Shakespeare No More

by Tony Hays

  “It is a simple question, John. Could Will have been killed by some sort of poison?”

  John Hall was a handsome man, and clever, just the sort of fellow to win the heart of Susanna Shakespeare, though that had not always been clear. “Your entire question, Simon, presupposes that someone wanted Will dead. Besides you, that is,” he added. As a member of Will’s family, he knew of Peg, and her ill-fated dalliance. John was also one of those who found me at fault for Peg’s adultery. In a town like Stratford, personal affairs all too often became town affairs. Our ties with each other were often closer than those between blood relatives. Hence our custom of calling dear friends “cousin” even if they were not, actually, kin.

  “Could he?” I persisted.

  Grimacing, he snatched up one of his notebooks and peered at the pages. “Yes, the symptoms are consistent with several different, known poisons.” John spun around again. “But I ask you again, ‘who’ and ‘why?’ ”

  “Why are you fussing at Master Simon?”

  The voice was unexpected but welcome. Little Elizabeth Hall, Will’s granddaughter and only eight that year. Her blond hair framed her delicate features, more Hall than Shakespeare, but Will had adored her, and so did I. She stood beside her father, next to his workbench. John just shook his head at her sudden appearance.

  “I am not fussing. We are discussing. Now, run along and help your mother.”

  She spun about and ran from the room, her hair flying behind her. “It sounded like fussing to me.”

  “She is her grandfather,” I noted.

  John, a little grey already marking his temples, shook his head. “Too much so sometimes. She has quite the saucy tongue, and Will encouraged her beyond all reason.”

  The doctor was considered stuffy by most in town. Will had once told me that he truly believed that Susanna’s acceptance of Hall’s proposal was simply a bad joke. But the two seemed happy: Hall and his serious approach to life complemented Susanna’s wit, as sharp and biting as her father’s. And she was quite willing to let that wit out in the light of day, something that most women just did not dare to do.

  I suspected that much of the ill feeling that I sensed from everyone in this matter came from a confluence of events. Just days before, aye, even as Will lay ill, his sister Joan’s husband, Will Hart, had died. Hart was a likable man, a good father and spouse.

  “Could his body yet tell us anything?”

  “You would violate his mortal remains to chase this fantasy of yours?” John was not my strongest admirer.

  “I would do what is necessary to arrive at the truth in the matter. Will called me to his bedside a week before his death, and he claimed that he was being poisoned. We were friends once, best friends, and I owe him this much if nothing else.”

  “Bah! He was delirious in the final days.”

  “He was lucid enough to apologize for bedding Peg!”

  John drew back as if struck. “What day did this happen?”

  “On Thursday last.”

  He fumbled through his notebook until he found the page he wanted. After a few seconds, he looked at me, a far more troubled man than he had been just moments before.

  “What is wrong, John?”

  “ ’Twas on Thursday last, late in the evening, that his condition unexpectedly became very much worse. He did not regain his senses again.”

  I sat stunned. I had only mentioned Will’s words for me to one person, Anne Shakespeare. Well, I intimated as much to Hamnet, but murder was not in him. But Anne? No. Anne was a Puritan to the marrow, and Will Shakespeare represented everything that Puritans hated, but she was no murderess. At least I hoped against hope that she wasn’t.

  “Simon…” John began. “Mistress Shakespeare did not kill her husband.”

  “I pray that you are right, but can I easily dismiss his warnings?”

  “What, exactly, did he say?”

  I did not respond at first, casting about in my memory for that moment. “He said that he had been in perfect health and then suddenly fell ill. And that despite everything you did to help him, he grew more and more feeble.”

  “Well, at least that much was true. It was a very puzzling case, Simon. But I had assumed that the stories of Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton coming to visit were true.”

  “Anne says they were not.”

  “Oh, Jonson and Drayton were here in Stratford, and I assumed Will did go drinking with them; he simply kept them away from New Place and avoided telling Anne of their visit.”

  My friend had a complicated social life, of that there was no doubt. Beside his frequent dalliances, since his return to Stratford some five years before, he became immersed in town affairs, involving himself in two important areas—the enclosure controversy and the tithes.

  The Stratford tithes should have filled Will’s purse. But those citizens required to pay ignored their responsibilities, which was nothing new, but Will was very particular when it came to legalities. He demanded that the law be followed in all cases, which was somewhat humourous as he so often lay with women other than his wife. And while that may not have been criminal, it certainly broke church law.

  “Simon!”

  I realized then that John was calling to me. Looking over at him, I saw that he had donned his cloak.

  “Come, we must to Holy Trinity. Will’s body has been laid out, but we might learn something by looking at his internal organs.”

  ———

  The spireless Holy Trinity Church was barely visible in the daytime, set back against the river as it was. But at night, were it not for the two lamps at the front door, it would be impossible to discern. And yet again I was struck by the great stone college building, sitting dark and empty since Henry, the old king, reformed the church. For some reason, it sent my thoughts to Will and my eyes to John. We had not spoken since we left his house; his anger was still too palpable. But there were questions that needed asking.

  “What will you look for?”

  John glanced sharply at me, as if I were an idiot. “Anything that is not normal.”

  “Did you not assist in preparing his body?” It was the practice then to wash and clean the body, being careful to close the eyes and the mouth and straighten the limbs, remove the internal organs and pack the empty spaces with herbs and spices. The organs would be placed in another container and buried with the body. I knew that Anne, Susanna and Judith would have helped with the washing, but I assumed that Hall had taken care of the other chores.

  He shook his head, though. “I was busy with other patients, and Will was dead. There was no other service that I could offer him. Anyone can remove the organs.”

  Despite the grimness of our task, a grin slipped across my face. John Hall had no medical degree. Indeed, his father, himself a physician, did not leave his library to John. Our John was a practical man, who eschewed alchemy and such other occult fields as “stuff and nonsense,” although the study of these things was a prominent part of a medical education. For John, anything that did not directly benefit his patients had no place in the medical profession.

  A young priest stood in the doorway at the church. I had seen him but did not really know him. My family and I attended church, as was expected, but I rarely paid much attention. All my prayers had done nothing to keep Peg from straying, and all of her prayers had failed to secure my forgiveness.

  “Master Hall, Master Saddler, why do you come so late?”

  I stayed behind John and let him fend off the inevitable questions.

  “We need to examine Master Shakespeare’s body.”

  Aye, I thought, keep it simple.

  The boy, for that is what he really was, drew back as if struck. “But, master, he is already prepared for burial.”

  “We will do nothing to disturb those preparations. This is important or I would not ask it.”

  Then an older man’s voice came to the boy’s rescue. “These men mean Master Shakespeare no harm.” The vicar. He was new, like the boy
priest, and I had not yet met him. “This way, Master Hall, Constable.”

  I elbowed John in the side. “Do you suppose that he will avoid the fate of Master Rogers?” I whispered.

  The stuffy physician allowed a little smile to mark his face. “I pray for that every night.”

  John Rogers, the previous vicar, had proven unable to avoid the strong beer. And he had also proven to have a quite unvicarlike attitude in general. Will and the other tithe holders had done their best to redeem him, but he had proven too much for their efforts. Two years past, he had been stripped of the vicarage, although he remained in Stratford.

  We followed the new vicar down the main aisle to the chancel. Will’s coffin was a plain wooden affair, not at all what I would have expected. Just beyond, in the chancel itself, a grave had already been prepared. But this honored place came not because of his writing, more as the result of it. When he bought a portion of the Stratford Corporation’s tithes, the management and administration of the church came with it, and the right to be buried in the chancel.

  “This is what he wanted,” John said, apparently reading my mind.

  “I did not know that you had studied under Simon Forman, John.” I could not resist the opportunity to tease him. Forman had been some sort of occultist who had predicted his own death some years before. Will had once told me that he thought Forman one of the most despicable men in London. “And considering some of the lords at court,” Will had laughed, “that is saying a great deal.” Forman was infamous for using his position to bed his “clients.”

  The good doctor just grunted. He pulled his cloak off and laid it on the floor. The coffin lid had not been put in place, and I took the chance to gaze once more at my childhood friend, wrapped now in a simple sheet, while John spoke in hushed tones to the vicar. After a few seconds, they disappeared into the nave.

  Will’s illness had cost him much of the weight he had put on in his last years. He seemed younger, more like the boy I remembered so fondly than the man I had come to hate. Whatever the cause of his death, he had suffered for his sins. If his Puritan wife needed evidence, she merely had to look at the empty shell before me, lying in this box.

  John, appearing suddenly at my shoulder, shoved me abruptly out of the way. He leaned over Will and studied his face closely. Then, he swiftly pulled each of Will’s hands up and held them close to his eyes.

  After a few moments, he replaced the hands carefully and backed away from the coffin. “I failed him,” John said, softly. “I should have seen it.”

  “What?” I whispered. The vicar and the young priest were approaching us up the main aisle.

  “Will was right. He was being poisoned.”

  ———

  “Verily?” I asked, after we had taken our leave of the church and had some privacy in the darkness.

  “Without question,” John confirmed. “I suspect it was ar­senic. His organs looked as if acid had been poured on them. Did you not see the blackened sores on his hands? His face held some as well, though not as prominent as those on his hands.”

  “Do you know how it might have been administered?”

  John shrugged. “Any number of ways. It could have been given to him in a broth, or as a purgative, an enema. I gave him several, hoping to flush the illness from him.”

  “Did you not prepare them yourself?”

  “Not usually. Most often I had one of the women mix such a solution. My notes might say, but I don’t always record such details, as what was administered is far more important than who administered it. The same would be even more true in terms of a soup or broth.”

  “You will look tomorrow and see if there is aught of value there?”

  “Of course,” he answered after a moment. “Simon,” John said suddenly, “do not pursue this thing. Will is dead, and if this person was willing to kill him, he will think nothing of killing you.”

  “I appreciate your concern, John. But I am the constable of Stratford-upon-Avon, and this surely seems like a murder to me.”

  “You may be renowned at solving local matters, but this is beyond your abilities, Simon.”

  Something in the severity of his tone bothered me. “You have fought me every step of this path, John. You did not want to believe anything I said until it appeared that you had missed something in treating Will. Now that you have confirmed what Will himself said, you are eager to scare me away. You know that it falls within my duties to investigate such things. You know that I have done so successfully before. Yet you try to diminish my office in order to persuade me to turn away from this matter. Why?”

  John Hall turned and took me by the shoulders. “Think, Simon! William Shakespeare was not an ordinary man. His poetry and plays have been the toast of London for more than twenty years. In his retirement, he has become the first citizen of his birthplace. God’s blood, Simon! His patron was the earl of Southampton, a man Queen Elizabeth thought important enough to imprison for his part in the Essex Affair. Why, Will’s own theatre company was called to task for even their small part in that doomed rebellion. He was friends with Kit Marlowe, and whisperings from here to London have spoken of Marlowe’s being a spy for Burghley. Will Shakespeare held many secrets, and many and far more powerful men than you would have paid handsomely to shut his mouth forever!”

  He paused, suddenly realized he held my shoulders and released them. “You are not the only man that Will wronged. Those stories are legion too. You are a good constable, Simon, and I think you do this parish a service. But the crooked turns and false exits that were Will’s life could swallow you up, and I would not have that happen. Promise me that you will forget this. Go home and kiss your wife, love your children, and do not risk your life on a man already dead.”

  “Your warnings are not without merit, and I will be careful. But I can do nothing other than to move forward.” I stopped. A cooler breeze had stirred along Mill Lane. “You should go home, John, before you catch a fever yourself.”

  “Simon, I mean only the best for you.”

  “I certainly hope so, John.”

  “Come with me, if you are intent on pursuing this folly. You will want to speak with Susanna, and I would have that finished before her father’s funeral.”

  We returned to Hall’s Croft. Susanna was just coming down the stairs, from putting Elizabeth to bed, I suspected. She was yet clothed in her black mourning dress, and she greeted me with a frown.

  “Simon, I am not certain that I wish to see you.”

  “Susanna, I am sorry for your father’s passing, but I think if you will listen to your husband for a moment, you will understand the reason for my visit.”

  At that she looked at John who nodded. It took but a moment to let Will’s daughter know what we had found, and the disbelief was as clear on her face as letters on a slate.

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I can be,” John answered. “The symptoms were all there, and I failed him.”

  “John, you did not fail him. ’Twas I that failed him,” I consoled. “He told me that he was being poisoned, not you. You had no reason to believe it was other than a fever gone bad.”

  Susanna crossed the room to her husband and touched him lightly on the arm. “John, would you allow me to speak to Simon alone?”

  The physician jerked his head back in surprise. He looked from me to her and back again. He did not understand her request, but he could find no reason to deny it. John nodded curtly and started to climb the stairs, each riser seeming a herculean effort.

  “Sit down, Simon.”

  She sat as well and for a moment said nothing, just stared at her hands in her lap. I could see Will in her face and her manner. “You should know that Father told me the same thing that he told you, and I ignored him just as you did. So, you should not feel remorse. He was very ill towards the end, and he did not always speak true.”

  I shook my head. “It is different, Susanna. He summoned me in my role as constable. I should have ta
ken him seriously for that reason if no other.”

  She pursed her lips at me. “And I was his eldest child and should have listened to him no matter what. We are both at fault, and neither of us is at fault.”

  “You did not mention it to John?”

  “I saw no purpose. Father would speak one moment of some nonsense about love letters, and the next he would swear that someone was poisoning him. How was I to give credence to any of it?”

  Susanna was right. We had all been with those stricken with a fever, who talked without reason, caught in the delirium of their illness. “He seemed lucid to me when he made these accusations.” I paused. “But, as you say, he quickly lapsed into random sentences that made no real sense.”

  “What will you do? How will you proceed?”

  I paused before answering. These were questions I had not fully resolved myself. “I will speak frankly to you, Susanna, because I know that you were your father’s confidante as well as his daughter. I will first question your new brother-in-law Thomas Quiney. As I am sure you are aware, your father was able to change his will to ensure that Judith’s inheritance was safe from her husband’s grasping fingers.”

  The grimace on Susanna’s face did not hide her feelings. “My sister is a fool. I yet believe that she married Quiney to strike back at my father.”

  “Why?”

  “Understand that I love my mother with all my heart, but she is a strict Puritan. That did not mix well with the children of William Shakespeare. Puritans do not believe in frivolity, but Father taught us that life is to be enjoyed, that laughter is no sin.”

  “But you championed the Puritan vicar, Wilson.”

  Susanna nodded. “I did because he was unfairly accused. Yes, I am a Puritan, but that does not mean that I agree with everything they teach.” She was her father’s daughter. That was certain.

  “Where, then, was the conflict?”

  “Father lived in London. He refused to overrule Mother when it came to disciplining us. I understood and saved my rebellions for when Father was home. Judith was not as ‘restrained’ as I was. It embittered her.”