Authors: Loy Ray Clemons
Tags: #necklace, #pirates, #hidden, #Suspense, #Queen Elizabeth, #Mystery, #privateers, #architect, #conspiracy, #ancient castle, #Stratford upon Avon, #Crime, #Shakespeare, #de Vere, #Murder, #P.I., #hologram, #old documents
© 2013 Loy Ray Clemons
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Published by Low Ray Clemons at Smashwords.
Published by LRC PRESS,
Cover design by Peter Clemons
Cover design © 2012 by Loy Ray Clemons
Typeset by Heather Justesen
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls,
Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing;
Twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
—Othello, Act 3, scene 3
I am sort of haunted by the conviction that the divine William is the biggest and most successful fraud ever practiced on a patient world.
In a career of over fifty years I have constantly read and re-read Shakespeare, studied and taught his life and works . . . During all this time, though I have never seen the slightest reason to doubt his authorship.
Stanley Welles, CBE
Chairman—Shakespearean Birthplace Trust
So far as anybody actually knows and can prove, Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon never wrote a play in his life.
I think Oxford wrote Shakespeare. If you don’t, there are some awfully funny coincidences to explain away.
There have been dozens of other such nominations since the Bard's death, and none have yet presented proof enough to discredit the man from Stratford.
J. M. Pressley
The Shakespeare Resource Center
. . . he was a jovial actor and manager. I cannot marry this fact to his verse.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The sheer number of candidates put forward as having had the unique qualifications of position and education to be the True Author is evidence that these qualifications were not at all unique in Shakespeare’s time.
The Case for Shakespeare
I have never thought that the man of Stratford-upon-Avon wrote the plays of Shakespeare.
I know of no admissible evidence that he ever left England or was educated in the normal sense of the term. One must wonder, for example, how he could have written The Merchant of Venice.
Lewis F. Powell, Jr.
Associate Justice of the Supreme Court
It is therefore only in comparatively rare instances that we can find any evidence of authorship more positive than that on which Shakespeare’s rest before the last quarter of the seventeenth century.
The Shakespeare Claimants
I am firm against Shaksper--I mean the Avon man, the actor.
Table of Contents
For Gloria Clemons Watts, who believed.
Monday, November 15
As Freddie Hollister picked his way down the narrow lane, he weighed the possibility of finding priceless documents against getting a knife in his ribs. He tugged nervously at the edge of his watch cap and pulled up the collar of his pea coat. The fog-shrouded Limehouse district had not been his first choice for the meeting. He imagined any of the hard-faced men leaning in the dark doorways would easily put that knife in his ribs for a ten-pound note or his gold wristwatch.
In the dim light, moisture glistened on the cobblestones and ancient stone walls of the weathered buildings. Far out in the mouth of the Thames horns from barge boats echoed the low rumble of a foghorn. He slowed as he passed a small window with the familiar neon-lit red triangle of the Bass Ale sign and stopped at a low weather-beaten door under a peeling signboard displaying a white horse.
Inside the noisy, smoke-filled room, he glanced from side to side at the knots of rough men—sailors off ships docked close by—sitting at tables scattered throughout the dark room. The smooth, pale skin of his young face contrasted sharply with the rough-hewn and sunburned faces of those around him. Amid the grunts and snatches of conversation, Freddie knew he was out of his element. He immediately felt panic and stopped short. He wanted to leave.
The only illumination in the room—other than a few neon beer and ale signs on the walls—was the flickering television set on a high shelf at the end of the bar. Smoke clung to the underside of the low, soot-covered ceiling, but failed to dampen the noise from the crowd when one of the soccer teams scored.
An old crone yelled from behind the bar. “Here! Here! You blokes put a sock in it. I can’t ‘ear a thing from the telly,”
Gathering his courage, Freddie squinted in the low light. In a far corner booth, he saw his contact, an old man sucking on a pipe and nursing a pint of porter. A dirty red kerchief was knotted around his bony neck and his face was half-covered by a floppy-brimmed felt hat. Freddie turned in his direction as the old man signaled by removing the kerchief.
Freddie approached and asked, “Do you know if the Greyhound out of Lisbon docked this morning?”
The words Greyhound and Lisbon obviously had their effect. The old man said softly, “Sit down.”
Freddie eased into the booth and the old man said, “Cor, you look like a right proper seaman in that cap and pea coat. That’s a smart move, lad. You come mucking about down here in a Burberry and a fedora and you’ll get popped for sure.”
Freddie skipped the perfunctory small talk. “Do you have the goods with you?”
The old man patted the front of his coat. “Got the whole lot of ‘em right here.”
“May I see the papers please?”
The old man took a sip of porter and screwed up his pockmarked face in a wry grin. He made no move to produce the papers. “Of course, Guvnor. Could I be seeing your bono fides?”