The Stratford Conspiracy

By Michael Mallory

The Second Mrs. Watson is back on the case! This time the intrepid Amelia Watson finds herself in Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of William Shakespeare, seeking to help the sister of a lifelong friend with a family crisis. Before long, she, her trouble-prone chum Harry Benbow, and new acquaintance—a neophyte Canadian detective—all become enmeshed in a web of intrigue centering on shocking evidence proclaiming that Queen Elizabeth I was William Shakespeare! The adventure begins with the murder of an American Shakespearean scholar in London, and travels all the way to William Shakespeare’s grave in an ancient church on the banks of the gently-flowing Avon. In the process, Amelia is forced to admit that she may finally have taken on a case that is too puzzling—and too deadly—for her to solve; and worse, that she may become the next victim of the ruthless murderer that is stalking Stratford.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Top Publications, Ltd.
• Release date: Nov 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781935722717

Michael Mallory

Michael Mallory is the author of the novel Murder in the Bath as well as some one hundred short stories for both adults and children, many of them featuring Amelia Watson and/or Sherlock Holmes. A Derringer Award winner and two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Mallory has also written three non-fiction books on pop culture subjects and nearly 400 magazine and newspaper articles.

Book preview

THE STRATFORD CONSPIRACY

An Amelia Watson Mystery

by Michael Mallory

Top Publications, Ltd.

Dallas, Texas

The Stratford Conspiracy

Smashwords Edition

Top Publications, Ltd., Publisher

Copyright 2011 Michael Mallory

No part of this book may be published or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or information storage and retrieval systems without the express written permission of the publisher.

The characters and events in this novel are fictional and created out of the imagination of the author. Certain real locations and institutions are mentioned, but the characters and events depicted are entirely fictional.

Dedication

For Dr. Robert L.Wilhoit,

who taught me to love

Shakespeare, and

always be heard.

PROLOGUE

Richmond Palace, London, England

1603

The flickering tallow that had dripped itself into a milky mass over the pewter candlestick gave off but scant illumination, making the process of writing all the more difficult. Exacerbating it was the fact that what light there was present was being absorbed by the colours of the ornate tapestries that adorned the walls of the great hall. What was not absorbed was the sound of the quill scritch-scratching inky words onto the foolscap; if anything, the sound was exaggerated by the cavernous room, creating in mind of the one known to a very privileged few as the Poet Queen the image of a church sexton scraping two bones together in a charnel house. How grotesque, the Poet Queen thought. There were times when such pearls of imagination could be saved and put to use in a future play, but this one was too grim to remember. Then again, it was hard to banish completely the spectre of death, since it hovered above the palace itself this evening.

Knowing that time was waning as rapidly as the tallow flame, the Poet Queen replenished the ink on the quill nib and continued on, silently regretting the decision to forego another classical setting. The writing of this play was not simply proving problematic; it was charted for disaster. It could not have been more doomed if it were Spain’s hopes for the Armada. But the Globe had a schedule to maintain and the play had already been announced to the shareholder, and its first, unsatisfactory version, had already been registered with the Stationers Company. There was no way to abandon the project.

Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch; the letters dribbled onto the paper:

True swains in love shall in the world to come

Approve their truth by Troilus. When their rhymes,

Full of protest, swearing thus...

The Poet Queen paused, and then scratched out the words swearing thus and replacing them with of oath, and continued for another two lines.

As true as steel, as plantage to the moon,

As iron to adamant, as earth to th’ centre...

The pen dropped. As though any patron would accept this codswallop! the Poet Queen moaned bitterly, squinting and producing tears, though not because of the dimness of the room. It was the face paint. This mixture of powdered eggshell paste crumbled when it dried and flecked into the eyes, causing great stinging.

Leaning back in the chair, the Poet Queen cried, I cannot do this.

Is there a problem? a light voice asked from somewhere in the room. The bent figure of Robert Cecil was spotted near a hunting tapestry with such a sense of stillness that at first he appeared to be a woven figure within it.

I thought I was alone. I did not hear you enter.

You know as well as I that I am endowed not to be heard entering, Cecil said, stepping toward the table and emerging into the flickering light.

Would that this man could somehow be persuaded to take on the role of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, the Poet Queen thought, surveying Cecil’s small and slightly deformed frame. He is the very image of the changeling I saw in my mind’s eye while writing the character. But as all of society knew, that was impossible. The very thought of a noble, let alone a courtier, gracing the stage of any of the wooden rings of Southwark was unthinkable. Almost as absurd as the notion that her majesty Elizabeth Regina was the one composing the plays performed in Southwark.

Ah, I see, Cecil said with a wry smile after glancing at the foolscap and ink on the table, we are still performing the role of the playwright.

It is exercise for my mind. You do wish me to have a clear mind, do you not, Robert?

Of course, of course. What new work is this, if I may so ask?

"‘The Famous Historie of Troilus and Cressida.’"

"And another masterwork, I trust. As notable as Twelfth Night?"

A damnable mess is what it is proving to be! If this goes on the boards we shall have to clear the street of horses in front of the Globe Playhouse, lest we provide the groundlings with ammunition.

Surely it cannot be as dreadful as that. You have rarely failed your audiences before.

I have rarely been as distracted as I am now. I assume that you are here to tell me it is time for the matter at hand.

Cecil nodded. His Royal Highness James of Scotland and his court are already on their way to the palace.

And you are absolutely convinced that this is the fittest course to take?

I would not have ventured anything so daring were it not my belief in the absolutely necessity of it.

Very well. The imposing, white-faced figure rose slowly from the chair and then dug at the broad, vibrantly-red wig. This feels as though it is made of horsehair.

I am sorry. It is the new one.

This cannot be one of Mountjoy’s. Christopher Mountjoy was a Huguenot wigmaker of renown.

Alas, there was no time to employ Mountjoy.

It will have to do. How do I look?

Every inch the Queen, Cecil replied, with an obsequious bow.

The wig slipped again. Would that your self-satisfaction was contagious.

I am always satisfied when that which needs be done is accomplished in an efficient manner, no matter what it is that needs to be done.

Whatever needs to be done. Were you not chief minister to the Crown, Robert, you might make a superb executioner.

If my Queen wished it, and if I could but lift an axe above my head, I would be more than happy to comply. However, since I cannot physically wield any weapon larger than a dirk, I must continue to do what needs be done using only my brain. At this moment, my brain is telling me that before we greet his majesty King James we must eradicate the smudge of ink on the middle finger of your right hand, which identifies you as a scribe. It would neither be politic nor wise to proclaim to the King of Scots that England’s sovereign majesty is also the leading light of our playhouses.

I give you my word that neither the King of the Scots, nor any other man, shall ever hear such an admission from my lips. The truth of Elizabeth Shakespeare Regina will remain our secret.

Of course. Now we must go.

The two proceeded to the throne room of Richmond Palace, normally a hubbub of human activity, but on this evening all but deserted. This audience with the son of the woman whom Elizabeth had executed sixteen years previously was to be a private and secret one, too critical and politically dangerous to involve any other personages, which meant that the other courtiers, even the Queen’s ladies in waiting, had been banished for the night.

Do you need me to assist you to the throne? Cecil asked.

This dress is as stiff and unwieldy as a sedan chair, but I shall manage.

I will announce His Royal Highness when he arrives. May God guide you this evening, and I pray that your infirmities will not be too visible to his majesty.

With white-lidded eyes closed, the bejewelled and red-wigged figure muttered something that the courtier was unable to catch.

Forgive me, Cecil said, but I did not hear you just now.

If you must know, I was about to say, ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,’ but then I stopped myself. I think you will agree that this is neither the time nor place for the luxury of doubt.

Spoken like God’s most powerful sovereign on earth, Robert Cecil declared, bowing his crooked frame even lower as he backed out of the room to await the arrival of King James the Sixth, of Scotland.

Now alone in the cold, cavernous room, the figure on the throne re-examined all ten fingers to ensure that any trace of ink had been eradicated, and thought: May God go with me indeed, and may what I am about to do strengthen, and not destroy, England; and may there not be one more death in the Palace before the evening is out.

Straightening out the folds of the voluminous dress, which had become miscomfrumpled as a result of being wedged into a plain chair at the writing desk, the Poet Queen whispered: By the grace of God I am Elizabeth Regina, the Queen of England and Ireland, and I will brook no challenges to my authority and dignity, not even from the King of the Scots.

But God in Heaven, how this damnable wig itched!

CHAPTER ONE

Queen Anne Street, London

1906

Amelia! John called from the other room, haven’t you made the tea yet?

I am endeavouring to do so, John, I shouted back, standing over the stove and proving the veracity of the ancient adage about a watched pot. In this instance it was a watched tea kettle, but it appeared that the first crack of doom would arrive before the first wisp of steam emerged from the spout. Why don’t you have a whisky instead? I knew that it was far too early in the day for John to start imbibing, but since I was facing both an uncooperative tea kettle and an increasingly impatient husband, I could hope.

Alas, John appeared in the doorway of our small kitchen, his coat and cravat removed, his shirtsleeves rolled up in the manner of a common labourer, his grey-brown hair tousled, and an expression of worry furrowing his handsome face. Really, Amelia, he said, you should know better than that. Alcohol is a relaxant, and what I require at the moment is a stimulant. If tea is out of the question, then how about some coffee? I may be working into the night again.

John, even if the properties of whiskey and tea remain opposed to each other, those of tea and coffee are remarkably similar, in that they both require boiled water, I replied. Thus far, the water in question is stubbornly refusing to cooperate.

Then please convince it. I must get this chapter finished today, otherwise I am off schedule and there will be hell to pay as a result.

Now, darling, it is your turn to know better, I said. I cannot believe Mr. Cushing is all that abusive toward you. It is not like you are an unknown entity. Your writings have generated substantial earnings for the firm. It would seem as though he could accommodate you in your time of need.

John’s face did not so much darken as drop in defeat. He already has, Amelia. I have missed my initial deadline. I daren’t miss another.

Oh, dear. Up until this moment I had not been fully aware of John’s predicament. All I knew is that he was composing a new novel at the behest of his publisher, the esteemed Theobald’s Road firm of Neville and Cushing, both of whom appeared to be fine and honest gentlemen, if not always the most punctual with their payments. While the majority of John’s writings fell within the realm of the short story, he was not without experience in the longer form, having written two novel-length works chronicling his adventures with his friend, travelling companion, and one-time cohabitant, Sherlock Holmes. To the public at large, Dr. John H. Watson was the second coming of James Boswell, an author who slavishly records every word, every thought and every action of the brilliant detective’s life with dedication and integrity. Being much closer to both John and Mr. Holmes than the average reader, however, I knew that my husband possessed a talent for wielding a literary paintbrush in such as way as to make a fair story good, a good story riveting, and in the process turn a sometimes maddening, often unsocial, enigmatic man into a fascinating and colourful creature. I have faith in you, darling, I said. I am confident that you will prevail. You always have in the past.

His face fell even further, if that was possible. That is just it! he cried. The situation is different this time.

I confess that I was completely at sea as a result of his words and manner, but I had not chance to enquire further, since the long-awaited whistle of the tea kettle broke the silence with an ear-splitting shriek. Fill the largest teapot we have, would you, Amelia? John asked. I fear I shall need it. With that he turned around and headed back for his writing desk, taking each step as though it were the gallows he was approaching. Meanwhile, I was fulfilling the duties of a kitchen maid.

After filling the pot with good, strong tea, I carried it to John on a tray, along with some biscuits. He was staring at a largely blank sheet of paper and tapping the end of his pen against his upper teeth, an annoying habit with which I was largely unfamiliar, since John had never before demonstrated this much difficulty putting his thoughts down on a page. He seemed not to notice when I set the tray down on the corner of his desk.

John, your tea, I said.

Hmm? Oh, thank you, he said, absently. That will be all. You may go.

That will be all? You may go? Had I now been officially demoted to servant status?

John, look at me, I said, and he complied. You know I do my best to try and accommodate you at all times, but after four years of marriage I believe I should be afforded a bit more respect than to be dismissed from your presence like a serving wench.

Oh, I am sorry, Amelia. I’m rather lost in thought at the moment, and since it is Missy who normally brings my tea, I responded accordingly.

Where on earth is that girl anyway? I asked. Missy Trelawny—her first name being the diminutive for Mistletoe, which proved that her parents were even more sadistic than Father and Mother Holmes, who inflicted upon their sons the names Mycroft and Sherlock—had come into our employ a year or so after our marriage. She was a mere slip of a thing whose earnestness often outweighed her abilities, but I continued to keep her here because the poor waif’s education had been so woefully neglected that I felt she would have had a difficult time finding employment anywhere else. I did what I could to help finish her in terms of learning and comportment, which at times was like trying to teach a tortoise to dance the minuet. But I had experienced difficult charges during my years as a governess, so I was up to the task.

Lately, though, it seemed as though Missy had her mind on matters other than her work. While that was not a rare happenstance, it had become much more pronounced in recent days. There were times when I had overheard her quietly speaking to herself as she went about her chores. I was not able to make out any particular words, but the fact that she was doing it at all was hardly reassuring. Compounding that was the fact that I had sent her to the greengrocer better than three hours ago and she had not yet returned. I hope nothing ill has happened to her, I said, only realizing that I had spoken aloud once it was out.

What? John asked, absently. What happened to whom?

Missy, dear. She should have been home from her errand long ago. I cannot imagine what is delaying her.

Oh, yes, she did come home, he said, setting down his teacup.

What? When?

I don’t know, perhaps an hour ago, a bit more.

Why did I not see her then?

Oh, you were, uh, indisposed at the time.

What he meant was that I was visiting the lavatory, which is something that most people acknowledge cannot be helped, though, John, strangely, possessed a startling reticence to discuss such matters, all the more peculiar given his time spent in the army, where I would have assumed such talk was commonplace.

He went on: Missy came in to tell me that the watercress looked far too old to bother with, so she did not purchase any. Then she asked if she could spend the evening out and I said I did not anticipate that would be a problem.

You gave her the evening off? I cried.

I suppose I forgot to tell you.

You certainly did forget to tell me. What about the turnips, the carrots and the onions that I requested in addition to the watercress?

I have no idea. She said nothing about turnips, carrots or onions. He then resumed clicking his pen on his teeth.

Why did she not inform me that she wished to leave this evening?

As I said, my dear, you were indisposed at that moment, and frankly, not having her hovering about is helping me to concentrate. Now please, Amelia, while I am most grateful for the tea, I really must get back to work.

Very well. I know the world can hardly contain itself waiting for yet another adventure in the career of Mr. Holmes.

John snorted with frustration. By God, if only it were, he said, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands over his eyes.

John, for heavens’ sake, what is bothering you now?

Amelia, do you recall my attempt to write an historical novel a year or so back?

Yes, of course. I recalled it only too well: John had struggled through a chapter or two before becoming so thoroughly mired in researching the era in which the piece was set that he ultimately hoisted the white flag. I was rather glad when you put it aside.

He rose from his chair and began to pace. That one was easy to put aside, since I was attempting it entirely on my own, he said. But now Cushing has requested a book from me, one to be set in contemporary times, but with no trace of Holmes to be found in it. He wants me to turn whatever abilities I have to a ‘serious’ work of fiction, something along the lines of the work that Galsworthy chap is turning out.

I take it there is a problem with that?

A serious one! John cried. I have had a schedule imposed upon me, I have a delivery date for the manuscript, I have even been paid an up-front advance, and yet I cannot manage to compose a single line!

Perhaps you are thinking about it too hard, darling.

No, I know what the problem is, and so do you, he said, rising and starting to pace. I have heard it said before many times: John Watson is not his own man, he is merely a lapdog to the great Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, John, really.

Please, Amelia, do not pretend that you have not harboured such thoughts yourself.

I said nothing.

Even Holmes has intimated as much, calling me his Boswell, but what was James Boswell if not the most renowned lapdog in the realm? Even Neville has started to foster the same opinion of my work, which is why Cushing has encouraged me to take on something completely original without the slightest shadow of Sherlock Holmes, just so I can prove everyone wrong. He stopped and faced me, his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat. Well, my dear, look who has been proven wrong.

Oh, John, I said, rushing to him and putting my arms around him in the hopes of offering comfort. Perhaps I had been a bit too strident on the subject of his devotion to Holmes, who, after all, had been out of our lives now for quite some time, at least on a regular basis (he was still liable to show up now and again, usually at the most inopportune moments). Perhaps in attempting to force John to stand up and be counted for himself, as opposed to being the associate of a great man, I had erred on the site of criticism while not backing my convictions up with enough genuine support.

His strong arms returned my embrace. Now do you see why I am so troubled over this damnable book, why it is so important? he asked. It is not simply a collection of words on a collection of pages. It is my very singularity, my standing as an individual that is at stake.

Then I had better leave you to it, darling, I said, as gently as I could, releasing myself from his embrace. If you need anything else from me, all you need to do is to ask.

Thank you, my dear, he said, as I walked away, leaving him to continue to wrestle with his literary agonies.

Having discovered, practically by accident, that Missy was to be out for the evening, it looked as though putting supper on the table was going to fall entirely to me. Going into our kitchen, I took stock of the larder to see what we had to go with the mutton chops I was planning on having the girl prepare. I opened the pantry and immediately saw the shopping basket I had sent her out with earlier. Examining its contents, I discovered turnips, carrots and leeks. That was close enough.

I returned to the living room to tell John at what hour to expect supper, but found the chair at his desk vacant. At first I imagined that he might be indisposed as a result of all the tea, but then I noticed him across the