When he started out on life’s journey he never thought that he would organise the death of another person. But had this man not dominated his life for nearly two decades? Had he not held threats over his head for most of that time, especially the link between Shakespeare and the recruitment of the German actor Derek Berkhardt, now lying in an unmarked grave at Deptford and assumed to be Christopher Marlowe? Had he not insisted that William give half his profits to Anne?
Above all, had not the ruthless spymaster organised the cruel death of his beloved Sarah and their just-born little boy, Rufus Christopher Soho Samuel Shakespeare?
That was the thing that finished it for William.
He had been speechless, mortified, stricken, when he was told this piece of information – news so sickening, it had plunged him into a mental fog for days.
The memories of that day had kept flashing back. Of how Sarah and the baby had just kept getting weaker and weaker, and that fool of a doctor didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it.
Even then, it was only by accident that William found out the real cause of their death - via a scrap of conversation overheard by Samuel Davidson between Walsingham’s two senior henchmen, the dreadful Richard Poley and the evil Ingram Frizer.
“I heard it with my own ears,” Samuel had reported to William the next day. “You know how I used to get around the taverns in the old days to see what was happening? Well, last night I went for a wander, force of habit I guess, and ended up in that little place in Spitalfields, the one with the bull’s head out the front, and the pair of them, very drunk, were at a table behind me.
“Frizer was saying how, in his whole career of dirty tricks, that that was the toughest job he had ever done for Walsingham, and Poley said ‘What, poisoning the mother and child?’ and he said, ‘No, shaving my beard and putting on that silly silver-haired wig to fool everyone and play the doctor.’ And they both roared laughing, Mr Shakespeare, roared laughing. He put his hands back behind his head and I saw this horrible tattoo of a coiled snake. It made my blood boil and I wanted to stand up and thrash both of them there and then, but I thought I had better tell you and Mr Budsby first.”
“And it is a good thing that you have,” Budsby had said. “Dishing out any punishment to those two is just a waste of time. They are merely henchmen of a greater power, and will get their just reward in the after-life.”
“What are you saying?” William had replied, still glassy-eyed from the news.
“I’m saying that the man who gave the orders, the man at the top, is the one who should have to pay for this most heinous of crimes. Pay him in kind,” had said Budsby evenly, “an eye for an eye.”
“But Mr Budsby, we are not that type. We don’t go around murdering people.”
“Who said anything about murdering him? We will simply do what Sir Thomas has always done - set up an early appointment for him with his Maker. I don’t care how much money this whole plot has brought us, the point is we now have discovered after all these years it was him that took away from you the two most precious things in your life - your true love and your baby son.
“And,” Budsby had continued, “all because, we now know, alas, too late, she stumbled across the secret of the Marlowe conspiracy when she opened the drawer containing Christopher’s plays one day … Naïve as she was, she was smart enough to work it out. The full story materialized before her eyes as she shuffled through the papers, especially with Christopher’s covering notes which showed that undoubtedly he was still alive, and that he was the real writer of the plays, and you had deceived the work, including her, by taking the credit. In shock and amazement she had blabbed the whole story to the only person in her life she felt she could now trust - Uncle Percy.
“Their death warrants were signed when Percy began wandering the streets of London in his own confused way, saying, ‘Marlowe is not dead. Marlowe is not dead. He has gone to Norwich. That bastard of a town.’ When Percy was found accidentally drowned in his bath a day after the death of Sarah and the baby, Walsingham had made his point clear. No word of the great scheme was ever to get out - not from the mouth of one so close to a principal player, and not even from the lips of a poor old harmless fool.”
In the end, Walsingham’s own final moment had been a simple matter – at odds with the complex life he had lead. Samuel had simply climbed into the big house in Surrey one night and held a pillow over his head.
“He was nearly at his end, anyway,” Samuel had reported next morning. “He was coughing and farting and sneezing before I put the pillow over him, like he was going to die before week’s end.”
And so, with Walsingham out of the way, the theatre scene crumbling, the cash drying up, and no word from Marlowe - not even a small personal note for years now, indicating that he had either tired of the whole affair or had died - William had decided the best place was to go back to where it all started.
“There are three plays left that we could do, but I am not interested,” he had said to the trio in the carriage.
“That is a more than reasonable view,” had replied Budsby. “There is no better place to seek fulfilment in one’s latter years than one’s place of origin. And besides, considering all that money that you have forwarded to your wife over the years, there must be a pretty penny waiting for you!”
“One would hope so, Mr Budsby,” replied Shakespeare brightening. “One would hope so. Perhaps I will just spend my time in Stratford, dabble in a bit of property, and enjoy life.”
Thus it was he found himself alighting from the carriage and picking his way through the mud toward Anne, laying eyes on her for the first time in more than two decades.
She looked as strong as ever, he thought. Still handsome, but not pretty.
He thought of the good times. The times they rolled in the hay when he was but a boy. The times she cooked him wonderful meals and they made love. The marvellous moment she had pulled the curtains back to reveal her strong naked body.
Yes, he thought to himself as they came closer, I’m sure we can live together again. Without too many pots being thrown …
They embraced, stiffly at first, but then a small tingle of warmth ran through William’s body. He lifted her and spun her around, and they embraced again.
Looking over her shoulder, he could see three figures in the distance picking up their bags from the back of the carriage and heading off down the main road leading out of town.
One was a short, squat figure with huge shoulders and powerful looking legs, obviously a very strong man
The second, a stocky figure with leathered hands, obviously used to hard work.
And the third, a large fat fellow dressed in an enormous brown coat, with a big hat, now a little stooped, but walking with vigour on surprisingly dainty feet.
The big man was talking and his bassoon voice reverberated along the street.
“If I recollect correctly, gentlemen, there is an icy stream just a little way out of town,” he boomed. “Who knows who we might meet down there that will lead us on to our next adventure …”
THE END
About the people behind The Playmakers`
The words
GRAEME JOHNSTONE had a long and successful career in journalism before moving into writing novels and musicals. He worked for many years with Australia’s biggest selling newspaper, The Herald Sun in Melbourne, including a seven year stint writing its popular daily column, A Place In The Sun, catching the vibe of the city for more than 1.3 million readers every morning.
Graeme and his wife Elsie later established The Wordsmiths business and out of that he began collaborating as a lyricist with composer Pete Sullivan. His first major musical, Normie, based on the 1960s experiences of Australia’s King of Pop, Normie Rowe, was premiered in 2012.
The Playmakers was Graeme’s first novel. A second novel, Lover, Husband, Father, Monster, was co-written with Elsie when they lived in Dublin in 2009. They are now writing its sequel, The Aftermath. Graeme’s
political memoir of Joan Child, Australia’s first woman Speaker of the House, will be published soon.
The Concept
KEVIN HEENEY was educated by the Jesuits at Xavier College, Melbourne, and it was there that a chance remark by a teacher about “Shakespeare not being written by Shakespeare” set him on the path that has culminated in this book. He found the concept compelling and over the years since has been gathering material from a wide variety of sources to develop a case.
As a young man Kevin toured the world, at one stage living in Hollywood behind the famous Grumman’s Chinese Theatre and later working on the Stock Exchange in Canada. His working life included establishing a distribution company, promoting a dance band and managing the magnificent Her Majesty’s Theatre in Ballarat.
Built during the gold rush days, it is Victoria’s longest surviving theatre and regarded as one of the best live performance locations in Australia. Under his management, international talent such as Barry Humphries appeared there, spurring Kevin’s interest in entertainment, the arts and literature.
The Playmakers Page 33
