Bartholomew Daniels
ROTTEN AT THE HEART
BEING WM SHAKESPEARES ACCOUNT OF HIS FIRST ADVENTURE AS AN UNWILLING INTELLIGENCER IN SERVICE TO THE CROWN, AS RELAYED FROM HIS RECENTLY DISCOVERED JOURNALS BY BARTHOLOMEW DANIELS.
Praise for Wm Shakespeare
The great master who knew everything.
Charles Dickens
Englands Homer.
John Dryden in the Essay of Dramatick Poesy
The Soul of the age, the applause, delight, the wonder of our stage.
Ben Jonson
That King Shakespeare, does not he shine, in crowned sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of rallying signs; indestructible.
Thomas Carlyle
I will praise any man that will praise me.
William Shakespeare
For Brian Etheredge, my late good friend who, I think, would have been amused.
INTRODUCTION
Being a brief account of how Bartholomew Daniels came to be in possession of these earth-shattering historic documents written by the late William Shakespeare.
An estate sale in Evanston, one of the big old houses along Asbury. I was looking for chairs, really. Should have known better than to shop for furniture in that neighborhood, even used. But the place had books, a lot of books. I am a sucker for books.
I could just make out the chalky ghost of white paint stenciled on the lid of the olive steamer trunk wedged into the corner of the room:
Lt Thomas McBride, US Army
8th Air Force, 482nd Bomb Group
Alconbury, Huntingdonshire, England
The trunk was full of books, old ones. Leather bindings, some of them with raised bands across the spines, the Coptic method. I took out a few, paged through them. They werent mint. The whole trunk gave off a musty smell. Some of the covers had a little mildew. I could see some mold along the edges of the pages here and there. They covers werent warped, though. They hadnt been soaked, just gotten too damp. Wherever this trunk had been stored, it hadnt always been dry. Basement maybe.
All the books were from British publishers: Chapman & Hall, Methuen, some smaller houses. A couple from the nineteenth century, but most of them from the Twenties and Thirties. Not first editions, at least not famous ones, but, by a quick count, forty-some books, in decent repair. Seal them up with some kitty litter and baking soda; that would take care of the smell. I could deal with the mildew. These could be worth something.
Great-grandpas. The girl in the glasses. Shed been by the door when I came in, sitting at a card table, reading The Heart of the Matter by Graham Greene. I was predisposed to think well of her.
Lieutenant McBride? I asked, pointing at the stenciling on the lid.
She nodded. He was a new literature professor at Northwestern, just married. He knew how to fly. He signed up when the war started. Great-grandma, she begged him not to, but her voice trailed off, she shrugged. Anyway, he never came home. The army shipped his stuff back, including a trunk full of books. I guess maybe she couldnt deal with them at the time, maybe she never could, maybe she just forgot about them. But the trunks been down in the basement forever.
I looked around the room. A library, clearly, and built as one. Floor to ceiling bookcases on three walls. A bay window facing the front with a small desk tucked into the alcove. All the shelves were crammed with books.
Not like she needed more books, I guess, I said.
The girl smiled a little. No. Shed been one of his students his first year. A little bit of a scandal about that the way I hear it. But they married. She was pregnant when he was killed. She was an English professor at Northwestern, too, for decades. Unusual for a woman, at least when she started.
The girl pointed to a picture on the desk. A handsome woman: dark haired, partly gray, pulled back. In her mid-forties Id guess, sitting on the corner of a desk in front of a room full of students, her hand in mid-gesture, her passion plain on her face. Most of the kids were in Leave it to Beaver togs, but there were a couple in jeans, a few guys with long hair. The Sixties, just as things were changing.
I looked around the room, out the doorway into a living room that was bigger than my apartment and furnished with antiques mostly.
I guess the professor thing used to pay better.
The girl smiled. She came from money. And her son, my grandfather, well, he didnt go the professor route. He was all about business. Him and my father. A little distaste in her voice at that. She looked around the room, wistfully, it seemed. She held up the Greene novel in her hand, a finger marking her place. I guess I got the recessive gene.
Thats one of my favorites, I said.
Youve read Greene?
I nodded. The scene at the beginning, when Scobie comes home and tells his wife hes been passed over, then gets her to pick at some meat
The girl interrupted. It had always been his responsibility to maintain happiness in those he loved. One was safe now, forever she looked at me expectantly.
and the other was going to eat her lunch. I said.
She smiled, but a sad smile. For anyone who understood that passage, it would have had to be.
I was fifteen, I said. That was the first time a book broke my heart. Theyve been doing it ever since.
Her smile got a little happier. Are you a professor too?
I shook my head. Writer.
And you want to buy great-grandpas trunk of books.
I shrugged. Probably cant afford them. I was hoping I could afford a couple of chairs.
She laughed softly, her smile brightening a little. Forget the chairs. When I said she came from money, I meant it. Most of the furniture ought to be in a museum. And dad got valuations on every stick of it, trust me on that. Her smiled faded a little. But I guess its hard for him to imagine much value in books. He just wants to get rid of those. The trunk has a yellow sticker best offer. Id rather see those go to someone who has a heart they can break.
I pulled out my wallet, took all the bills out of it. I can give you a hundred and twenty seven dollars, I said. I dug into my front pocket. And thirty-seven cents.
Her smile brightened again.
Deal.
I got the trunk home, horsed it up the stairs, unpacked the books.
I almost missed the box the broad, flat wooden chest under the moldering blanket that was folded under the books. The box was maybe four or five inches deep, rectangular, almost exactly as wide as the chest, maybe half as long. It fit snuggly in the bottom and it was heavy. Even when I turned the trunk on its side, it took a bit to work it loose. When I did, I could hear something sliding around inside.
The wood was almost black with age and dirt. The corners were capped with bronze gone green with tarnish. The chest latched closed in the front, not a lock, but the latch was rusted in place. I tried to force it with a screwdriver, slowly adding pressure, but I didnt want to damage the mechanism. The chest might be worth something.
I sprayed some WD-40 on a cloth, rubbed as much as I could into the latch, the rust turning the rag an ugly brownish orange as I did. Once the cloth started coming away clean, or close to it, I tried the latch again. A hint of movement maybe? Or wishful thinking? I rubbed in more WD-40 and left that to work for a while.
Got another rag, some lemon oil went to work on the wood. Ten minutes and the rag was almost solid black, but the wood was a little lighter. Another rag, another ten minutes, and I could see the wood pretty clearly. Oak, and with a very fine grain. Fine enough to get me a little excited.
