R.I.P. Neil Robson

Neil Robson 

(4 January 1948-27 February, 2023)

I read the following at the order of service at the cremation on 31 March:

I’ve known Neil since our school-days so he has been a part of my life for near enough sixty-three years. And now he is gone.

He was a man of many parts, a connoisseur of whiskies, knowledgeable in world music (from pop to classical, ethnic to movie), old movies (usually of the British black-and-white variety), trains, local history, radio, photography, video-editing, and computing. While still at school he’d constructed a (doubtless illegal) directional-microphone – but never entered the sleuthing world. He was accomplished in woodwork and even constructed an office or two, and he would happily build a computer for friends and associates. He enjoyed puzzles – notably cryptic crosswords. And he loved gadgets, often being one of the first to own a new one: for example, left-right indicator lights for a bicycle. Surprisingly, he was a late convert to Alexa.

After his death, someone said that ‘wherever he is now, he’ll be at pains to put them right’. Because he was a perfectionist who ‘believed that the only way to do something was the Robson Way.’ He was often right, but conceded there were alternatives; to each his own!

While he will be remembered by many people for many interactions with them, perhaps his greatest gift to those who knew him was that he was most generous with his time, willing to help friends or neighbours with any problem, whether plumbing, electrical, mechanical or relating to computers.

Though not an avid reader, he was interested in words, hence his attachment to crosswords, and took pride in his pronunciation of certain words, not least being honorificabilitudinitatibus, which Shakespeare only used once, in Love’s Labour Lost.

At 27 letters it’s the longest word in the English language which strictly alternates consonants and vowels. It means ‘the state of being able to achieve honours’.

Certainly, Neil achieved honours by his long-lasting friendships, of which there were many from school and his time with the National Coal Board (where he met Margaret and was then subsequently joined with her at the hip).

He was adept at picking up foreign words or phrases, be they Welsh, or bits of German from their visits to Austria and Germany, or snippets of Spanish during their twice-yearly visits to us in Spain over fifteen years.

His humour was invariably dry. When I told him in hospital that his stroke was a shock to us all, he replied, ‘Not as much as it was to me’.

He was wont to deliberately mispronounce certain words so that thereafter the listener would forever be plagued with that version – two examples spring to mind: the local village of Wideopen was pronounced Wideo pen; and Finestrat the Spanish village near Benidorm became finest rat! He also adopted the baton passed on by Terry Wogan, inventing silly names, such as Lidia Bin, Anna Rack, Dai Laffin, Dicky Tikker, Nora Bone, Jim Shoes and Al Fresko…

So, yes, he may be gone, but for many reasons, as well as the aforementioned memories, he’s not forgotten.

Death of Shakespeare and Marlowe

On 23 April 1616 Shakespeare died; he was fifty-two. Not surprisingly, his plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.

Controversy has lingered over the authenticity of some of his works. I decided to play (!) with this idea for a science fiction story, ‘If We Shadows Have Offended’, which can be found in the collection Nourish a Blind Life (2017).

The story is set in 2093 and concerns Zeigler, who has gained approval from the Time Door Committee, to research a specific event in the past. Here’s an excerpt:

He smiled at his great ancestor’s photograph. In 1895 WG Zeigler, a Californian lawyer, had been the first to suggest that Christopher Marlowe’s death on 30 May 1593 was staged and that the poet actually went underground to write the plays using Shakespeare’s name.

Now, at last, he would be able to prove once and for all whether or not Shakespeare had written everything attributed to him.

***

The twelfth night arrived.

In the greying mackerel sky, the sinking sun streamed red down onto the white concrete square building with a circular tower, similar in style to the old-fashioned long superseded light-houses. Above the tower hovered a shimmering black cloud. But this was no ordinary cloud. It hung perpetually over the tower, possessing no depth or discernible edge. Gleaming. Apparently as fathomless as the deeps of the oceans.

One of several Timedoors into the past.

Zeigler had frequently passed this and other Timedoors, and on each occasion he had been drawn by the weird unearthly sight of those black clouds. Such awesome power, so frightening to contemplate, and now he was destined to travel through one.

He stood outside the door marked ENTRANCE. Above was a plaque with a quotation, ironically from Shakespeare:

            ‘The end crowns all,

             And that old common arbitrator, Time,

             Will one day end it.’ - Troilus and Cressida

Zeigler read the small red print alongside the doorway.

He was to give his name, age, occupation, ID number, and his appointment reference number. Making sure he got it in the right order, he complied.

The door opened upwards with a hiss.

The interior was blank metallic walls on three sides bathed in glowing red light.

A faint humming reached him as he entered. He hardly noticed it. His was the last generation not to live wholly in an electronic, mechanical world together with its concomitant noises. He could still remember when silence was accessible on the planet. It was an irrational thought, but he wondered what the next-but-one generation would do if confronted with total silence. He shuddered to think and recalled Coriolanus: ‘My gracious silence, hail!’

By then of course they might be virtually deaf - his nephew’s hearing was 30% poorer than his, and the lad was average for his age.

The door glissaded shut behind him.

The pitch of humming heightened. If the slight upsurge of his entrails was anything to go by, he was rising in a remarkable lift - no, there was no lift cubicle: he was rising bodily up a shaft, probably in some kind of anti-gravity beam.

The instructions had been unable to prepare him for anything like this, doubtless for security reasons.

Markers on the walls showed his ascent. At the fifty-foot mark he stopped with a queasy reaction in his stomach.

An opening appeared in front of him and he stepped into a brightly lit circular room, the walls crammed with computer facia and attendant hardware. Seated at a tubular steel desk, a young beardless man in a white smock beckoned for Zeigler to step forward.

The young man’s ample stomach pressed tightly against the coat, reminding Zeigler of Henry VIII: ‘He was a man, Of an unbounded stomach.’

‘You are on time, Mr Zeigler - a trait sadly lacking these days!’ The man shoved across a quarto printed sheet. ‘Please read this and sign. It is the Official Secrets Codicil (TPC) 2058. Afterwhich, kindly enter that stall over there.’ He pointed to a recess in the wall, between two orange steel computer cabinets.

The cubicle was uncomfortably narrow.

‘This won’t hurt, Mr Zeigler. But we have to be sure you are the real you! And, you see, access to the Timedoor is only permitted if you’re completely fit and germ-free.’

A flash appeared in front of his eyes. It felt as though his eyelashes had been seared off. But it was over so fast he remained unmoved.

Zeigler found that the man with an unbounded stomach was blurred. ‘Yes, Mr Zeigler, your physiogram matches with State records. You have also been made bacteria-free. Your unique bacteria, however, will be coated back onto you when you return. Be careful while in Elizabethan England, sir, for you are now exceedingly vulnerable to illness of any kind.’

‘Haven’t you any panacea-type injection you could give me?’

‘No, the side effects while undergoing the time-journey are deleterious in the extreme. We lost two esteemed pioneers that way - they were devoured from the inside by various bacteria that grew to huge proportions. As yet we don’t know why - but at least we detected it. This is another very good reason why you’ve signed this piece of paper, Mr Zeigler.’ The man wafted the form and smiled; he was not so blurry an image now. ‘Not a word, mind. To anyone. You will be free to report on your findings only. The rest will be erased from your mind once the report is filed and copyrighted; however, any credit will be yours entirely.’

‘I never realised how - delicate, no, how dangerous - this time-travelling is. It puts me in mind of The Merchant of Venice: “Men that hazard all, Do it in hope of fair advantages”.’

‘Really, sir? And what’s your “fair advantage”?’

‘Oh, confirmation of my research paper, to vindicate an ancestor.’

‘I see. Well, we’re meddling with things our ancestors only dreamed about, Mr Zeigler. Our fail-safes even have fail-safes, hence this little gadget.’

The young nameless man held up a small black box. ‘Please remove your shirt, sir. Here is a pamphlet about this little beauty. Read it carefully.’

Although very curious as to why the box was being secured over the fleshy bulge of his left shoulder blade, Zeigler scanned the pages of small print.

It appeared that the device would self-destruct should he do anything to disturb the balance in the past. By self-destructing, it would also take him with it, leaving no trace whatsoever. Then the Timedoor would close on his ashes and the pod would disintegrate.

Connected remotely to the box was a pendant, an eye. The man draped this round Zeigler’s neck. ‘The simple act of removing the eye or breaking it will also result in the box self-destructing.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘We must protect ourselves as well as our past.’ He grinned. ‘Selfish maybe, but I wish to continue in existence!’

‘You mean some applicants might seriously contemplate disrupting the past to change the future? Don’t they realise they’d be putting their own existence in jeopardy?’

‘Some fanatics think it worth the risk, Mr Zeigler.’

Zeigler went cold and thought how chilling the words from Richard II were in this context: ‘O! call back yesterday, bid time return.’

‘Right, Mr Zeigler, now you are ready. Please stand on that circular brass plate.’

Zeigler was lifted up another anti-gravity beam. ‘Enjoy your trip!’ called the young attendant.

Again, Zeigler rose but this time it was a green zone: olive and yellowish. Quite sickly.

Finding himself in another room devoid of furniture or machinery, he was startled to hear a metallic female voice issuing from a grille.

‘The parcel you dispatched separately in accordance with instructions has been examined and you may now put on the clothes. You have chosen a particularly smart set of garments, sir.’

The speaker unit clicked off and a tray levered out from the wall with his pile of Elizabethan clothes lying on its shiny surface.

Irrationally, he felt self-conscious as he undressed; simply because the metallic voice sounded female?

He took a while to slip into the clothes, all the while conscious of the presence of the black box.

The voice returned. ‘Now step back into the shaft. Don’t look down, don’t worry - the ag’s still on!’

Zeigler was not amused. But he didn’t look down; his ruff made that action awkward anyway.

Up again. To the 140ft mark.

‘Alight, please.’ A flesh-and-blood woman’s voice.

This room was roofless and possessed a central dais on which rested a conical transparent pod. The pod was aimed upwards, pointing at the black hole. Even from this close, the true edges of the Time Hole were not readily discernible. The shimmering effect made him dizzy.

‘Step this way, please, Mr Zeigler,’ said an attractive brunette attendant also dressed in white. She possessed angelic features, which he thought somehow appropriate up here.

She eyed his prominent codpiece, arched her eyebrows suggestively and smiled.

He blushed; another first-impression destroyed: I thought her as chaste as unsunn’d snow - Cymbeline. He sighed.

Gently the woman placed Zeigler inside the pod. Although the pod was designed for bigger men than him, it was still a tight squeeze, mainly due to his doublet bulging with the bombast stuffing of the period.

‘Everything all right? You require any paper of the period for notes, or a recorder can be fitted to the “eye” if you like?’

Zeigler shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’m only after one fact. Have you been able to pinpoint - select the right…?’

‘Yes. May 30th, 1593. Almost 500 years ago to the day, Mr Zeigler. We’ll put you down just outside the town. There’s ample room to conceal the pod in a neglected grove nearby.’

He craned his neck. ‘Are those the screens that you view me on - through the eye, I mean?’

She nodded, then said in a serious tone, ‘Take care, Mr Zeigler - we can’t help you once you leave the pod.’

‘I know,’ he said solemnly, his stomach performing somersaults. ‘I know all the risks. But our faculty must find out if - well, you know my theories, anyway.’

‘Yes. Now I’m going to lower the cowling and secure you inside. You’re liable to feel excessively giddy and you may even lose consciousness for a short while. Our scanners show you obeyed instructions and didn’t eat today - so your ride should be an untroubled one. I trust it will also be successful, sir.’

‘Thanks.’ He smiled.

And she shut him inside.

It was most peculiar, how he suddenly felt trapped, though he could see all round. He closed his eyes, calmed himself. Mustn’t get excited. Be rational, logical. Simply observe.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’ His voice came out as a strangled croak.

He felt as though his whole face was suddenly being squeezed off his skull as the pod fired up, the G-forces ramming him hard into the ergonomically-shaped cushioned seat.

Contrary to his original conception, he was not immersed in absolute blackness on entering the Time Hole.

It was like a velvety blue-black, with pinpoints all around, like stars that had forgotten how to twinkle. The sensation of movement had stopped - how long ago? He had no way of knowing, there were no instruments or clocks in here; and his wristwatch had been removed, together with every other personal possession.

Another quotation, from As you like it, reared its head for him to muse upon: ‘Time travels in divers paces with divers persons.’

Dizziness gnawed at the edges of his consciousness but never posed a serious threat. Elation kept him awake. He would succeed where so many before him had failed!

Over the years, anti-Stratfordiana had grown to a flood.

Professor Thomas C Mendenhall counted the letters in 400,000 Shakespearean words, discovering that for both Shakespeare and Marlowe the ‘word of greatest frequency was the four-letter word’, a fact that left the world of letters decidedly unshaken.

Then in 1955 Calvin Hoffman sought documentary proof for his case in the tomb of Sir Francis Walsingham, Marlowe’s reputed homosexual lover. But nothing was found in the tomb. Not even Sir Francis.

Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, Zeigler reasoned.

Walsingham had contrived a most corrupt system of espionage at home and abroad, enabling him to reveal the Babington plot which implicated Mary Queen of Scots in treason, and to obtain in 1587 details of some plans for the Spanish armada. Queen Elizabeth I acknowledged his genius and important services, yet she kept him poor and without honours, and he died in poverty and debt in 1590. At least he seemed to live longer than Marlowe.

The twenty-nine-year-old son of a shoemaker, Marlowe had died with a dagger in his brain, the precise circumstances quite obscure.

Marlowe had from time to time been engaged in government employ, a euphemism for secret service work, and had become embroiled in the theatre of conspiracy and intrigue, the tumultuous, often dangerous life of London’s underworld.

At the age of twenty-one, Marlowe was employed as an agent provocateur, posing as a Catholic to spy on other Catholics, and acted as a renegade to trap such people.

He did it for the money, insinuating himself into the households of Earl of Northumberland and Lord Strange. As a projector he actively fostered treason in the employ of Sir Francis Walsingham and later of Sir William Cecil Burghley.

Wily young Marlowe’s apparent atheism was just a ruse for trapping free thinkers into indiscretion. Finally, he was set up as a conspirator by the Earl of Essex as a way of striking at Sir Walter Raleigh.

On that fateful night, Marlowe was knifed over his right eye in a drunken brawl at a tavern in Deptford, but the swift pardon of his murderer, Friser, twenty-seven days after the poet’s burial, suggested to Zeigler that the death had other, possibly political, undertones.

Hoffman had believed the whole affair was staged by Sir Francis Walsingham to remove his lover from the threat of imminent arrest for alleged blasphemy and atheism. Hoffman argued that the coroner was bribed to accept a plea of self-defence on behalf of Marlowe’s alleged killer and docilely accepted the stated identity of the body.

Hoffman believed Marlowe settled on the Continent and continued to write and sent his manuscripts to Walsingham, who had found a reliable if dull-witted actor fellow, William Shakespeare, ready - for a stipend - to lend his name as the author of Marlowe’s works.

As Walsingham had apparently died two years earlier than the Deptford incident, Hoffman’s theory was far from acceptable, but it suggested other similar possibilities to Zeigler.

Since most of Shakespeare’s plays were written after the recorded death of Marlowe, Marlovian theorists must prove Marlowe lived after the Deptford incident in order to write the plays.

Marlowe had been deeply influenced by the writings of Machiavelli, so any intrigue along these lines would most certainly appeal to him.

Other contenders over the years for the mantle of “greatest writer in the English language” included Sir Francis Bacon (died 1626), Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford (died 1604), Sir Walter Raleigh (died 1618), Michel Angelo Florio (died 1605), Anne Whateley (died 1600) and even Queen Elizabeth herself (died 1603). As Shakespeare’s last known work The Tempest was attributed to 1611, the literary prowess of some of these contenders can be marvelled at, Zeigler thought, capable of even writing beyond the grave.

In the latter part of last century, computers had been used to join in the academic fray.

Shakespeare databases were built as early as 1969 on an ICL machine, the KDF-9. Since then, ICL’s Content Addressable File Store - Information Search Processing and Oxford’s Concordance Program, written in Ansi Fortran had been used to word-count and create concordances, ostensibly to facilitate research. The DEC VAX 11/70 computer research gave credit to Shakespeare for Acts Four and Five of Pericles but not Acts One and Two; the researcher or computer never mentioned Act Three!

Certainly in the world of letters it was a controversial theory and Zeigler had some sympathy with Shakespeare. Lines from his Venus and Adonis seemed apt:

‘By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,

             Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,

             To hearken if his foes pursue him still.’

Zeigler wondered if Shakespeare waited still, far off on some heavenly hill, wondering if his detractors would ever cease pursuing him.

Poor Will, thought Zeigler. Well, the Timedoor Committee evidently felt the Zeigler theory had sufficient merit for them to accept his research request. And now he was almost there!

After some time, Zeigler noticed a lighter patch ahead, getting bigger. The indefinable edges again, the tint of a dusky sky...

He didn’t recall passing through the hole or landing. Perhaps he simply materialised?

Darkness. Raised jaunty voices. The rank stench of open sewers. These were his first impressions. It was night. He looked around and discovered he was still lying in the pod amidst a grove of bushes.

He checked the two console buttons. Red for his return signal. Green for opening the pod. Another button, on the reverse of his eye-pendant, worked the pod’s entrance-hatch for ingress.

Zeigler operated the green button and no sooner had he stepped out than the hatch shut behind him.

As he walked a few paces out of the bushes, he glanced back and was surprised to find he could no longer see the pod; its see-through capabilities aided concealment: someone would have to virtually stumble over it to discover the craft’s presence.

He didn’t have far to walk before he came to the town with its tumbled toppling street, black and white timber awry, cobbles threatening to pitch him every which way. Cats fought for thrown out fish-heads and other unidentifiable scraps.

Zeigler felt very vulnerable strolling the streets, for in these times no man was safe from the reach of the torturer or the smell of the dungeon. A carrion odour blew towards him and he retched emptily: ahead he noticed the swaying hanging remnants of a human being; some of the hideous butchery on the scaffold was sufficient even to turn the stomach of an Elizabethan crowd.

A building belched forth the soul of an alehouse but, gagging on the riot of smells, he passed it by. He needed to find Mistress Turner’s lodging house, up a squeeze-gut alley.

***

The full story can be found in the collection of 21 tales, Nourish a Blind Life (paperback and e-book) The title story won a prize; the judge stated:

‘I read a lot and like to think that I’m fairly hardened to the human experience. Your story Nourish a blind life however, moved me enormously. With a powerful understanding you avoided any mawkish melodrama. The ending, although sad, gave satisfaction knowing the narrator was soon to be free! Thank you.’ – Eve Blizzard, judge

 ***

The full story was published in my blog on 23 April and 24 April 2016 on the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare's death.

Saturday story - 'If we shadows have offended' - part 2 of 2

IF WE SHADOWS HAVE OFFENDED

 Part 2 of 2

By

Nik Morton

After some time, Zeigler noticed a lighter patch ahead, getting bigger. The indefinable edges again, the tint of a dusky sky...

            He didn't recall passing through the hole or landing. Perhaps he simply materialised?

            Darkness. Raised jaunty voices. The rank stench of open sewers. These were his first impressions. It was night. He looked around and discovered he was still lying in the pod amidst a grove of bushes.

            He checked the two console buttons. Red for his return signal. Green for opening the pod. Another button, on the reverse of his eye-pendant, worked the pod’s entrance-hatch for ingress.

            Zeigler operated the green button and no sooner had he stepped out than the hatch shut behind him.

            As he walked a few paces out of the bushes, he glanced back and was surprised to find he could no longer see the pod; its see-through capabilities aided concealment: someone would have to virtually stumble over it to discover the craft’s presence.

            He didn’t have far to walk before he came to the town with its tumbled toppling street, black and white timber awry, cobbles threatening to pitch him every which way. Cats fought for thrown out fish-heads and other unidentifiable scraps.

            Zeigler felt very vulnerable strolling the streets, for in these times no man was safe from the reach of the torturer or the smell of the dungeon. A carrion odour blew towards him and he retched emptily: ahead he noticed the swaying hanging remnants of a human being; some of the hideous butchery on the scaffold was sufficient even to turn the stomach of an Elizabethan crowd.

            A building belched forth the soul of an alehouse but, gagging on the riot of smells, he passed it by. He needed to find Mistress Turner’s lodging house, up a squeeze-gut alley.

            The air inside Mrs Turner’s was thick with tobacco smoke, a relatively new fad. Clay pipes abounded. The place choked with the low and their rank stink: bad breath, black teeth, and foul loud holes of country mouths.

            Nobody paid him much heed as he found a corner bench in an alcove and settled next to an old smocked shepherd who reeked of tar, his nail-ends black crescents.

            A shag-bearded ruffian shouted, ‘What cheer, bully!’

            Another riposted, ‘Go hang yourself, whoreson devil!’

            Zeigler’s pulse raced: he was so thrilled to be here, living in Elizabethan England!

            Then of course doubts surfaced. Was he in the correct building? On the right day?

            He must first locate Marlowe. Gambling upstairs, if the reports could be believed.

            Zeigler suddenly felt angry at the strict State regulations. Surely they could provide period money? How could he hope to merge in with this rowdy lot if he couldn’t purchase any ale? Besides, the journey had left him parched.

            ‘You be a fresh face!’ exclaimed a bewhiskered character in stained breeches and frayed jerkin. ‘Have a drink on me! ‘Tis my lucky day, man! I wed in the morn!’

            ‘Aye,’ chipped in the groom’s companion, ‘this jackanape with scarves is bawd-born for sure!’

            Profuse with his thanks, Zeigler was quick to accept. According to the regulations, he was not prohibited from imbibing drink and eating food from the period, though he was warned against doing so for health reasons.

            The groom jostled and joked around the tavern, obviously well prepared for tomorrow’s eve if his suggestive remarks to the bar-harlots were anything to go by. Zeigler sidled round to the door leading to the staircase above the bustling taproom.

            ‘Give us a feel of your tushy twat, you triple-turn’d whore!’ a young gentleman requested of a barmaid.

            ‘Piss o’ th’ nettle! Thou thing of no bowels!’ She suddenly reached down under the man’s codpiece and squeezed sharply. The man she thus assailed squealed in a high pitch that brought laughter from his companions but no aid. ‘Pedlar’s excrement, thy cannon is not big enough!’ she laughed uproariously, her breath wafting the stink of Banbury cheese, revealing black teeth that showed their waists.

            On tenterhooks, Zeigler tiptoed up the first creaking flight, round the doglegged landing, into a candlelit room where he discovered a group of four quite young men hunched over a rough well-scrubbed table laden with black bread, cold fowls, kickshaws, ale and applejohns. They were talking in deep hushed voices.

            The place was poorly lit with one wooden candelabrum on the table and another on a chest of drawers. Zeigler was unable to identify any of the men.

            ‘More ale, scullion!’ one called, holding up a flagon.

            Heart hammering, Zeigler realised that, in the shadows, he had been mistaken for a servant.

            ‘Aye, sir!’ Zeigler answered gutturally, and slipped out onto the landing again.

            To his left was a dumb-waiter, on which three flagons overflowed. Animalistic grunts and groans and a girl’s breathless transports of passion came from the adjoining room. At least he now knew where the real servant had gone.

            Unbuttoning his doublet, Zeigler lifted a filthy apron from a peg by the dumb-waiter, dishevelled his hair and sauntered back inside with a frothy flagon of ale.

            ‘... been here most of the day, now...’

            ‘Damme, Christopher! A pox on the Privy Council! If they want to arrest you for Heresy, then let them find you!’

            ‘Well spoken, Master Poley, but I have said before refrain from calling me Christopher – “one who bears Christ on his back”!’ laughed the poet. ‘You forget,’ he went on, his young voice dripping irony, ‘I am an alleged atheist!’

            As Zeigler served, he found it difficult to contain his excitement. Marlowe had been known to associate with a group of free thinking intellectuals called “The School of Night”, so perhaps these were the same fellows, and not the ruffians from the reports? His temperature rose, surging in his veins. So close!

            ‘I hear Topcliffe’s keen to meet you, Chris?’ said Poley.

            ‘Her Majesty’s rackmaster, eh? Who not only tortures for the Queen but, so he boasts, fondles her thighs and belly and puts his hands between her breasts and sucks her paps!’

            ‘Have a care, Chris!’

            ‘Do not fear, Nicholas, I be among friends! Besides, I am already informed against by that recreant and most degenerate traitor himself, Richard Baines!’

            Nicholas Skeres still looked worried. ‘But you’ve never said that Christ was a bastard and his mother dishonest, surely?’

            Marlowe grinned, downed his ale. ‘That is one of the blasphemies attributed to me, yes. Also, that Christ and St John were as the sinners of Sodoma, I do believe!’

            ‘And,’ interrupted Ingram Friser, ‘that all they who love not tobacco and boys are fools!’

            ‘Mayhap I should not have penned The Jew of Malta?’ Marlowe mused aloud. And he quoted, ‘I count religion but a childish toy, And hold there is no sin but ignorance.’ He laughed bitterly, wiping soft fleshy lips. ‘God’s body, I have a thirst on me tonight!’

            ‘Another, and be quick about it!’ snapped Skeres.

            ‘Tish, that’s no way to speak with yon fellow, Nicholas!’ Marlowe berated softly. ‘But enough, this is the silliest stuff that I ever heard!’

            Zeigler stared, disbelieving he had just heard words from A Midsummer Night’s Dream!

            ‘We must talk on how we are to deal with the Privy Council -- when our other, most secret duties require me to be free... What say you, Ingram?’

            It was most exasperating, unable to catch but patches of conversation between these men. Zeigler had an inkling that there was government business involved. But he couldn’t be sure.

            ‘Since Sir Francis’s death three years gone, we’ve had sorry dealings from the government, would you say?’

            A hearty roar of assent hurried Zeigler on his way for more beer. Fingers crossed, he shouted his order to the scullions below.

            When he returned, an older, stouter man had joined the party. He busied himself fastening his codpiece, all the while leering at the flushed serving girl who stood by the door.

            ‘... and the prating mountebank threatened the widow with the sight of the devil unless she consented to his desires!’ ended Poley, grinning.

            ‘The only devil she will get sight of is his loaded cannon!’

            ‘God’s breath! What a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave!’ remonstrated Friser.

            Feeling a little bolder now, Zeigler asked the newcomer, ‘Is it ale you’ll be wantin’’

            The man stared. ‘What bloody man is that?’ he said, clearly unaware he had used a phrase from the still-to-be-written Macbeth.

            Silence fell.

            Marlowe’s brows arched. ‘Why, landlord, he is one of your staff, been serv-’

            ‘’Sdeath he is not!’

            Hands fell on Zeigler then, as he tried backing away.

            ‘Whoremonger!’ shouted Skeres.

            ‘Grab the bitch-wolf’s son!’ snarled Poley.

            Ingram Friser caught hold of Zeigler’s open doublet; the material ripped, spewing bran stuffing onto the table of ale.

            Flagons were upset, spilling to the stone floor, crashing amidst chicken legs and sides of beef.

            ‘He’s a spy -- a toady degenerate traitor!’ shouted Nicholas Skeres.

            In the struggle, heart hammering fearfully, Zeigler dismantled the nearest candles, plunging half the room into shadows.

            Lancing pain signalled the thud of a rounded leather shoe thudding maliciously into his stomach.

            Whooping and spluttering, Zeigler managed to roll out of Friser’s grip.

            Someone swore. ‘Slit the taffeta punk’s gizzard!’

            The table scraped noisily. Bare boards rattled.

            ‘Have a care!’ It sounded like Marlowe’s voice. ‘I ended up in Newgate three years gone -- just for being involved in an affray like this!’

            ‘He’ll run to the Privy Council if we let him go now, man!’

            ‘He’s been at our great feast of languages and stolen the scraps!’

            ‘We can’t--’

            Zeigler gasped, eyes smarting, a searing pain in his chest and back. He coughed, staggered and fell to the hard boards.

            ‘Quick, I skewered the bastard!’ Friser.

            ‘A light -- more light, Robert! Over here!’ Marlowe urged, kneeling down by Zeigler’s side.

            Head swimming, Zeigler didn’t realise immediately; then, as Poley carried over more lighted candles, he sucked in a dread, expectant breath: Friser’s sword had pierced the pendant eye, penetrated his chest and come out through the black box at his shoulder.

            But he didn’t disintegrate: nothing happened!

            Relief made him tremble in Marlowe’s arms.

            ‘I’m sorry, stranger,’ Marlowe said gently. ‘Friser lost his nerve.’

            A new horror struck Zeigler. With the pendant destroyed, its obverse button wouldn’t be able to re-open the pod. He was trapped! ‘My eye,’ he moaned. Absurdly, a quotation from The Tempest burgeoned to his mind:

            ‘We shall lose our time

             And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes

             With foreheads villainous low.’

            Then he noticed Marlowe’s hands gently unbuttoning the fastenings below his knees, pulling his baggy breeches down, together with his yellow knitted stockings. Dear God, what was he -- ?

            Then Marlowe whispered, absently,

            ‘Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade,

             He bravely broach’d his boiling breast.’

            And Zeigler forgot any imagined sexual threat as his heart soared, because those were the words of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, supposedly not written until next year, 1594. Vindicated, at last!

            Suddenly, he jerked his head round as he heard Skeres and Friser in heated discussion, apparently threatening the landlord in the far corner. ‘A quarrel -- over the bill’s settlement,’ Friser insisted.

            As though a disinterested spectator, Zeigler watched Marlowe undress himself and don the clothes approved by the Timedoor Committee. ‘My fellow, you have an undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion. But it will serve.’

            Zeigler tried to shout, to demand an explanation, but no sound came, only a mouthful of warm blood.

            Marlowe addressed Ingram Friser. ‘You’ve agreed to do it, then?’

            Friser nodded. ‘Aye, in his foolish brain -- to confound any identification.’

            They all seemed vague now, like shadows flitting in front of his eyes. But the wound would not mend and this was no dream, midsummer or otherwise.

            Zeigler’s vision faded. His mind seemed to be tossing on an ocean. Dimly, he heard Marlowe sadly intone:

            ‘If we shadows have offended,

            Think but this, and all is mended,

            That you have but slumber’d here

            While these visions did appear.’

Winter closed in upon Zeigler and he went very cold.

THE END