“But Harriet told us that my grandmother’s house was occupied by some performers in Shakespeare’s time, right?” I asked.
Trevor said, “Correct. During the year in question, Beryl’s house was the residence of a troupe of actors whom the earl sponsored, so they were called, appropriately, ‘The Earl’s Players’. In those days, musical or acting companies would often perform in private homes. They were known as ‘household players’. The earl’s estate kept records of what he paid people, and the Players were listed on salary all year. It seems that during this particular summer, a travelling actor was hired to replace a member of the troupe who’d fallen ill. And the name of the vagabond actor who was hired was none other than . . .”
Trevor tapped the document where the signature spelled out the name.
“I see. So, that explains why this document was found in Beryl’s house?” Jeremy observed, staring at the manuscript fragment.
“Yes, in an old barrel in the attic. Harriet and I uncovered it quite accidentally while sorting through the place when we were told to prepare Beryl’s house for sale,” Trevor answered. “There’s no doubt that the man who wrote and signed this fragment, was, for the entire summer of 1592, a member of The Earl’s Players and therefore a lodger in your grandmother’s house. The question remains: was he really the Bard of Avon?”
Trevor seized my hand and held it in both of his. “Can you understand how utterly seismic this discovery would be if we can prove it? Not only would your grandmother’s house be designated a landmark—with all the protection that that would afford—but we would have astounding new information about Shakespeare and his work.”
“What does your friend at the University think?” I asked breathlessly.
“He is subjecting the document to the most vigorous tests you can imagine!” Trevor said, releasing my hand and pacing the room impatiently. “Handwriting analysis. Chemical tests of the ink and paper. Academic tests of language and usage. Records in London—although so many, alas, perished in the Great Fire of 1666.”
Trevor paused to take a deep breath. “I must say, I am not a Shakespeare historian,” he admitted. “So I feel that I have come to my scholarly limit. That is why, when I chanced to hear about you two at a party, I thought it was time to pass the baton and see if you could reach the finish line with this.”
“Do you think your Shakespeare expert would talk to us?” I asked eagerly.
“He said he would be glad to,” Trevor said. “I think it’s best you see him in person, my dear. You are such a charming young woman and he would perhaps be more forthcoming if you paid him a visit.” Trevor wrote down the name and address for me on the back of one of his own business cards.
“This is all well and good, if he declares that your fragment is authentic,” Jeremy said. “But what if your expert says the evidence is inconclusive?”
Trevor gave him a knowing nod. “That is where you and Penny come in,” he said challengingly. “Any supporting evidence that you can unearth might ‘Save Our Ship’! Though, I must tell you, we’ve been through the entire house with a fine-toothed comb, and found not a single scrap of additional evidence to help us out. So whatever you discover will have to come from somewhere else, I’m afraid.”
I gazed at him, dumbfounded. What on earth did he expect us to do? Find a personalized quill pen out on the moors, autographed by the Bard himself?
Trevor had risen to his feet now, and moved to the doorway, signalling that our conference was at an end. We followed him outside.
“And now, I must ‘away’. Duty calls,” he said with a proud gesture, pointing toward another building on his property, which I hadn’t noticed until now.
“What a beautiful old house,” I said, admiring its stone structure and antique windows.
“It is actually the old Priory, where, long ago, clergymen were trained,” Trevor said, pleased at my interest. “I’m surprised Harriet didn’t mention it to you, because, thanks to fund-raising by our Legacy Society, we have managed to turn the Priory into a seniors’ home for old actors. And you would be surprised at how many of today’s London performers have already contributed money to our Actors’ Home, in order to insure that when they reach retirement age they will have a place there! I won’t name any names, of course,” Trevor said with a sly smile. “Would you like to take a look before you go?” he asked so eagerly that I had to nod, even though Jeremy was making faces trying to signal me to say no.
By now Trevor was insisting that we just “pop in” for a moment. I don’t know if it was because he just automatically sought to recruit new donors, or if he was simply so proud of the place.
“The Actors’ Home is actually my own brainchild, because my fellow thespians need a special place to retire to,” Trevor explained. We entered the fine old three-storied stone house.
“It’s gotten an excellent rating, with quality medical care provided by good doctors from the local training hospital. And the food here is first-rate. So, we are nearly full to capacity,” Trevor said as we went upstairs. “We rely on nursing students from the hospital to work here. Ah, here is Nora. She is one of the best.”
The bright-faced young nurse was busy with patients, but she gave us a warm smile as we passed her.
“But if we can’t continue to keep our local hospital thriving, then student nurses like Nora will have to abandon us for some big city,” Trevor said.
We had been politely walking down the corridors of the second floor and peering in at rooms that actually looked quite attractive, since they were furnished in an old-fashioned way, not only with brass beds and cozy-looking upholstered chairs, but with desks, tables and lamps. The desks, I realized, gave the rooms more dignity, for the occupants were not forced to be bedridden, and they wore regular clothes instead of hospital gowns. As we passed the large common room on this floor, we heard theatre music from the 1930s and 1940s wafting out, and when I peered in I saw groups of residents sitting there, playing cards and viewing old movies.
“Nice music,” Jeremy commented, looking amused. “Not what you usually hear in a care home.”
“Yes, well, that’s all part of what makes this place so special,” Trevor said with a pleased expression. “Recent studies show that elderly people retain their mental capacity and zest for life when they live in an environment that recreates the atmosphere of their youth,” he explained.
Trevor ushered us into the elevator and continued, “Here in our Actors’ Home, each floor will be devoted to a different era, outfitted with the music, movies, books and furnishings of that time,” he explained as the elevator door reopened, and we crossed the first-floor lobby. “We hope to soon convert this floor into our 1950s and 1960s wing.”
I watched Jeremy struggling to keep a straight face as we passed a common room that already had large framed photos of Elvis Presley, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.
Near the front door was a main office. Trevor paused there and said, “Everyone in town is very excited about this Shakespeare find. Did Harriet tell you that we’re doing a big benefit show for the hospital later this summer? We’re re-opening the old theatre in town, and some of our residents here are going to come out of retirement to read scenes from Shakespeare. May I put you down for two tickets to our Shakespeare Festival?”
“Of course,” I said, pausing at the office anteroom where a plump, pleasant woman took my credit card to charge the tickets. I idly wondered if Trevor had conducted this entire tour for the simple purpose of selling a couple of tickets.
“Thank you so much,” Trevor said as we all shook hands. “And do please call me the minute you return from London. I can’t wait to hear what you learn about our Elizabethan lodger.”
Jeremy didn’t say a word until we were safely in our car in the parking lot and heading for the winding country road that would take us back into town. Then he said in a deadly tone, “Okay, Penny, when I get old and go dotty, I want to be put in the 1960s wing. Have you got that? I want to go
where the Beatles are.”
“But that’s not your decade,” I reminded him. “Your misspent youth was in the 1980s, right?”
“Oh, please!” Jeremy exclaimed. “Punk and New Wave are okay when you’re young, but I don’t wish to spend a lifetime there.”
“By the time we’re as old as these folks are,” I said, “we’d be lucky to get into any wing at all.”
Jeremy pondered this, then said quite vehemently, “Well, whatever happens, do not stick me in the 1970s. I will not spend my last breath hearing Donna Summers. Do you hear me? I HATE disco!”
“Okay, okay!” I cried. “Stop talking about it. I mean, why do you keep telling me to park you in a home in the first place? Don’t I get to stay with you?”
“Right,” Jeremy said, calming down a little. “We’ll go together, listening to Rubber Soul.”
“Never mind all that!” I cried. “Are these Legacy Society folks totally crazy or what?”
“The Cornish are known to be an eccentric lot,” Jeremy told me. “But, this is beyond any of my expectations.”
“Well, what do you think? Did Shakespeare hang out in my grandmother’s house?” I asked.
“I think that bloke Trevor is such a compelling storyteller that he’s got everybody out here mesmerized,” Jeremy said frankly. “But all he really has to offer is a scrap of paper and a lot of theories. No hard evidence that I can see. I mean sure, we should go to London and see what his expert has to say. But I have to tell you, I’m not particularly hopeful.”
I sighed gustily. “I know,” I admitted. “I did plenty of research on Shakespeare for that silly vampire film I worked on. And the more you search, the more you find out how little we really know about old Will. But,” I said determinedly, “if there’s any chance that Trevor is on the right track, I say we go for it. After all, there was an acting troupe in that house, and there was a man who signed his name that way, and Shakespeare had to be somewhere that year, so why not here?”
Chapter Eleven
“ I don’t know about you,” Jeremy said as we drove back toward town, “but I could go for a nice tall ale, and a plate of fresh-caught Cornish seafood.”
He looked as if he was already picturing the scene, and he held up one hand and mimed grasping a stein of beer.
“Hey,” I said as we entered the hotel parking lot, “plenty of spaces tonight. Isn’t that great?”
“Hmm,” was all Jeremy said as he slid easily into a prime parking spot.
The front porch of the restaurant was empty as we clattered up the wooden steps, and I could sense that things here had changed drastically, even before we tried to push open the locked doors of the restaurant.
“It’s six o’clock. What time do they start serving dinner?” I asked, bewildered.
“They don’t,” Jeremy said, pointing to the white placard that listed the restaurant’s hours. “Not tonight. We’re still in low season, so it’s closed Monday through Thursday,” he announced, “until next week. Then they’re open every night.”
He sighed. “Damn. I had my mouth set for that turbot à l’anglaise in hollandaise. This is what comes of counting one’s chickens before they’re hatched,” he concluded philosophically.
“Please don’t mention chickens,” I objected. “What I wouldn’t do for a roasted one! I’d even settle for an egg. I mean, they can’t not feed us . . . can they? This restaurant is connected to our hotel. There has to be some kind of room service, right?”
Jeremy snorted. “You want that cold plate again?”
I shook my head emphatically. “Well, maybe our hotel can recommend someplace else, so we don’t have to drive around for hours,” I coaxed. “I think I saw a stack of menus on the reception desk. Monday’s always a tough night to eat out, though.”
We hurried over to our hotel. The lobby was empty and there was no one standing at the front desk. But the door to the little office behind it was open, and as we drew nearer I could hear a rustling noise that clearly indicated someone was definitely back there, ignoring us, even when Jeremy said, “Harumph!” a couple of times.
“Yoo-hoo!” I called out finally.
There was a creak of a chair, and a thin old man, with only a few strands of grey-white hair over his otherwise bald pate, peered out at us. He had wire spectacles perched on the end of his long, skinny nose, and there was a napkin tucked under his chin, which he now reluctantly removed before emerging.
“Where can we find a good dinner tonight?” Jeremy said bluntly, for he sensed that subtle good manners would be wasted on this fellow, who behaved more like the kind of night watchman that takes such a job because he prefers not to have to talk to people.
Without answering, the man reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of well-worn menus from local restaurants. The old fellow flapped them on the counter, then turned as if to shuffle back to his little mouse-hole.
But Jeremy, refusing to glance at what he knew he’d find on all those menus, said authoritatively, “Which one is open tonight?”
The old man paused, and gave us a slight smirk of amusement. “There’s nuffin’ open tonight round here,” he said definitively. “ ’Twere all the same, these fancy restaurants. They run on the exact same hours, like a herd of sheep.”
“This guy’s great for hotel P.R.,” I muttered to Jeremy.
“We could send you up a cold supper,” the man said without enthusiasm.
“No thanks,” Jeremy said shortly. He was ready to walk out, but I nudged him.
“We should let the hotel know we want to stay on longer,” I murmured, for we had agreed that we were going to need a base out here, even if we went back and forth to London.
“Do you handle reservations for the hotel?” Jeremy asked the man doubtfully. Without a word, he shuffled into his office.
“Back to his pickle-and-cheese sandwich,” Jeremy muttered.
But a short moment later, a middle-aged woman emerged. With a determinedly bright expression, I told her we’d like to keep our room for awhile longer. And although I didn’t exactly expect her to leap with joy at the prospect of having us around for an extended stay, I surely wasn’t prepared for the definitive way she shook her head, as if dealing with two foolish children.
“Not possible, dearie,” she said. “The ’igh season begins next week. We’re booked solid till October.”
There was a stunned silence. Jeremy’s expression remained deliberately unflappable because, being English, he resolutely refuses to ever let anyone see him looking crestfallen.
I just thought that she was simply trying to drive a hard bargain to ratchet up the room rate.
“Are you completely sure about that?” I asked. “You haven’t even looked in your reservation book,” I added pointedly.
“Don’t have to, darling,” she replied, but, as if to prove something to us, she opened it, and flipped page after page, shaking her head, as if somehow we could read upside-down and this therefore made her case beyond a shadow of a doubt.
“Who else around here can you recommend?” I asked, feeling cranky now. “Hotels, or cottages—?”
But this only produced a short, incredulous laugh from her.
“Sweetie, every decent little shack in Cornwall and Devon goes rented by March!” she declared. “So-o-sorry,” she sang out, attempting to sound a little regretful. “I’ll ask around tomorrow morning, and if I hear of anything I’ll definitely let you know.”
Which meant, of course, that tomorrow we were out on our ear.
“Let’s go,” Jeremy said abruptly, steering me back outside. The street was quite dark without the bustle of the weekend crowd’s automobiles.
“We could drive to Padstow,” Jeremy said dubiously as we stood at the curb. As he spoke, the first fat drops of rain plopped on the pavement beside us.
“Swell. We’ll probably skid off the roads to our deaths whilst trying to score a meal,” I said.
“Want to just go to bed?” Jeremy said stoically.
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But I am part French, and no matter what the circumstances I simply cannot treat eating as if it’s merely a pastime, like playing bridge.
“Can’t do it, sonny,” I replied. “Surely we can scare up some take-out joint, or a food mart?”
“This isn’t London, darling,” Jeremy said. “Out here we must hunt and gather for our meals, just like the Celts.”
Just then a bright red pick-up truck came roaring up, and ground to a sudden stop right in front of us. The driver peered out. Recognizing us, he inched forward, and rolled down the window.
“Hey,” Colin shouted in greeting. “What are you doing standing out in the rain?”
“Looking for dinner,” I said. “Nothing’s open.”
Colin said dryly, “The gas station in Rock sells caviar and champagne. That goes over well with the second-homers.”
The image of tinned caviar standing on a shelf next to cans of motor oil nearly turned my stomach, and my face must have reflected this, because Colin laughed and said, “Care for a pint? The only place open tonight is the old pub, but it’s not easy to find in the dark. Follow me,” he called, then went roaring off.
“Great. We can surely get something to eat there,” Jeremy said excitedly.
“Lord, don’t lose him!” I cried. We hurried into the car, and Jeremy tore off after him.
Colin led us down one dark street after another, swinging around the turns and hills at breakneck speed. We drove past the railroad tracks, and then careened up another very steep hill where some dark warehouses dwarfed a few remaining old nineteenth-century brick buildings. It looked as if this street had once been a residential part of town, and I imagined that many other such brick houses had been torn down and replaced by these grim-looking warehouses in the twentieth century. But from the sight of things, most of these warehouses were now empty, too.
A Rather Remarkable Homecoming Page 9