“Power?” said Olly.
“Yes,” Brownlow took it upon himself to explain. “What we have here, my friend, is a piece of Burbage’s staff. You know Richard Burbage, right? The actor?”
“Oh, yes! Love his work,” Olly nodded quickly.
“He’s dead, Olly,” Harry nudged him.
“Not poor Burby!” Olly was griefstricken.
“For about four centuries,” Brownlow resumed. “This staff was used in the first production of The Tempest. It is believed that Shakespeare himself was the model for the wizard Prospero, and this was his staff. But it was broken into four pieces. Someone is going around putting the pieces together and accessing occult forces.”
“The man in the hood...” Olly said.
“Your boss, Jeremy,” said Harry.
“Or, to give him his full name,” Cheese interjected, “Jeremy de Vere!”
This declaration failed to have the impact the professor hoped. He rolled his eyes.
“You know! As in ‘Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford’?”
Their faces remained blank. Brownlow attempted to blag it. “You mean... the same Earl of Oxford of whom it is believed... he wrote the works of Shakespeare?”
Cheese lowered in contempt. “Believed by twats and jackanapes,” he scowled.
“So...” Olly chose his words carefully, “Jeremy is related to Earl....”
“Not just Earl. The Earl. Dead also, before you say anything else.” The professor gestured to the American to continue but Brownlow held up his hands in surrender.
“It was while researching spurious evidence to back up the family claim to authorship of the plays that Jeremy stumbled across the legend of the staff. Suddenly, he became distracted from the quest to prove once and for all that Oxford wrote Shakespeare, and became consumed by a lust for power. As we have seen, he is not shy of inciting his minions to commit murder in order to achieve his ends. We must not apportion blame to this poor creature here, no more than we would blame someone who impersonates a chicken at the behest of a hypnotist.”
“So...” Olly was still trying to keep things clear, “Jeremy’s a wizard now?”
“Something along those lines, yes,” said Cheese. “And it behoves us to put a stop to him.”
“Why?” This was Harry.
“Why what? Why put a stop to him?”
“Why is he doing this?”
“Who can say?” the professor said with an enigmatic expression.
“I was hoping you could,” said Harry. “Honestly, prof, I’m a bit narked with you. Why did you put me through that? The whole murder scene, I mean.”
Cheese’s face darkened. He tapped his cane on the floor.
“I had to impress on you the vital importance of what is going on. I cannot tackle de Vere alone. So, when I saw you had become friends with that airy spirit, I decided to recruit you.”
“You could have just asked!” Harry sat back, cross.
“Airy spirit?” Brownlow prompted.
“It appears that Furry Fishface was not the only character conjured out of thin air,” Cheese waved at the air as if Ariel was present.
Brownlow glanced around. “In the chapel... This de Vere guy is controlling him now, right? Having discarded Fishy Furface for an upgrade?”
Caliban slapped the table. “Caliban!” he declared. He beat his chest. “Caliban!”
“Quite so!” said Cheese. “I apologise, my dear fellow.”
“Yeah, sorry,” muttered Brownlow.
“So de Vere has got three pieces of the staff and Ariel. I think that means we’re all fucked,” said Harry, glumly. Olly patted his arm.
“But we have this!” Cheese gestured to the piece of wood. “I buried it so that in the event that you failed to decipher my elementary clue, it would be safe from de Vere, for the time being at least. But now here we all are, and here is the piece, and what, gentlemen, are we to do about it?”
They sat in sober silence.
“Here,” said Dickie. They’d forgotten he was in the corner, taking it all in. “He won’t be coming here, will he? The Amazing Jeremy and his lovely assistant? I don’t want no trouble.”
Cheese winced at the double negative.
“I don’t believe Ariel will do anything to injure us, while friend Harry is present. Harry, I think you should keep the staff about your person. Ariel likes you. He won’t hurt you.”
He nodded to the tabletop. Harry pulled the handkerchief towards him and wrapped it around the piece of wood. Still frowning, he held the parcel on his lap.
“This might just be me being a bit thick,” Dickie piped up again, “But I’m a bit bamboozled by all of this. I mean, you’ve got fictitious characters running around, you’ve got a theatre director with three bits of a magic wand, you’ve got dead bodies galore, the police colluding with a faked death, and God-knows-what-else going on.”
“That’s right,” said Brownlow. “Your point?”
Dickie pouted. “More coffee?”
He bustled out to the kitchen.
“Dickie’s right,” said Olly. “How can there be fictional characters in the real world? How does that work?”
“Ah,” said Cheese as if that was explanation enough.
“Well?” said Olly. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
“My theory,” said Cheese, “and it is only a theory, is that beings like Ariel and Caliban were once commonplace. You’ve heard tell of the faerie folk, I am sure, in your cribs and nurseries. I think that Shakespeare somehow encapsulated the essence of two such beings in the text of his play. That is how they have survived through the centuries. De Vere footling around with the staff and his scrying necklace has somehow released them from the pages and back into our realm, our physical plane. Are you still with me?”
“Um, yes,” said Olly, although he was glazing over a little.
“De Vere was able to make use of Caliban’s essence to do all his dirty work. My contention is he was unaware of the emergence of Ariel until much later on. Naturally - or should I say, supernaturally? - the spirit’s talents and abilities are more suited to de Vere’s purposes - whatever those purposes may be.”
The group assimilated this latest idea.
“So... free from Jeremy’s influence, Caliban has become real?”
“Caliban!” said Caliban, striking the placemat before him.
“That would appear to be the case,” said the professor. “And very welcome he is too.”
“Are you saying, Professor, that Shakespeare was in fact a magician? A real-life wizard? And it turns out I’ve not just been blowing smoke?”
“I admit the evidence is tending towards support of your hypothesis, Mr Brownlow.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Hoo-ee!” Brownlow ran his hands down his face in delight and relief. “I actually got one right! After all this time, to finally have a show based on truth and not bullshit.”
Cheese chose to overlook the American’s split infinitive. “Hang your infernal television programme! De Vere has to be stopped - that is our one and only priority.”
“Well, sure, yes, of course,” Brownlow agreed. “The show can come later, when all this is over.”
“If we survive,” said Cheese grimly. “If any of us survive.”
“What is he planning, Prof?” asked Harry, one hand on the handkerchief on his lap. “De Vere?”
“Who can say?” Cheese shrugged. “Who knows what a man like that will do with access to untold power? Perhaps he will conjure more characters and build an army of fantastical creatures? Perhaps he seeks to populate the world with faerie folk. Perhaps he wishes to establish a new rule of law with him as the Emperor of the World. I haven’t given it much thought.”
“Well, let us know if anything occurs to
you,” muttered Brownlow.
“Coo-ee,” said Dickie, coming back in. “I’ve got the breakfast on. Here’s some fresh coffee. Your faces, gentlemen! You’ve talked the whole night through. Good morning! Good morning to you!”
***
Jeremy de Vere awoke feeling refreshed and raring to go. He had slept with the three-quarter length staff beside him like a skinny bedfellow and he caressed it lovingly before getting up to shower. He toyed with the idea of leaving the air spirit Ariel in the pine chest. He was sure he could handle the day’s events alone - with the staff, of course. Three parts are not as good as four, he was aware, but if the American had somehow gained access to the remaining piece, there was no way one piece could counteract three.
He shaved and showered - a wave of the staff could have completed these tasks for him in the blink of an eye but he preferred to conserve its energy for what was to come.
He gave the chest at the foot of his bed a kick, still in two minds about releasing the spirit. If Ariel was left to stew in there for a while longer, he would be more compliant with his new master’s wishes. He would value the outside world a good deal more after a prolonged period of confinement.
Jeremy groaned and unlocked the chest. He opened the lid and peered inside. It appeared to be empty but then the air in the box shimmered and Ariel coalesced. The spirit stood naked before him, stretching his arms and back.
“Morning,” said Jeremy. “I trust you slept well.”
“I do not sleep,” said Ariel.
“Whatever,” said Jeremy. “You are to do my bidding without question.”
“And then you will set me free?”
“Yes - but I said without question!”
“What am I to do, Master?”
“Do you even know what ‘without question’ means?”
Jeremy swore and went downstairs to nuke some porridge. He would need to keep his strength up for the day’s proceedings. Ariel hovered in the kitchen. The scrying crystal around Jeremy’s neck meant the spirit could not venture far from his master’s presence, unless his master expressly commanded it.
He watched his master slurp his way through a bowl of unappetising slop. Ariel considered making him drop his spoon and splash his necktie but even the thought of it squeezed his head.
That bloody crystal, Ariel understood. I can’t even think about hurting my master.
“And now...” Jeremy rinsed the bowl under a tap - hardened porridge can be a bugger to shift if you let it dry on - “to the theatre!”
“Are we going to see a show, Master?”
Instead of remonstrating with him about the ‘without question’ rule, Jeremy laughed. “No, my aerated friend. We are to be the show!”
He retrieved his car keys from a little basket on the worktop and went out to start the 2CV.
Ariel floated behind. He dissolved through the roof of the car and nestled into the passenger seat.
He had a very strong intuition that the day was not going to be a good one.
Twenty.
The local news reports were full of the heinous vandalism that had been visited upon the gardens at Anne’s Gaff. The radio carried an interview with Joyce who, after a generous donation of fifty-pound notes from a certain American television presenter, could remember nothing of the incident.
“I was fast asleep, kidder,” her voice rang out around the kitchen at Goosegog Cottage. “I didn’t hear nothing.”
Dickie made sure his impromptu guests were well fuelled with hot food and strong tea before waving them off from his front porch, and waving away all attempts on their part to pay for his hospitality.
“Tell you what,” he told them what, “Come back tonight to settle up, if you can. If you can’t, well, I reckon we’ll all have more important things to think about.”
It fell to Olly to carry out the first part of their plan. He turned up at work as usual and subjected himself to the ministrations of Jenna and Wanda in the theatre’s make-up and wardrobe departments. It was thought best that Caliban went with him and hide-out in Olly’s dressing room. If spotted, the monkey-fish-man would look less out of place there than out in public with the others.
Professor Cheese assured the box office staff that reports of his death had been greatly exaggerated and requested three seats for the matinee - separate ones, if possible. He, Harry and the American were going to watch the matinee from different angles. Divided, they would be harder to subdue.
The girl behind the counter printed out the tickets without question. The professor had an understanding with the theatre: he could have whatever tickets he wanted, whenever he liked, free of charge. It was the theatre’s hope that by treating him with such largesse, the professor would be less vocal in his denouncements of some of their more experimental productions. Professor Cheese would not be swayed by such blatant bribery but he had never been more grateful of the arrangement than on that morning.
He divided the tickets between the three of them and they waited in the bar for the house to open.
“Are you sure, Prof?” Harry nursed a St Clement’s. “Are you sure de Vere will make his move during the performance?”
Professor Cheese stroked his moustache and sipped his gin and tonic. “De Vere is a man of the theatre above all else. He will want to make a grand gesture. And, if there is magic contained within the play, he will want to make best use of it for his own ends.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Brownlow prompted, rattling the ice in his bourbon.
“Then at least we shall have seen our friend Oliver give his Caliban.” Cheese raised his glass. “To Oliver!”
The others echoed the gesture and the toast.
An announcement informed them the auditorium was open. They downed their drinks and slammed the glasses on the bar.
“Godspeed, gentlemen,” the professor grinned. He tapped away on his cane. Harry and Brownlow exchanged nods before heading for their separate entrances.
***
Alicia was on her lunch break from the building society. She strode through the town, a woman on a mission. She’d been up all night rehearsing what she would say to Oliver. She would forgive his grave error; of course, a man should be able to spend time with his friends - as long as he checked with her beforehand; she didn’t want to go to the trouble of making one of her pasta specials if he wasn’t going to be home to eat it. She would introduce him to some of the people from work. They would be more suitable for his socialising needs. There would be beetle drives and the occasional balti night.
She would demand assurances from him that she came first, above all others. That was only reasonable as his fiancée-to-be. They would find a new place together, one in which Harry had no claim at all.
Ah, yes. Harry.
Oliver was never to see Harry again. He was to sever all ties, delete his number and shun him in the street like a rabid dog with leprosy.
When that was done, Alicia saw no reason why everything else wouldn’t just fall into place. They could get an early start on their Happy Ever After.
Everything was going to be wonderful - as long as Oliver saw her point of view, and did exactly what she said.
She nipped into a cake shop and bought a couple of chocolate éclairs. These were to celebrate when Oliver saw reason. Alicia was already looking forward to that moment. Cream cakes and me, she laughed. What more could he possibly want?
She hurried along Waterside. She bypassed the main public entrance to the theatre and headed around to the stage door. She would catch Oliver in his dressing room before he went on. She made a mental note to check his face for cream or chocolate before his first scene.
***
Ariel was powerless to resist. Jeremy had only to threaten him with the staff and visions of the pine box at the foot of Jeremy’s bed danced in the spirit’s
imagination. He really would shut me in there forever, Ariel knew. I can only hope he doesn’t ask me to do anything too drastic or irreversible before - before what? Would Harry come to save him? Ariel didn’t know. Oh, for a scrying glass with which to contact a mortal!
Ariel, you idiot! The spirit scolded himself. Harry has a scrying glass and has done all along. If I could find some way to hail him on that sleek rectangle, I could warn him of my new master’s plans...
His eyes roamed around Jeremy’s office. Perhaps Master has a corresponding device...
The man himself was behind his desk, lording it over one of the actors.
“You see, Sir Neville,” he laced his fingers behind his head, “It’s all part of my approach to directing. I shall play Prospero and you shall watch from the balcony and see how it’s done. Directing by example, I call it. Now, Nev, I know what you’re going to say. You think it’s an outrage that I should presume to show you how to suck your grandmother’s eggs. A man of your standing, an actor of your calibre! That’s not what I’m doing here. You mustn’t think that. And of course, you’ll still be paid - see it as an afternoon off. Here’s your ticket and - oh, go on then - here’s a couple of drinks vouchers for the bar.”
The venerable knight of the theatre took the proffered items but his countenance did not cheer up.
“And shall you be doing the same for the other players, my liege?” Sir Neville’s voice, like dark chocolate melting on a radiator in a cavern, filled the office.
Jeremy stood up and gestured towards the exit. “Rest assured, old man. It’s going to be all change around here.”
The actor bowed in a flourish that belied his years and shuffled out.
“I’m not happy...” Jeremy muttered. “I’d much rather you put him to sleep like you did with Gonzago and Alonzo and those chaps.”
“Um, yes, Master. I could do that, if you like. But keeping someone in arrested animation is quite straining on my resources and concentration. I am sure you would rather have my full attention and capability focussed on your endeavour.”
“Bah, you’re right, you’re right. Now, fetch me my costume from Wanda’s. I must prepare for the performance of a lifetime - nay, of an epoch! Blimey; that was quick!”
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