Murder and the Glovemaker's Son

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘What happened next?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I told the owner. I mean the nephew of the original owner. He was furious, and demanded that I didn’t tell anyone else. I said I hadn’t.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Ben.

  ‘About a month ago. It was awful. The tour was about to start, all the publicity was in place, the big push down here...’ He seemed to pull himself together. ‘Anyway, I talked to the V&A people, just to see if he’d been in touch, and they told me he’d withdrawn the letter.’ He shook his head. ‘They said they couldn’t possibly authenticate as they hadn’t finished their tests, but privately, one of them said to me he was very doubtful that it was genuine.’

  ‘So what does the owner say?’ asked Libby.

  ‘That’s just it. He’s disappeared too.’

  Ben and Libby stared at Tristan in horrified silence. He looked up at them.

  ‘So will you come over to the hall with me? I’ve got to confront the team.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘I don’t see what good we’ll do. If you haven’t told them anything about the news from the V&A, they aren’t going to be happy about having it sprung on them whether we’re there or not.’

  ‘They aren’t likely to try and cancel the production, are they?’ Ben scowled at Tristan.

  ‘I don’t see how they could,’ said Tristan, ‘even if they wanted to. The company are thoroughly enjoying themselves.’

  ‘As far as I can see,’ said Libby, ‘the only effect on us would be to lose audiences – although I can’t see why – but I suppose some people might be coming just for the, I don’t know, the sensationalist aspect.’

  ‘As long,’ Ben warned darkly, ‘as we don’t get accused of fraud.’

  ‘Fraud?’ echoed Tristan.

  ‘Misrepresentation,’ clarified Ben.

  ‘Oh no!’ Tristan put his head in his hands.

  ‘No point in second-guessing,’ said Libby briskly. ‘Just go and tell them and get it over with. You never know, they might decide to make capital out of it. You know – “Disappearance of document and owner – mystery surrounds Shakespeare tour.” Might work.’

  Tristan looked up gloomily and nodded. With a sigh, he stood up. ‘All right, I’ll go – if you’re sure you won’t come with me.’

  Ben and Libby remained seated.

  ‘Right.’ He swallowed the remainder of his brandy and smiled weakly.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll be here for a little while if you’ve got time to come and tell us what happened.’

  Tristan nodded again and left.

  ‘I wonder what they’ll do?’ said Ben, his eyes following Tristan out of the door.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they do what I said. Turn it to their advantage.’ Libby shrugged. ‘Look how unlikely some of the stories in the media are these days.’

  Ben sighed. ‘Oh, well, no use worrying, I suppose. It really isn’t anything to do with us.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Libby.

  Tristan didn’t make another appearance, nor did any of the acting company, so Libby and Ben went back to Sidney the cat, still wondering what was about to happen.

  The following morning, Ben went off to supervise his new micro-brewery, which was nearing completion, while Libby settled down to phone Fran Wolfe, her best friend, to keep her up to speed with the situation. Fran, a former actor like Libby herself, lived a few miles away in Nethergate on the coast, with her husband, artist and gallery owner Guy. Libby, having rediscovered herself as an artist, produced occasional paintings for Guy, which he sold in the gallery shop, and occasionally turned into postcards, although the market for these was falling off now. Who wanted a postcard, when you could take a photograph on your phone and send it instantly to all your friends wherever they might be in the world.

  ‘Well, I can’t see that it’ll harm you much,’ said Fran, having been apprised of the situation. ‘It might taint National Shakespeare and The Glover’s Men with a touch of scandal, but that could be good for business.’

  ‘That’s what I said last night,’ said Libby, ‘but as we haven’t heard from young Tristan since then, things are a bit up in the air. Ben went and opened up for the company this morning, and the director and technicians turned up, so we assume everything’s just going ahead.’

  Libby’s mobile beeped.

  ‘Hang on – I’ve got another call – oh!’ Libby stared at the screen in surprise. ‘I’ll have to go, Fran. That was a text from Ben saying Ali at the shop is trying to ring me. What on earth for?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Fran sounded amused. ‘Go on, find out and let me know.’

  Libby rang off and immediately the phone began ringing.

  ‘Libby, it’s Ali here.’

  ‘Yes, Ali – Ben told me -’

  ‘I’ve got a man here and I don’t know what to do with him.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘He wanted to know about the theatre people and where they were. I didn’t think I should send him to the theatre -’

  ‘No, no – don’t do that. I’ll come now. Thank you, Ali.’

  Ali and Ahmed owned the eight-til-late shop in the high street, which also, to the relief of many of the older villagers, contained the post office. When Libby arrived, Ahmed was behind the shop counter, his wife was behind the post office counter, and Ali was fluttering nervously round an elderly man seated on a chair in the corner. He darted up to Libby, his face wreathed in smiles of relief.

  ‘Libby, this gentleman -’ he began. Libby patted his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ali. I’m here now.’ She went up to the man, who stood up and smiled hesitantly. ‘Hello, I’m Libby Sarjeant, part-owner of the theatre here.’ Not strictly true, but near enough.

  More relief on the face of the visitor. ‘Ah! You can help me then. I came in here to the post office to try and find a young man called Tristan Scott, who I believe is here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby turned to Ali. ‘OK, Ali, thank you, you’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you in peace, now.’

  Libby led the visitor along the high street to the pub.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked. ‘Or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be very nice,’ said her guest. She installed him at the table in the corner and went up to a frankly inquisitive Tim.

  ‘New fancy man, ducks?’

  ‘No, and don’t be cheeky. Two coffees, please. And no, I didn’t ask if he wanted a new-fangled posh sort.’

  ‘Now,’ she said, sitting down at the table. ‘May I ask what this is about?’

  The man looked slightly affronted. ‘It’s personal.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby, no whit abashed, sat back in her chair. ‘Nothing to do with Shakespeare, then.’

  Now he looked cornered. Libby smiled.

  ‘Would I be right in saying you’ve been in touch with Tristan recently because you were worried about something?’

  He beamed. ‘Oh, you know! How did you guess it was me?’

  ‘Frankly,’ said Libby with a frown, ‘I don’t know! But I did and I was right. You’re worried that the letter is a fake?’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t have worried, because it was withdrawn.’ Libby looked round the bar and leant forward. ‘And both it and the owner have vanished!’

  ‘What?’ The man’s face registered horror. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘He’s just gone,’ said Libby, surprised. ‘I expect he thought it was a good idea to disappear if he was attempting to – er – perpetrate a fraud.’

  The man shook his head. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. I couldn’t have borne it if it was actually hailed as genuine when I knew it wasn’t.’

  Tim called from the bar and Libby excused herself to go and collect the coffees.

  ‘You know we’ve got a free room, if he needs to stay?’ muttered Tim, peering inquisitively over Libby’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh? Someone gone missing?’

  ‘One
of the bosses. Checked out this morning and dashed back to London. Know what it was about?’

  Libby could take a good guess, but shook her head. She carried the cups back to the table.

  ‘Apparently,’ she said, ‘one of the team from National Shakespeare has gone back to London, post-haste. Damage limitation, I would think.’

  ‘Do you think I should offer to go and see them?’ Her guest sounded nervous.

  ‘I’ll ask Tristan, if you like,’ said Libby. ‘And if you fancy staying down here – perhaps to see the production – the landlord says he’s now got a room free. And could I ask your name? I need it to tell Tristan who’s here.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He held out his hand. ‘Gilbert Harrison. I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And I you.’ Libby smiled at him. ‘And now I’ll call Tristan, if you’ll excuse me.’

  Tristan’s phone went straight to voicemail, so Libby left a message.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Would you like something to eat? It is lunchtime.’

  ‘Perhaps a sandwich?’ suggested Gilbert. His small white moustache whiffled, suggesting its owner was slightly hungrier than he tried to appear.

  ‘Yes, Tim does a very good sandwich,’ said Libby. When they’d ordered, she asked, ‘So what made you suspect this letter wasn’t genuine?’

  ‘There are very few letters in Shakespeare’s own hand,’ said Gilbert, ‘and it seemed highly unlikely that he would have written this one when all the details of the tour would have been organised by someone else.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Libby. ‘The whole subject of the Shakespeare industry has always fascinated me. What people think they can get away with. It was a book that set me off.’

  Gilbert smiled, his face dissolving into a thousand tiny lines. ‘I bet I know which one!’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Would it have been by a writer called Ngaio Marsh?’

  ‘You do know!’ said Libby delightedly. ‘Very few people do.’

  ‘Of course not – she’s hardly fashionable today. You know there was a story about whether there actually had been a glove?’

  ‘Yes, my friend Peter used to work for Reuters, and he said he was sent to research the story but nothing came of it.’

  ‘Sadly, no.’ Gilbert sighed. ‘And what a story it would have been. So tell me how you’re connected with this production.’

  Libby was halfway through telling him the story of the Oast Theatre and her own involvement when their sandwiches arrived.

  ‘So your – partner? One doesn’t say boyfriend these days, does one?’ Gilbert whiffled his moustache again.

  ‘No, partner has to do.’ Libby bit into her ham sandwich. ‘Mmm, lovely.’

  ‘So he lives at The Manor, and the oast house was part of their estate?’

  ‘No, his mother still lives there, but Ben lives with me in my cottage. We’re both on the board of the Oast Theatre, along with Ben’s cousin Peter – the journalist I told you about.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Gilbert sounded excited. ‘And do you know how long the family has lived there?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ Libby was puzzled. ‘Nineteenth century, I think.’

  ‘Only,’ said Gilbert, putting down his sandwich, ‘in Tristan’s letter it stated that the company stayed at the Manor of Quinton St Martin. And while we think the letter is fake, we do know that part was true. And that Manor was your Ben’s Manor!’

  Chapter Three

  Libby almost choked on her sandwich. Gilbert patted her on the back.

  ‘There – I’m sorry. Is it really such a surprise?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t realise it was that old, to be honest. And it isn’t that big. I never knew it was called Quinton St Martin, either. Was that the whole village?’

  Gilbert nodded. ‘It was. That was one reason we – the V&A, that is – thought the letter was a fake. There was just a chance Shakespeare might have got it wrong – think of all the alternative spellings of his own name, for instance – but it was a comparatively well-known place, and house, come to that.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  Gilbert smiled, a little smugly, Libby thought. ‘One of my specialities is the Elizabethans. And Quinton was almost as famous as Mortlake.’

  ‘Mortlake?’ Libby frowned. ‘Isn’t there a brewery there?’

  ‘Ah, but who lived at Mortlake?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Libby, beginning to feel a little irritated.

  ‘John Dee,’ said Gilbert triumphantly.

  ‘John -’ gasped Libby. ‘The magician?’

  ‘Magician, mathematician, astrologer and advisor to Queen Elizabeth.’

  ‘So who lived at Quinton? Another magician?’

  ‘That was something they didn’t call themselves, but yes. And again, an advisor to the Queen – Quinton is a reference to “Queen”. His name was Titus Watt, and like Dee, a contender for the inspiration for Prospero.’

  ‘Wow!’ Libby sat back and stared. ‘So whoever constructed that fake letter knew his stuff. There’s an automatic Shakespeare connection for a start. What was the village called before the “Quinton” was tacked on?’

  ‘Because the records are so sketchy and often difficult to read, we think possibly St Martin, or just Martin, but it’s difficult to be certain.’ Gilbert took a sip of coffee. ‘And of course, there’s another connection to Shakespeare, too.’

  ‘Blimey! Is there?’

  Gilbert put his head on one side like an elderly budgie. ‘How much do you know about Elizabeth’s spies?’

  ‘Um, Cecil? Walsingham?’

  ‘And very possibly Dee and Watt.’ Gilbert sat back, the smug expression on his face once more. ‘And, very probably – Shakespeare, too. Remember the missing years?’

  ‘No!’ Libby’s eyes were wide. ‘There’s enough there for the company to trade on despite the fake letter, isn’t there?’

  ‘I don’t know much about these matters,’ said Gilbert, picking up his coffee cup, ‘but anything connected to the great man always stirs up interest.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Libby was thoughtful. ‘How much is actually known about this Titus Watt? He’s never popped onto our radar at all.’

  ‘He wasn’t documented as well as Dee, sadly, but there’s enough to prove that he lived here, which is why the person who created that fake letter chose to address it to him. I should imagine there will be something in your county archives.’

  ‘Ah! Another job for our Andrew,’ said Libby.

  ‘Sorry – Andrew?’

  ‘Andrew Wylie – he’s a retired historian. Well, professor of history. Called an emeritus professor for some reason.’

  Gilbert’s face lit up. ‘I know Andrew Wylie! Known him for years. Do you know him well?’

  ‘Quite well – he lives not far away in Nethergate, and often does odd little jobs for us like searching the archives.’

  ‘Jobs?’ Gilbert frowned.

  ‘Too long to explain now,’ said Libby hastily. ‘But I’ll give him a ring and let him know you’re here. Meanwhile, do you think I could go and tell the Shakespeare people about this Titus Watt?’

  ‘Of course, if you think it will help. But what is being done about the man who tried to convince you all about the fake?’

  ‘I don’t actually know,’ said Libby. ‘He withdrew it from the V&A and then both he and it disappeared. Deliberately, I daresay.’

  ‘Of course. I don’t know how he dared.’ Gilbert shook his head. ‘After all, his – uncle, was it? – had already withdrawn it from us once. Why did he think he would do any better?’

  ‘New techniques, perhaps?’ suggested Libby.

  ‘Surely not! They would be more likely to show up any trickery. You should see some of the things they can do now to authenticate both documents and paintings. Quite remarkable.’

  ‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll give Andrew a quick ring and let him know you’re here, then I’ll give you his number and you
can ring him.’

  ‘Give him mine,’ said Gilbert, drawing a phone from his pocket.

  Luckily, Andrew Wylie was in, and intrigued by Libby’s message, promised to ring Gilbert immediately.

  ‘He’ll explain everything,’ said Libby. ‘He’s right beside me now, but I’ve got to dash off, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Off you go then,’ said Andrew. ‘No doubt we’ll be in touch shortly.’

  Leaving Gilbert to enjoy his chat with an old friend, Libby left the pub to make her way across the road and down Maltby Close to the village hall, where she knocked and entered, finding a small group of serious-looking people clustered round a long table at one end.

  ‘Libby!’ Tristan stood up and came towards her. ‘We’ve just been finalising policy.’

  ‘And what have you decided?’ asked Libby, glancing warily at the others, now all watching intently.

  ‘Oh, spin,’ said Tristan uncomfortably. ‘Not much else we can do, is there?’

  ‘Well, I’ve just had a little bit of information that just might help. It might have to be verified, but that’s in hand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I explain to everyone, please? Then I won’t have to say it twice.’

  Tristan led her to the table and introduced her to the committee of disconsolate people around it. It didn’t take long to tell them of Gilbert’s disclosures and when she’d finished, although it was too much to say they were enthusiastic, the mood had obviously lightened.

  ‘And you say this Titus Watt has to be verified?’ asked one.

  ‘By both the retired V&A expert and a historian who I’ve worked with before. He’s going to trawl the county archives.’ Libby crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping Andrew was going to do just that.

  ‘Is he real?’ asked another.

  Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘Of course he’s real. And I’m sure,’ she crossed her fingers again, ‘you know that there was suspicion during his lifetime that Shakespeare himself was a spy.’

  There was a shocked mutter of protest. Libby frowned. They really hadn’t known? They were supposed to be experts.

  The oldest of the company tapped on the table with a pen. ‘We need to formulate a plan,’ he said, ‘and issue a statement.’