Sherlock Holmes and the Shakespeare Globe Murders

by Barry Day

  He smiled a small smile and waited for the reaction he must have received from several generations of nervous undergraduates. When it was not forthcoming, he continued … “So popular was the Globe with the populace of London that it was rebuilt on the same spot and to an almost identical design within a year. Shakespeare chose that moment to retire to Stratford-upon-Avon. He cashed in his ‘share’, lived like a lord and died three years later in 1616. All of those marvellous achievements and when he died the man was a mere fifty-two years old!” He paused, as if the thought had just struck him.

  Holmes chose the moment. “Rose,” he said quietly.

  The Professor responded like an actor being prompted.

  “Oh, the Rose had long since vanished. It was a pity, really. Bankside should have had room for both of them. After all, there were other playhouses south of the Thames—like the Swan. But there was something special about the Rose …”

  He paused in thought, then continued … “When Philip Henslowe built his Rose playhouse on Bankside in 1587, it was the place to go to ‘hear a play’. For several years he had it all to himself. You see, Southwark was on the south bank, out of the jurisdiction of the City Fathers, who would have banned the actors out of hand for their immoral goings-on. But on Bankside everything went on—plays, bear-baiting, prostitution … I always think ‘whoring’ sounds so much better, don’t you?

  “Henslowe did a little of everything, by all accounts, and even though Burbage had had his Theatre since 1576—well, who wanted to make the journey to smelly old Shoreditch? And Henslowe had two other powerful reasons to lure the crowds to the Rose. He had Christopher Marlowe to write many of his most successful plays and he had his son-in-law, Edward Alleyn to act in them—Doctor Faustus, The Jew of Malta, Tamburlaine. Powerful stuff! For a while it’s believed he even had the young Will Shakespeare. At least two of Shakespeare’s early plays were performed at the Rose before he took off, crossed the river and threw in his lot with the Burbages.

  “Even that didn’t worry Henslowe unduly. In 1592 he even partly rebuilt and enlarged the Rose. Then disaster struck. Marlowe was killed in a tavern brawl—some said murdered for political reasons—and in 1597 Alleyn retired. He had enough money but he wanted the kind of respectability that was denied mere actors—and still is, from what I hear. He founded a school, which became Dulwich College and turned himself into a gentleman. Then, as if that were not enough to cope with, the Burbages arrived with their Globe and set up shop just down the road with a far superior theatre. Henslowe knew when he was beaten. He had the Burbages’ builder, Peter Streete, construct a theatre like the Globe. Optimistically, he called his new venture the Fortune and he took his fortune north of the river, leaving the game to the Globe. By 1603—when the old Queen Elizabeth died—the Rose was to all intents and purposes deserted.

  “Many people were saddened to see it go; a few were extremely bitter. The diehards admitted Shakespeare and Burbage were all very well but—they said—you should have seen Marlowe and Alleyn in their prime to know what acting was all about.

  “What Henslowe felt was not recorded, though he left detailed accounts of his business dealings. He simply got on with his other ventures. He even tried another playhouse close by the second Globe. He called it the Hope—he was nothing if not an optimist, even down to the names of his theatres! But the era of the amphitheatre playhouses was over and so was Henslowe’s. He died in 1616—the same year as Shakespeare. Alleyn lived on for another ten years. In the 1640s Cromwell’s roundheads did what the City Fathers had long talked of doing. They tore all the playhouses down and that was that. The Golden Age was over—and that, gentlemen, is the story of the Globe and the Rose …”

  “Perhaps not quite all the story, Professor,” Holmes added thoughtfully. “I think I can tell you without breaking client confidentiality that there are forces at work that are prepared to take somewhat dramatic measures to prevent the Globe ever opening—even at this late stage. Can you think of some connection that might involve the Rose?”

  Bryson leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “As to the relative historical importance of the two playhouses … the ‘Rosers’ versus the ‘Globers,’ if you like. Personally, I find the argument futile. The Globe was clearly more significant. In many ways it was the cradle of modern theatre. Nonetheless, there has always been a faction that espouses the cause of the Rose and believes that any rebuilding should have used it as the model. Many of my colleagues share that view. Oxford, I need hardly add, is not called ‘the home of lost causes’ for nothing!

  “The rebuilding of the Globe on a new site has aggravated the Rosers. Since no one knows for sure precisely where in that general area either the Rose or the Globe were actually situated—such extant drawings as exist are most imprecise—they claim to be concerned that Adler’s new site may mean that he is building on top of the Rose itself. I myself put no credence in the claim. My examination of the evidence has it several yards further back from the river but I fear there are those who will do anything to publish a paper or stir up an arcane controversy … I remember …”

  And that was pretty much the substance of it. After leaving Professor Bryson, Holmes and I took a turn through the Master’s Garden. It was a wonderful morning, bright and warm, though much of the heat had gone out of the sun and, while the foliage was still green, there was a hint of brown on the tips of some of the leaves. On a day like this in such a haven of peace it was easy to see what might tempt a man to retreat from the ugly, fast-moving world that existed outside the college walls and spend his life absorbed in the placid wisdom of the past. These reflections caused me to ask Holmes if he had never contemplated the academic life.

  “The thought has been put to me on more than one occasion, old fellow, but the idea would be anathema to me. In any case, I carry my own private study with me here”—and he tapped his forehead—“and I can enter it and lock the door any time I wish, for it is stocked with all the furniture I am likely to use. No, to dwell within these halls would be to commit oneself to studying what has been and that is only part of the truth. I need to study what will be. Pope talked of the proper study of Mankind being Man and he was quite right. Walk down those teeming streets, peer into those crowded little houses, have your mind imprinted with that endless gallery of faces grim or gay … all of that is my meat and drink, Watson. It is the endless juxtapositions that appeal to me, the possibilities—but I am beginning to wax philosophical. I fear there must be something potent in the air here!

  “Come now, Watson,” he added, changing the subject that was beginning to embarrass him, “take a look at the steps of the Hall over there. What do you see and what do you observe?”

  To indulge him I said: “I see a college servant sweeping the steps, I see an elderly man—clearly a don—descending them …” Then, deciding to score a point for myself—“I see no undergraduates, since they are all away on vacation until October … and finally, I see a young man in clerical garb who, by the way he is looking about him, does not belong to the college and is probably a tourist…”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes, “and the cleric. Is there anything familiar about him?”

  I looked more closely. The man seemed to be examining architectural details in a fairly random manner, as though finding something to do to fill his time. That, however, was by no means a criminal offence. Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about him. Of middle height and slightly built, he wore a rather large brimmed hat that obscured much of his face and sported a large and extremely luxuriant moustache of the kind then in fashion. Though, come to think of it, I had not seen too many of them adorning ecclesiastical faces. I said as much to Holmes, then added: “But after all, who notices a vicar, once you’ve identified him as a vicar?”

  “Precisely, Watson,” said Holmes clapping me on the back almost painfully, “precisely! It is because your reactions are so normal that you are so eminently useful The leaf in the forest. No one thinks to
look at the individual leaf once the fact of there being leaves is taken for granted. The same is true of certain people. The curate and the cabbie have that in common. So does the postman. They fade into the wallpaper of our daily lives. Would it surprise you to know that the gentleman we have just been discussing—who I notice has just realised we are talking about him—shared the compartment with us from Paddington?”

  “It most certainly would,” I replied, realising I had once again failed one of Holmes’s tests. Sensing that my feathers were beginning to be ruffled, he quickly went on—“Oh, don’t let that upset you, old fellow. He wasn’t a vicar then but a sober-suited businessman, also with a large and equally false set of facial hair. As an investigator, I should be of precious little use if I could not see through a disguise. What the amateur fails to realise is that it is far easier to change the outward appearance than it is to eliminate certain physical mannerisms of which one is often quite unaware. Our friend, for instance, has the habit of rubbing his right hand against the side of his face, as if brushing something away. See—he’s doing it now.” And, indeed, the ‘cleric’, unsettled by our scrutiny, performed the gesture exactly as Holmes had described it.

  “I fancy we shall have our friend’s company on the return journey. Someone is clearly taking no chances between now and tomorrow night of our slipping the net. We shall have to see what we can do about that. Well, Watson, if you have inhaled enough of the rarified Balliol air, I suggest we begin a quiet stroll towards the station. Let our watcher in the shadows see you take a good look at your watch, there’s a good fellow. We want him to have plenty of time to anticipate our arrival. Good. There he goes …” And, indeed, the young man seemed to be filled with a new sense of purpose, as he turned and began to make for the lodge and the street beyond.

  As we followed in more leisurely fashion, I turned to my friend—“Well, at least we know the meaning of the rose drawing but are we any nearer to knowing who’s behind all this? I can understand that feelings might run high but surely …”

  “No, there’s more to this than some academic argument, Watson. More and, in a sense, less. Scholars love to wound one another with words but in general they are men of bile more than blood. No, the Rose is in every sense a stage on which our drama is being acted out but for one of our players it has taken on a greater symbolic meaning and it is that meaning that we must uncover. And quickly before some greater tragedy is enacted.”

  He was silent until we reached Oxford station, when the sight of the young cleric appeared to revive his spirits. As he had predicted, our shadow took a seat where he could observe us and overhear us, should we have been rash enough to say anything worth overhearing. As it was, the journey back to London must have frustrated him immensely. Much to Holmes’s amusement I entered into the spirit of things and regaled him and our unfortunate travelling companions with a series of highly detailed tales of my military exploits in the Afghanistan campaign, including a searing account of how I had taken the Jezail bullet which still troubled me on damp days.

  As we left the compartment at Paddington, Holmes lingered briefly by the seat occupied by the young man and I observed him whisper a few words into his ear. He rejoined me, smiling mischievously.

  “What on earth did you say to him?” I asked.

  “I merely gave it as my opinion that to achieve the look of an older man, Leichner’s Number 6 grease stick is infinitely to be preferred to the Number 4.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Oh, I think Mr Phipps agrees with me entirely. He certainly didn’t argue the point.”

  Chapter Nine

  And so to London, my mind searching through the clues for the murderer’s identity. And now we had it: “Phipps! Yes! Well, that settles things, surely. He must be our man?”

  “Oh, Phipps is our man, certainly, but not the man. The second of the ‘three’. As we saw in the death of Fiske, he is most certainly involved, though I would guess against his will. No, Watson, he is the puppet but someone else is pulling his strings. It’s the puppet master I want and I mean to have him.”

  “Phipps, Dame Ivy and the mysterious A N Other, eh?”

  “That’s right. ‘We three’. The clue was right there in the very first quotation we received from the ‘paperboy’ but I was too self-absorbed to see it. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to edit that fact from the account of this adventure that I feel sure you will write? You remember the line—‘We three, to hear it and end it between them’? In my arrogance I assumed the writer was creating in his mind some sort of trinity between himself and the two of us, when what he meant—in his arrogance—was the three of them. He was laying down the gauntlet, challenging us to stop them. To do that, of course, we must first identify them.”

  “At least we’ve got two of them,” I said encouragingly. “All we have to do now is find the murderer.”

  “Good old Watson,” Holmes laughed as we descended from the cab that had brought us the short distance from Paddington and I turned to pay the cabbie. “It never fails to amaze me how well balanced we are. I invariably see the cup as almost empty, whereas you persist in seeing it as almost full! You are quite right, of course—we are making progress, if only by a process of elimination and we do have the ball of yarn in our hands that will lead us through the maze to the lair of the Minotaur. What we grievously lack is time. Which is why we must take a shortcut.”

  As we were in our room and hanging up our coats, he continued … “There is one basic flaw in the argument you were propounding just now. In all likelihood we do not have a murderer because we do not have a murder …”

  “What on earth do you mean, Holmes?” I expostulated, “What about poor old Fiske?”

  “Oh, Fiske was ‘murdered’ in every moral sense of the word, no doubt about that. The intention was clearly there. But in reality what killed Fiske was the abuse of his physical condition—encouraged by the ‘murderer’—and the absence of the substance that would have been the antidote. Fiske in essence killed himself—with someone else holding his hand. I can hear a defence lawyer using those very arguments on behalf of whoever we put in the dock.”

  “Well, then, there was the attack on young Allan …”

  “Was there? I wonder. You know my suspicions. In any case, that will never come to court. As she was leaving Mrs Adler informed me that Allan claims it was an accident and does not wish the police to investigate further. Under these circumstances that particular case is closed.

  “No, old fellow, as far as the law is concerned or we can presently prove, our man has done nothing criminal. Frightening a young lady with a harmless snake is hardly a crime, even if his fingerprints were all over it in indelible ink!”

  “But all the note …?”

  “Billets-doux from one Shakespeare lover to another. Don’t misunderstand me, Watson, the underlying intent is undoubtedly malicious but at this very moment the police are powerless. Until a genuine crime has been committed, by which time …” He did not need to complete the thought. We were both thinking of a certain lady.

  It was Holmes who ended the reverie. “However,” he said, “there is one thing we can be completely sure of.” He answered my look of interrogation by waving a hand towards the table. “We shall solve nothing if we ignore the inner man. It may have escaped your observation, Watson, that while our journey to Balliol provided us adequate food for thought, the good Professor did not think to offer us lunch. Luckily, Mrs Hudson has anticipated that eventuality. If you will be good enough to take the covers off those plates, I think you will find your favourite cold cuts.”

  “In any case,” he added as we tucked in our napkins, “I seem to recall that Balliol cuisine has rarely matched its intellectual appetite.”

  That evening I had a long standing arrangement to attend a reunion of my old regiment. Under the circumstances I offered to put it off but Holmes would have none of it. “You go off and fight the good fight all over again,” he said with a smile. “I only
wish I could boast the camaraderie of a similar society but then, what would such a group be called—a detail of detectives? An inquiry of investigators? We should all be reading plots into a simple comment on the weather! I have certain administrative matters to attend to that would only tax your patience.”

  So off I went, squeezed into a dress uniform that had fitted me perfectly well for years until my wife’s cooking had taken its toll, leaving Holmes furiously puffing an old briar, as he dashed off a series of notes and telegrams for young Billy to dispatch.

  I have often observed that these occasions of bonhomie and reminiscence prove more taxing than many of the events being relived. And while I personally have total recall of those far off days, I find increasingly that many of my colleagues have very different recollections of the same events and in their accounts always seem to take the more heroic role.

  We were well into the Afghan campaign and young Carruthers—who, come to think of it, can’t be a day under fifty—had just defined our front line with a set of walnut shells, when a waiter murmured in my ear that I had a visitor waiting in the lobby. Ignoring the rowdy remonstrations of my fellows, I made my way there to find Holmes pacing to and fro.

  “Sorry to interrupt the sacred ritual, Watson,” he said, bundling me into my overcoat, which he had already retrieved, “but I’m sure you’ll agree that murder takes precedence over Maiwand.”

  “Murder?” I said, desperately trying to focus my thoughts.

  “Yes, and I’m afraid most foul. Come, there’s not a moment to lose!” And not another word would he say until our cab pulled up outside a small residential hotel in a Bloomsbury back street.

  Two police constables were keeping a firm eye on a small and mildly inquisitive crowd—being Bloomsbury, they were too well bred to show undue interest. Inside the musty and overdressed entrance hall a portly and equally overdressed proprietress was wringing chubby hands and repeating to Lestrade that nothing like this had ever happened in her establishment, indeed it hadn’t, as if the Inspector had somehow suggested otherwise.