* * *
We took Caldwell’s Smart car, which I had never seen before. It looked like it would fold up and fit into a purse. I loved it. Because it took up just half a parking space, he managed to tuck it into a spot that was only a few blocks away from the Globe.
When we stepped out on the sidewalk, he took my arm and tucked it under his. While the air was chilly, I was completely warm.
“How do you feel about Macbeth?” he asked as we walked.
“While I think it’s an important play,” I said. “It’s not my favorite of the tragedies.”
“What is?”
“Depends on the day.”
He laughed. “I know what you mean. On this day, which is your favorite?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s always between Othello and Lear. Othello is more romantic but Lear seems to me to be a truer tragedy. An unavoidable one.”
“How so?”
“We all grow old. We all fear we are not loved.”
He patted my hand. “How did you get to be this wise?”
“I just sound like I know what I’m talking about. It comes with the territory,” I said, thinking of my job, answering questions about books all day long.
“What territory?” he asked.
I realized I had slipped, but it could be fixed. “You know, sounding smart and authorial.”
“Of course.”
We rounded a corner and stopped.
There stood the Globe, an almost exact duplicate of the theater in which Shakespeare’s plays had first been presented, dark beams crisscrossing the white stucco façade. Three stories high, the building was an open-air amphitheater about a hundred feet in diameter.
Staring up at it, I felt transported back five hundred years. I wondered if the people then felt as excited as I did on entering this enormous theater.
I had read up on it, of course. The original Globe Theatre was able to hold about three thousand people, if one counted the people standing in the “pit,” the open area right in front of the stage.
“I can’t believe I’m actually seeing this place for real. Something I’ve read about forever. It’s as if the books, the plays, even Shakespeare himself, have come to life right before my eyes.”
“I know how you feel,” Caldwell said, giving my arm a squeeze as we walked forward.
I believed he did. I put my hand on top of his and squeezed back.
I was entering a fairy-tale world.
Enchanted.
EIGHTEEN
That Damn Spot!
Walking into the Globe Theatre to see Macbeth on the arm of a handsome Brit, I determined nothing was going to keep me from enjoying this once-in-a-lifetime evening.
The center of the new Globe was like that of the old—roofless, open to the stars. With a thrust stage and a large, open yard, the area had seating only around the periphery. I had purchased the best seats money—thirty-three pounds, to be exact—could buy: middle-gallery, front-row seats, a splurge, but one I was very happy I had made when Caldwell murmured his delight at where we were sitting. The seats were plain wooden benches, but Caldwell insisted on hiring cushions for us to sit on.
He handed me into the row and followed behind as we made our way to the exact center. I had planned it this way. I wanted to be able to see everything. With the pillars in the roofed area, many of the views were compromised. But I also knew that I needed to be sitting. There was no way I could have stood in the middle yard for the three hours of a play. They allowed absolutely no form of stool or folding chair and, out in the open, if it rained, they didn’t allow umbrellas. But the play would go on.
“I’m very sorry for your companion that he will be missing this, but I can’t help but be happy for myself,” Caldwell said as we sat shoulder to shoulder.
“I think you will probably enjoy it more than he would have,” I said quietly, knowing Dave. He would have found the seats too small, the play too long, and would have fidgeted through the first half of the play and slept through the second half.
“Do you come here often?” I asked.
He paused and said curtly, “Not recently.”
I wondered what I had stirred up, but didn’t feel like intruding. I looked around and marveled at the theater, the people filing in and beginning to fill up the middle area. The theater being open to the sky reminded me of an outdoor baseball game. I decided not to pass this thought along to Caldwell as it made me sound too American. I was gawking, but I didn’t care. Sometimes one had to give in and simply be a tourist.
“What do you think?” Caldwell asked me.
“I’m sure it wasn’t quite like this in Shakespeare’s day, but it certainly gives the feeling.”
“Yes, I’m afraid the original might have been a little more rowdy. At that time, this theater was in the red-light district. Plays were considered quite risqué.”
“Well, acting was, after all, a purple profession. Shakespeare was lucky that he was being patronized by the Lord Chamberlain.”
“My, my. Aren’t you a little font of knowledge?” Caldwell teased me.
Again, I almost blurted out that it was because I was a librarian, but caught myself in time. This pretending to be something I was not was wearing very thin. “I was an English major. I guess some of the facts just stuck.”
Before I could say anything more, the sound of a lute filled the air. With little ceremony and no damping of the floodlights that shone on the grounds of the theater, the three witches backed onto the stage, circling around, staring out at the crowd, and then turning to each other.
The first witch, with long dark hair tied back with a rope of thorns, asked, “When shall we three meet again / In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”
The next witch cackled out, “When the hurly-burly’s done, / When the battle’s lost and won.”
I sank into the words. They hit me hard and I felt myself swimming in their power, especially the second witch’s lines. Hurly-burly was so full of sounds, and I loved the sense of the battle lost, then won. Life in a nutshell.
I slipped a glance at Caldwell. He was leaning forward but must have sensed my look, for he turned and crinkled his eyes, then quickly went back to watching the play. I, too, lost myself in it.
That was, until Lady Macbeth entered the scene. She was tall and regal, wearing a murderously dark crimson gown that spoke of rich beauty and danger. Sweeping into the room, she read the letter from Macbeth and came to a decision as to what must happen. When Macbeth entered her room, she stood taller than he was and with more majesty.
Then she uttered the lines: “Look like the innocent flower, / But be the serpent under’t,” and I was struck by what was happening in this play. She was conspiring to kill a man.
I had just found a dead man, a man someone might well have killed. And hadn’t I, in my mind at least, thought to do the same? And, while under the influence of too much to drink, talked about it to someone who might be able to arrange such a thing? What had I been thinking?
I was chilled to my bones and shivered slightly.
Caldwell turned and asked if I wanted his jacket. I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and assured him I was fine. Of all the plays to see, why was I watching this one? If only I had managed to find the blond man and explain myself to him and tell him not to worry about the plumber anymore. Or if only I knew for sure that he would receive my note.
I tried to shake off my worries, thinking how ridiculous I was being. After all, the man probably knew I had been a bit tipsy, and why would he do anything to Dave, a man he didn’t even know or care about?
And having found Howard Worth dead, even suspecting that he might have been killed by someone who was sleeping in the same house as I was. It was all too much.
When Lady Macbeth, wringing her hands, said, “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him,” I was struck again with worry and wonder at how I was hearing this play as if for the first time.
In that moment, I knew
that Lady Macbeth was amazed at the humanness of a dying man. I was seeing this play with wide-open eyes. How could I have even thought of killing another human being, even for a moment? Horror washed over me.
I stood up without realizing I had moved.
Caldwell asked, “Are you okay?”
“I need some air.” But even as I said the words, I saw that I couldn’t get out of the row in the middle of a scene. I sank down in my seat.
Caldwell put his hand on the small of my back and advised me to lean forward and breathe deeply. I fell forward in my chair, almost touching my knees with my head. Saying a mantra, “Nothing has happened,” to myself, I calmed down. I had gotten too caught up in the play. My life was not like that. I was not a queen. Not a murderer, but had I set in motion something that was unstoppable? No, it was only a “dagger of the mind.”
After a few moments, I was able to sit back up.
Caldwell gave me a worried look. “All right?”
“I’m fine,” I whispered back.
For the rest of the play, I kept myself at a bit of a remove, watching the people watching the play, noticing the fine night it was, the music, the warmth of Caldwell sitting next to me. A historic magical play about a time that never was, I reminded myself. Such dark deeds would never happen because of me.
* * *
“You gave me a bit of a scare in there,” Caldwell said as we walked back to his car.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I never get faint like that, but all of a sudden it all seemed to hit me.”
“Probably jet lag and overstimulation. Being in a new country as well.”
“That’s it. I lead a quiet life at home.”
“I suppose you’d like to go back to your room,” he said with slight reluctance in his voice.
“Well, actually, I was hoping we could swing by the Cock and Bull. As I recall, I owe you a pint.”
“Are you sure?” He brightened up.
“It would be my pleasure. After all, you drove.”
“Yes, but you provided the tickets.”
“You were gracious enough to accompany me.”
He stopped in the street for a moment and looked at me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that you were British. You can acquiesce with the best of them.”
There in the middle of the street, I dropped him a curtsy. “I thank you, my lord, for those kind words.”
He took my hand and raised me up. “And now, on to the libations.”
NINETEEN
Companion?
We found a table easily at the Cock and Bull. Caldwell offered to go up and get the drinks.
“Only one tonight for me. I learned my lesson. But a full pint if you don’t mind.” I handed him a ten-pound note.
Caldwell refused to take it and tried to walk away.
I grabbed the back of his sports coat and stopped him.
“Caldwell, I insist. If you do not let me pay my round, I can never go out for a beer with you again.”
A laugh shouted out of him. I never would have imagined he had such a hearty guffaw. When he calmed down, he wiped his eyes and said, “I swear, you are as conniving as any Englishwoman I have ever known.”
“Again with the compliments.” I held out the note and this time he took it. The pub was quieter than the last night we had been there. In an easy glance, I perused the room and did not find my man lurking in any corner. Disappointment prickled me. I wanted to talk to Guy and be done with this whole matter. The way he had said he’d take care of Dave couldn’t help but worry me. I never wanted to think about Dave the plumber again.
Caldwell came back carefully carrying two brimming pints of bitter. With a night off and having my English legs under me, I was looking forward to savoring the drink.
He sat down opposite me, handed me my pint, lifted his toward me. I followed suit. We clinked glasses and he said, “Here’s to you and the man who brought you.”
“That would be yourself.”
“I hope so.” He smiled and we drank.
“Caldwell, have you ever been to America?” I asked him, realizing how little I knew about him.
“Oh, I suppose I have,” he said with a shrug.
I wondered if he had actually heard my question. “How’s that?”
“Well, I’ve only ever visited New York and from what I’ve heard that’s not really America.”
I nodded. “It certainly bears little resemblance to the Midwest, where I’m from.”
“Have you always lived there? In the Middle West?”
“Yup, the heart of the country. Born in St. Paul, Minnesota. Have you always lived in London?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m from Basingstoke.”
“Where’s that?”
“Not far, southwest of London. Not exactly in the country, but certainly not urban.”
“How long have you lived in London?”
“Most of my adult life. I came here for my first job.”
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing really. A way to get my foot in the door.”
“How long have you had the B and B?”
“It’s over ten years, I believe.”
“What made you go into this business?”
“Well, I was semiretired, and my partner, Sally, inherited this house. It’s expensive to own a house in London. After thinking it over, we decided to make it pay for itself.”
I took a long draw on the beer. Sally. “What happened to her?”
“Oh, it’s a sad story.”
“Like Macbeth?”
He looked away. “Not quite as tortured as that. A handsome older man came to stay after the B and B had been open a couple of years. He was rich and promised her many things, but he was a bit of a ninny if you ask me. Sal was quite taken with him. At first I found it amusing.”
I sat still, waiting for him to go on.
“Not at all amusing when I came home to find our savings cleaned out, the house supposedly signed over to me, which was generous, and Sal gone off with Howard.”
A moment later, the name registered. “Wait a minute. Did you say Howard?”
He nodded.
“Howard Worth?”
“The same.”
“But he’s married to Annette.”
“Yes, Sally’s relationship with Howard didn’t last long, but by the time they broke up she had fallen in love with America. She could be rather flighty. Plus, I didn’t really want her back.”
“Were you and Sally married?” I asked.
“We never bothered.”
“Have you heard from her since?”
“Just a postcard. She’s living in Chicago.”
“Oh, I’m really sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t. Nice to hear the story of his last love and see that he was over it. One did get over breakups—I hoped. But it concerned me that Howard had been involved.
“It’s for the best. She wasn’t much good at being a host. She liked fitting out the rooms, but hated it when the guests made a mess in them.”
I took a large swallow of my beer, then asked the question I needed the answer to. “How did that make you feel about Howard?”
“Oh, I didn’t really blame him. I think she was ready to bolt. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else.”
“Awfully civilized of you,” I said, although I was rather skeptical of how evenly he talked about the breakup.
“I try.” He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Rather ironic that he would end up dying in your B and B,” I murmured.
“Yes, I hope the police don’t find it so. But it sounds like he died of natural causes.” He was silent for a moment, then turned his eyes on me and asked, “Now that you know about my last affair, tell me about your no-show companion.”
I almost spit my beer out. Did he know that Dave had split up with me? For some reason I was still not ready to talk about it. He handed me a linen handkerchief that he pulled out from his pocket. “
Breathe, Karen.”
I gasped and sputtered and when I was done, he was still waiting. “My companion?” I asked, weakly.
“Yes, whoever was supposed to come with you. Who was he and why isn’t he here?”
“Well, his name was Dave.”
Caldwell jerked his head back, frowned and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you mean he died?”
“Not really. I mean, no. I guess I spoke of him in the past tense because—” And here I stopped myself. Other than Rosie and Guy, I had told no one what had happened to me. I could not bring myself to talk about it. “I guess because he’s not here with me at this moment, so he seems in the past.”
Caldwell didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he asked pleasantly, “And what does this man in your life do?”
“Dave’s a plumber. We’ve been going out for a few years.”
“Sounds rather serious.” Caldwell touched his lip, then asked, “However did you happen to go out with a plumber, Karen? Doesn’t seem your style at all. I’d expect you to be with a lawyer or a professor. Someone in letters.”
I thought back to the first time I had seen Dave, standing at my front door with his large box of tools. “How else? He came to fix my toilet.”
“Oh, I see. He made himself indispensable.”
“You could say that.” For a brief moment I thought of telling him the whole story of what was going on with Dave, how he had dumped me, how he was now with Honey, how I followed him to their hotel, talking to a strange man about him, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. It painted too mean a picture of me. I wanted to continue to be the lovely woman who wore the gorgeous shawl. I tried to think of something nice to say about Dave. “He has his good points.”
“One thing I can say for sure is—he has good taste,” Caldwell murmured.
* * *
Caldwell offered to drop me off at the door, but I told him not to be silly. I didn’t mind the walk.
He found a parking spot two blocks away and we started strolling back to his house. It was then that I realized how awkward the end of this evening might be. I mean, if this was a date, which I didn’t really think it was, but if it was, what would we do at the door, or when we got inside. At what point did we say good night?
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