Nightshade and Damnations (15 page)

At numbers
69
and
72
.

Five figures running now must wait on you

As
86
,
7
,
8
,
9
,
ten fall due
,

’
Tis nearly done
.
Now do not hesitate

To mark
100
;
56
,
7
,
8
,

My mask is dropt
,
my little game is o
’
er

And having read my name
,
you read no more
.

Of course, this should not tax the intelligence of the average coal heaver, in possession of all the clues I have given. Yet, for you, I had better explain!

What desperate soliloquy in
Hamlet
contains the words, “No more?” The familiar one, of course: “To be, or not to be,” and so on.

Examine that sombre opening to Hamlet’s soliloquy; and you will notice that, curiously enough, the letter C does not occur anywhere in the first six lines. The writer is not a homesick Spaniard or Italian from the Mediterranean, which formerly was called the “Middle Sea.” He refers to the missing C in his name. He has buried his identity in the first half dozen lines of Hamlet’s familiar soliloquy.

Having guessed this far—why, babes in kindergarten solve trickier puzzles than this riddle of the rhyming numbers. Starting with “To be,” count the letters by their numbers, as far as “No more.” Letters
3
,
16
,
29
,
30
,
31
,
46
,
47
,
56
,
64
,
65
,
69
,
72
,
86
,
87
,
88
,
89
,
90
,
156
,
157
and
158
. So it reads:

To
B
e
,
or not to be
—
th
A
t is the questi
ON:

W
hether
’
tis noble
R I
n
the mind
T
o
suffer

TH
e sl
I
ng
S
and arrows of ou
TRAGE
ous fortune

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
,

And by opposing end them
.
To
DIE—
to sleep
—

No more
. . .

Hence, “Ba-on writ this tragedie.” Without his middle
C
, Bacon is not; yet here he is. And so he tells you, and in his own handwriting too!

A real lawyer’s split-hair quibble, what? Just tortuous enough. A meaty bone for the debunkers, eh? It might be asked, “Why should Bacon have written this?” The answer is: “Bacon liked actors; he wrote it in a promptbook to amuse some sprightly player after a theatrical supper, circa
1615
.”

So, having suitably oxidized the faint lead in the pencil marks, half erasing them in a process of ever so gentle abrasion, I returned to King’s Massey on the nineteenth and slipped the promptbook back where I had found it.

Massey Joyce said, “I do hope this Brod man coughs up. Do you know, Hubbard and his wife—who cooks and housekeeps—haven’t had any wages for three years? I tried to pay ’em off when I sold my guns and sporting prints, but they wouldn’t go. Begged pardon; said they’d known the good times, and by the Lord Harry they’d stand by in the bad.”

“Do those Elizabethan manuscripts of yours mean much to you?” I asked.

He said, “No. Why?”

I told him, “Why then, Massey, we’ll save your old books yet. Only you keep right out of it. Have a migraine; keep to your room and leave it to me.”

So he did; and Doctor Brod turned up on the morning of the twentieth with a friend, one Doctor Brewster, also of the Society for the Clarification of History, but lean and keen, with a businesslike dry-cleaned look about him. As I had expected, they found little enough to interest them on the bookshelves.

By the time they got to the manuscripts cabinets Brod was already fidgeting and looking at his watch. Casually forcing my marked promptbook on them, somewhat as a conjuror does when he makes you pick a card, I said, “I doubt if there’s much here. But Sir Massey regards these holographs as the apple of his eye. The one you have there is rather defaced, I’m afraid. A lot of the others are in much better condition.”

But Brod, suddenly perspiring like a pressed duckling, had a reading glass out, and Brewster was putting on a pair of microscope spectacles, and they were scrutinizing my little poem in the strong sunlight by the window. Brod took out notebook and pencil and made voluminous notes, occasionally nudging Brewster, who remained blank and impassive.
They
knew Bacon’s hand, bless their hearts! And cryptograms were meat and drink to the likes of them.

After a while, with complete composure, Brewster said, “I don’t know. It’s possible the society might be interested in two or three of these manuscripts.”

But I said, “I’m awfully sorry; two or three won’t do, I’m afraid. Sir Massey regards this collection as a whole. He’d never break it up. There are interesting fragments by Nathaniel Field, for example, and Middleton, and Fletcher. I’m no expert, doctor, only a friendly agent.”

“Sir Massey Joyce vould not refuse permission to photograph or copy certain excerpts,” said Brod.

I answered, “I’m afraid he would.”

Then Brewster asked, “Has this collection ever been offered for sale before?” I told him, “Never. It has never even been properly catalogued, I’m afraid.”

Brewster tossed the
Hamlet
nonchalantly, as if it were a mail-order catalogue, on to a baize-covered table—I wouldn’t advise a novice to play poker with that one—and he asked, “How much is Massey Joyce asking for the collection?”

Apologizing, as for an embarrassing but harmless eccentric, I said, “Well, you see, Sir Massey values things strictly in proportion to how much he personally likes them. So he swears he won’t sell the manuscripts for a penny less than twenty-five thousand pounds.” I laughed here, and so did Doctor Brewster, while Brod muttered something about “vine drunkards” and “devourers of the charred carcasses of slaughtered beasts.”

I put the
Hamlet
back in its drawer and continued, “I know it’s absurd; but when a man of Sir Massey’s age has an
idée fixe
—you know? I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. Well, I suppose you can’t find something in your line every time you look. Oh, by the way, do you happen to know a collector named Lilienbach? He’s coming next Monday. I wondered if he was all right.”

I knew, of course, that Doctor Lilienbach of Philadelphia was one of the richest collectors of rare books and manuscripts in the world; and, of course, these fellows were sure to know this too.

“Lilienbach,” Brod began, but Brewster cut in, “Lilienbach, Lilienbach? No, I can’t say I know him. Let’s not be hasty. These things take time. Look here; say I pay Sir Massey Joyce a small sum down for an option to purchase on terms to be mutually agreed?”

I said, “I shouldn’t, if I were you—not until Sir Massey has had a chance to talk to Doctor Lilienbach.”

Then there was a silence until, at last, Brewster said, “I’ll have to call Chicago. Even
if
I were interested, I couldn’t make any sort of bid before tonight.”

I said, “Why not do that? Only I’m afraid you’ll have to call from Ashford, Sir Massey does not believe in telephones. He thinks they cause rheumatism.”

And, to cut a long story short: after a day of negotiation the Society for the Clarification of History authorized Brewster to purchase Sir Massey Joyce’s Elizabethan manuscripts, with all rights pertaining thereto, for
17
,
599
pounds. So my old friend kept his books and had some money to support himself and the Hubbards in their declining years.

Karmesin paused. I asked, “And you got nothing?”

Karmesin said, “Massey Joyce wanted me to take half. I couldn’t possibly, of course. Am I a petty larcenist to work for chicken feed? No. My amusements are few; I had my fun. For a small outlay, I had the double-barrelled pleasure of helping a friend in need at the expense of an organization which I despise.”

There being a wedge of cheese left, Karmesin wrapped it in a paper napkin and put it in his pocket.

I said, “I’ve read nothing of your ‘Baconian’ document as yet.”

“You will. They are preparing a book about it, and my ink is brewing for a counterblast that will shake the world. You just wait and see!”

“So there the matter ended?”

Karmesin grunted, “After dinner that night, Massey Joyce said to me, ‘It is astounding that such societies can exist. They really believe Bacon wrote Shakespeare! No, really, there
are
limits! Was ever a more pernicious fable hatched by cranks?’

“
‘Never,’ I said.

“
‘It is wonderful what people can be gulled into believing—Bacon, indeed! Why, every shopgirl knows that the plays of William Shakespeare, so-called, were written by Christopher Marlowe!’ said Massey Joyce.”

A LUCKY DAY FOR THE BOAR

W
ell,
what the devil then
,
where’s your title?” said Mr. Bozman, the proprietor of
The Baltimore General Press
. “I see a quotation:
Ignoscito saepe alteri numquam tibi
—which, construed, reads ‘Forgive others often, but never forgive yourself.’ Well?”

His editor, a timid man, murmured, “I advanced the gentleman five dollars.”

“Gentleman? What the devil kind of alpaca-and-steel-mixture hack do you call gentleman? And what do you mean by five dollars? How dared you do it, sir? Silver is dug out of the ground; it does not grow on bushes. Eh? Eh?”

“We might entitle it
A Lucky Day for the Boar
,
sir.”

“And what does the confounded author call himself?”

“Ethan Arthur Poland. Confidentially, I think he’s the man who wrote
The Raven
. Edgar Poe, no less.”

“You make free with my dollars, sir. Read it over to me, mister, if you will.”

“By your leave,” said the editor, and read:

Self-sufficient, Colonel Hyrax came and went like a cat in the duke’s palace. Nobody could deny that there was, in fact, much of the feline in his fastidiousness and in his almost inhuman composure. As chief of the secret police, Colonel Hyrax was not bound by the rules of protocol. Dread followed him, and awe—awe of the unknown—and it was whispered that the duke himself feared Colonel Hyrax.

Certainly, no one but he would have dared to detain the duke when that potentate was booted and spurred for the hunt. Yet, although he was smiling with pleasurable anticipation as he listened to the baying of his boarhounds in the courtyard below, the duke put aside his boar-spear when Colonel Hyrax appeared, and, bidding him close the door, asked, “What now, Hyrax?”

“Your Grace, I have good news.”

“My foresters have beaten out a black boar of thirty stone, a monster. So be brief. Good news of what?”

“Of the conspiracy, your Grace,” said Colonel Hyrax.

“I suppose,” said the duke, with a harsh laugh, “I suppose you are going to tell me that my traitorous scoundrel of a nephew has named his partners in this plot against me?”

“Precisely that, your Grace,” said Colonel Hyrax, with a thin smile.

“No!”

“By your Grace’s leave—yes,” cried Colonel Hyrax. But he looked in vain for some demonstration of relief or joy. The duke frowned.

“It is hard,” he said, “it is very hard for me to believe. Are you sure, now? My nephew Stanislaus has named his friends?”

“Your Grace, I have a list of their names. They are under close arrest.”

“D——it! Stanislaus is of my blood. He had—I thought he had—something of my character. Red-hot pincers could not drag a betrayal of my friends out of
me
. Milksop!”

“Yet he conspired against the life of your Grace,” said Colonel Hyrax.

“I know, I know; but that was all in the family. I trapped him and he didn’t lie about it. Naturally, he refused to name his collaborators. I’d have done the same in his place. Oh yes, Hyrax—touching the matter of red-hot pincers—you never dared . . . ?”

“I know my duty, your Grace,” said Colonel Hyrax. “I am well aware that your blood is inviolable, and that it is death to spill one drop of it; or to offer violence, however slight, to any member of your family; or even to threaten it. Neither may any of your Grace’s blood be manacled. Oh, believe me, not only was his Excellency your nephew treated with the utmost gentleness—I saw to it, when he was placed in solitary confinement by your Grace’s written order, that he could not even do violence to his own person.”

“And still he betrayed his comrades? He’s no blood of mine!” The duke then uttered foul accusations against his dead brother’s wife. Growing calmer, he said, “More, Hyrax; tell me more.” The horns sounded clear in the courtyard, but the duke threw open a casement and roared, “Let the boar wait!”