SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET (8 page)

“But if they didn't find the diamond after all that, do you think it's still there?”

“Well, it's a quandary, isn't it? But we have several advantages over the police, my dear. For one thing, Eleanor and Arthur. I know how they thought. I know what they cared about. And for another, we have a clue.” She slid the note card across the table.

Hero looked again at its crisp, dark letters. “Still ... it must be in a really good hiding place.”

“A good finding place,” Mrs. Roth said quietly.

“What?” Hero asked, puzzled.

But Mrs. Roth only shook her head. She seemed distant and sad.

“Okay” Hero said, trying to make things normal again. “Let's look at what he wrote. Let's try to figure out what it means.” She read aloud the script that looped generously over the paper: “Eleanor would have wanted you to have this. You were a good friend to her.”

And, then, turning it over:

“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

“The dying of the light,” Hero repeated. “What's that? Sunset? Nighttime?”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Roth. “But the poet is talking about death.”

“Okay. But what 'rages' against death? Doctors? Medicine?”

Mrs. Roth took another sip of tea. “Well, yes, literally, I suppose. But also love. Hope. Memory.”

Hero shook her head in frustration. “That doesn't help. Those aren't places you can hide something.”

“No, not really. Unless love meant a gift, something concrete. Like a book.”

Hero leaned forward excitedly. “A book of poems? A book with this poem in it?”

“That would be tidy. But there weren't any books left in the house, were there? Everything went with Arthur when he moved away.”

Hero sighed. She took a big bite of the muffin. The blueberries were so hot they burned her tongue. “Maybe I should start by looking everywhere the Murphys would have kept books. Where they would have kept a poetry book. There are lots of built-in bookcases at our house, and weird cupboards and things. Maybe a board is loose somewhere, or there's a hidden compartment.”

Mrs. Roth looked unconvinced. “That sounds like something out of a detective story, doesn't it?”

“Well, the clue is out of a book. Maybe the hiding place is, too.”

“It's a starting point, I suppose.”

“I'll check the bookcases and the medicine cabinets,” Hero decided. “But, the problem is, how am I going to do this without my whole family figuring out that I'm looking for something?”

“You'll just have to do your searching when they're not around.”

Hero stared out the window gloomily “They're never not around.”

Mrs. Roth patted her arm. “Then you'll have to be clever and take advantage of unforeseen opportunities.”

“I guess,” Hero answered doubtfully.

Together they watched the rain streaming down the window. The storm seemed to be letting up, but the garden was soaked and shimmering. The flowers drooped on their stems, skimming the wet ground.

Mrs. Roth lifted the note card and studied it. “This poem is about facing death belligerently not meekly succumbing to it. Eleanor definitely wasn't meek. She wasn't one to give in. But there's a difference between giving in to something and accepting it.” She set the card on the table again. “Eleanor accepted that she was going to die, but I'm not sure Arthur ever
did. Actually, this poem is more about Arthur than Eleanor.”

“Do you think that's important?” Hero asked.

“I don't know. Yes, it's important, but it probably doesn't have anything to do with the diamond.”

Hero finished her muffin. “It's stopped raining,” she said. “I should go home now. But I'll try to start looking this weekend.”

“Let me know how it goes,” Mrs. Roth said. “Oh, wait a minute. This is for you.”

She reached behind to the kitchen counter and picked up a thick green book. It was battered from use, the corners rounded and soft. She handed it to Hero.

“What is it?” Hero asked. She lifted the cover and read the delicate black print:
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

“I know you must have dozens of copies at home because of your father,” Mrs. Roth said. “But I thought perhaps you'd like one of your own. You shouldn't have to wait until seventh grade to read the inspiration for your wonderful name.”

Hero hesitated. She thought of her father, how Shakespeare belonged only to him. She ruffled the thin pages, staring at the dense columns of type.

Mrs. Roth laughed at her. “My dear, it's not a
homework assignment. You don't have to read the whole book. The play is very short. You'll like it.”

“Okay thanks,” Hero said reluctantly. “But if it's boring, I'm probably not going to finish it.”

Mrs. Roth smiled. “Spoken like a true scholar of English literature.”

Hero took the paper with the pencil rubbing of the pendant and slid it into the book. In the entryway, she pulled on her wet socks and shoes, heaving the damp strap of her backpack over her shoulder. “See you later,” she called to Mrs. Roth.

“Good luck with the search,” Mrs. Roth called back to her.

Hugging the book to her chest, Hero picked her way through the wet shrubbery and across the shining garden.

The next morning, Hero lay in bed listening to the faint murmur of breakfast noises rising from the kitchen. She could hear the whir of the coffee grinder, her parents' muted conversation, the occasional rustle of newspaper pages. Saturday, she thought: the weekend. She burrowed happily into her pillow. What a relief to have the school week over, no gym classes or cafeteria lines or bus stops for a while. Finally, she could start looking for that diamond.

The green book was on her nightstand. Hero picked it up and opened it across her chest. The delicate pages crinkled under her fingers, and unfamiliar words jumped out at her.
Anon. Thither. Twain.
It was like reading a Spanish dictionary. After some searching, she found
Much Ado About Nothing.
There was her name in bold at the beginning.
Dramatis Personae;

that's me, thought Hero. She took out the paper with the etching of the pendant on it.

Beatrice came to the doorway, yawning and pushing her hair away from her face. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah.” Hero slid her feet over the edge of the bed.

“What's the book?”

“Oh, just something Mrs. Roth gave me.” Hero put it back on her nightstand, tucking the pencil rubbing into her T-shirt pocket before Beatrice could see it.
“Much Ado About Nothing.”

Beatrice laughed. “Does she know we have about twenty copies of it?”

Hero shrugged. “She wanted me to have my own.”

“Are you really going to read it?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Bet you won't understand it.”

Together they padded down the stairs into the warm yellow light of the kitchen. Their parents sat at the table, drinking coffee and trading sections of the newspaper.

“There they are,” Hero's father said. “All right, ladies, what's the plan for today?”

“I'm going over to Kelly's,” Beatrice replied.

“I don't have a plan,” said Hero, thinking about the diamond.

“Good, sweetheart.” Hero's mother squeezed her
arm. “You can come with your father and me to the National Gallery. Are you sure you don't want to come too, Beatrice?”

Hero winced. “Mom, I don't want to go to a museum. Not on the weekend.”

“There's a Van Dyck exhibit,” her mother coaxed.

Beatrice shook her head. “I'm going with Kelly and Sara to a movie.”

“Now, Beatrice, Hero,” their father protested, “one of the advantages of living in this area is how close we are to the city. Think of all those wonderful cultural opportunities.”

“I'll go some other time,” Beatrice said. “I promised Kelly I'd come over.”

With Beatrice standing firm, both of Hero's parents turned to her. “We can visit the Library of Congress instead, Hero,” her father suggested. “If you'd prefer.”

“No, Dad, I'd rather just stay home.” Hero tried to think of some explanation that would sway them. “It's a nice day,” she said. “I kind of want to be outside. I could do some yard work.”

Her parents exchanged a look. “That's a generous offer,” her mother said wryly. “What's going on?”

“Nothing. Really. I just want to hang out here. Is that okay?”

Her mother rubbed her forehead, surveying the kitchen. “I guess we could all stay. There's certainly enough to keep us busy. I could finish unpacking those boxes, and we could weed the flower bed near the garage.”

Hero envisioned the day slipping away from her, filled with errands and yard chores and her parents' constant companionship. She made a final, desperate gamble, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, Mom, you do that kind of stuff every weekend. And then it's Monday, and you complain that we didn't have time for anything fun. You and Dad should go to the museum. Really.”

She tried to look indifferent as her mother thought about it. Then her father intervened. “I've been wanting to see that Van Dyck exhibit. Let's do it.” He winked at Hero. “The girls need some time to themselves, apparently.”

“Hero needs some time to herself,” Beatrice corrected. “I'm hanging out with Kelly and Sara.” She looked at Hero curiously, as though she too wanted an explanation.

“Are we having pancakes?” Hero asked, reaching for a juice glass in the cupboard.

“Yes indeed. I was just about to get them started.” Her father scooted his chair back, and in the general
commotion of breakfast, everyone seemed to forget about Hero's strange request to spend the day alone.

Nonetheless, it took them a very long time to leave. Beatrice lingered in the shower, tried on three different outfits, and then took forever to repaint her nails. Hero's parents dug out various maps and spread them over the table, plotting their route into the city. Hero watched them restlessly, doodling on the newspaper. She took the pencil rubbing out of her T-shirt. Shielding it with her palm, she found a blank corner of newspaper and started copying the bird from the back of the pendant. She was just beginning to draw the tree branch in its outstretched claw when her father touched her hand.

He looked at her drawing, frowning slightly. “Where did you see that?” he asked.

Hero felt a quick pulse of guilt. She swallowed nervously, crumpling the pencil rubbing in her fist and dropping her hand beneath the table. “What do you mean? I'm just fooling around.”

“It's not a branch,” he said. “It's a scepter.” Deftly, he sketched over her picture, putting a crown on the head of the bird and turning the tree branch into a monarch's staff.

Hero stared at him. “How did you know what I was drawing?”

Her father looked at her strangely, then smiled suddenly. “You've been in the study after all, haven't you? That story about Shakespeare and the Earl of Oxford has got you all fired up. You've been looking through my books on British nobility!” He nudged Hero's mother, his face flushed with pride. “Look at your daughter. She's drawn the Pembroke falcon, the crest of Anne Boleyn.”