendant of Edward de Vere, the Elizabethan courtier whom some believe is the real author of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets. The secret Shakespeare. There’s no proof, of course, but there are some intriguing clues.”

  Hero looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t get it. Why does anybody think Shakespeare didn’t write his own plays?”

  “Well, let’s see. Three things, really. First, William Shakespeare was a humble merchant. He had no more than a grammar-school education and wasn’t worldly or well-traveled as far as we know. Yet the plays depend on a vast knowledge of many subjects-literature, history, law, and geography—not to mention specific details of royal life.”

  “Couldn’t he have learned about those things from books?” Hero asked.

  “It’s possible, but the point is, he wasn’t an educated man. He was an ordinary businessman, without the library or other resources of a wealthier person. Then there’s the second reason: When Shakespeare died, there were no obituaries or public homages paid to him. Think of that: a man now considered the greatest playwright of the English language and whose work was deservedly popular in its own time. He died quietly praises unsung.”

  “What’s the third reason?” Hero asked.

  Her father tapped the edge of the table with his fingertips. “That’s the most interesting of all. Shakespeare left behind no collection of books, no manuscripts of his plays or verses, no documents in his own handwriting that link him to the literature. It’s very strange. Other Elizabethan playwrights and poets kept extensive libraries of their own and other writers’ material. Actually, only six signatures in Shakespeare’s hand exist. They’re quite primitive and show different spellings of his name.”

  “He couldn’t even spell his own name?” Hero considered this. “Okay, so maybe he didn’t write the plays.”

  Her mother laughed. “You were easy to convince. He’s the greatest figure in English literature! Think what that would mean, if Shakespeare wasn’t the author of those plays.”

  Hero shrugged. “But it wouldn’t change the plays. I mean, they’re still the same. Does it really matter who wrote them?”

  Her father smiled at her. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet/”

  “Well, yeah. But, Dad, why do they think that other man, Vere, was the real author?”

  Her father leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. “Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford. We call him Oxford, although you’re right, his descendants go by the last name of Vere. Actually, the whole thing is hotly debated in my circles. Most academics still favor Shakespeare as the true author of the plays, barring proof to the contrary. But over the years, Oxford has emerged as a real possibility.”

  Hero could sense her father drifting into one of his lectures. She straightened her homework sheets impatiently and took a pencil out of her backpack. “But why?” she persisted. “What makes people think he’s the secret Shakespeare?”

  “Well, he has the right background,” her father said. “The perfect background, really. He was clever, well educated, well traveled, a great favorite of Queen Elizabeth’s, and frequently at court. Certain events of his life bear a fascinating resemblance to events in Shakespeare’s plays. And recently, scholars discovered that Oxford’s personal Bible was annotated—it had notes in the margins—and the marked passages correspond with important verses in Shakespeare’s work.”

  “But did he write anything else? Could he spell his own name?” To Hero, that seemed a fairly basic test of a writer’s skill.

  Her father laughed. “Yes, indeed. Oxford left behind many literary documents. He was a well-known poet whose talent as a playwright was widely praised. But—and here’s the other piece of the puzzle—historians have been unable to discover any plays published under his name. To some, that suggests he might have had a secret life, creating plays under a pseudonym: Shakespeare.”

  Hero looked at her father, balancing her pencil on her knuckle. “But why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he want people to know he wrote those great plays?”

  Her father stood, his chair scraping the floor as he pushed away from the table. “That’s the key question, and no one’s found a good answer to it. Some believe that it was beneath Oxford to publicly reveal himself as the author of the plays. They think that since he was a nobleman, his reputation would have suffered if his name were linked to the lowly pursuits of the theater. Playwriting was considered unworthy of the nobility.”

  “Do you think that?” Hero asked.

  Her father paused. “Well, there was some prejudice against it, but it was fading during Queen Elizabeth’s reign. And it’s not as if he were royalty.”

  “So you don’t think he’s the real author?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. There’s a case to be made, absolutely. But I have to admit, I’m reluctant to give up the man from Stratford. The idea of a simple, unschooled merchant stringing together some of the most beautiful phrases in the English language . . . now that’s inspiring.” Her father’s face creased in a smile. “Still, as Shakespeare himself would say, the play’s the thing.”

  Hero glanced down at her math worksheet, with its orderly march of numbers followed by blanks: the promise of crisp solutions. “So nobody knows anything for sure,” she said, disappointed. “What did Mr. Murphy say about it?”

  “Well, naturally, his wife’s family prefers to believe that Oxford—their ancestor Edward de Vere— is the true Shakespeare. And Murphy seemed quite convinced. But I asked if they’d ever come across any documents—papers, letters, anything—that supported it, and he didn’t know of any. So I suspect it will remain a mystery.”

  Her father winked at her, tugging a strand of her hair. “I must say Hero, I’m delighted by this sudden interest in Shakespeare. You know, we have plenty of books on sixteenth-century England in the study. You could do a little reading on it yourself if you’d like. I’d be happy to pull them out for you.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Hero said quickly. “I was just curious because of what Mrs. Roth said.”

  “Well, if you change your mind ...” Her father started to leave the room but stopped at the door. “So, school went well today?”

  Hero glanced up and saw her mother turn, too, both of them looking at her with expectant smiles, their faces reflecting exactly what they hoped she would say. It really was so much easier just to say it. “Yeah, fine. The teacher seems nice.”

  “There you go! You were worried for nothing.” Her father thumped the door frame. “It’s all in your attitude, Hero. That’s the key.”

  Hero smiled at him. Her father was always so clueless about her real life. She felt a strange mixture of pity and gratitude. It was good to be home, in the bright, safe kitchen, with the smell of dinner filling the air and her parents bustling obliviously just a few feet away.

  Later that night, as Hero and Beatrice crowded at the bathroom sink to brush their teeth, Beatrice demanded the real story.

  “Okay so what happened?” she asked impatiently. “Mom and Dad think you’re finally well adjusted.”

  Hero laughed. “Oh, it was terrible. I got stuck showing a little kid whe
re the first-grade classrooms were, so I was late. Then, when I had to say my name, it turned out there was some girl in my class with a dog named Hero, and of course she had to announce it to everybody”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. So, for the whole entire day, the other kids were whistling at me and making dog jokes.”

  Beatrice looked awed. “That’s probably the worst first day you’ve ever had.”

  “Pretty much,” Hero answered.

  “And it’s not like they’re going to forget about the dog thing. Not any time soon.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Wow, that’s rough.” Beatrice flipped off the light switch and they drifted together into the hallway, silently assessing the damage.

  “How was it for you today?” Hero asked. Part of her didn’t want to know.

  Beatrice shrugged. “It was okay. I mean, I get teased too, but nothing like that.”

  “You get teased?” Hero looked at her sister in amazement, feeling a small flicker of hope.

  “Sure. Some of the boys were passing notes about me, and on the bus this afternoon, somebody behind me kept pulling on my hair.”

  “Oh, geez, Triss,” Hero protested. “That’s because they like you. Don’t you see? That’s their stupid way of getting your attention.”

  Beatrice paused. “Maybe,” she said. “But it’s still annoying.”

  Hero shook her head in disbelief. There were few things worse than having a beautiful, popular sister. It changed the way you looked at the world. And the way the world looked at you.

  Beatrice stopped at the doorway of her bedroom. “You can sleep in here tonight if you want,” she offered.

  Hero changed into a T-shirt, grabbed a book, and padded barefoot into her sister’s room. The large windows overlooked the backyard. She could see the moonlight streaming over the trees and bushes, making long, crazy shadows across the grass. Was there a diamond hidden out there somewhere? She looked at Beatrice, already settled under the covers. She wanted to tell her about the Murphys, but at the same time, she didn’t. She wanted to keep the secret. To have something that belonged only to her.