Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

The high chancellor turned to the rest of the Privy Council and they conferred again among themselves. A moment later he pronounced, “In light of the evidence presented, this court of equity rules that the death of Sir Robert Murtaugh was caused by no man’s intent and Charles Cooper is herewith free to go forth unfettered, and untainted by any further accusation in this matter.” He cast a stern gaze toward the prosecutor. “And, Sir Jonathan, if it be not too taxing in the future, the court would be honored if thou might at least peruse the evidence and consult with the prisoner before thou deign to waste the time of this court.”

“I shall do, my noble lord.”

One of the judges leaned forward, nodded at the sheaf that the playwright was replacing in his sack and asked, “May I ask, Mr. Shakespeare, what will this play be titled?”

“I know not for certain, my lord, what the final title shall be. I presently call it ‘Othello, the Moor of Venice.’ ”

“And might I be assured from the testimony we have heard today that the audience may look forward to some good swordplay in this work?”

“Oh, yes, my lord.”

“Good. I far prefer such plays to thy comedies.”

“If I may be so bold, sir, I believe thou will then enjoy this piece,” William Shakespeare said and joined Cooper and his wife as they left the dark room.

Near candle-lighting that night, three men sat in the Unicorn and Bear tavern in Charing Cross, tankards of ale before them: Charles Cooper, Stout and William Shakespeare.

A shadow filled the doorway as a man walked into the tavern.

“Behold, ’tis the mysterious gentleman on the wharf,” Charles said.

Hal Pepper joined them and was served up an ale of his own.

Charles lifted his tankard. “Thou did well, my friend.”

Hal drank long and nodded proudly to acknowledge the compliment. His role in the daring play, as writ by William Shakespeare and Charles Cooper in collaboration, was critical. After Charles had stopped Murtaugh on the wharf and, as he’d told the Court, piqued the knight’s interest with the promise of an appearance onstage, it had been Hal’s task to snare a passerby at just the right moment so that he witness the exchange of dialogue between Charles and Murtaugh at the start of their mock duel. Hal had then given the lackey Rawlings a half sovereign to raise the hue and cry with the constable, whom Shakespeare, as master plotter, had decided should perforce be a witness to the duel as well.

Shakespeare now examined Charles gravely and said, “Regarding thy performance in Court, friend, thou need some study as a player, yet on the whole” — the man from Stratford could not resist a smile — “I would venture to say that thou acquitted thyself admirably.”

Will Shakespeare often deflected the course of the conversation to allow for the inclusion of puns, which he loved. But neither was Charles Cooper a stranger to wordplay. He riposted, “Ah, but ’tis sadly true, friend, that my talent for bearing witness in Court is no match for thy over bearing witti ness in taverns.”

“Touché,” cried Shakespeare and the men laughed hard.

“And here is to thee too, my friend.” Charles tapped his tankard against Stout’s.

It had been the big man’s task to wield his barrel-maker’s tools with sufficient skill to loosen the railing at Temple wharf just the right degree so that it would not give way under casual hands but would fall apart when Murtaugh stumbled against it.

Stout was not as quick as either Shakespeare or Charles and attempted no cleverness in reply. He merely blushed fiercely with pleasure at the recognition.

Charles then embraced Shakespeare. “But thou, Will, were the linchpin.”

Shakespeare said, “Thy father was a good man to me and my family. I will always remember him with pleasure. I am glad to have played a small part in the avenging of his death.”

“What might I do to repay thee for the risks thou took and thy efforts on my behalf?” Charles asked.

The playwright said, “Indeed thou have already. Thou have bestowed upon me the most useful gift possible for a dabbler in the writer’s craft.”

“What might that be, Will?”

“Inspiration. Our plot was the midwife for a sonnet which I completed just an hour ago.” He drew a piece of paper from his jacket. He looked over the assembled men and said solemnly, “It seemed a pity that Murtaugh knew not the reason for his death. In my plays, you see, the truth must ultimately out — it needs be revealed, at the least to the audience, if not the characters. That Murtaugh died in ignorance of our revenge set my pen in motion.” The playwright then read the sonnet slowly:

“Well done, Will,” Hal Pepper called out.

Charles clapped the playwright on the back.

“It be about Charles?” Stout asked, staring down at the paper. His lips moved slowly as he attempted to form the words.

“In spirit, yes,” Shakespeare said, turning the poem around so that the big man could examine the lines right-way up. He added quietly, “But not, methinks, enough so that the Court of Sessions might find it evidentiary.”

“I do think it best, though, that thou not publish it just yet,” Charles said cautiously.

Shakespeare laughed. “Nay, friend, not for a time. This verse would find no market now, in any case. Romance, romance, romance... that be the only form of poesy that doth sell these days. Which, by the by, is most infuriating. No, I shall secrete it safe away and retrieve it years hence when the world hath forgot about Robert Murtaugh. Now, it is near to candle-lighting, is it not?”

“Very close to,” Stout replied.

“Faith, then... Now that our real-life tale hath come to its final curtain, let us to a fictional one. My play Hamlet hath a showing tonight and I must needs be in attendance. Collect thy charming wife, Charles, then we shall to the ferry and onward to the Globe. Drink up, gentlemen, and let’s away!”

“Don’t go, Daddy.”

“Rise and shine, young lady.”

“Please?”

“And what’s my little Jessie-Bessie worried about?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

Alex sat on the edge of her bed and hugged the girl. He felt the warmth of her body, surrounded by the peculiar, heart-swelling smell of a child waking.

From the kitchen a pan clattered, then another. Water running. The refrigerator door slamming. Sunday-morning sounds. It was early, six-thirty.

She rubbed her eyes. “I was thinking... what we could do today is we could go to the penguin room at the zoo. You said we could go there soon. And if you have to go to the lake, I mean really have to, we could go to Central Park instead and go rowing like we did that time. Remember?”

Alex shivered in mock disgust. “What sorts of fish do you think I’d catch there ? Icky fish with three eyes and scales that glow in the dark.”