The Sharers

By M. N. Quirk

"The time is out of joint; o cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right…
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me…
O, call back yesterday, bid time return"…..William Shakespeare

"What nourishes me destroys me…
Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight"…Christopher Marlowe

"It is the word. The word is everything"…Richard Allen

THE SHARERS:
Mutilated bodies dumped in theatre alleys, their hearts ripped out…
Similar violent murders spanning nearly 500 years…

Christopher Marlowe's 16th century diary beginning as a youth detailing his secret education with William Shakespeare; a diary he kept until the day of Marlowe's own violent murder…

All these elements have a profound impact on the lives of 20th Century actors Megan Christopher, a promising young actress, and Richard Allen the most famous Shakespearian actor of his generation.
Set against the backdrop of the 1990's Broadway theatre scene, murders, treachery and madness continue until the reason is unearthed and the carnage can finally cease.

M.N.Quirk is the author of 30 novels in another genre under the name Mary Anderson

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543966787

Book preview

47

Part I

1

NEW YORK CITY, MARCH 22, 1982

SHAME ON KOCH! SHAME ON KOCH! Megan shouted. She was standing in the forefront of the crowd assembled along West 45th Street as the hydraulic backhoe named Godzilla prepared to thrust its steel jaws into the east wall of the Morosco Theatre. Don’t do it you murderer! she screamed while trying to stare down the hard-hat operator of the bulldozer, but he merely engaged her in a futile game of cat and mouse. He placed the claw of the machine on the wall of the Morosco. Smiling, he backed off several times. Provoked by his attitude, the crowd’s anger escalated and the police began to forcibly hold them back behind the wooden barricades. But Megan stood her ground, continuing to hurl insults at the driver. Walk off! Strike! she shouted, clutching the homemade placard she had painted of two frowning theatrical masks above the words THIS IS A MODERN TRAGEDY. Those paltry words couldn’t possibly convey her distress regarding this imminent destruction. Two of the city’s most cherished legitimate theatres were being decimated to construct a 50-story hotel. Tears ran down her cheeks as she stared accusingly at the other men in the demolition crew. She watched them come closer as they maneuvered their wrecking equipment across the rubble of the vacant lot adjacent to the Morosco Theatre.

It was shortly after 2 p.m. Despite lengthy protests and several court stays, everyone in the crowd knew what they feared most was about to happen. Defiantly, the metal claw of the machine tore into the eastern wall of the Morosco, ripping out a gaping hole. Megan stood stunned and distraught as bricks began falling through a cloud of dusty cement.

The demolition had begun.

Only hours earlier, Megan still had a remnant of hope that the court would rule in favor of saving both the Morosco and Helen Hayes theatres. At 9:30 a.m. she was among one thousand demonstrators gathered by the portable stage on West 45th Street waiting to hear performers make their final pleas for the theatres’ rescue, or at the very least, another stay of execution.

At the foot of the stage lay a dummy corpse draped in sheets with daggers plunged through its torso. Theatrical blood oozed from its wounds to symbolize the murders of the two legitimate houses scheduled for demolition. Wedged within each bloody gash lay a rolled-up copy of a play that had premiered at the Morosco Theatre.

At that early hour the earth-moving machines that were now busy clawing through the theatre’s guts of steel and brick still lay silent and unattended. The crew stood on the sidelines waiting for further instructions while the speeches proceeded. Megan listened attentively as the first speaker, actress Colleen Dewhurst, walked onto the makeshift stage and filled it with her electric presence and evangelistic fervor. There’s still hope, she shouted to the crowd. The police feel exactly as we do and six of the construction men walked off this morning. We’re fighting for a theatre we played in and these youngsters are fighting for a theatre they want to play in. As Dewhurst glanced out into the audience Megan made eye contact for a brief moment. The heart of New York City is the theatre, she continued. To tear these two theatres down is to tear out the heart of this city. There are ghosts that are on those stages. You have to believe me, they walk there. You tear them down, you give us something else, there are no ghosts there. These ghosts help us so you must help us to make them understand.

It was hard to believe that was only hours ago when the two week SAVE THE THEATRE vigil still promised success; but success or failure, Megan would never forget a moment of it. It took precedence over everything, even her acting classes. She was now a theatre major at NYU, and although she continued to be plagued by incapacitating headaches, she had managed to snag several leading roles in school productions. She had also gained the attention of the best teachers who all acknowledged her promise and potential, not to mention her versatility. Megan could portray a snaggled-toothed harridan as convincingly as a dreamy-eyed ingénue with a scope far beyond her age level. It seemed her theatrical star would someday shine long and brilliantly on Broadway. Despite her physical ailment, Megan was grateful she had never suffered from one of her crippling headaches during a performance.

Four years earlier, her father had taken her to a string of specialists. The problem was ultimately diagnosed as cluster headaches, which have no particular cause, no cure and no explanation. Medical science could only contribute a few basic facts: cluster headaches were uncommon in females and seven out of every ten thousand people suffered from them. They could occur several times a day then disappear for months or years and they could last a few minutes or a few hours. Unlike the throbbing pain of a migraine, a cluster headache is a burning stabbing pain and the sufferer becomes very agitated, can’t sit still, paces the floor, rocks back and forth and wakes up in the middle of the night. The drug most effective in their control is Librium but it has many unpleasant side affects. In view of these somber statistics, Megan hadn’t revealed her condition to anyone outside the family. The doctors’ grim predictions that she would probably suffer from them all her life made Megan decide to forgo medication. Nothing would ever inhibit her acting ability.

Someone with less zeal and determination might have regarded the diagnosis as good reason to abandon any theatrical aspirations. Prudence might have dictated a career in film instead, where the rigors of performing eight shows a week did not exist. But Megan persisted in her initial career goal, although knowing the possibility of an attack on stage was always present.

This steely determination was evidenced in everything Megan did, including her participation in the entire two weeks of SAVE THE THEATRE demonstrations for which she hadn’t missed one moment. The entire idea had been spearheaded by producers Alexander Cohen and Joseph Papp. Joe Papp was the most visible force, guiding the protest each step of the way. Megan admired his successful fight to bring free summer Shakespeare productions to Central Park years ago and she was convinced he could make this protest a success as well.

It had all begun two weeks earlier on March 4th with a 24-hour vigil. It was a miserably dreary, bitingly cold, sloppy wet, slippery snowy night, but marvelous nonetheless. One by one, famous actors and playwrights climbed onto the portable stage to give witness to the brilliance created at the Morosco during its 65-year history. With the marquee of the theatre behind them as a backdrop, they all sat on stage in a semicircle of chairs valiantly holding onto scripts while constantly being lashed by wet snow. With their hands bundled in mittens and their heads swathed in woolen scarves or fur-lined hats to stave off the bitter cold, they recited. Through insistently angry winds, Arthur Miller read selections from his play DEATH OF A SALESMEN that had premiered at the Morosco; Martha Scott read from OUR TOWN the play that brought her stardom in 1938; and Jason Robards joined Colleen Dewhurst for selections from LONG DAY’S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT.

Megan was entranced. She had been an ardent fan of Colleen Dewhurst since she was nine, seeing her in MOON FOR THE MISBEGOTTEN at the Morosco in which she portrayed Josie the grotesque giantess. Megan hadn’t thought she was grotesque at all; she was incandescent. Only her talent was gigantic. Now some of the other greatest living theatre giants were assembled beside her here on 45th Street. Megan was certain the ghosts of past actors and playwrights mingled with the living, empowering them through mystical forces as they still haunted the stage with their presence.

On and on into the night she and hundreds of others stood huddled beside one another, their only warmth derived from the fires they had lit in trash cans. Around 2 a.m. Megan tore herself away long enough to phone home.

She woke her brother Zack from a sound sleep. What time is it? he asked groggily.

I called to tell you I’m not coming home tonight.

Uh-huh. Who’s the guy?

There’s a bunch of them, including Arthur Miller, Jason Robards and Christopher Reeve. I’m at the all-night readings in Times Square.

Don’t freeze off your patooties down there, sister dear.

Megan stamped her feet to keep the blood circulating. Tell Mrs. Claridge for me, okay?

Why bother, she’s already feeling no pain, three sheets to the wind. See you. Zack yawned then hung up.

Through the night seven Pulitzer Prize winning plays were read. In the morning Joe Papp, bleary-eyed and hoarse, announced the vigil had not been in vain; they had won a temporary reprieve.

From March 12th through March 22nd the performances continued every evening and after theatre hours.

Now this theatrical history was over. Megan could hardly believe it had all happened in just two weeks. Each day of the protest was jammed with events, readings, speeches, rallies and musical selections. Sadly it had all come to nothing. The fateful day everyone dreaded had sadly arrived and the final legal word had just come down: the last stay issued by Justice Thurgood Marshall had been lifted and the demolition had begun.

Joe Papp stood by the barricade looking like a rumpled, weary modern-day Don Quixote. Don’t let Koch forget this, he shouted through the bullhorn supplied by the policeman standing nearby. The Caterpillar and Mack trucks parked alongside the site suddenly swung into action as the bulldozer continued to destroy the precious theatrical heritage he had labored so valiantly to preserve. Let them hear our voices at City Hall and all over the Goddamn world!

Suddenly inspired, Megan began shouting, NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN! SHAME ON KOCH! until the rest of the crowd joined in the chant and Joe Papp refused to give up. Indomitable to the end, he played his last protest card. The Supreme Court has lifted the stay so we shall carry out our act of disobedience. Trespass on these properties across the street as an act of anger and love. Those who are prepared to be arrested, move across the street. The bagpipes will be played as we occupy the site. The police will send in arresting officers. Anybody who wants to leave can leave. Let your conscience be your guide. We have few opportunities to do something that’s important for this city.

As a counterpoint to Papp’s announcement, policemen used their bullhorns to caution the crowd, Anyone coming onto this site will be arrested.

Megan was the first to cross the barricade. As the picket signs swayed and Actor’s Equity and AFTRA banners waved; as the bagpipes mournfully played, as video cameras rolled tape to record it all for posterity and as cameras clicked off candid shots, Megan led the crowd onto the bricks and rubble of the adjoining empty lot which was once the Bijou Theater. Now it was a grim forecaster of what was in store for the Morosco. It was a fantastically exhilarating feeling! Megan felt like King Henry rallying his troops at Agencourt, or Saint Joan leading her army into battle. She would fight for the cause no matter what the cost, and in this case, the cost would be her arrest.

As soon as Megan had led the crowd onto the demolition site they had officially broken the law and the policemen moved in on them. You’re under arrest, Miss, a cop told her, grabbing her arm and escorting her toward the waiting police van. One by one the demonstrators were herded into the van. As it filled up, Colleen Dewhurst grabbed the bullhorn from Papp and began serenading them with the old song I’LL BE SEEING YOU. Within moments, Tammy Grimes, Richard Gere and Susan Sarandon had joined in, all creating an impromptu quartet until they were also herded into the next police van.

These are heroes. Modern heroes, someone shouted from the crowd.

Do we get our choice of precincts? a protester jokingly inquired.

I’m afraid not, the police driver politely replied, ignoring the crowd’s hostility.

Sirens blared as the van proceeded on its two-minute ride to the Midtown North Precinct. Within half an hour Megan was among the ranks of an interesting array of two hundred fellow criminals. Included among them were theatre celebrities, theatre fans and other fledgling theatre student hopefuls. They were all soon to be issued a pink summons after which they were all released pending court appearances the following month.

Outside the precinct, newspaper reporters and photographers awaited them, anxious to inquire how they felt about being arrested for a cause. Although Megan wasn’t interviewed she stood beside Christopher Reeve who told a reporter, In the future this isn’t going to happen. If it does, we’ll be left with no soul in this city. She also happened to be among a string of celebrity demonstrators simultaneously exiting the precinct. Consequently, she had her picture taken with Anne Meara, Jason Robards, Jose Ferrer and Lauren Bacall. Megan hoped the photo might appear in tomorrow’s newspaper.

Their walk back to the protest site was jovial and Joe Papp kept everyone’s spirits at a high level. Megan walked briskly behind him, not wanting to miss one militant moment of the experience. When they arrived back at 45th Street, spontaneous cheers rose up from the crowd still assembled behind the barricade. Hastily prepared placards, FREE THE MOROSCO 200 bounced among the protesters like victory banners.

Our pink badge of courage, Joe Papp shouted, proudly pointing to the summons he had pinned onto his coat lapel. Another cheer rose up as Megan did likewise, then everyone followed suit. She felt proud to be part of it all, with Joe Papp as their leader, defeated yet undaunted. Thank you, he said acknowledging the crowd’s support. You groundlings have been magnificent, just like the old Globe Theatre….

…Although the last hand had finally been played, the final drama was yet to come. Like pipers of old marching in the forefront of an impending massacre, the bagpipers began to play their farewell tune as the funeral ceremony began.

Dusk was falling. The offending bulldozers, their destruction already well underway, had shut down for the night. Cement dust, the after-effect of their devastation, coated the air with its blinding clouds. The crowd stood in solemn observance as one by one the actors took the stage for the last time to deliver their personal eulogies for the two doomed theatres. They all told touching, charming, amusing stories of their time spent working the Morosco and Helen Hayes and of their fellow actors who had shared those experiences and each tale told was tinged with either joy or sadness. All the while, the dummy corpse in effigy lay beside their feet, its presence reminding them they were presiding at a wake and each was sharing a private remembrance about the dear departed. For almost an hour, stellar stars and journeymen actors alike, many with tears in their eyes, shared their recollections with the deeply sympathetic, attentive crowd.

Dusk turned to darkness, transforming the figures assembled into dark shadowy presences. Joe Papp took the microphone and announced it was time for the final speaker to make the closing comments. The crowd stirred, curious to discover who had been selected for this most noble task. Then a man emerged from the sidelines and started climbing the rickety wood plank stairs.

He was thin and bareheaded, wearing a long dark overcoat. With darkness encroaching, at first Megan found it hard to see who he was but she noticed his regal manner. As he walked across the makeshift stage the portable spotlights suspended across the tenting above his head switched on, dramatically punctuating his entrance. Excited whispers and murmurs spread through the crowd as they suddenly realized who it was. Richard Allen. That not only seemed improbable, it was remarkable. Richard Allen never made impromptu personal appearances. There was a saying in the theatre, Even God pays to see Richard Allen! He never had a press agent, rarely appeared at public gatherings and refused to lend his name to any charity event. Over the years his fame had become enhanced by this reclusive tendency so that now it surrounded him with an invaluably priceless aura and mystique. Megan was just as curious as everyone else. She regretted she had never seen him act but knew that many of his more recent performances were on European stages. Although she attended the theatre faithfully and frequently – ushering for Off-Broadway, twofers and standing room on Broadway – Richard Allen had rarely performed in New York. Her acting teacher had told her Allen’s legendary Broadway performance in 1973 as Shylock in THE MERCHANT OF VENICE had been a watershed portrayal and she wished she had seen it. Megan was only fourteen then, but she was convinced it would have been a lasting memory if she had. She stared at him now, observing his chiseled features and charismatic persona.

Joe Papp handed him the microphone and Richard Allen approached center stage. In a voice barely audible, he began. Theatricide, he stated. With this single word, stillness instantly washed over the crowd and the proverbial pin could have dropped. Theatricide, he repeated, a decibel higher this time as he drew in his audience, insidiously commanding their total attention. He made a sweeping liquid gesture toward the dummy corpse lying wrapped in sheets at his feet. This is a most fitting analogy, is it not? he asked, his voice rich with irony. I feel like Marc Antony standing beside the corpse of Julius Caesar except that I have not come to bury the Morosco Theatre but to praise it. With this as his theme, Allen continued much as Marc Antony might have. Perhaps the plan to erect a fifty-story hotel on the site where a great majestic theatre once stood was conceived by honorable men. Perhaps. Yet this is the tragic result. A tragedy real estate developers might cloak in the guise of progress and will proceed with in the name of improvement, for indeed are they not honorable men? By now Richard Allen had the crowd enthralled. If he had asked them to march on City Hall, The White House or the Kremlin, they all would have done it. I last appeared at the Morosco in 1973, he continued, when I was performing in THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. I know many others have taken this stage to praise the theatre’s marvelous acoustics, its intimacy, the fact it was an architectural treasure deserving of landmark status, so I shall not reiterate those points. I have come here tonight to tell you about the theatre’s heart. We have lost a pearl of great price, dear friends.

As Richard Allen continued speaking the crowd grew increasingly reverential. But despite Megan’s initial thrill regarding Allen’s appearance, she now had very different emotions. She felt he had cast an offensive pall over everything by pointing up their profound loss. Suddenly the heady excitement of the TV cameras, the cheers of the supportive crowd, the banner brigade, even the elation of being arrested for a worthy cause had all been deflated and replaced by grim, cold, irrevocable facts. During this swift descent back to reality, Megan realized everything was now gone. Theatrical history had been wiped out and all the theatre ghosts had been evicted. Now all that remained was the bloody corpse on stage, cement dust, dirt, rubble and crumbling mortar. Richard Allen’s arrival bore witness to all this, almost as if he had been its harbinger and Megan resented him for having caused it.

As Megan pondered this thought, her housekeeper, Mrs. Claridge’s old phrase Too much birthday, popped into her head. How odd to think of that, but maybe that was it. The day had held far too much excitement and expectation which had all turned sour. Maybe it had made her want to kill the messenger because of the message? Whatever the reason, she did not like Richard Allen. Granted, her feeling might seem illogical or juvenile, but her dislike was intense and pervasive. She soon found herself so caught within it; she barely heard his parting words to the crowd.

As Richard Allen completed his closing comments he seemed visibly moved. Yes, perhaps the answer is that good men have lost their reason. Because they have, now all our hearts are in the rubble there, along with all our memories.

The applause of the crowd as Allen exited the stage was both enthusiastic and respectful. But Megan did not applaud. Instead, she kept her hands shoved deeply inside her coat pockets.

She would not applaud Richard Allen.

Not now, not ever!

###

Although most of the participants in the SAVE THE THEATRE protests had been there out of dedication, at least one person was there out of desperation. For Miroslav Vierti, the rubble of the Bijou Theatre adjacent to the Morosco was his home and the ongoing protests proved fortuitous. Each night half-eaten MacDonald’s burgers, bags with crumpled donuts, half-filled coffee cups, Chinese take-out and other culinary delights filled the garbage cans along 45th Street from Broadway to Eighth Avenue, turning the street into a moveable feast.

To Miroslav, homelessness and hunger were relatively new. He had survived his first winter on the street and despite distressed circumstances he still believed the dubious myth that the streets of New York were potentially paved with gold. After all, were not American celebrities more valuable than gold? Where else could a homeless illegal alien from Czechoslovakia rub elbows with Lauren Bacall and Christopher Reeve? Bogie’s girl and Superman! They were famous show biz icons as recognizable as the religious icons on his mother’s bedroom wall and he had stood right next to both of them!

Each night Miroslav watched and listened to the theatrical demonstrations, basking in the largess of food and celebrity they engendered. Sadly, tonight he had observed its conclusion so he was aware his meals would now become drastically reduced. Earlier he had watched the construction workers turn off their bulldozers and pack it in for the day. Pack it in he repeated to himself, amused and fascinated by this quaint American slang he was rapidly learning. When evening fell, the crisp air turned cold again as he watched the demonstrators disperse. As the carpenters dismantled the portable stage he observed each step of the process. First they rolled up and removed the tent, then the corpse effigy was carried away, then the spotlights were pulled down and the piano was hoisted onto a truck. The last remnants of what might be classified as militant street theatre had disappeared from 45th Street.

As Miroslav watched he remembered the juggler he had seen perform in the streets of Prague when he was a boy. That performance had been his first true taste of theatre and it embodied all that is magical. Subsequently when Miroslav learned the juggler had been arrested as a dissident and executed, it was his first realization that a theatrical career might yield harsh penalties.

Evening had turned into night and now Miroslav inspected the garbage cans, disillusioned by their slim pickings. He returned to his spot beside the rubble to take a nap. He awoke at 1 p.m. in time to panhandle the crowds leaving the theatres. After half an hour he had only managed to take in ninety-five cents. So far, it had been a real shitty night. He was considering switching over to Eighth Avenue when he noticed a figure moving toward him through the rapidly thinning crowd. Someone he knew? As the person came closer, Miroslav realized it wasn’t anyone he knew, but someone from the protest demonstration. Miroslav quickly extended his paper cup as he nodded in the direction of the rubble. Too bad, eh? Now it’s all over.

Yes, that’s right, his companion agreed. It is all over.

A momentary silence fell as they stood beside one another, each seeming to share an experience. Miroslav noticed his companion’s curious glance toward the flattened corrugated boxes that lay atop the crumpled debris. Come see, he said, eager to display his ingenuity. Above his corrugated mattress he had constructed a layer of blankets by cleverly notching newspapers together. A crate served as a table on which he had collected discarded fast food utensils. This is good, right? By now, the theatre crowd had dispersed and the street had grown momentarily empty. Miroslav watched his companion’s face take on a twisted troubled expression. You okay? he asked but received no answer. He watched something be removed from an inside pocket and hoped it might be money. A dollar bill, maybe? Miroslav quickly realized it wasn’t money. He glanced toward the hand holding the sharp shiny object. What’s that?

It’s a dagger. A dagger from the dummy.

Miroslav recalled the corpse effigy covered with daggers. Oh yeah, from the stage.

That’s right. I took it.

Miroslav understood the human need for souvenirs. Once again he recalled the juggler he had seen on the streets of Prague long ago, his brilliantly colored sticks moving rhythmically above his head. They looked like a rainbow magically descending from the sky. As a little boy he had coveted those sticks and prayed the juggler would drop one within his reach. You want to keep?

No, I want to give it to you, said his companion, moving closer.

As Miroslav felt the dagger blade pierce his chest and puncture his heart, he let out one cry of excruciating pain. Why? he gasped, then slipped to the ground. He saw the face of his killer bending over him, eyes suddenly possessed. He heard his murderer’s voice whisper in his ear. To bait fish. To feed my revenge. I must have my bond. They were the last words he would ever hear but they made no sense to him. His murderer repeated them, those words that seemed so meaningless. Then his own voice somewhere inside his own head joined in to announce the irony of the fact: he, Miroslav Vierti was about to pack it in forever. As he listened to these dual tauntings, he looked above his murderer’s head and saw the colored neon lights flashing from the building across the street. They looked like brilliantly colored rainbow sticks magically descending from the sky.

It was the last thing Miroslav Vierti ever saw.

He was dead long before his bloody flesh was crudely hacked away and dumped upon the rubble. The message MS6485 and the word MARLEY laid scrawled in blood beside discarded newspapers.

2

WASHINGTON D.C. 1969

Drew Reynolds sat in his office nervously awaiting the arrival of Professor Adrian Montieth. As Assistant Director of the Shakespeare Folger Library, Reynolds’ job helping to supervise the repository of the world’s greatest collection of Shakespeareana was, for the most part, an exciting and rewarding one; except for those uncomfortable occasions when he was called upon to dismiss someone. This was most especially true when that person was a scholar of the highest rank with impeccable research credentials: namely, Professor Adrian Montieth.

Montieth had been on the staff as a cataloguer for four years, a position for which Reynolds duly acknowledged he was highly overqualified. The professor had served the library well until recently when persistent complaints of his progressively disturbing behavior began to surface. Initial grievances were minor, including his dozing amid the stacks but shortly thereafter far more serious complaints followed. Over coffee, Montieth had begun to carry on wildly erratic conversations with his fellow researchers that often culminated in his violent unprovoked outbursts. However, not until this week when Montieth had submitted an article on Shakespeare scholarship did Reynolds actually realize how drastically the old man’s mental capacities had deteriorated.

Over the years Drew Reynolds had been called upon to read and judge hundreds of controversial Shakespeare theories rendered by hosts of scholars, all of whom refused to believe that a poorly educated glover’s son from the small town of Stratford whose only claim to fame was that he became a second-rate actor, could possibly have written the canon of plays history ascribes to the man known as William Shakespeare. It wasn’t at all surprising these alternate theories existed, considering intense exhaustive research by legions of historians over four centuries had failed to add one jot to the meager collection of facts surrounding this Elizabethan mystery man. There are no documents in his handwriting, not even a letter. There are only six signatures in crude shaky script, causing some to wonder if he could actually write at all. There is no actual evidence of any schooling; no original manuscripts of any of his plays; no mention of any plays in his will; no ownership of books or any other literary material mentioned in his will either (although he had painstakingly disposed of his personal belongings in minute detail.) The only written reference to his death comes from his son-in-law, John Hall, a Stratford doctor when in his diary he notes, My father-inlaw died on Thursday. Admittedly, a pitifully scant memoriam for the world’s greatest literary genius. Small wonder the majority of material written about William Shakespeare is less than theory and more accurately pure supposition — prefaced by no doubt; we can only assume; may have been; probably was; it is fair to imagine: almost certainly; presumably; and a host of perhapses. This speculation has spawned a myriad of symbiotic Shakespeare Industries, not the least of which was Stratford Upon Avon itself. At times it seemed scholarship would drown in perhapses. Oxfordians argue the plays were actually written by The Earl of Oxford, while others present strong evidence for Sir Walter Raleigh or Queen Elizabeth. Many other respected scholars believe the plays were written by Sir Francis Bacon, a member of the Rosicrucians, who encoded them with secret ciphers and cryptograms. Revisionist Shakespeare theories were only rivaled in number by revisionist theories of the universe by those considering the creation of the Bard’s literary canon as the single most inspired deed of mankind. In the past two hundred years while Godlike Bardolatry mushroomed on one hand, the ranks of disbelievers swelled on the other, all offering their persuasive and scholarly arguments to refute the man from Stratford’s claim. To date, the Authorship Question had spawned over 10,000 volumes. Literary scholars now ran the risk of being crushed by their weight as each year the floodgates of dissent opened wider to deposit even more contenders onto an already overcrowded playing field.

Nevertheless, Drew Reynolds knew true scholarship must always maintain an open mind to hitherto undiscovered knowledge, lest it fall victim to indolence, choosing to remain tied to an idea to which one has a vested interest. Yet giving Professor Montieth’s theory the broadest latitude based on his extraordinary credentials, Reynolds still could not bring himself to take one word of it seriously. If anything, it was conclusive evidence of the old man’s degenerative state, rendered all the more disturbing because Montieth’s treatise was not actually an alternative Shakespeare theory at all. It did not question Shakespeare’s authorship but rather sought to verify it through a series of events too improbable to be seriously considered. And Montieth had included a vague insinuation of his nonsensical theory within the latest volume of The Stratfordian Quarterly, a fact that inexcusably escaped the editors.

Reynolds retrieved the folder resting on his desk and leafed through what he had read in detail the night before. It had been difficult for him to comprehend the phantasmagoria Montieth had strung together using the somewhat disjointed components of magic, alchemy, William Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe and John Dee in order to produce this volatile alchemical compound of preposterous confusion. Could Montieth actually harbor hopes of having this entire thing published? Even in a world filled with perhapses, such conclusions would be ridiculed.

Drew Reynolds truly felt sorry for the old man whose star had fallen so dramatically. The professor had possessed a truly exciting scholarly mind, whose years of foraging through hopelessly oblique Elizabethan texts had always yielded up some degree of originality and brilliance. He had contributed immeasurable knowledge to his chosen field through a series of scholarly treatises quite unlike the ludicrous meanderings that now lay upon Reynold’s desk. What had happened to cause this downswing? The onslaught of senility? Judging from Montieth’s personnel file, he had a short period of absence four years earlier due to the death of his wife. He no longer had family who might help pinpoint the beginnings of his mental deterioration and that was also the time he chose to accept the job of cataloguer. Perhaps the sudden death of his beloved spouse combined with the onslaught of dementia, caused him to take this less demanding job.

As Reynolds pondered this, his secretary buzzed the intercom signaling Montieth’s arrival. Straightening the files on his desk, he prepared himself for the thankless task at hand.

###

Adrian Montieth sat quietly outside Drew Reynold’s office. His thin wisps of gray hair, sallow complexion, faded watery gray eyes, combined with his frayed gray trousers, the tattered cuffs of his tweed jacket and down-at-heel dry cracked leather shoes made him appear as if he had been conceived, raised and lived out his entire existence within the bowels of a research library, gaining his only sustenance from the dusty stacks of antique books, dog-eared folders and disintegrating leather folios. Stooped and bowed, waiting to be announced, he stared down at the ground, focusing on the intricately detailed pattern ingeniously woven into the red, brown and beige wools on the carpet.

On the carpet. Was that why he had been called here? Called on the carpet for some reason? Montieth desperately tried to organize his thoughts. On the carpet is a colloquialism. No, a colloquialism is an informal manner of speech. If not colloquy, was it soliloquy? Hamlet’s soliloquy perhaps? No, on the carpet was a slang expression. Slumping down into the easy chair, he began to reason it out. Not the carpet, the paper, it was something regarding his research paper. He sighed, relieved he had tracked the thought to its source; a task becoming increasingly difficult.

Until recently, Professor Montieth’s thoughts had always proceeded in a linear manner and even his stream of consciousness could be traced back to the original seed source. He was unaccustomed to the disturbing disjointedness his mind now generated, leading him on his daily Don Quixotish quest for one clear pure thought, one flickering light within the long dark tunnel of befuddlement and confusion. He stoically accepted most of the inevitable changes of old age: creaky swollen painful joints, erratic sleeping patterns, malfunctioning bowels and internal organs, plus a large degree of cantankerous behavior; but he realized he now suffered from a far grosser form of deterioration which mercilessly attacked his mental capacity. This was far too cruel a price for one who had devoted his entire life to honing and refining the clarity of thought. Even in his youth, Montieth revered a well-turned phrase over a well-turned ankle. As a young man he had learned Greek, Latin, Arabic, Sanskrit and any other archaic language that promised to gain him proximity to original thought, unbastardized by even the most sensitive translations. How ironic to now grasp for the simplest of meanings. A meaning for what? He had forgotten. On the carpet? No, he had solved that Herculean problem so what was this random, yet uncatalogued wisp of information?

If the professor could be accused of any vanity, it was the pride he took in his knowledge. He was an incurable, inveterate collector of information. Whereas art connoisseurs might chase the globe rooting through villas in Milan or castles in Rajastan tracing down that rare objet d’art, Professor Montieth had labored through book stalls, research libraries, infinite catalogues, limitless manuscripts, cavernous archives, not to mention endless foreign flea markets and numerous private collections; the nether world of knowledge throughout the globe in his tireless search for hitherto undiscovered Shakespeariana. Indeed, his lifelong quest had been suitably rewarded and had become the backbone of his entire Shakespeare Theory.

A momentary panic gripped him. Had he included all the salient information within his submission to Drew Reynolds? Of course, he must have. But had he emphasized its extreme importance? Had he supplied sufficient notations and cross-referenced the marginal notes? Had he footnoted all his marginal notes? Yes, the notes within the margin were often the key. He could recall his own days as a youthful scholar coming upon a printed text containing notes inked along the margins by some unknown reader and wondering by what divination or alchemy that reader presumed to know more than the author himself. Magical alchemy was the key to it all. Ancient magic was timeless and irrevocable. Yes, magic held the key to everything! Unlike his predecessors who dealt in inane speculation, only he had proof, hard facts to back up his authentic discoveries. Alternate theories proposed by shoddy scholars abounded, each proposing a more unlikely candidate. Every 16th Century wannabe with a quill and an inkpot had been sited, selected and wedged into the Shakespeare mold. Every aspiring Elizabethan who trudged the filthy lanes of Shoreditch to hang out his soiled linens was a candidate. Every Englishman with a pismire of writing talent had been anointed with the honor…a mere pismire of piss pot talent…every snot-nosed ragamuffin scribbler…every shit pants mealymouthed student without a pot to piss in or a place to hang his filthy linens. But where were his linens? Had he been keeping up with his laundry? No, bags of it were piled by the back door, the stench of it seeping into the corridor. Abigail always took care of that, but now she was gone and he was alone…all alone –yes, that was her favorite song All alone by the telephone, all alone, feeling blue. Yes he alone had the answers, the true evidence of Will’s creations. Wondering where you are and how you are, and if you are all alone, too…

The buzz of an intercom caused Professor Montieth to marshal his thoughts. Trying to hide the onslaught of panic overtaking him, he took several deep breaths. Yes, that would bring the oxygen back to the brain and revitalize the brain cells; those cells which had now become his enemy and were in conspiracy against him, one part of himself attacking the rest but worse than cancer since this was the cancerous destruction of thought. He realized the list of things he could no longer do properly grew daily. He did not recognize many of his friends, he did not go out at night, he forgot to shut off his TV and appliances. Often, he did not answer the phone. Alone at night within a darkened house he would find himself eating strange things out of cans he did not remember buying. He would eat castoffs from the kitchen garbage because he feared going into supermarkets where all the aisles looked alike and he could not fathom his escape. In recent months he could not recognize his own handwriting, thus concluding his notes had been written by a stranger. At times when he looked at himself in the mirror, the face of Adrian Montieth seemed eerily foreign which made him feel desperately alienated. Evidently he was no longer the center of his own world. Dementia due to Alzheimers. He did not need a doctor’s pronouncement to know that, yet he stubbornly and fiercely tried holding onto his last shreds of dignity and independence. But the mental quicksand was constantly rising, miring him in it more each day. Of late, his erratic behavior had become startlingly repetitive and he had developed disturbing fetishes and mannerisms that led him to fear he had become too diminished to ever hope for future worthwhile reasoning. Thus he concluded it would be best to give over all his discoveries to the Folger while he still had the mental capacity to do so.

Dr. Reynolds will see you now, The secretary gestured toward him. Professor, you may go in."

Slowly, her voice began to register and Montieth spent a few moments maneuvering out of the upholstered chair and subsequently shuffled into Drew Reynold’s office. Almost instantly, he spied his research file resting on top of several other files on the desk and momentary clarity returned. I assume you have read it, he said with anticipation.

Reynolds sincerely regretted the conversation had begun so pointedly. He had hoped to ease into what was sure to be an awkward unpleasant interchange. Now there could be no circumvention or delay as he heard the old man’s next obvious question quickly follow.

What did you think of it?

Reynolds noted the pathetic expectancy in Montieth’s voice. Damn, he wouldn’t be allowed to skirt the issue even for a moment. Please sit down, Professor.

Professor Montieth perched precariously on the edge of a russet suede swivel chair, his drab disheveled figure a noticeable counterpoint to the polished woods and oiled leathers and stared with embarrassing anticipation. Drew Reynolds cleared his throat, desperately searching for a tactful phrase that might also embody a degree of truth. Recalling the painful confusion of the professor’s text, he tried to select some salient points, although crudely established, distinctly intriguing. It’s quite an original concept. I have never heard John Dee put forth as Shakespeare’s mentor. Your speculation that William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe both actually studied with Dee is certainly unique.

No it is not speculation, Montieth corrected, consolidating his wavering mental energy toward a single thought. As you know, Dr. John Dee was Queen Elizabeth’s astrologer and personal magus. The magio scientific element is key to the entire mystery of the curse.

Dr. Reynolds winced. The legendary curse on Shakespeare’s tombstone was of far more interest to schoolboys than scholars. Various theories abounded pertaining to that, too: the curse was placed there because Shakespeare didn’t want his bones moved to the charnel house, or he didn’t want to be reburied in Westminster Abbey, or he didn’t want his wife buried alongside him, etc. Most legitimate researchers took none of these speculations seriously, all doubting Shakespeare actually wrote the pathetic poetic warning.

Oh yes, Professor Montieth continued, his voice charged with the passion instilled by his momentary clarity. The curse is vital to solving the entire mystery. The clues lay in the words of the playwrights themselves. All one need do is read between the lines: Prospero drowning his books, Dr. Faustus burning his. There is magic in the books. Then of course, the library at Mortlake was destroyed which proves things conclusively. And the twenty-four years; exactly twenty-four from his arrival in London until his death. Surely that is the final proof.

Montieth’s fervent attempt at lucidity subsided and he noticed Reynold’s pitying glance. Had he been rambling? Babbling? Had