SHAXSPER

St John’s College,

Senior Common Room

Thursday evening, after dinner

 

Joy Crayle, Brianna di Palma, Juliette Lewes, Cyril Hubert, Neddy Shorts, and HarryT Roper are walking back down Castle Hill. Their dinner at the Diwan-I-Am has been a huge success – everyone is well-fed and most are somewhat tipsy. The evening is still young – not yet 9:30 – and they are interested in some further rest-and-relaxation.

 

Arriving at the St John’s Porters’ Lodge, Neddy Shorts went ahead to ask the man at the desk if there are any messages. In the usual officious way, the porter on duty looks him over, asking “And, who, exactly, are you, sir ?” It is a scene that is repeated again and again when college porters take their come-uppance on Johnny-come-latelys, gently reminding them that they are the insiders and that Johnny is a non-entity in the firmament of college life.

 

“I’m Professor Shorts. I’m here, with these colleagues, attending Professor Sir Peter Schofield’s seminar.”

 

As usual, establishing one’s bona fides is enough to get the porter to back down. Neddy’s mention of Professor Sir Peter does the trick. The man in black retreats from his supercilious airs.

 

“Yes, sir, of course. I think you and your company will find Professor Sir Peter is presiding over an informal gathering in the senior common room.”

 

“Where is that ?”

 

“Follow me, sir. It’s a bit complicated to describe the route you need to take and so it’s much easier for me to lead you there.”

 

The six raggle-taggle academics follow the straight-backed man in black. For more than one hundred years, college porters have been hired after having retired from either the police or the military. Almost all of them had been non-commissioned officers, who had risen through the ranks. Such men – and, lately, women – were likely to be obedient, deferential, and rule-bound. They made perfect watch-dogs.

 

Reaching the third staircase in the second court, the porter tells the group to go up to the first floor [what North Americans would more usually call the second floor] and take the door on the right.

 

Having left the porter behind at the foot of the staircase, HarryT grumbles quite audibly, “Those guys always try to put you in your place. It’s a kind of little man’s disease – my father told me of a similar instance he had experienced in the 1970s when he was travelling behind the Iron Curtain. Border guards, policemen, and hotel flunkeys always made sure that they pissed on your shoes and that you saw them do it. These college porters always do the same thing – I guess that you can take the boys out of the Empire but you just can’t take the Empire out of the boy.”

 

No one was really pays much heed to his rant. Neddy Shorts leads the group up the staircase and through the door. The sight of a drinks-table, weighed down with college claret, promises much more excitement than a bit of HarryT’s predictable BritBashing.

 

Inside the senior common room, there is already a small group gathered around Professor Sir Peter. He has been regaling them with stories of his early days when he had been a tutor to one of the royals. Professor Sir Peter haa a large stock-in-trade of such yarns. He is a mesmerizing story-teller, whose accounts only grow more ribald when he has had a few cocktails.

 

“So good of you chaps to join us. We all know one another so there’s no need for introductions. [Motioning to the bartender positioned behind the drinks table] Casper, here, will supply you with just about anything you’d care to imbibe. He makes an excellent dry martini, I can attest to that. I will drink Casper’s concoction whenever I get the chance – after dinner as well as before.”

 

The dinner-gang is putting forward their requests for drinks. At the end of the line, Neddy Shorts has button-holed Joy Crayle and is talking excitedly to her. A tall, thin man – Dr Andrew Tucker of Bristol University – sidles up to them.

 

“So sorry that I missed out on your dinner. [Looking at Joy Crayle] Where did Neddy take you ?”

 

“We went to an out-of-the-way Indian restaurant called Diwan-I-Am. It was an inspired choice. Have you heard of it ?”

 

“Oh, yes. I was there two nights ago with some of my ancient colleagues from days gone by. Did you know that I did my doctorate here with Professor Sir Peter ? I was one of his first supervisees back in the time when he was switching from Orthodox Stratfordianism to the Oxford camp. My thesis has been published in dribs-and-drabs. Sooner (or later, alas !) I will get it published. I’m going to be discussing some unpublished parts on Saturday morning.”

 

“So, you’re in the final session on the publication history of the First Folio.”

 

“Indeed, so. I don’t want to give away too much more of what I have to say before tomorrow but I am sure that you can pretty much guess my line from the pre-circulated paper.”

 

“It was a very interesting discussion of the peculiarities in the way that the plays have been dated. Your argument fits with the general unease we all have about the chronology of Oxford’s life.”

 

“I agree with Joy because I still find it completely baffling that so little documentation exists regarding Oxford’s personal life. I mean, there is almost nothing beyond what is to be found in the Cecil archive. No letters between Oxford and his wife – or vice versa – and practically nothing else that even discusses the man. Apart from the famous anecdote about Oxford breaking wind in Queen Elizabeth’s presence, nothing else seems to have escaped what looks to me to be a pretty thorough cleansing of the Tudor and early Stuart papers.”

 

“Neddy, that story about Oxford’s famous fart always gets trotted out by the same people who want to credit the Arundell/Howard Libels. I understand their slant but what I simply don’t see is why the archives should be so barren. I’ve resisted your suggestion that the archives have been cleansed of references to Oxford but, really, I can’t see any other explanation for his near-invisibility. What we learn has more to do with an invented personality than the real man.”

 

“Do you mind if I join in on your discussion ?” The man asking this question is Tim Brooksby.

 

“By all means, we’re not a secret society. What we are talking about is the near-invisibility of Oxford in the historical record.”

 

“Of course. It’s a problem that’s especially acute in the last fifteen years of his life. After his comedic performance in the Armada campaign, he really does go walkabout, as the Aussies like to say. What we get are a few sightings, well spaced but not really evidence of any sustained activity, either in public or in his private life.”

 

“That’s been my impression, too. The Timmer’s put his finger on a weakness in the claims for the Oxfordian argument. Claims for Edward de Vere’s authorship are largely based on inferences from the earlier part of his life which is much better documented.   This is especially so in the Ogburns’s This Star of England. It’s as if we have evidence from his biography for the authorship from before about 1588 and then silence in the period when most of the works were supposedly written. It’s a real puzzle for us.”

 

“The more I listen to the claims and counter-claims from each side – and from both sides now – the more I’m discomforted by a deeper, lurking presence. It’s like an elephant in the room.”
“What do you mean, Joy ?”

 

“It’s what Juliette called the Mobius Circle. Do you know about that concept ?”

 

“I missed your dinner tonight but I was the external examiner for Juliette’s thesis and she mentioned it at that time. She uses the metaphor of the Mobius Circle to describe how some critics and commentators try to understand the poet/playwright from the smidgins of biographical detail – and vice versa.   It’s a terribly beguiling proposition but I think it’s one of those temptations we have to refuse.”

 

“I completely agree with you, Tim, and I like your little word-play on the cliché about resisting anything but temptation. But I have felt the force of her argument more strongly since I re-read Looney’s seminal biographical treatment. What Looney did was brilliant – rather than taking the man and making his biography fit the work, he devised an indentikit personality and then researched through the D.N.B. to determine who corresponded best with that profile. Of course, one could do the same think the other way round – one could look at all the claimants and try to determine which one’s biography most closely dovetailed with the works but that method only leads one back into the Mobius Maze.”

 

“I was also struck by that methodological mystification when I was listening to Juliette’s comments this afternoon You know, I recall looking into the connections between Kit Marlowe and de Vere and it became apparent to me that we know as little about Marlowe as we do about The Bard – William Shakespeare – whoever he might have been. What we are all assuming is that there are direct connections between historical actors and the words they have put into the mouths of protagonists. This is certainly the case with the Oxfordian reading of Hamlet’s protagonist and Edward de Vere’s biography. As you said, the Ogburns really go overboard in this way.’

 

Neddy Shorts can’t contain himself. “But, equally, we see preposterous Stratfordian claims about Will Shaksper and the Earl of Southampton whereas the documentary record – the actual historical evidence as opposed to the fantastic imaginings of so-called expert scholars who base their claims on not a single shred of documented evidence. And, I should say that Akrigg is actually quite circumspect in his discussion but others, like Rowse, are just out of control. It’s the same in their discussion of the authorship of The Sonnets. Their usual, circular method of reasoning would simply laughed out of court by any historian. The inferences are just so unsubstantiated that one is at a loss how to counter them – rather like pointing out that the Stratfordian emperors are actually quite starkers !”

 

“Well, Neddy, how do we get beyond this lack of evidence ? We’ve already heard some claims made for “conjectural history” but isn’t that just another way of saying that I like some inferences more than others ? Because when we set aside our prejudices, we are left with real epistemological problems. And, most of us don’t have the proper historical training – as opposed to our background in literature – to keep ourselves on the straight and narrow, admitting that there are solid walls of silence in front of us.”

 

“That’s what I think, too, Tim. What makes it so attractive to conjecture, speculate, or fancy-dress our guesses is the enduring fact that, so far as we know, there is no further evidence forthcoming.”

 

“But that’s not the way that historians explain this evidential conundrum to me. One of my colleagues, David Enivel, tells me that historical knowledge is always provisional because there is no such thing as a definitive archive of information. What often seems like an arch of silence often isn’t so sturdily constructed. Therefore our knowledge is provisional because it can come tumbling down when you remove a keystone. Thus, the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls – and then the Gnostic Gospels at Nag Hammadi – radically changed how biblical scholars understood the transition from inter-testamentary Judaism to early Christianity. Similarly, the cracking of the Mayan’s written code created a new understanding of their history.

 

In fact, an even better example of this evidentiary problem is found in Stephen Jay Gould’s book, Wonderful Life. David turned me on to it when we were co-teaching an inter-disciplinary, graduate seminar on “ “interpretation” in the humanities”. Wonderful Life is not something that I would have picked out myself. But it’s just a fascinating read. Who would think that Gould’s discussion of Charles Doolittle Walcott’s discovery of pre-Cambrian fossils in the Burgess Shale of the Rocky Mountains would be so relevant to thinking about historiography ? Walcott’s subsequent attempts to shoehorn his fossil-discoveries into a rather orthodox Darwinian straightjacket is so relevant to the dangers of believing that any historical argument can be “definitive”. Have any of you read that book ? [No one indicates any familiarity with it. They have no clue what The Timmer is talking about.] I’m a huge fan of his writings. Gould was such a clever man – he was so erudite, inventive, and humane. His passing was a real tragedy for intellectual life.”

 

“I actually knew Gould a little bit. I spent a term at Harvard in the late eighties and I met him at a dinner party hosted by mutual friends. Steve was an intellectual omnivore who could turn his mind to any subject and come up with new, unimagined ways of seeing. I just loved discussing baseball statistics with him. His memory for arcane detail was prodigious. It’s always seemed like a great pity to me that I couldn’t interest him in the Shakespeare Authorship Debate. He would have had some very interesting insights into the ways in which the evidence has been misinterpreted – on both sides.”

 

“You know, I think that Neddy has hit on an interesting idea. Perhaps for our next seminar we might invite several non-specialists who are interested in these questions of historical interpretation. Someone like The Timmer’s colleague, David Enivel, might provide us all with ways of seeing ourselves.”

 

“You mean to see ourselves like others see us ? Like Robbie Burns’ “wee slicket cowering beastie” ?”

 

[General giggling]

 

“Aye, a man’s a mouse, for all that !”
Cecil House,

Early morning, May 17, 1593

 

Two men – William Cecil and his son, Robert – are huddled together, chatting quietly.

 

“What are we going to do about this Marlowe ?”

 

“He provides us with a rod to strike the back of Raleigh’s companions. We can unleash Whitgift on Marlowe and I’m sure that he will make the connection back to Sir Walter and the other freethinkers who congregate around him. We’ve done that before and it’s been successful in forcing our opponents to choose our side when confronted with charges of treason or atheism.”

 

“That’s true. That’s why I think we should query Edward on this subject. He has always been a fellow-traveller with all sorts of dubious characters. I’ve asked him to attend us here and I’m expecting him at any time.”

 

A knock on the door interrupts their chat. Edward de Vere enters the room. The three men exchange greetings and William Cecil artfully shifts the subject to the recent birth of Lord Oxford’s son and heir.

 

“Edward, I understand that congratulations are in order.”

 

“Thank you, my Lord. Our little boy, Henry, was born two months ago – on February 24^th. He’s a fine, healthy baby. We have a wet-nurse living in with us in Stratford. She attends to his needs. That woman is a real milch-cow. Henry seems to have doubled in size and weight already. I suppose that the girls have told you about that.”

 

“Yes. Elizabeth told me that she has visited you on several occasions, is that not so ?”

 

“She’s been like a big sister and little mother rolled into one.”

 

“Well, she’s no longer a girl, she’s nearly turned eighteen and I think that we need to get her married.”

 

“Oh. Really ?”

 

“Yes, for some time, I’ve thought that Henry Wriothesley would make a fine match for her.”

 

“Oh. Really ?”

 

“Very much so. These matters are much too important to be left to children. I’ve been trying to convince Henry of this course for several years but he seems adamant in refusing it. He claims he doesn’t want to marry and that he regards Elizabeth as being his sister so that he can’t get beyond the idea that such a match would be incestuous. He’s as obstinate as any young man it’s been my duty to supervise. I’m beginning to think that it will be futile to try and overcome his resistance but I am determined to have my way in this matter so perhaps there is another way of doing that.”

 

“I suppose that he could be dragged to the altar but, as we know, that’s not likely to be a recipe for a happy marriage.”

 

“Too true. Too true. But even if you and Anne didn’t have the happiest marriage, it was successful in yielding three delightful girls. You’ve seen your girls lately ?”

 

“Yes. In fact. The two older girls visit us frequently. Elizabeth has been to our house a couple of times in the last fortnight. As you no doubt are aware, my Lady Elizabeth and I have taken up residence.in a little village on the far side of Stratford – before you reach Hackney – called Stoke Newington. Perhaps you’ve passed by there on your way to Theobalds.”

 

“Err, yes, I do seem to recall such a place but you know that when I am in my carriage, I keep my eyes down on my papers. In fact, I find that if I lift my eyes up from my work then my concentration is broken. So, I’ve disciplined myself to maintain a sharp focus on my duty and I really don’t pay any attention whatsoever to the places we ride through.”

 

“Edward, I’ve stopped there on occasion. There’s a very pleasant inn on the main road where I’ve stopped to take a meal on my way to Theobalds. But the village itself seems quite drab although I’ve only been on the main road. Are there more attractive sights outside the village ?”

 

“Of course. My family has long held a manor house on the Stratford side of Stoke Newington. It’s enclosed in a garden, with flowering fruit trees, and has a lovely vista over the rolling hills to the north-east. Of course, it’s just a bijou compared to your mansion at Theobalds – or even my old home at Castle Hedingham – but, in my reduced state, it suits me very well. I’m actually very happy living a quiet life – such a contrast to the craziness that went on before.

 

You know, I believe, that I am now spending my time writing. New plays and reworking some of the old masques that were previously part of the court’s entertainment. I’ve found that the format of play-writing seems to suit my talents. Do you know the plays of Kit Marlowe ? [no response] Well, in any event, he’s been an inspiration to me. Such a clever lad.”

 

Robert Cecil looked at his father; the old man was smouldering but kept his temper in check. He then responded to de Vere as if the memories of his son-in-law’s reckless ways and reputation for wildness had had no effect which was, of course, not the case.

 

“Yes, to be sure. Edward we all remember that you were a wild and crazy youth. But that reputation was turned to the aid of our cause. And, it’s in the aid of our cause that we’ve asked you to visit us here for a little conversation.”

 

This sounds ominous. Oxford wonders what the old fox was up to next. He doesn’t have to wait long to find out.

 

“I want to know something more about this fellow Christopher Marlowe. You just said that you know him. Isn’t that right ?”

 

“Well, actually, my Lord it’s more accurate to say that I used to know him. Kit Marlowe was one of the band of brothers who frequented my house at Fisher’s Folly. That was nearly ten years ago. No, no, that’s not quite right. Marlowe wasn’t there from the start. He only began to come around a few years after I had taken up residence in Norton Folgate. So, that must have been a couple of years after the ruckus with Arundell and Howard had resulted in the uncovering of the plot involving that desperate young Throgmorton. When was that ?”

 

“1584”

 

“No father, it was in 1583 that we trapped Throgmorton. The next year we began to plot our schemes to trap Mary Stuart herself.”

 

“Quite so. Thank you Robert. My memory of those years is not exactly crystal-clear I have a better memory for people and stories than dates. I rather seem to blend the dates together in my mind’s-eye. I guess that’s what comes of being so old.”

 

“My Lord, you are wise with the years. Details escape us all as we get older – and, besides, it’s only because you have so much in your mind that you might not keep track of it all.”

 

“Yes, that’s quite true. But when I was younger, I was much busier. I could then juggle much more information and keep track of it all. Now, I need Robert to act as my fact-checker. And, as you can see, he does a wonderful job of it.”

 

“Father, you’re being too kind. I am only doing my duty towards you. Now, Edward, let’s get back to Marlowe. Is he trustworthy ?”

 

“Good God, no ! Kit Marlowe is a very naughty boy, Robbie. He’s not like the people you know. For Kit Marlowe, it’s all about living-in-the-now. He’s very bright, engaging, and witty but he’s also completely self-centered. Even more than I was at that age, if you can imagine that.”

 

“That, I do remember. That’s very useful information for us. Thank you. Let’s change the subject. Tell me some more about the girls.”

 

“Well, Elizabeth came to Stoke Newington a week ago Sunday – ten days ago – and she brought Bridgie with her. Susan is still too young to visit us for overnight sleepovers. But Elizabeth and Bridget do like to stay overnight, as you know. Little Bridgie is fast becoming a young lady. Her Latin grammar is surprisingly good for a child of those tender years. My first daughter is now a fine figure of a woman, she’s almost grown up. Elizabeth also has a mind of her own and is very, very stubborn. Rather like I was at that age, I suppose.”

 

“I suppose that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it ?”

 

With that, the pleasantries end. Edward de Vere is ushered out of the room. The Cecils have got their information – what they need to know. Next, they need to put that information to use.

 

William turns to Robert and gives him orders, “Send out word to several other of our commissioners that we have business for the afternoon.” Robert leaves the room, and now alone, William Cecil takes out his well-thumbed Geneva Bible and opens it to the story of Judas’ betrayal.

 

[Several hours have intervened. Now, we are in a larger, public room in Cecil House]

 

Several men, all dressed in black, are hanging on William Cecil’s every word. These are his crew, assembled for a very specific purpose. It’s not a random gathering – Archbishop Whitgift is here representing the forces of religious orthodoxy; Burghley’s protégé, Sir Edward Coke, has been called upon to provide legal advice; the shadowy William Wade, William Cecil’s long-time ‘fixer” is also in attendace along with Sir Michael Blount, Lord Lieutenant of the Tower; and Charles Howard, Lord Admiral of England, and the hero of the Armada’s defeat at sea. Somewhat surprisingly, Robert Devereux has also been invited to participate in the meeting. Devereux, Earl of Essex, is a rising star and is now the rival-favourite, challenging Raleigh’s position with Elizabeth. William Cecil is covering all his bases. He wants to assemble a united front so that his own particular interests can’t be easily sussed from the purpose of the meeting.

 

“Gentlemen, I have asked you here today – on very short notice, I’m afraid – because I think that we are all interested in ferreting out atheism, whenever and wherever it raises its ugly head. Blasphemers – just as much as Catholics and precisionists – threaten the stability of our majesty’s realm. Isn’t that so, my Lord Archbishop ?”

 

Whitgift, the Bishop of London, is also the man in command of the Court of Star Chamber. He is known as the hammer of the Puritans for his energetic – if ultimately unsuccessful – attempts to capture Martin Marprelate, the anonymous pamphleteer whose tracts a few years earlier had been the sensation of the post-Armada years. Whoever Martin Marprelate might have been escaped detection but he was silenced, and the publication of tracts ended. To that extent, the affair had been a resounding success for Whitgift and the supporters of episcopal orthodoxy.

 

Whitgift is a humourless man whose antipathy to anyone that strays from the straight-and-narrow is legendary. Even William Cecil, who is known for his Puritan leanings, is not above suspicion but, as they say, politics makes strange bedfellows.

 

“My Lord Burghley is, as so often the case, right to raise an alarm. We are beset on all sides by heretics, papists, and atheists. Some recent stories that have come to my attention are deeply troubling. We need to know more about the so-called “free thinkers” who are supported and sponsored by Sir Walter Raleigh and the Earl of Northumberland. These men call themselves “The School of Night”. Their ideas could subvert respect for our hard-won gains in bringing English men and women into conformity with the maxims of the Holy Word.”

 

“That’s quite right. My Lord Archbishop has identified a fifth column of men whose ideas are a threat to us all.”

 

Essex looks on in bemusement as if to ask: “What am I doing here ?” Cecil turns to his clerk and motions that he is to leave the room. When he has left and the door has shut, he continues,

 

“We don’t want a paper trail connecting any one of us to this meeting today. The only subject of this meeting is how are we going to get at the circle of free-thinkers surrounding Raleigh and Northumberland ? Until recently, their ideas have largely irrelevant to the general populace but the recent popularity of the theatre means that we are less able to control the circulation of these ideas than I would like. I have received troubling reports about the insidious invasion of heretical ideas into the playwright’s works. I am especially troubled by the huge response to the plays of young Marley.

 

Whitgift interjects, “I’ve had my men monitoring this Christopher Marlowe for a long time. He’s a scoundrel. His private life is reprehensible and wicked. The reports I’ve had of his influence on younger gentlemen, who frequent the theatre, are especially troubling. His plays have been performed against my objections but he’s been protected by someone with links to the Queen herself. I don’t think that Her Majesty realizes how dangerous these subversive ideas can be. His latest play, about the murder of King Edward the Second, should never have seen the light of day. It’s not only indecent, seditious, and blasphemous but it’s also overtly immoral.”

 

“Yes, my Lord Archbishop, we know that this man, Marlowe, is a dangerous character. He’s a man I’ve known for almost ten years but, even though he’s been of service to me in the past, he’s no longer much use in our projects because his cover was blown as a result of his bungling in Flushing last year. So, we need to determine what to do with him. As I see this matter, we have two choices: first, we can turn him over to Topcliffe and see what that monster can squeeze out of him – as Sir Michael can well attest, there’s no man alive today who can resist Topcliffe’s invitation to sing. Or, second, we can send him into exile so as to preserve him as a possible useful asset at some time in the future.”

 

Around the table, there is muttering but no one is willing to speak first. Somewhat exasperated by the lack of initiative taken by any one of his councillors, Burghley finally speaks up,

 

“I know that the Archbishop would like to hand Marlowe over to Topcliffe and let the devil know his own kinsman but I am unsure what to make of the refusal of the rest of you to provide me with guidance. So, let me tell you my preference in this matter.”

 

The master has now spoken. Those in attendance wait to be instructed.

 

“I think that this man Marlowe is too valuable to dispose of without getting anything in return. He might be very useful to us in another situation. I would propose to you, therefore, that I instruct my man Poley to sort this out.”

 

Essex, who is by no means over-awed by being included in this gathering, voices his approval of Burghley’s proposal.

 

“I’m in agreement with Lord Burghley. Some of my young followers rub shoulders with men like Marlowe and he has had a very pernicious influence on them. On the other hand, my uncle Leicester taught me that we should never recklessly – or spitefully – dispose of our intelligence assets without first making all possible use of them. I would suggest that we leave this matter to Lord Burghley.”

 

Around the table, there is some nodding of heads.

 

“So, am I to understand that you are giving me the go-ahead to set my plan in motion ?”

 

More muttering ensues. Finally, exasperated, Burghley calls this discussion to an end. He turns to his son, Robert, and tells him to call back the scribe. Robert rings a bell and a small, pudgy man with a balding head appears at the door.

 

“Come in, Keith. You can now begin to take notes. First, make a list of all who are here in attendance.” Turning to the councillors, “Now, gentlemen, we need to arrange a method of communicating with the Lords Lieutenants of the shires to determine the prospects for this year’s harvest.”

 

[Our involvement with this meeting is now ended.]
Willy’s AfterLife

 

“What did you know about that ?”

 

“Nothing. I was occasionally called into Cecil House to meet with William and Robert. On this occasion I knew nothing about their later conference with the Privy Councillors. They only questioned me a little about Kit Marlowe but, really, it was like I was being asked to be a character witness for him.

 

Imagine that ! Me, a “character witness”.

 

It’s just incredible to think that the Cecils asked me to provide them with that kind of information. Lord Burghley disliked and distrusted me but I suppose that if I was asked in a point-blank fashion – but without knowing a thing about what his agenda was – then he might have considered my information to be based on first-hand knowledge.”

 

“Willy, that’s the point of his question, I think. They both distrusted you. William Cecil obviously disliked your behaviour, not only towards your daughter but also in your mixing with “disrespectables”, as he called them. But they knew that you had been a reliable source of information in their dirty-tricks operations. You had, after all, been used as a mole to ferret out information on the old Catholic nobility. I was told that you did a good job for them. Certainly, when I spoke with William – and also with Sir Francis Walsingham – about providing you with an annuity, they spoke very warmly about your assistance in their espionage activities. I think that William was quite able to separate his personal animus towards you from his admiration of your talents. He certainly did so when he spoke to me about you.”

 

“I never knew that. I think I have somewhat misjudged the old fox.”

 

“I’ve noticed that in your comments. You take William’s actions to heart. He was not a man whose personal feelings entered into his professional activities. Perhaps that was a personal failing but it was even more so a professional strength. He was loyal and completely trustworthy.”

 

“I can see that now. William provided immense continuity at your majesty’s time of trouble.”

 

“In those years after the grand success of the Armada’s defeat, there was a major changing of the guard. Within a short space of time, Leicester and Hatton died, then Walsingham – who was always in ill health – passed away a couple of years later.”

 

“It was a terrible time for me, too. Anne died suddenly on June 5^th which was only a few days after I had gone to sea on my ship, the “Edward Bonaventure”. We had hoped to intercept the enemy before their fleet reached English waters. That was a farcical episode – we fought the weather, not the Spaniards. Then I missed Anne’s funeral because Drake and Howard put the fleet out to sea again in the hopes of making a pre-emptive strike. Our luck was no better the second time and we never fought them in the open sea. That was probably fortunate because when we did meet them in battle at the end of July, the Spaniards had to fight us in our coastal waters which meant that our local knowledge trumped their massive artillery advantages. When the danger passed, and the Armada had been destroyed, I threw myself into the theatre full-time.”

 

“That was when you were writing your History plays, wasn’t it ?”
“That’s right, Henry. My window of opportunity for a courtier’s life had long-since closed. I was bankrupted by my secret service activities. And, I had three young daughters but no wife. Yet, as they say, it is sometimes darkest before the dawn.”
“What can you mean by that ?”

 

“I know it’s trite but bad things had happened in threes for me. My monetary problems were so dire that I was forced to hand over my ancestral home at Castle Hedingham to William Cecil – he held it in trust for my daughters – and I sold my lease on Fisher’s Folly. I cut my ties with London and went back to Warwickshire where I spent my time at Billesley Manor, just outside Stratford-Upon-Avon where, a few years earlier, I had first encountered Will. In those post-Armada years, I was rarely at court and only infrequently in London.

 

Getting myself away from court – and away from London – was the best thing for me. My writing, which had been put on the back shelf for about a time after I returned from Italy, now received the lion’s share of my time. With a renewed enthusiasm for that – and with the inspiration provided by the incredible popularity of the theatre – I began in earnest to make myself the master of that domain. I had been connected to the main acting companies through my patronage of a troupe but when I lost all my money my connections operated through my ties with the other noble patrons. My works would be provided to the theatrical entrepreneurs in that way.

 

For the longest time, no one knew who was writing those plays but that hardly mattered since they were popular. It had become what these seminar-people would call a “win/win situation”. Men like Henslowe received new works and the playgoers revelled in my History plays. The lessons were couched in terms that served to glorify Bess and her regime. In contrast to the chaos and bloodshed of the earlier times, Bess seemed to embody England’s new-found domestic peace and military glory. That was ironic, too.”

 

“What do you mean by that ?”

 

“Bess, you had been a striking young woman and had maintained a high profile before the public but now – after the Armada – you were no longer young and no longer so good looking. Age does that to all of us, right ?”

 

“Who could deny that ? It’s why we are now, in AfterLife, at the peak of our physical beauty. No one would claim to be more beautiful at fifty-five than she herself had been at twenty-five !”

 

“That’s my point. Your looks might have been in decline but you made up for that inevitable change by creating an image of yourself that resonated in the public’s imagination. The real-you and their imagined-you were different. The public only ever got to see Gloriana. You became the more virginal queen because at fifty-five no one would expect that you could bear an heir. You became more ethereal in your dress. Images of you became more real than you, yourself. In fact, you yourself was no longer something that you believed in. You had become your image.”

 

“That is so. I was indulged in my fantasies – and I indulged myself in them.”

 

“And you kept on at me to re-work those masques that I had written for the court so many years before. You wanted yourself again to be written into those strong female characters like Portia, Imogen, Helena, and Hermione. But, for myself, my own troubled times had led me to become more introspective and brooding.

 

It was something of a miracle – so it seemed to me – that it was at that time I re-acquainted myself with Elizabeth Trentham. [Turning to Will and Henry] She had been one of Bess’ ladies-in-waiting for quite some time and I must have seen her on dozens of previous occasions but I had been otherwise engaged. I was too much preoccupied with myself to have noticed her. But, then – in 1591 – we fell into a casual conversation about the gratuitous violence in Titus Andronicus. She had seen an early version of the play and was appalled by the grotesque mutilation of Lavinia. That didn’t surprise me because all women loathed that scene. But I was shocked – taken aback, really – when she asked me if the inspiration for this cruelty had come from my reading of Book VI of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, “The Story of Procne and Philomel”, in which Tereus brutally rapes and then mutilates Philomela.

 

Bess’ young ladies, of course, were all well-educated but this was something totally unexpected. I was also ironically amused because she told me that her Latin wasn’t good enough to read it in the original but, rather, that she read the recent translation which she attributed to my uncle Golding. I was intrigued. She was much, much more than a pretty face. I quickly learned that Elizabeth was shrewd, clever, and surprisingly honest for someone who had spent almost ten years in the royal court. It was as if she had been the plain sister but in our conversation she turned into my very own Cinderella. Our courtship was fast and furious but it was not carried out secretly.”

 

“I remember that. Years before you had created a scandal with your dalliance with Bessie Vavasour but this time you approached me to ask for my permission to pay court to Elizabeth Trentham. That was a most surprising turn of events since my courtiers usually went behind my back to seduce my ladies. I immediately gave you my permission because I was thrilled at the match. I knew that she would be a perfect counterpart for your headstrong impetuosity.”

 

“Well, Bess, you’re going a bit overboard. Elizabeth was a woman, not a girl. But she was hardly virginal when I encountered her. If I’m not mistaken, Henry, she was your special friend at that time.”

 

“That is not quite true. She was much, much older than me. I think I was not yet nineteen and she was about thirty. The age-difference didn’t matter to me, I was infatuated. She was generous in reciprocating my attention. My obsession with her was the main reason why William Cecil’s strong-arm tactics to get me to marry Elizabeth – your daughter and his grand-daughter – just wouldn’t work. Unfortunately for me, when Willy entered the scene she just lost interest in me. Looking back, I can now understand that I was not much more than her boy-toy.”
Scadbury Manor, Kent

Daybreak, May 30, 1593

 

Two men in uniform are riding down the long, tree-lined avenue leading to Thomas Walsingham’s brick mansion.

 

In front of the main entrance, the men dismount and knock firmly on the door. After a few minutes, a man with a candle emerges into the half-light of dawn.

 

“We’re here on official business to speak with Lord Thomas Walsingham.”

 

“What kind of official business ? It’s early and his lordship doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

 

“This notice from Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary, Lord Burghley, tells you you’re your lordship’s likes and dislikes are secondary to the security of the realm.”

 

“Please accept my apology. I have my instructions.”

 

“I know. We all get orders from someone, right ?”

 

“Too true, mate. Give me a few minutes to rouse his lordship. Then he will need to compose himself. In the meanwhile, you can wait on my lordship in the kitchen and the cook will prepare you something to eat or drink if you’d like that.”

 

“Thank you, but we’re on duty. We’re fine. We’ll just wait here for Lord Thomas.”

 

Forty minutes later, the door opens and Thomas Walsingham presents himself.

 

“I see from the letter that you have come on Lord Burghley’s command. What can I do to comply ?”

 

“That’s correct, my Lord. He’s given us this note for your eyes only.”

 

Silence ensues while Thomas Walsingham reads the note.

 

“He’s here. I’ll have him brought down to you presently. It will take a short while. In the meantime, I insist on having my cook prepare you some eggs with bacon and a strong tankard of ale. Please accept my hospitality. My man will take you to the kitchen.”

 

“Well, my lord, if you insist then I would imagine that it’s not breaking any rules.”

 

Thomas Walsingham goes off down the hallway and up the stairs. The two uniformed men follow Walsingham’s servant, who has now been kitted out in livery. They troop down the hall and then veer off to the left and out of sight.

 

Twenty-five minutes later, Christopher Marlowe appears. He’s dressed in the height of contemporary fashion. His velvet doublet is russet coloured, cross-hatched with scarlet and royal blue herringbones. Down the front and along his arms there were intricately-stitched “buttons” in a raised, floral design with silver and gold threads. The wide, flat collar and cuffs were white linen, stylishly embellished transparent, cambric lace over-embroidered coverings. The young man’s clothing is not only very expensive but also very impressive which is in keeping with his assertive and confident bearing. His dark, brooding eyes are set beneath an impressive forehead. His hairline is beginning to recede but his auburn locks are long and wavey. On his upper lip and chin, Marlowe sports a wispy growth which is more like a pubescent teenager than a grown man of almost thirty. The overall impact of his appearance gives an unmistakable impression of bravura as if he is telling the world, I am a virtuoso.

 

Looking at the two men in uniform, and then turning back to Thomas Walsingham, Marlowe said to his friend, “It seems like I have to accompany these men to meet with Lord Burghley’s fixer, Thomas Poley. I should be back again this evening; or maybe tomorrow, at the latest.”

 

“Kit, be well. If you see my uncle William, please give him my very best regards. I will be waiting here for your return.”

 

The two young gentlemen embrace, then Marlowe mounts the bay gelding that had been saddled for him. All three riders pull on their reins and their horses wheel around and begin to canter down the long, treed avenue. As they approach the gates, Marlowe turns in his saddle and waves back to his friend. “See you soon.”
Deptford,

Evening, May 30, 1593

 

 

Robert Poley, Ingram Frizer, and Nicholas Skeeres have just completed the “murder” of Christopher Marlowe. There’s blood on the floor, under the window. The knife which did the deed is on the floor next to the table.

 

Poley speaks. The others listen.

 

“Mates, we have to get this situation sorted, right quick. First, we have another hour until it’s dark so let’s get our stories straight. The big man told me that after we alert the local constable, there will be a special Coroner’s Jury. This Jury will meet tomorrow or maybe the day after because the “crime” was committed so close to Greenwich.

 

His Lordship told me that the Coroner is onside with his plans so we need to get our ducks in a row. His Lordship told me that we must keep our stories simple and not answer anything more than what is asked. And we are not to provide long answers. Just give a minimum response to any questions. He told me that I am “to get in front of the story” and that the two of you are merely to agree with what I say.

 

Do you understand that ? [Frizer and Skeeres nod, in unison. Marlowe doesn’t respond]

 

Don’t forget, say little and, for God’s sake – and ours, too ! – keep it simple. Let me do the talking. Lord Burghley told me that if we fuck up then we will be taken for a long walk off a short pier. If we do the right thing for him then we’ll be rewarded for our efforts on his behalf. Do you understand that ?”

 

Poley is looking at Frizer. “Yes, I do.”

 

Frizer then parrots his lines: “Marlowe got all-stroppy like. I had only asked him to pay his share of the bill. He was tipsy ‘cos we’d been there drinking since noon.

 

Then he lurched at me but I fended him off. I was cut twice on my head by glancing blows from his dagger. Being bigger and stronger, I wrestled the dagger from him, thrust it at him and plunged it into his right eye socket.

 

It all happened in an instant. Marlowe was grievously injured and bled to death almost immediately.”

 

“That’s right. You’ve got all the crucial bits. Try to tell it just like a story and not like you’re reciting lines, OK, Ingram ?”

 

“Yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

“Don’t come across all composed, either. These jury-members need to believe you and because they’ve been selected by the Coroner, they will want to believe your story. So, really, it’s just a doddle.”

 

While Poley, Frizer, and Skeeres are getting their story straight, Kit Marlowe is fidgeting. Poley sees this and tells him to stay calm.

 

“For Christ’s sake, Kit, compose yourself. Stay calm. We know what we’re doing. I’ve done this sort of thing many times before. Why do you think the big man got us together ?”

 

Then, he points at the dead body. ”That boy there doesn’t matter. Boys like him are just riff-raff. He was bought and sold for ha’penny coins. It will soon be getting dark. No one on that Coroner’s Jury knows you so they won’t suspect that we’ve slipped in a body-double to act on your behalf. Mistress Bull has been instructed to say that four of us came here just after noon and had some dinner. She will say that she saw the four of us walking about in the garden but she paid us no heed. That boy will therefore be invisible.”

 

Turning to Marlowe, “In about an hour, you will be taken down to the dock and put on board the fishing boat. You will be taken across the Channel, as the big man ordered. He has arranged for someone to meet you in Calais tomorrow. That’s all in place. Just be patient for a short while. We have to set up the scene so that it fits with the story we’ve concocted.”

 

“How long do you think it will be before I can get out of here ?”

 

“We have lots of time to set things in order. There’s plenty of time. Once that’s done, I will put the other things in motion.   While that’s being done – at about eight o’clock, when it’s dusk – another one of my men will call for you at the side door. He will knock twice then three times more in rapid succession.

 

“Knock     Knock     knock/knock/knock”

 

His name is Will Leonard; he’s a really big guy but he won’t look you in the eye.

 

Leonard will take you to the fishing boat and leave you with the boat-captain who has no idea of who you are – but he won’t ask any questions. He’s done this kind of work for me a number of times before and he knows that if he wants to live and to get paid then he not only will see no evil but also speak no evil. He’s completely reliable. The only crew member on his boat is his son, who is also greedy for my coin. Like I said, these fishermen have been doing these odd-jobs for me for years and they’re completely reliable.

 

Once you’re out the door and we’ve got the body-double in place, I will go downstairs to tell Mistress Bull that there’s been an altercation upstairs. I will ask her to raise the constable.

 

When the constable arrives here, he will find a dead man and a bloody knife. Ingram will protest his innocence. Nick and I will say that it was self-defence. The constable will have seen this sort of drunken brawl resulting in death in the dock-side taverns so he will know how to put the machinery of local justice into operation. I expect that he will command me and Nick and Ingram to stay here and wait for the Coroner to arrive. Then they will take our depositions and let us go for the night, on our own recognizance.

 

He’ll probably tell us that this has been a serious crime and that we will have to present ourselves before a Coroner’s Jury. The Jury will be rapidly assembled. He will go into the story about the murder being committed “within the verge” – because the Queen is resident in Greenwich.

 

That’s the scenario His Lordship laid out before me. If all goes according to his plans then Kit will be on the other side of the Channel, that poor bugger will have been buried in his name in an unmarked grave in Deptford’s churchyard, and the Coroner’s Jury will come to a judgement of “self-defence”. Ingram will have to spend a short time in prison but will be freed by some sort of executive order.

 

In a couple of weeks the fuss will have passed over. The playwright Kit Marlowe will be a dead man, Christopher Marlowe will be on his way to a new life in Venice. And Lord Burghley will hand us each a small sack of silver coins. Job done. End of story.”
St John’s College,

Senior Common Room,

Thursday evening (continued)

 

The discussion rambles from scholarly matters to gossip, and back again, for a couple of hours. Everyone is in fine spirits – and the fine spirits from the College cellar did nothing but enhance the general bonhomie.

 

Neddy Shorts still keeps himself beside Joy Crayle. The other members of the dinner party disperse as groups form and reconnect into threes and fours.

 

Once again, Professor Sir Peter Schofield takes it upon himself to act like the master of ceremonies, clinking his glass to get his colleagues’ attention.

 

“Tomorrow, we have another busy day. Sessions in the morning and afternoon, to be followed by the Master’s Dinner. So, I would suggest that we might now break up this happy event and toddle off to our beds.”

 

Some take Professor Sir Peter’s suggestion to be a kind of command and immediately get up from their chairs, moving towards the door to leave the senior common room. But a few others are not keen on going to their rooms at such an early time, like so many juvenile campers. A small knot of die-hards – HarryT, Brianna di Palma, and Tim Brooksby – gathered around Neddy Shorts and Joy Crayle. Brooksby then turns to Professor Sir Peter,

 

“Peter, I think I’m going to carry on a bit longer here. The bartender can leave – but it would be good if he left us a couple of bottles of wine. The Americans among us are somewhat jet-lagged and some others – like me – just don’t go to sleep until the wee, small hours. So, I think we will form ourselves into a rump and continue on with our discussions. It’s not often that I get the chance to talk with fellow-Oxfordians.”

 

Then, turning to the larger group, The Timmer says, “If anyone else cares to join us then please do not hesitate; all are welcome – we believe, like the seventeenth-century Levellers, in “members unlimited”.”

 

Ruby Hattenstone and Sefton Lewis accept his invitation; so does Andrew Tucker. The rump now numbers eight – only slightly fewer than the group which follows Professor Sir Peter out the door and down the stairs, and, one supposes, into their own beds.

 

“So, where were we ?”

 

“Tim, I can’t believe that the man with the memory trap has forgotten.”

 

“Sefton, I haven’t forgotten, I merely mis-remembered !”

 

“Now, you’re being silly. That’s a distinction without a difference.”

 

“I know. Let’s return to our earlier conversation about the historiographical problem inherent in the documentation. I believe that we are in agreement that in the documentary record there is a lot of confusing information but not any necessary linkages between the biography of Edward de Vere and the writings of William Shake-speare.”

 

“Well, there is certainly more overlap between de Vere’s biography and The Bard than is the case with any other contender for the mantle.”

 

“Well, of course, Sefton, that’s why we are here isn’t it ? We’re all Oxfordians but that allegiance doesn’t preclude doubt and scepticism. To me, it’s like what Churchill said about democracy which as I seem to remember went something like “It might not be the best system imaginable but it is the best system we have.” I think that the Oxfordian case can be paraphrased similarly: “It might not be conclusive, but it seems to provide the best fit with the few facts that we know.”

 

“I’d go further than that. I agree that the Oxfordian case is not conclusive but in contrast to any other explanation that has so far been advanced, it is the most likely to be so.   My re-wording draws one’s attention to the weakness of the recognized alternative while suggesting that, on the balance of probabilities, the Oxfordian case is the strongest because objections to it are weaker.”

 

“Well, Ruby, I think that you’ve put your fingers on the best way of describing our case – it’s not so much a matter of our glass being full as it were but rather it’s the least empty. Does that make any sense to any of you ?”

 

“Not really, Tim. I think that we have to go back to the part of our earlier discussion regarding the provisional nature of our knowledge. There has to be honesty in confronting the uncertainty of de Vere’s historical reputation – was he the Renaissance hero of Oxfordian lore or was he the disreputable ne’er-do-well depicted in the Cecil archive and repeated ever afterwards ? To me, this question highlights what we might follow David Enivel and call “the deep penumbral zone of epistemological uncertainty” in dealing with our archive.”

 

“Neddy has a good point buried in that jargon. If there is what he calls “penumbral uncertainty” about Oxford then it is requisite for us to point out that there is a black hole where Will Shaksper of Stratford is concerned. The glover’s son doesn’t tick any of the boxes yet the Romantic notion of the “raised from the dust” genius persists. It’s why Looney’s book is still the best thing written on this subject to convince a non-believer of the Oxfordian case. “Shakespeare” Identified has had a terrible press but its detractors have been simply juvenile – they deprecate Looney’s achievement by linking his most unfortunate name with wild-eyed conspiracy theories. That way, they don’t need to come to grips with his incisive focus on the authorship question through the murkiness of the documentary record.”

 

“You know, in the Scottish legal system the jury can come up with three verdicts – guilty, not guilty, and not proven. I think that the best way of dealing with this authorship question – maybe even getting beyond name-calling of the sort the Orthodox Stratfordians often indulge in – would be to say that the case for Will Shaksper has had to meet a radically lower threshold of proof. Assuming that we could get a fair hearing, it would then seem to me that if we agreed to look at both cases from the standpoint of legal and historiographical argumentation then the burden of proof would clearly find for the Oxfordians, while still acknowledging that the Oxfordian case is “not proven” beyond that “shadow of a doubt” which is required for other forms of adjudication.”

 

“Well, that’s as may be but you’d never get the Stratfordians to agree on those ground rules. So, we have a choice – either we can be purer than Caesar’s wife, so to speak, and come clean with our doubts and provisional uncertainties or else we can adopt their posture and be like Galileo’s inquisitors, refusing to budge from our certainty.”

 

“But I don’t think any one of us is wholly certain of the Oxfordian case. I know from my own experience that I was, as it were, evangelized by the Oxfordians and experienced a Damascus Road jolt of enlightenment when I came to see that the Stratfordian case was flimsy and based on nothing more than innuendo.”

 

“Do any of you remember a story about a “monkey bridge” in those Dr Doolittle stories of our childhoods ?”

 

“Not my childhood – don’t forget I was born in the 1970s, yeah ? Television had replaced children’s books. So, please tell about this Dr Doolittle.”

 

“Now you’re putting me on the spot, Brianna. It’s been about twenty years since I read any of Hugh Lofting’s books to my own children – and even longer than you can imagine since I had them read to me. But there’s one story – the story of the “monkey bridge” – that has always seemed like an apposite metaphor for the Stratfordians’ claims on behalf of Will Shaksper of Stratford. Shall I try to dredge back through my memory to tell you why ?”

 

“Please do. It’s always amusing to listen to ourselves – especially when it’s someone else on the hot seat.”

 

“OK, Sefton, enough of that. Do you remember anything about this.”

 

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you going to tell us so please cut to the chase, as they say in black-and-white, Hollywood-western movies.”

 

“OK, here goes my best shot. Dr Doolittle is a wonderful man who can speak with animals. They’re his friends. In the story I’m remembering – badly, I’ll admit – the good doctor is accompanying a group of monkeys and, if I’m correct, they are being chased by some baddies. They arrive at a gorge which is too wide to jump across – actually their predicament is rather like that of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in the famous scene in which they jump from the cliff into the river rapids below.

 

In any event, the baddies are closing in on them and they can’t go back so the Doctor’s monkey-mates tell him that they can save the day. Somehow – and don’t forget that Lofting wrote his books for children whose demands for truth are, shall we say, rather more tolerant than an adult’s – the monkeys grasp each other, hands to tails, and reach all the way across the chasm. Gravity is not a force to be reckoned with in Dr Doolittle’s world. Having reached across the chasm, the inter-linked monkeys become Doolittle’s bridge and he makes his way to the other side. Then, just as freed from gravity as before, the interlocked monkeys make their way to the other side so that the baddies are left behind.

 

The purpose of this reference for me is as follows – and, yes, now I’m going to cut to the chase, Sefton. The Stratfordian argument takes a couple of mundane references and knits them together into something resembling a bridge across the abyss of what we called before “penumbral uncertainty”. Moreover – and as far as I’m concerned, much more intriguingly – they interlock those few mundane references with literal readings from the texts in such a way that they believe they have added straw to the mud.

 

The bricks they then present to us – oh, forgive me, I’m really mixing up my metaphors here. OK, let me persist with the mixed metaphors there might be some reason in my madness. The bricks they present to us are used to make a bridge across the abyss of “penumbral uncertainty”, to use what we have just accepted as acceptable jargon.

 

But – and this is really the sleight-of-hand in their argument – nothing that they use for raw materials could pass a test of minimal credibility because all of it is linked together like the gravity-defying bridge in the Dr Doolittle story. Do you see what I mean ?”

 

“How much have you had to drink tonight, Timmer ?”

 

“A fair bit, both at dinner and then here. Have I made a complete balls-up ?”

 

“Not to me. I can see exactly what you’re trying to say even though the reference to Dr Doolittle is more than a little bit arcane.”

 

“Do tell, Ruby.”

 

“To do so I have to use a rather different metaphor. So, I hope you all will indulge me, too. To my way of thinking, the plays represent a cloth’s warp and the biographical documentation should be seen to be the woof, the opposing threads. It’s the process of joining the warp and the woof which constitutes weaving the threads into a whole cloth. But if either the warp or the woof is not continuous, then our whole cloth is riddled with holes, so to speak.

 

With the Stratfordian arguments, which is rather like viewing the whole cloth from a distance, the holes are not visible. But when we get closer we see that the spinning process has been faulty and that while the warp of the plays and poems does have a certain continuity – I mean, we have the literature that is before us and can only believe that that is a complete record of The Bard’s literary output – the woof of Will Shaksper’s documented existence simply doesn’t have any continuity. So, the fabric is not only riddled with holes but also has much less integrity than would appear from a careless or distant viewing. Furthermore, as soon as we put any pressure on the whole cloth, it disintegrates and we are left with loose ends.”

 

“I rather like Ruby’s metaphor better than mine. But it’s missing something. What the Stratfordians are able to do is to lend integrity to the warp threads by referring to supposed autobiographical references in the texts but – and here’s the moment in which their hands trick the eye – there is nothing in the documentary record to support their assumptions. Take, for example, the reference to Warwickshire flowers which are found throughout the poems and the plays. How do we know that knowledge of Warwickshire flowers is in any way relevant to Will Shaksper’s personal history ? Because he was born in Stratford-Upon-Avon ? That seems like a pretty feeble evidentiary prop.

 

On the other hand, there is the documented fact that Edward de Vere grew up in the household of William Cecil who employed the foremost authority on gardening in Tudor times. All of Cecil’s palatial houses were landscaped by John Gerard, who wrote the most famous Elizabethan garden book, Herbal, which he posthumously dedicated to William Cecil. Gerard was responsible maintenance of the horticulture at both Covent Garden and Theobalds, which had four formal gardens. So, Edward de Vere was most likely well acquainted with contemporary, state of the art horticulture for the purposes of display, cooking- and apothecary-supplies. Furthermore, as we all know, Edward de Vere had not one but two estates in rural Warwickshire so, assuming that he had learned to appreciate the natural world from Gerard, it’s not much of a reach to assume that he was able to connect that knowledge to his experience of rural Warwickshire.”

 

“I see what you’re arguing about the weaving of the warp threads from documented personal biography with the woof threads drawn from the literary works. Your example makes sense to me, too. But isn’t your example – in the final analysis – based on inference and conjecture since you don’t seem to be able to make a direct linkage between de Vere’s biographical fingerprint and the writings of The Bard ?”

 

“Well, of course, that’s true and it’s – to be perfectly honest – problematic because of the silences in the documentary record. To use an analogy which came up yesterday in the session on Oxford’s finances, we can proceed by correlation but not causation. The evidence just isn’t available to provide direct causal linkages. What are we to do ?”

 

“Well, Tim, I suppose we could make do with what we have and be honest about the silences and gaps in the documentary record. And most of us are forced to do just that because Oxfordians are always on the defensive. More pointedly, I think that the same burden of proof is never demanded from Stratfordians. I can see why that metaphor of Dr Doolittle’s monkey bridge is apposite. The Stratfordians’ explanations do, indeed, defy gravity. They assert a connection and then proceed as if it were proven.”

 

“You’re right, there, Neddy. But I think I’ve flogged this horse enough tonight. I’m going to my bed.”

 

The Timmer’s departure seems to take the steam from the rest of the rump. The others also begin to leave the senior common room, leaving behind half-filled glasses and empty bottles. Neddy Shorts sidles up beside Joy Clayre again.

 

“Do you fancy coming up to my room for a night-cap ?”

 

“Neddy, I don’t swing that way.”

 

“I’m sorry, I thought my gay-dar was sensitive enough to pick up signals. I must be out of practice.”

 

“It’s not that. But I learned a long time ago that my sex-life and my professional-life have to be rigidly separated. Do you know the David Mamet play, Oleanna ?”

 

“Sure, it’s every male professor’s nightmare. A young, beautiful graduate student turns on her mentor and accuses him of molestation and sexual blackmail. It got a lot of play.”

 

“Well, that was the masculinist reading of the situation. The feminist reading is rather different – the young graduate student (or junior professor) gets slurred because she is thought to be sleeping her way up the greasy pole, so to speak.

 

For women of my generation, this kind of senior male/junior female relationship was a double-edged sword which often ended in tragedy. One of my friends actually tried to kill herself after her supervisor tried to sexually blackmail her. No sex, no fellowship. It was creepy because the older man’s wife used to egg him on – there were even rumours that she got her kicks from watching.”

 

“I’ve heard stories about that guy. Wasn’t he kicked out of his job at Princeton ?”

 

“No, not at all. Michael Middlegate retired and is now Professor Emeritus, with all the bells and whistles. Same goes for his wife, Janet Middlegate. They’re both feted by their colleagues – and all the rumours and innuendoes are just conveniently forgotten. The ranks closed around them while my friend, Judy Groves, never got her degree and was forced to slink out of academia.”

 

“So, you decided that there was a lesson here for you ?”

 

“You’re goddamned right ! I was never going to compromise myself by intertwining my romantic life and my intellectual life. It seemed to me to be a recipe for disaster.”

 

“I see. I respect that and hope that my advance won’t sour our collegial friendship.”

 

“It won’t but you won’t try me again will you ?”

 

“I’d like to but…”

 

They both giggle, knowing that boundaries have been established and respected, and go out of the room, down the stairs and then say their good-nights to one another.

 

Ever the old flirt, Neddy Shorts takes her aback by kissing Joy on the cheek. They laugh again, somewhat awkwardly. She turns on her heels and marches off to the next court where she is lodging.

 

Had Neddy and Joy reached their Rubicon ? Perhaps, but they have surely not crossed it together to reach the far side of desire.
Act VI, scene 7

 

Willy’s AfterLife

 

“OhMyGod ! These seminar-people don’t half go on. They turn over the same business, again and again and, then, again and again, some more.”

 

“You have to understand, Will, that they are just like the religious precisionists back in our time of LifeOnEarth. Those men could argue endlessly over mere trifles. They would always lose sight of the forest because of their obsession with one of the branches on one of the trees.”

 

“Bess, I’ve got to differ from the exasperation you and Will are voicing. I think that you are impatient with a different kind of intelligence from what we knew in our LifeOnEarth. These seminar-people are so careful and precise – finicky, really – because they are trying to get things in order. For them, the information from our LifeOnEarth is rather like a series of tumblers in a lock, which can only be opened if you follow a precise sequence in their operation.”

 

“I see. You think that they are trying to discover is a recipe for understanding the past. And like the way that one follows a recipe, it’s not just a matter of throwing a bunch of ingredients together into a mixing bowl and mashing them up into gruel. Much more goes into baking a cake, for instance. You need to have a precise ratio between the ingredients and those ingredients often have to be blended together in sequence. Then, you have to be sure that the oven has been heated to a special temperature before inserting your mix in it for a precise length of time.”

 

“That’s right. If we look at their discussions in this way, I think we can see not just why but also how they are sifting historical information. They accept some ideas and reject other arguments by considering each piece of information in relation to the others   Information is, therefore, situational but also positional. So, their knowledge is always built upon an evaluation process. It’s like a judge who reads the law in light of current understandings but in the knowledge that those current understandings might change in new circumstances.”

 

“What I find fascinating is the complications that come from their reliance on information which may or may not be complete. Like one of them said, they can never come to definitive conclusions because their ingredients are always provisional because they are never certain that new information might not become available. When that happens then they have to re-evaluate their previous information and the arguments based on it. Of course, the other side of this problem is that they have to know that quite a lot of their information must be incomplete because some unknown amount has been lost while some of what remains has been doctored and tampered with, or otherwise changed.”

 

“Sometimes these factors have been unintentional but often the information is incomplete for unknown reasons. This uncertainty gets to be tricky because they don’t have access to the people who produced that information or the reasons why they did – or didn’t – do so.”

 

“Right, they find themselves moving forwards in a fumbling manner like a blind person who taps the ground with a stick to make sense of the place on which they will next step. And, like a blind person, they have to perform this tapping on a continuous basis.”

 

“OK, then. Now I see what you’re saying. They go over and over the same ground because they can only be certain that the spot on which they’re standing is solid. And with each step, they have to repeat the process of checking and evaluation.”

 

“Will, that’s right.   That’s what I think is going on in their persistent covering and re-covering what seems to us to be the same ground. They can never know if the ground ahead can be predicted from the place on which they stand so they have to tap it again to create a new moment of understanding.”

 

“Willy, I like that expression – “a new moment of understanding”.”

 

“I just made that up but you can use it, just as long as you don’t claim that it was your invention.”

 

“I’d never do that – I respect your “copyright” in all matters. As you very well know, it’s other people who put your words into my mouth.”