A Symphony of Echoes (16 page)

‘The next scene is the wedding. Everyone’s over the moon, except the Queen of course, and everything looks set for a happy ending.

‘Except that, as we know, the French King dies prematurely in a jousting accident and the young couple become King and Queen rather sooner than everyone intended. Then, of course, the Dauphin upsets everyone’s apple cart by dying himself, apparently of an ear infection. There’s a fantastic scene when uncontrollable hostility rises to the surface, Mary and Catherine are hissing venomously at each other over his deathbed, and the upshot is that Catherine forces Mary to return to Scotland. Her reluctance to do so is somewhat played down for the Scottish audience. But from our point of view, so far so good, everything’s pretty well spot on.’

She paused for a glug of water.

‘Mary returns to Scotland. In the traditional thick Scottish fog. Standing on the shore, she makes a stirring speech about how happy she is to return to her native land, how she will rule justly and fairly, and everything’s going to be rainbows and bunny-rabbits from now on. I suspect she actually said, “Shit, I’m soaked. Doesn’t the sun ever shine in this God-forsaken dump? Someone find me some dry shoes and give me a drink,” and in French too, but there you go.

‘In the light of subsequent events, her marriage to Darnley is somewhat played down and we move straight into what is the climax of the first part. The whole tone of the play darkens. Mary, heavily pregnant and attended only by two or three women is complaining bitterly about her new husband. She hates him. Everyone hates him. He’s a waster. He’s a loser. He’s a tosser, etc. etc. Rizzio arrives for an intimate supper as, apparently, is his wont. As we all know, Darnley and his friends rudely interrupt this little idyll. He restrains the Queen while they stab Rizzio. Many, many times. They counted fifty-six wounds, afterwards. That’s a lot. He’s clutching her skirts and screaming for her to save him. She’s screaming and cursing her husband. Her women are screaming for help, which doesn’t come. It’s actually a very disturbing scene, ending with the pregnant Queen collapsing in a pool of Rizzio’s blood.

She stopped and looked at me. ‘Now we come to it. According to the play she does not leave Holyrood. She stays put and Shakespeare gets round this by giving Mary a “
Will no one rid me of this turbulent husband
?ˮ moment and a besotted and unbalanced Bothwell races off to do the deed. In other words, Mary is completely innocent.’

Someone snorted.

‘The news of Darnley’s death is brought to her and she is properly horrified and appalled.

In the play, she immediately distances herself from Bothwell. As far as we can tell, she never sees him again. So, there’s no rape, no disgrace, no fatal third marriage, no uprisings against her, no long imprisonment in England.’

I drew a deep breath.

‘Bloody hell! So, that’s it, then. That’s what’s different. No Bothwell.’

‘It would seem so, yes.’

‘What next?’

‘Well, of course, we’re well down the wrong path now and picking up speed as we go. Encouraged by Mary, the north rises against Elizabeth, aided by Scottish and French troops. Philip of Spain, alarmed by French ascension in Europe, overcomes his religious scruples and secretly aids Elizabeth. An unlikely scenario but contemporary sources always reckoned he fancied her a bit. Holland falls, of course, because Elizabeth is in no position to send it aid. Vast numbers of Protestants flee England for the safety of America. The Armada sails, only this time to save England, rather than invade, but the result is the same. The ships are scattered by the weather. French and Scottish troops – The Auld Alliance – pour down across the border. Elizabeth flees but is captured and imprisoned. She plots with Spain to return to power and is betrayed.

‘In the climactic scene, Mary visits her secretly on the eve of her execution and as one queen to another, begs and implores her to renounce her claim to the English throne. If she publicly acknowledges her illegitimacy, she will be allowed to live out her life quietly under house arrest. Elizabeth rejects this offer with scorn, obviously remembering she spent her childhood in a similar situation, and the two redheads spit unqueenlike insults at each other before a brief moment at the end, when we see them, women in a man’s world, tearful and regretting the past. It’s a moving and emotional finale. Except …’

‘Except what?’

‘Except it’s all bollocks.’

She opened a file and paused dramatically. Considering it was full of historians, the hall was abnormally silent.

‘From the murder of Darnley onwards, everything is a fake. This is Dr Dowson’s report. Paper, ink, style – all different. Definitely not Shakespeare.’

‘A modern forgery?’

‘That’s the weird bit, Max. The second part is contemporary with the first. It was written at the same time but just not by the man himself.’

‘But it was buried at the same time as the first part?’

‘Oh yes. Someone – God knows who – wrote the second part, substituted their version, and it was all buried by Dr Bairstow in good faith.’

I struggled to make sense of this.

‘So the play is early 17th century. All of it. But was written by two different people, only one of whom was Shakespeare?’

‘Yep. Here’s a summary for you.’ She passed it over. I took it blindly, while various thoughts ran through my head. Everyone was very quiet. I could hear people’s brains working.

I said slowly, ‘Very nice work, you two. Well done. I’m off to see Mrs Partridge to make an appointment with the Boss. Work all that up and you can present it to him tomorrow sometime.’

They backed off and started to gather material. I looked around. David was at the back, still coughing slightly. I raised my eyebrows and he nodded and smiled.

It was only now that I became aware of a rhythmic thumping noise in the background. No one else seemed to notice, so I said nothing.

It grew louder as I climbed the stairs and walked around the gallery to Mrs Partridge’s office. She wasn’t there. I stuck my head into Admin and they told me she was down the corridor. The thumping noise got louder as I approached the door. I felt my scalp prickle.

Something was happening.

I found her in the printing room. Our nice, sleek, up-to-the-minute digital printer was ominously quiet in the corner and some old clanking thing with moving parts was crashing and thumping away to itself. Papers spewed from an orifice and were being gathered and stapled by Mrs Partridge and her team. I pulled one off the pile. It was nothing, just the annual archive update.

But something was happening.

I turned my head slowly, trying to locate … something.

With one final, dying clatter, the machine ceased. The silence that fell only emphasised the noise that had gone before. Everyone sighed with relief. Mrs Partridge’s team loaded everything onto a trolley and disappeared. Mrs Partridge herself walked quietly around the room, switching things off. That done, she turned to face me.

‘Can I see the Boss sometime tomorrow? To report on The Play.’

Without a blink, she said, ‘Ten o’clock, tomorrow morning.’

‘Thank you.’

I wasn’t really listening. I looked up and she was standing quietly and watching. Every time something important happens at St Mary’s, Mrs Partridge is always there. Somewhere. Always.

I started to walk around the room. Taped to the wall was a big black plastic bag, half-full of rejected sheets. Without knowing why, I reached in and pulled out few.

‘Be careful,’ she warned. ‘Some of those will still be wet.’

‘What happened?’

‘Our usual printer is broken, so we had to use the old machine and we over-inked it. The first few hundred sheets were useless.’

This was important and I didn’t know why. I looked at the sheets I’d pulled out. Ink still glistened wetly in places. The printing was blobby. I turned it over. It had leaked through the paper to the back.

Bleed-through.

A hundred thoughts crashed through my mind.

I looked out at the rain. Rain. Dreams. Dreams that were real.

I looked over at Mrs Partridge, who was gathering her equipment and regarding me with the sort of expression usually reserved for a kitten who has just successfully used the litter tray. She stood expectantly by the door. I took the hint.

‘Don’t forget. 10.00 a.m. tomorrow.’

‘No,’ I mumbled. ‘I won’t forget,’ and wandered blindly down the corridor. I found myself at the top of the stairs more by good luck than good judgement. David was looking up at me. I went down to join him.

‘Can you get back to the office? Clear my desk. I don’t care where you hide it. Set up a recorder. Can you do that in twenty minutes?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. I’ll be along in a minute.’

He set off and I wandered into the library, where it was quiet. This was going to be awkward, but I couldn’t help that. I activated my com.

‘Chief Farrell?’

‘Dr Maxwell?’ Puzzled but neutral.

‘Yes. I wonder, if you’re not too busy, could you spare me half an hour in my office? If it’s a problem, I can come to you, but I think it’s quieter in my office.’

There was a pause. I shifted from foot to foot, but said nothing.

‘Do I get a clue?’

‘We’re doing some work on Mary Stuart and I think you may have the answers to some questions.’

Another pause.

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Is it possible for you to come at once?’

And another pause.

‘Can you give me ten minutes?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and closing the link before he could change his mind, I sprinted to my office.

I don’t know what David had done with everything. For all I know he’d just opened the window and flung it all out into the rain. I didn’t care. I was conscious only of a burning sense of urgency.

I was waiting for him when he stood, somewhat warily, in the doorway. David had put up the red light outside the door. It made us look like a brothel, but it meant no one would come in. I stood up politely, but formally. Our earlier conversation might never have happened.

‘Chief Farrell, thank you for coming so quickly. I do apologise if I’ve disrupted your afternoon. There are some things I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind. Please come in and sit down.’

We sat in the armchairs. I made sure I got the one near the radiator. Just listening to the rain outside made me feel cold. He regarded the little recorder with suspicion.

‘It’s nothing sinister, Chief. I just want to concentrate on what you have to say, rather than keep trying to remember things. If you have no objection, that is.’

He looked a little dubious. ‘This sounds important.’

‘Actually, I think it is. And, before you ask, I’m not sure why. I can only ask you to bear with me while I bumble around in the dark until I find what it is I don’t know I’m looking for.’

‘Sounds like typical History Department methodology to me. Very well, Dr Maxwell, do your worst.’

‘I’d like to ask you some questions about recent events. I’ll happily tell you what it’s about when it’s over, but not until then, if you don’t mind, because I don’t want to influence anything you say.’

He nodded, face closed. I knew that look.

‘When you were unconscious, you dreamed, right?’

He nodded again, arms folded, chin on chest.

‘Can you tell me what you dreamed?’

‘I’m not really sure. I can’t remember much of it now.’

‘But it was very vivid at the time, you said?’

He nodded.

‘Very real. More real than reality when you woke up?’

He nodded again, obviously unwilling to commit himself. This wasn’t going anywhere. I decided to revise my strategy. I dragged out a sheet of Mrs Partridge’s rejected printing and laid it on the table in front of him. He picked it up.

‘The new Archive list?’

‘Look on the back.’

He turned it over.

‘Messy.’

‘It’s called “bleed-through”.’

‘And?’

‘And I think that’s not the only example of bleed-through I’ve recently seen. I think … I think while you were in a state of altered consciousness, you yourself were subject to – bleed through. I think your dreams may not necessarily be dreams after all. I think the reason it seemed so real to you, is that it was real. I think something bled though and that’s what you remember now. Imperfect blobby bits like the reverse side of this printing. You said …’

I took a deep breath and he tensed slightly.

‘You said –
Scotland, long skirts, lights, glittering cloth.
That’s quite a vivid description. I think you know more than you realise. I’d like you to relax, stop, think and tell me what you remember. If it turns out I’m wrong, then we’ll give you a cup of tea, our grateful thanks, and you can go on your way; no harm done.’

He stared at his feet for a while then said, ‘I’m not sure I remember very much any more.’

I wasn’t going to let this go. ‘Well, shall we give it a try?’

He sighed. ‘You’re like a terrier, aren’t you?’

I ignored this. ‘OK, just cast your mind back. Try and actually be in your dreams. What can you smell?’

The answer came immediately.

‘Horses. Wood smoke. Damp. Musty.’

‘What’s the weather doing?’

‘Rain. It’s chilly. Getting dark.’

‘Are you outside?’

‘Yes. I’m going home.’

That was interesting.

‘Where’s home?’

‘Just round the corner. Through the gates. The house with the gable. There are stone eagles over the door. One has a broken wing.’

That wasn’t what I expected. I’d been waiting for a location but I’d got something else. I tried to chuck all pre-conceived ideas out of my head and follow where he led.

‘What happens next?’

‘Across a small courtyard. Up the steps. Three steps. A wooden door. It’s warm inside. There’s a big fire.’

‘Who’s there with you?’

‘I see Guthrie. He’s wet and shaking out his coat. No, his cloak. Shaking his cloak. I see Peterson as well, sitting at a table. A long table. You and someone else are by the fire. Flickering shadows. Opening the door blows out a candle. Talking. You said … It’s gone.’ He shook his head.