A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (11 page)

“When was this?” Jeremy asked, amused.

“For a benefit, back in the 1970s!” Trevor boomed, sitting in a brown leather chair opposite us. “She brought her old partner down from London, what was his name?”

“Simon Thorne,” I said, delighted.

“Yes, yes. They did a Noel Coward and Gertrude Lawrence music-hall-style number,” Trevor recalled. “Quite a hilarious routine, called
Red Peppers
, where they played sailors who’d stayed ashore too long and missed their boat,” he said, and hummed the song
Has Anybody Seen Our Ship?

Well, after that, it wasn’t hard to get Trevor to tell us all about himself and his own career. He was a genuine ham who enjoyed attention so openly that I couldn’t help giving him the bright smile he craved. “What made you decide to do radio?” I asked.

“Money!” he intoned, stretching out his long legs and gazing off in the distant land of memory. Then, resuming his normal voice, he added, “I taught acting in London for awhile, and when the BBC radio heard about my classes, they engaged me to do an on-air adaptation of some of my lectures. But after that, I tired of London—vastly overcrowded these days—and now I’ve ‘swallowed the anchor’, so to speak.”

At my blank look, he translated, “That’s seamen’s talk for ‘retired’. So here I be, in Port St. Francis, and at the end of a good day, you can find me wherever there’s a decent game of darts and a pint of home-brewed ale. Not a bad finale, I assure you.” He fell silent.

“Mr. Branwhistle,” I said eagerly, “I suppose you know why we are here.”

“To rescue your grandmother’s house!” Trevor declaimed, looking amused at us. “They say you are a pair of newlywed sleuths who dare to delve into history where angels might fear to tread. I believe you look promising. So, where shall we begin?”

“Shakespeare,” Jeremy said.

R
ealizing what a wild detour a guy like Trevor might take with such a huge topic as the Bard, I added hurriedly, “Harriet says you’ve discovered some connection to Shakespeare and my grandmother’s house?”

“Why, only that he lived there!” Trevor announced, gazing at us watchfully for our reaction. “And possibly left a fragment of a long-lost play of his in your grandmother’s attic.”

I gasped, but Jeremy said with equanimity, “Are you saying you’ve actually seen this document?”

“I have, sir,” Trevor said with exaggerated dignity. “I sent it on to a colleague of mine at Cambridge University. He is an expert in this field. However, I did retain a copy.”

I sat transfixed as Trevor rose from his seat and walked over to one of the bookshelves, which had a row of thin drawers beneath the bottom shelf. From this he extracted a document, and he carried it over to the table near me, where he dropped it lightly, but with a flourish.

“We know that in 1613, a London actors’ group called the King’s Men performed a play by Shakespeare entitled
Cardenio
,” Trevor said in a more serious tone. “Many believe that
Cardenio
was about an episode in the life of Don Quixote, since Cardenio is a character in the Cervantes novel. But some scholars think
Cardenio
might have been a children’s play about King Arthur.”

Trevor gestured at the document on the table. “If this fragment is authentic, it may prove firstly, that
Cardenio
was indeed about King Arthur, and secondly, that Shakespeare worked on the play much sooner than we thought. The man who wrote it was a lodger in your grandmother’s house in the summer of 1592. This was during a period of history that just happens to be a tantalizing gap in time when Shakespeare vanished from sight. In other words, there is no known record of where he was and what happened to him. Until perhaps, now.”

Jeremy and I abandoned any reserve and pounced on the document. It had only about five lines on it, because the top part had been torn off. And I must say that the handwriting was so terrible that I could scarcely make out a letter, let alone a word.

“But I can’t tell what it says!” I exclaimed.

Trevor smiled. “That is because in the Bard’s day, English grammar and punctuation were less standardized than in our time. But let me translate for you.”

He paused, then read aloud:

“Is this his signature?” Jeremy asked, pointing to a messy scrawl at the bottom of the page.

I saw that the first name said
Willim
, spelled without the usual “a” in “William”. But it was hard to tell what the last name was; to me it looked like
3hurByjre
.

“It is indeed a signature,” Trevor said. He copied it onto another piece of paper for me and it looked like this:
Shakspere
, which was still missing the additional “e” and “a” of our modern-day spelling of the name. When I pointed this out, Trevor said that back then, they often used more than one spelling for a word.

Jeremy asked cautiously, “What was Shakespeare doing way out here? His home and family were in Stratford-on-Avon.”

Trevor puffed his chest dramatically and intoned, “Sir! You obviously are not aware of the many theories of the Lost Years of William Shakespeare. The theatrical and academic world are rife with speculation as to where our Will disappeared during this gap. Many theories are based on the notion that he got into trouble of some kind. Some say he fled Stratford to avoid being prosecuted as a deer-poacher. Others say to escape religious persecution. Still others believe that he needed money and therefore worked as a schoolmaster in the country shires. But, because his plays have so many allusions to the sea, some believe that he went off as a sailor—perhaps even voyaging with Sir Francis Drake himself!”

I tried to imagine Shakespeare working as a deck-hand on the infamous pirate ship.

“However, many believe that Shakespeare was travelling in Italy,” Trevor continued, “because afterwards he wrote so many plays set in Italy—
The Two Gentlemen of Verona, The Taming of the Shrew, The Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet
. I also once believed this myself—but, no more!”

His raised his arm, with his index finger in the air as a dramatic flourish. “I am not a naïve man, nor am I given to ephemeral fantasies. Yet I have become convinced that the crucial link to Shakespeare lies in the history of your grandmother’s house.”

Here he paused for effect, until I said, “Please go on.”

“Back in the late sixteenth century, Beryl’s house, like mine, was part of the earl’s estate. Well, after all, the earl pretty much owned everything, and therefore everybody, in Port St. Francis!” he exclaimed. “The villagers either labored in his copper and tin mines or else lived as his tenant farmers. Sometimes an outbuilding was used as a lodging house or a coaching inn.”

“But Harriet told us that my grandmother’s house was occupied by some performers in Shakespeare’s time, right?” I asked.

Trevor said, “Correct. During the year in question, Beryl’s house was the residence of a troupe of actors whom the earl sponsored, so they were called, appropriately, ‘The Earl’s Players’. In those days, musical or acting companies would often perform in private homes. They were known as ‘household players’. The earl’s estate kept records of what he paid people, and the Players were listed on salary all year. It seems that during this particular summer, a travelling actor was hired to replace a member of the troupe who’d fallen ill. And the name of the vagabond actor who was hired was none other than . . .”

Trevor tapped the document where the signature spelled out the name.

“I see. So, that explains why this document was found in Beryl’s house?” Jeremy observed, staring at the manuscript fragment.

“Yes, in an old barrel in the attic. Harriet and I uncovered it quite accidentally while sorting through the place when we were told to prepare Beryl’s house for sale,” Trevor answered. “There’s no doubt that the man who wrote and signed this fragment, was, for the entire summer of 1592, a member of The Earl’s Players and therefore a lodger in your grandmother’s house. The question remains: was he really the Bard of Avon?”

Trevor seized my hand and held it in both of his. “Can you understand how utterly seismic this discovery would be if we can prove it? Not only would your grandmother’s house be designated a landmark—with all the protection that that would afford—but we would have astounding new information about Shakespeare and his work.”

“What does your friend at the University think?” I asked breathlessly.

“He is subjecting the document to the most vigorous tests you can imagine!” Trevor said, releasing my hand and pacing the room impatiently. “Handwriting analysis. Chemical tests of the ink and paper. Academic tests of language and usage. Records in London—although so many, alas, perished in the Great Fire of 1666.”

Trevor paused to take a deep breath. “I must say, I am not a Shakespeare historian,” he admitted. “So I feel that I have come to my scholarly limit. That is why, when I chanced to hear about you two at a party, I thought it was time to pass the baton and see if you could reach the finish line with this.”

“Do you think your Shakespeare expert would talk to us?” I asked eagerly.

“He said he would be glad to,” Trevor said. “I think it’s best you see him in person, my dear. You are such a charming young woman and he would perhaps be more forthcoming if you paid him a visit.” Trevor wrote down the name and address for me on the back of one of his own business cards.

“This is all well and good, if he declares that your fragment is authentic,” Jeremy said. “But what if your expert says the evidence is inconclusive?”

Trevor gave him a knowing nod. “That is where you and Penny come in,” he said challengingly. “Any supporting evidence that you can unearth might ‘Save Our Ship’! Though, I must tell you, we’ve been through the entire house with a fine-toothed comb, and found not a single scrap of additional evidence to help us out. So whatever you discover will have to come from somewhere else, I’m afraid.”

I gazed at him, dumbfounded. What on earth did he expect us to do? Find a personalized quill pen out on the moors, autographed by the Bard himself?

Trevor had risen to his feet now, and moved to the doorway, signalling that our conference was at an end. We followed him outside.

“And now, I must ‘away’. Duty calls,” he said with a proud gesture, pointing toward another building on his property, which I hadn’t noticed until now.

“What a beautiful old house,” I said, admiring its stone structure and antique windows.

“It is actually the old Priory, where, long ago, clergymen were trained,” Trevor said, pleased at my interest. “I’m surprised Harriet didn’t mention it to you, because, thanks to fund-raising by our Legacy Society, we have managed to turn the Priory into a seniors’ home for old actors. And you would be surprised at how many of today’s London performers have already contributed money to our Actors’ Home, in order to insure that when they reach retirement age they will have a place there! I won’t name any names, of course,” Trevor said with a sly smile. “Would you like to take a look before you go?” he asked so eagerly that I had to nod, even though Jeremy was making faces trying to signal me to say no.

By now Trevor was insisting that we just “pop in” for a moment. I don’t know if it was because he just automatically sought to recruit new donors, or if he was simply so proud of the place.

“The Actors’ Home is actually my own brainchild, because my fellow thespians need a special place to retire to,” Trevor explained. We entered the fine old three-storied stone house.

“It’s gotten an excellent rating, with quality medical care provided by good doctors from the local training hospital. And the food here is first-rate. So, we are nearly full to capacity,” Trevor said as we went upstairs. “We rely on nursing students from the hospital to work here. Ah, here is Nora. She is one of the best.”

The bright-faced young nurse was busy with patients, but she gave us a warm smile as we passed her.

“But if we can’t continue to keep our local hospital thriving, then student nurses like Nora will have to abandon us for some big city,” Trevor said.

We had been politely walking down the corridors of the second floor and peering in at rooms that actually looked quite attractive, since they were furnished in an old-fashioned way, not only with brass beds and cozy-looking upholstered chairs, but with desks, tables and lamps. The desks, I realized, gave the rooms more dignity, for the occupants were not forced to be bedridden, and they wore regular clothes instead of hospital gowns. As we passed the large common room on this floor, we heard theatre music from the 1930s and 1940s wafting out, and when I peered in I saw groups of residents sitting there, playing cards and viewing old movies.

“Nice music,” Jeremy commented, looking amused. “Not what you usually hear in a care home.”

“Yes, well, that’s all part of what makes this place so special,” Trevor said with a pleased expression. “Recent studies show that elderly people retain their mental capacity and zest for life when they live in an environment that recreates the atmosphere of their youth,” he explained.

Trevor ushered us into the elevator and continued, “Here in our Actors’ Home, each floor will be devoted to a different era, outfitted with the music, movies, books and furnishings of that time,” he explained as the elevator door reopened, and we crossed the first-floor lobby. “We hope to soon convert this floor into our 1950s and 1960s wing.”

I watched Jeremy struggling to keep a straight face as we passed a common room that already had large framed photos of Elvis Presley, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.

Near the front door was a main office. Trevor paused there and said, “Everyone in town is very excited about this Shakespeare find. Did Harriet tell you that we’re doing a big benefit show for the hospital later this summer? We’re re-opening the old theatre in town, and some of our residents here are going to come out of retirement to read scenes from Shakespeare. May I put you down for two tickets to our Shakespeare Festival?”