In the musicians’ gallery, five men holding various instruments—a lute, a viol, a cornet, a trumpet and a crumhorn—were looking down on the scene, frowning.
Shakespeare’s voice was raised, and it filled the theatre: ‘How canst thou be so dimwitted?’ he bellowed. ‘Thou know’st it is strictly against the rules of this house to arrive here in this state!’
The man crumpled on the stage leant heavily on his elbow. ‘I am most sor . . . sor . . .’ he let out a loud hiccup . . . ‘sorry, Mr Shakespeare . . . I can still be performing the part for you. Hic!’
‘How canst thou expect to rehearse when thou cannot even stand?’ thundered Shakespeare. ‘We are premiering this play tomorrow afternoon! It will be the first ever performance of my Cardenio! Today be a most valuable and much-needed costume rehearsal! And here thou art, swine-drunk!’
Phyllis felt her blood run cold—tomorrow was the premiere!
The man’s elbow slipped from under him and he went crashing down on his shoulder. Groggily, he propped himself up again. ‘I only partook of one or two little glasses,’ he said slurringly. ‘Hic!’
John Heminges spoke up: ‘More like one or two little barrels! An excess of wine thou hast partaken, you sozzled knave! Thou art not good for any playing here, not in this theatre!’
At this, the man blinked heavily. He sat upright, swaying a little, and puffed out his chest. ‘I show ye what I am good for,’ he said, trying to pronounce his words clearly. ‘Assist me to my feet, prithee. Hic!’
Shakespeare looked at Heminges (who shrugged) and he at Shakespeare (who rolled his eyes). Together they reached down and, grabbing the actor under his elbows, they hoisted him onto his feet.
The actor took a few slow steps upstage. Then he turned—everyone around him seemed to be doing a strange dance where they were drifting in and out of focus, like seaweed in the water—and put one hand on the hip of his knee-britches. His other hand he raised into the air as he started to declaim loudly:
‘Cardenio, I bring thee word,
The Knight seeks thee out,
And therefore hither I come.
Quixote thinks thou a madman, so long a
fool,
And he is intent (hic!) to discover your
state.
Methinks your afflictions come wi’ the
passing
Of the Hours. For, like the tides that all
befall us,
Time travels in diff’ring paces with
diff’ring persons.
I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who
Time
dawdles withal, who Time rushes withal
and who he stands still withal. Hic!
O, Cardenio, vouchsafe unto me . . .’
The actor swayed, his eyes bulging. He got his balance again and went on:
‘. . . vouchsafe unto me . . . hic . . .
unto . . . yeeeeeerrrrrrrggggghhhhhh!’
And, with a mighty eruption from his throat, the stage was awash with a lava-like spewing of thick vomit.
For a split second, the actor beheld his eruption. Then he put one hand on the front of his doublet and the other behind his back and bowed slowly. His bowing sped up and continued all the way to the stage, where his forehead met the floorboards with a loud CRASH!
‘Ralph!’ Shakespeare called. ‘Clean it up!’
‘Aye, Mr Shakespeare,’ scowled the ruddy-faced Ralph, hurrying away to find a bucket and mop.
‘He will not be sober for three days,’ lamented John Heminges, looking at the unconscious man disdainfully.
‘I thank the heavens for that,’ Shakespeare said. ‘The way he verily mangled my words! But, John, what are we to do? You cannot take on the parts played by this rascal; you are playing Cardenio himself. And I have more than a lion’s share of performance, playing Don Quixote.’
Heminges looked at all the other players onstage. ‘And all our men are doubling- and tripling-up on roles.’ He frowned. ‘I also know for a fact, Will, that the players at the Swan Theatre and at the Rose are all in production, with not a player to spare.’
Phyllis had been listening intently (she had also had to clamp her hand across Clement’s mouth when the vomitacious activity had happened, as he was about to let forth a loud ‘YUCKO,’ which he frequently did whenever someone was sick in the playground at school). Now was her chance to set her plan into motion.
‘We have a man here who could fill the part,’ she called loudly.
‘What?’ hissed Barry Inglis.
Clement looked at Phyllis, then at Barry. Then he smirked.
Shakespeare, Heminges, all the other players and Ralph (busy mopping up the putrid mess) turned in the direction of the voice. When Shakespeare saw Phyllis in the gloom at the back of the groundlings’ yard, he leapt down from the stage and advanced towards her, Daisy, Barry and Clement.
‘Ah, the return of the conjuror!’ he declared, his voice low and threatening. Even though it had been some months (in Jacobean time) since he had seen her, he remembered her face vividly. ‘What thieving ways have brought you back here this time, young woman?’ He took his dagger from his garter and held its blade towards her.
‘We’re not here to steal,’ Phyllis said quickly, urgently. ‘Truly. We’re here to stop a theft!’
‘That’s right,’ Barry confirmed.
Shakespeare looked at him, eyeing him up and down. ‘Who is this strange fellow?’ he asked warily.
‘I’m Chief Inspector Barry Inglis, of the Fine Arts and Antiques Squad of the Metropolitan Police Force.’ Barry pulled out his little leather cover and flashed his ID card at William Shakespeare. ‘Pardon the intrusion, Mr Shakespeare. We come on important business.’
Shakespeare ran his thumb up the handle of his dagger as he inspected Barry’s badge.
‘’Tis not sleepy business,’ continued Barry, ‘but must be look’d to speedily and strongly.’
Phyllis stared at him—she’d never heard him speak like that before.
He put his hand momentarily to his mouth and whispered to her in an aside, ‘I was in a production of Cymbeline when I was at police college,’ he told her. ‘Some things you remember.’
Phyllis pulled a boy, are YOU full of surprises sort of face.
‘Thou speak’st my words,’ Shakespeare said to him. ‘Thou speak’st them well . . .’
‘They are well written, Mr Shakespeare. No one writes words more finely than yourself.’
Shakespeare gestured with the dagger for Barry to put his badge away, and Barry pocketed it again.
‘Thy apparel,’ said the Bard. ‘Never have I seen such a . . . is this, perchance, a suit?’
‘It is,’ Barry confirmed. ‘It’s the latest uniform, whither I come.’
‘Strange,’ mused Shakespeare. ‘Yet, in my work, I have seen far stranger. Tell me, Barry Inglis, what it is thou art here to stop. This theft that young Phyllis Wong mentions. She told me, when she was here on a previous occasion, that it concerns my Cardenio?’
Barry turned to Phyllis. ‘Tell him more, Miss Wong,’ he said.
Breathlessly, Phyllis spilled the beans about Mistress Colley and how Phyllis knew that she was going to try to steal the foul papers of Cardenio and sell them for a huge sum—the biggest price ever seen for such an item. (Phyllis did not mention anything about the Transiting; even though she was addressing the man with possibly the greatest imagination ever, she did not want to make him any more suspicious of her and her friends. Nor did she mention anything about the First Folios; their publication would not happen for ten more years.)
Shakespeare and John Heminges, who had come to join him at the back of the groundlings’ yard, listened to all of this in silence. Now and then Shakespeare rubbed the tip of his dagger through the point of his beard, as he studied Phyllis intently.
When she had finished her account he asked, ‘And tell me, Phyllis Wong. Where doth this woman with the curls and the wicked intent come from?’
‘From . . . from a long way away. She’ll travel far to pull this off,’ Phyllis answered.
‘Pull this off?’ Shakespeare slid his dagger into his garter and pulled out a sheaf of folded paper and his quill pen from his pocket. ‘That is a fine expression,’ he nodded, scribbling it down.
Clement nudged Phyllis with his elbow. ‘Tell him about her rat you told me about,’ he said, his eyes wide behind his glasses.
‘Shh, Clem. Later.’
Shakespeare stopped writing and addressed Phyllis again: ‘And how is it that thou, Phyllis Wong, are privy to such information?’
‘I . . . I’ve just followed the pattern of the facts so far,’ Phyllis said. ‘I’ve traced what’s been happening and what’s come to light . . .’
‘Come to light,’ muttered Shakespeare, writing that down.
‘She has a fine mind,’ Barry said. ‘It comes from her magic. She thinks in ways different to most people.’
‘She’s a one-off, all right!’ added Clement.
Shakespeare raised his eyebrows, as if to say, and who is this young person with the strangely protruding teeth?
‘That’s just Clement,’ Phyllis said quickly. ‘My friend.’
John Heminges turned to Shakespeare and whispered into his ear. Shakespeare, looking thoughtful, nodded. He turned back to Barry. ‘Hast thou ever acted on the stage, Mr Inglis?’
‘I have,’ said Barry. ‘A long time ago during my training for the force.’
‘And wouldst thou be prepared to take this rogue’s parts in Cardenio? They are but four small walk-ons and three speeches, and much standing around, what we call hands-on-hips acting in the background.’
Barry looked at Phyllis. She gave him a nod. ‘If you wish it, I shall tread the boards for you,’ said the Chief Inspector.
Shakespeare quickly scribbled down the phrase.
‘Most excellent,’ John Heminges said. He clapped Barry on the back. ‘We shall costume you and give you the script and start rehearsals again within the hour!’ He turned to the actors on the stage. ‘Refreshments for one hour,’ he called, ‘while we prepare our new player.’
Phyllis said, ‘That’s swell. Having him in the play means a good chance for the Chief Inspector to be in the thick of it . . .’ Shakespeare wrote that down too, his feather quill quivering quickly, ‘. . . and from the stage he might be able to see Mistress Colley if and when she arrives.’
‘’Tis what we were thinking also,’ said John Heminges.
‘Of course,’ Barry said, ‘we can’t just arrest her for turning up. We have to catch her red-handed.’
Shakespeare’s quill was going ballistic now. ‘What means this red-handed?’ he asked as he scribbled.
‘In the act,’ Clement said. ‘With her hand in the honey pot. Up to her eyeballs.’
‘Ye Gods!’ Shakespeare exclaimed. ‘Such phrases! ’Tis like the heavens have opened!’
‘You see our point, though,’ said Barry. ‘We have to catch her attempting to steal your foul papers. We have to catch her with them in her hands. Only then can she be charged with theft.’
Shakespeare stopped writing, and a look of dark anger clouded his face. ‘No one touches those,’ he said quietly. ‘The foul papers are not to fall into anyone’s hands but mine!’
‘Nor shall they, Will,’ said John Heminges. ‘Not for good. Only for a few brief moments, so it can be proved she is stealing them. Our new acquaintances here will help see to that.’
‘I will get more padlocks and chains for the box in which I keep them,’ Shakespeare declared. ‘The foul papers box I always keep with me, in the Globe or at my home. I will make her job impossible!’
‘Settle thyself,’ Heminges soothed him.
‘I don’t think padlocks and chains will stop her,’ Phyllis said. ‘I think she has more cunning up her sleeve than we realise. She hasn’t let anything stop her so far—not Time or distance, or—’
She trailed off before she let too much slip. Shakespeare looked at her curiously. At that moment—because of what she had just said, and the passion with which she’d said it—he knew that Phyllis Wong was to be trusted.
‘Miss Wong is right,’ Barry said. ‘We’re dealing with a clever schemer, in this Mistress Colley. Now here’s what I propose: during tomorrow’s performance of Cardenio, while I’m up on stage with the other actors, I think it best that Phyllis and Clement—’
‘And Daisy,’ added Clement. ‘Don’t forget Daisy!’
Phyllis opened the top of her bag and Daisy popped her snout out and blinked at everyone.
‘Ah, the vanishing pup,’ said Shakespeare, the dark cloud beginning to lift from his face.
‘And Daisy,’ said Barry, flashing Clem a let me get on with this please look. ‘Well, while the performance is going on, the three of them will be backstage somewhere safe, guarding your foul papers in their box. Will that be acceptable to you, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘But if this Colley woman breaks through our watch?’ asked Heminges. ‘What happens if she slips in, and finds the young people with the box? What then?’
‘Phyllis and Clement and Daisy won’t be with the box,’ Barry said.
‘What dost thou say?’ Shakespeare was becoming agitated again.
‘They’ll be hidden nearby. They’ll be watching the box. It’ll be sitting there, locked and waiting for her. When she opens it, and takes the foul papers, we’ll pounce.’
‘But how will we know when the dreadful deed happens?’ asked Heminges.
‘I know!’ Shakespeare put three fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly. It was a shrill, piercing noise and Barry, Phyllis and Clement winced. Daisy barked excitedly—she liked noises like that. On the stage, Ralph looked up sharply from his mopping.
‘Canst thou do that?’ Shakespeare asked Phyllis and Clem.
Clem shoved three fingers into his mouth, cramming them in carefully around his gopher-like false teeth. Somehow the fake dentures amplified the noise, and he let out a whistle even louder and more shrill than Shakespeare’s. He took out his fingers (covered with saliva) and asked, ‘How’s that?’
Heminges had a finger in his ear and was wiggling it around. ‘Most . . . effective,’ he said, his ears ringing.
‘Ha!’ Shakespeare laughed. ‘Most excellent, young man! Repeat that as the alarm for us if the woman gets her hands on the foul papers. We shall come running—we shall stop the performance if needs be—and apprehend the felon!’
Barry Inglis almost smiled—he was not a man for grinning or such. ‘I think it best,’ he said, ‘that we keep all of this a secret from the other actors and the stagehands. I’ve found, in my line of work, that when fewer people know about an operation, the more chance there is that it’ll be successful.’
‘Sound advice,’ said Shakespeare. ‘Agreed.’
‘Good,’ said Barry. Then it dawned on him that he had a role to prepare for, and a big knot of nervousness started to tighten, deep in his stomach. ‘I’d better get my part from you, Mr Shakespeare. Study my lines and all.’
‘I am Will, Barry. Call me that.’
Phyllis saw Barry’s lips begin to curl upwards . . . for the first time, she thought she was going to be present for something almost as amazing as Transiting through the Pockets: her friend the Chief Inspector giving a full smile.
But she was not to witness such a rare event. Barry kept his mouth fixed firmly and said, ‘Let’s get this show on the road, Will.’
And Shakespeare scribbled down that saying too.
Whatever it takes
People were starting to notice the woman with the long, flowing curls who was rushing up and down stairs all over the city.
Vesta Colley had put on her favourite dark coat—a knee-length deep purple coat with capacious pockets and zippered compartments and a thick mink fur collar in which Glory could hide comfortably. The coat flared out from her hips—Vesta liked the way it did that; it reminded her of a dragon’s wings before the creature took flight.
She had her wheellock pistols stashed securely in her high boots. Around her neck, falling below the black lacey collar of her shirt, she wore a heavy gold medallion that had been fashioned from the gold-plated cogs of an antique clock.
On her fingers she wore no less than six gold rings, five of them encrusted with glittering diamonds, brilliant rubies, deep sapphires and heavy emeralds. The sixth ring was a bold signet ring in brilliant gold, engraved with the initials V.C. inside a flourishing border.
Her hair was not tied back. Vesta Colley enjoyed the feeling of it whipping against her face when she Transited. It made her more alert and more determined. She didn’t mind the stinging sensation as it flew wildly around her.
Whatever it takes . . .
But now, here in this twenty-first-century city, people had been noticing her. She had spent the whole morning, more than four hours, rushing about, catching taxis and jumping out whenever she spotted an outdoor stairway she hadn’t yet come across. Whenever this happened, she would fling some money at the taxi driver and rush to the stairs, hardly stopping to peer up them to see if there was a Pocket located there. She would run straight up the stairs, hoping, wanting, yearning for there to be an Andruseon or an Anamygduleon on that stairway.
So far, there had been nought.
As she raced up the stairs she clutched, in her neatly manicured fingers, her ‘passport’ back to the Time she sought—a silver locket she had ‘borrowed’ from a wealthy woman back in 1613. The chain of the locket was wrapped around her fingers, and the edges of it were pressed hard into the palm of her hand.
Fortune, it seemed, had deserted her. Now she stood in one of the busiest streets in the city, in the precinct that was filled with the most expensive stores and salons. Maybe, she thought, I should not be looking on outdoor stairways? Maybe the thing I seek will be found on stairs inside a building?
Thus resolved, she hurried into the closest store on the next corner—a big department store that sold nothing that cost less than five hundred dollars.
She barged through the elegant revolving doors, pushing impatiently against them. An elderly woman in the revolving section immediately in front of her found herself speeding up unexpectedly as the doors swept around with a muffled whoooosh.
Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror Page 21
