Read The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1) Online

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

The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

BOOK: The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1)
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© 2013 Loy Ray Clemons

 

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Low Ray Clemons at Smashwords.

 

Published by LRC PRESS,
[email protected]
 

 

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.

Henry James

 

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.

Mark Twain

 

I think Oxford wrote Shakespeare. If you don’t, there are some awfully funny coincidences to explain away.

Orson Welles

 

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.

Irvin Matus

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.

H.N. Gibson

The Shakespeare Claimants

 

I am firm against Shaksper--I mean the Avon man, the actor.

Walt Whitman

 

Table of Contents

Prologue

PART 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

PART 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

PART 3

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

PART 4

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

PART 5

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Epilogue

 

 

Dedication

 

For Gloria Clemons Watts, who believed.

 

Prologue

 

 

EAST LONDON

Monday, November 15

10:00 AM

 

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?”

BOOK: The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1)
7.93Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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