Charles, believing that the storm had subsided, took up the newspaper and came upon an account of a recent murder in the White Hart Inn. The victim had been an elderly laundress, whose body was found upturned in a beer barrel; the killer had not been caught. He began reading this narrative aloud, but Mary stopped him.
“I cannot bear this violence,” she said. “Wherever I go in London, I see barbarism and cruelty.”
“Cities are places of death, Mary.” He harboured some imp of the perverse, with which he still liked to tease his sister. “I read recently that the first cities were built upon graveyards.”
“So we are the walking dead. Did you hear that, Pa?”
Mr. Lamb imitated the sound of a trumpet, and laughed.
chapter thirteen
WILLIAM IRELAND WAS summoned before the Shakespeare Committee a week after he had sent his acceptance of its invitation. It was convened on Sunday morning in the room above a coffee-house in Warwick Lane; it was the office of the Caledonian Society, and various engravings of the Highland regiments adorned the walls. He had arrived with his father, who waited for him on the landing outside the door. Samuel Ireland had immediately called for coffee, toast and brandy wine from the establishment below and, just as William was about to give his testimony, he opened the door a fraction so that he might hear the proceedings.
Mr. Ritson and Mr. Stevens sat side by side behind a narrow table of oak. Mr. Ritson was an eager and animated man, much given to pulling facial expressions of astonishment or disbelief; he was no more than thirty-five, at William’s guess, and wore his cravat fashionably knotted. Mr. Stevens was older and of a more severe appearance; he looked, William said later, as if he were about to drown several puppies. Two other men were sitting beside them, one of whom began scribbling notes as soon as William entered the room. The room itself smelt of ink and dust, with the faintest savour of pears.
“I would like to make an exact and correct statement before we begin.” William stood in front of them, having refused the offer of a chair, and looked out of a small mullioned window at the dome of St. Paul’s.
“We are not a court of law, Mr. Ireland.” Ritson spread out his hands, as if he were pleading with him. “We are simply conducting an enquiry. There are no rewards and no punishments.”
“I am glad to hear it. But my father believes that he is being punished.”
“Wherefore?”
“He is suspected of basely forging these documents. Is that not so?”
“He has been accused of nothing.”
“That is not what I said. Suspected, not accused.”
“The world is filled with suspicions.” Stevens had been looking at William very carefully, but now broke his silence. “We are not perfect, Mr. Ireland. We are frail. We have not even concluded that the papers are fabrications. We do not know.”
“You have the opportunity,” Ritson added, “to dispel any slight cloud.”
“Then I must make my statement.”
“Before you do so, Mr. Ireland, will you answer a question? It is very brief.”
“Certainly.”
Ritson laid his hands on the table in front of him. “William Henry Ireland, will you make oath that to the best of your knowledge and belief, from every circumstance that you know respecting the discovery of these papers, that they are genuine effusions from the pen of William Shakespeare?”
“Forgive me. Do I have leave to read my statement?”
“Of course.”
William took a step backwards, and produced a paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “It has been stated in the public prints that the present committee has been appointed to investigate my father’s concern in the discovery and presentation of the Shakespearian documents. In order to ease him from the lies surrounding him, I therefore will make oath that he received the papers from me as Shakespeare’s own and knows nothing of the origin and source from whence they come.” He returned the paper to his pocket. “Is that sufficient?”
“Sufficient for your father,” Stevens replied. “But you have not answered our original question. May we ask about your own part in this?”
“Certainly.”
“Can you enlighten us, then, on the nature of this origin or source?”
“Could you be more precise, sir?”
“Well. Is it a person? A place? A deed of gift? What is it?”
“I can say, without any equivocation, that it is a person.”
“What person?”
“There you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Meaning?”
“It is impossible for me to name or otherwise identify this person.”
“Your reason?”
“I have sworn an oath to a certain individual.”
“The individual who gave you these papers?”
“The very same.”
Stevens looked at Ritson, who raised his eyebrows and feigned surprise.
Ireland cleared his throat, and looked once again out of the mullioned window.
“And you cannot give a name to this benefactor?”
“I can say no more. Do you wish me to violate a sacred pledge?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have sworn never to reveal my patron’s name. Do you ask me to be dishonourable?”
“God forbid.”
Ireland glared at Stevens, as if he detected some irony in his response, but he was suddenly addressed by Ritson. “Will this gentleman not come before us secretly, Mr. Ireland?”
“I did not say he was a gentleman.”
“Not a gentleman?”
“Don’t mistake my meaning. I am merely stating that I have not revealed the sex of my patron as yet.”
“Will this person, of whatever sex, come before us in the strictest confidence?”
“My patron has gone abroad. To Alsace.”
“For what reason?”
“My patron has been so disturbed in mind by this affair that London became insupportable.”
“It is all very unsatisfactory, Mr. Ireland.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Stevens, it is the case.”
There was a rap upon the door. “May I?” Samuel Ireland entered the room and bowed to the committee. “I am the father. This is not a court of law. By right I should be here.” He stood beside his son and smiled. “William Ireland has no doubt removed the slightest shade of suspicion concerning my own actions in this affair.” He had heard everything William had said. “Has he also informed you of his patron and benefactor?”
“Your son has referred to such an individual,” Stevens replied. “But he has not yet gratified us with a name.”
“I have no name for you, sir. But I have confirmation of the gentleman’s existence. I have seen him with my own eyes.” William looked at his father, and seemed to shake his head. “He is of average height with a scar upon his left cheek which, he told me, was the result of an archery contest. He has a slight impediment in his speech, which I put down to shyness.”
“And where does this interesting gentleman live?”
“I believe he has lodgings in the Middle Temple. I cannot be certain—”
“Sir?”
“As my son has no doubt told you, he is a most elusive individual. He is presently abroad. I think he mentioned Alsace to me.”
Ritson then questioned Samuel Ireland about the nature and provenance of the Shakespearian documents, and in turn Ireland described to him his ever increasing astonishment and delight at the multitude of papers that his son carried into the bookshop. “Here was God’s plenty, gentlemen. It out-satisfied satisfaction.”
“That is very Shakespearian, sir.”
“It starved the eyes it fed, and the more it offered the more was wanted.”
“But can you tell us this, Mr. Ireland, without ostentation.” Ritson had been looking keenly at William throughout this exchange, but now turned to Samuel. “In your opinion, are these documents what they claim to be? Are they genuine Shakespearian product
ions?”
“That is not a question to put to a bookseller.”
“Forgive me. Was it indelicate?”
“I cannot claim to have any authority in such matters, sir.” He seemed to hesitate. “Yet, on taking thought, I do believe these papers to be true and authentic. I flatter myself that I have an eye for detail. And I particularly noticed the thread holding together a bundle of manuscripts. It was very antique. A small token, perhaps, but—”
“But enough?”
“Enough to convince me that my son could not have invented such evidence.” He looked across at William. “To have written Vortigern? It is a thing impossible to conceive or to believe.”
AS SOON AS THEY had walked out of Warwick Lane, William turned to him. “Why did you lie about my patron?”
“Why did you? I doubt that she has gone to Alsace.”
“It is no matter where she has gone. She will not appear before them.” They walked a little way in silence. “You should not have lied, Father. It is unlike you.”
“I wanted to assist you, William. You exonerated me, quite rightly, and I wished to express my support for you.”
“It can only lead to more lies. You should have stayed entirely away from this business.”
“Yet it concerns me.”
“Not to the extent of falsehood. You should reflect before you speak, Father. You have plunged this whole affair into further uncertainty. A man with a scar on his face? With a stammer? Now I must contend with a wholly fictitious person. It is a complication. A hindrance.” He put his hands across his face. “Do you not see how frightful it is?” He did not realise that he had sighed.
“I am sorry if I have alarmed you, William.”
“I feel as if I have no ground to stand upon. If you can lie on my behalf, then what do I have to support me?”
“Surely it is not so grave as that?”
“Do you believe the papers to be genuine, Father?”
“Of course I do. Why ask me that?”
“Then why mingle true with false? Why bring mud to the well? Do you not understand? Then it becomes a pit.”
Samuel Ireland was now growing angry with what he considered to be his son’s impertinence; he told Rosa later that William had treated him as if he were a child. “My mind has been much agitated, William. I have no rest either night or day but this business disturbs me.”
“I regret that very much. I have no wish to hurt you. I respect you.”
“Not enough. You wound me, William, with these criticisms. I cannot bear it.”
William cried out in the street. It was a howl, or a yell, that alarmed those hurrying past.
Samuel looked at his son in astonishment. “Whatever is the matter?”
“And I did it all to please you!” With a desperate impatience William hailed down a chaise. “Come with me, Father. This instant.” He did not speak on the short journey, but stared out of the window at the familiar streets and passages. As soon as they arrived in Holborn Passage he rushed into the bookshop and climbed the stairs to his room. He slammed the door shut, while his father waited for him in the shop below. Samuel was sweating slightly, and ran his hand along a shelf of early books that bore the word “Incunabula.” For some reason he repeated aloud the refrain from an operetta, The Musical Coalman. “‘Little house. Little house. Who lives in this little house?’”
Then he heard the clattering of his son’s boots on the wooden stairs. William came into the bookshop holding in his hand a sheet of old paper, brown and stained. “Do you see this, Father? It is a true Shakespearian document.”
“But there is nothing written on it.”
“Precisely. Exactly.” William seemed to be fighting for breath. “There is something I have been meaning to tell you.”
“Yes. The name. Give me the name of your patron.”
“There is no name. There is no patron.” William grabbed his father by the arm. “I am the name.”
“I don’t quite—” He studied his son’s anxious, pleading features.
“Don’t you see it? I am the benefactor. There was no lady in the coffee-house. I invented her.”
“What in God’s name are you saying?” His throat had suddenly gone dry.
William then went down on his knees. “I crave your pardon in the most submissive terms. I acted out of innocent delight and sheer intoxication with my gifts. I did it to please you—”
“Up, sir. Get up.” He struggled with his son, and slowly raised him to his feet.
“I have caused you much trouble, Father. I am sorry for it.”
“I know it. But all will be well if you give me the name of your benefactor.”
“You have not understood a word I have said. Listen to me, Father. There is no benefactor. I am responsible for the Shakespearian papers.”
“You mean that you found them?”
“I wrote them. I created them.”
“This is some pleasantry, William. Some riddle.”
“I assure you it is not. I fabricated all the documents you believe to be from the pen of Shakespeare.”
“I cannot listen to you.” He turned away and began examining the shelf of incunabula.
William took him by the shoulders and forced him to turn round. “I can show you every detail of my forgery, from the ink to the seal. Do you wish to know how to create an ancient ink? I mixed the three different liquids used by book-binders in marbling the covers of their calf bindings. When they ferment they are imbued with a dark brown colour.”
“You are still protecting your patron. It is very noble.”
“I discoloured the papers with tobacco-water. Look at this sheet.” Samuel Ireland refused to notice it. “Then I fumigated them with smoke. Why do you think I had a fire in the middle of summer?”
“No, no more. I refuse to believe you.”
“I obtained the paper from Mr. Askew in Berners Street. He gave me fly-leaves from old folio and quarto volumes. He is so ancient that he had not the least suspicion of my intentions.”
“There is not a word of truth in any of this.”
“All is true, Father.”
“You can stand before me and tell me that you alone—no more than a boy—you alone produced such voluminous papers? It is laughable. It is ridiculous.”
“It is the truth.”
“No. Not truth. Phantasy. Your wits have been turned by this business. You can no longer distinguish between what is real and what is false. I know you, William.”
“You do not know me at all.”
“I know that there is no manner or method by which you could have counterfeited the style of Shakespeare.”
“I will do it now. This instant. I will show you, Father, how I am the forger. Come with me.”
“I will not come with you. These absurd falsehoods will convince nobody.”
“I will write you lines of Shakespeare that Mr. Malone will deem wholly genuine.”
William turned, at a sudden noise. Someone had closed the door of the shop, and was hurrying away.
MARY LAMB HAD DECIDED to deliver the letter to William Ireland in person. She had persuaded Charles to express his regret and surprise at the enquiry into the Shakespearian papers, and to confirm his faith in their authenticity.
“I hope it is not too much to expect from you,” she had said. “I know how precious your time has become.” Yet he had delayed until, that Sunday morning, she had brought pen and ink to his room. He was still lying in his bed.
“It is time,” she said. “I can wait no longer. I cannot leave William in torment.”
Charles observed her face, drawn and pale, and wondered if she were about to cry. “Surely you are exaggerating, dear?”
“Not in the least. He is in peril. He is in danger.”
He did not wish to move her further, so he took the pen and wrote a brief letter of support and encouragement. She snatched it from the pillow, on which Charles was leaning, and bore it in triumph out of the door. She returned to her ow
n room, where she addressed an envelope to “William Ireland, Esquire.” Then she took it up, and kissed the name. A few minutes later she hurried out of the house, and walked quickly to Holborn Passage. She was coming up to the door of the bookshop when she heard William telling his father that he had invented the woman in the coffee-house. She did not know what he meant, for a moment, and then she put her hand up to her mouth. She stopped, looked around slowly, and pushed the door further open.
WILLIAM HAD LIED to her. He had betrayed her. She found herself thinking of other things—of the flight of sparrows from dark corner to dark corner, of some broken glass upon the cobbles, of a linen curtain billowing in the breeze, of the leaden sky threatening rain. And then just as suddenly she felt very cheerful. Nothing could touch her. Nothing could hurt her. “I am discharged from life,” she said to herself, “after valiant service.”
She was moving quickly, not knowing or caring in which direction she was travelling, when she was filled with an overpowering sense of his absence. No one would ever walk beside her again. She had to sit down, to fight her rising feeling of panic, and sank upon a flight of steps leading to the church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields.
The air was filled with the stench of horses when eventually she stood up and made her way home.
WILLIAM IRELAND TURNED BACK , having left the shop and seen Mary run down the passage. He had recognised her at once, but he had not called out to her.
He re-entered the shop. His father had turned around, and was walking slowly upstairs. William collected every item of Shakespearian material that he could find. He took the manuscript of Vortigern from a small cupboard below the stairs, and placed it with all the other papers and documents that he had once so carefully prepared and inscribed. He gathered up the unpublished pages of Henry II over which he had laboured in his room for many weeks and days, copying exactly the mode of writing which he had learned from Shakespeare’s signatures. He went quietly upstairs to his own room and brought down the inks and sheets of paper that he had got ready for his work. Here also were scraps of manuscript, containing the jug watermark of Elizabeth’s reign, which he had purchased from Mr. Askew in Berners Street. He added books, the dedications of which he had lovingly fabricated, and small drawings which he had embellished. He took up a brimstone match, with a tinder-box, and lit the pile. It did not burn easily or quickly, but the ink and wax reacted with the flame to produce a billowing black smoke which filled the shop. William opened the door, but the sudden draught increased the fire. In the smoke he could not see the extent of the conflagration but he could hear it. The wooden floor and shelves were easily consumed, and then he noticed the flames leaping up the staircase.
The Lambs of London Page 17
