The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1) (36 page)

            They all turned and gave a small wave of their hands as Charles pushed Gweneth’s wheelchair back up the concourse.

            “Just remember,” Bada said as he waved goodbye, “You’re always welcome in Stratford.”            Thorne boarded and, once he took his window seat, he saw an older woman in a wheelchair being pushed onto the plane by her husband.  Thorne stared at the back of the wheelchair for a long time. His mind turned to Gweneth and the tragedy of Neville Forestal. He hoped she would find a good man to share her life with. She was truly a good and decent young woman.

            As the engines ramped up, Thorne gave one last wave to Bada who was still standing behind the large plate glass window of the terminal. Then the plane roared down the runway and became airborne.

            Minutes later, out over the deep blue Atlantic, the Irish countryside, now turning green, slowly receded in the distance.

Epilogue

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON

THREE YEARS LATER

The Haarvaland International Corporation had hired Thorne to travel to their plant in Helsinki on a two-month contract to assist in the implementation of new security practices. After completing the contract, he decided to extend his layover in London, rent a car, and drive up to Stratford-upon-Avon. On his way up he rolled over in his mind the events of his earlier visit.

            Stratford-upon-Avon hadn’t changed over the past three years, just as it hadn’t changed over the past three-hundred—that is, except Ye Olde Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Inn and Publik House. He chuckled as he passed the full parking lot.

            In the center of town, the William Shakespeare souvenir stores were still as busy as ever, and the Bard’s name and picture was still prominent everywhere. Regardless of what the outside world may have thought about the Shakespeare and de Vere controversy, the people of Stratford were satisfied with their opinion. The greatest writer of the English language would always be their very own.

            Thorne was surprised to see The Classics Bookstore was still there, too.

            He went inside and was greeted by a cheerful, straight-backed, and ruddy-faced man in his late thirties. His military bearing indicated he was a retired Army officer.

            “Good day, Sir,” he said in a commanding voice. “Beautiful day today, isn’t it?” It wasn’t a question, just a positive way of directing your attention to the beautiful day with the surety the listener would agree.

            His red hair was close-cropped in the military style and he wore his red Alec Guinness mustache in the style most people associate with a British colonel or major. His blue eyes were alert and intense. Thorne half expected to see him whip the side of his leg with a quirt and say, “Jolly good!”

            Thorne returned his smile. “It is. I find it pleasant.”

            “Ah, a Yank.” He thrust out his lower lip, raised his chin, and exuding good will, extended his hand across the counter. “How do you do, Sir. I’m Timothy Carlyle, retired colonel in Her Majesty’s service. I’m always pleased to see one of you from across the pond. Had a lot of chums who were Yanks during my tour in Afghanistan.”

            He slapped his leg with his imaginary quirt. “Got my souvenir from there. Bum leg. I can still run the hundred. It just takes a few minutes now.” He laughed at his joke, and Thorne joined him.

            “When I was here last,” Thorne said, “the plans were to move the bookstore across the river to Kilshire Castle. I see that didn’t happen.”

            “No, my wife and I thought about it and decided to stay put. Better Freddie’s library and research center in the castle, than the bookstore.”

            Thorne gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing. He assumed correctly if one were to keep quiet, the talkative colonel and now new owner of the bookstore, would tell him everything he wanted to know and possibly a lot of things he didn’t.

            The colonel resumed the cadence of one speaking to the troops and not needing any input to interrupt his train of thought. “Yes. Of course, of course. Helena—that’s my wife—and I made the decision and it was all for the good. “Freddie—” He interrupted himself. “Did you know Freddie?”

            Thorne barely got out a yes before Carlyle was off and running again.

            “First rate fellow, Freddie. He and I were chums together in our younger days. He became a scholar, I became a warrior, but always the best of friends. Like that,” he said, holding up two index fingers, side by side. I don’t know if you knew it or not, but Freddie had an accident. Lost his life, God rest his Soul. I came up from London to help out Helena and—and—well, I just stayed.” He boomed with laughter again.

            “Here we go,” he said and pointed to a framed picture of him and Helena and two small children.”

            Thorne never failed to be amazed how much personal information people would tell complete strangers if they just kept quiet. He asked. “What was that you said about Freddie’s library and research center in the castle?”

            “Ah, yes, the library,” the colonel said in a serious and dramatic tone. “When Helena and I got married, we decided, along with Mr. Bada to . . . You know Mr. Gilbert Bada? Fine fellow, Mr. Bada.”

            Thorne was able to nod in the affirmative before the colonel continued.

            “In any case, we decided the library would be a fitting memorial to Helena’s dead husband and my best friend, Freddie. We pooled our funds and kept the bookstore alive here, and Freddie has what he well deserves, a memorial to his work. Are you familiar with his work on Shakespeare and de Vere?”

            “Yes.”

            “Now, I’ve told you a lot, but I didn’t even get your name. I’m afraid I do go on at times,” he said.

            “I’m David Thorne.”

            Colonel Carlyle’s eyes narrowed in thought before he exploded. “Oh, David Thorne! Helena has spoken highly of you and the help you provided. I’m pleased to meet you, Sir.” He extended his hand again and squeezed even harder than the first time. “I’m sorry she isn’t here to see you, but she’s busy full-time with the little ones, you know. Takes most of her time these days.”

            The two young women cashiers came in, and he looked at his watch. “Well, here are my replacements. I’m afraid I’m off to chicken and peas at Rotary.” He came around from behind the counter, wrapped his arm around Thorne’s shoulders and led him out the front door.

            “Mayor Dell is our speaker at Rotary today.” He leaned close and whispered, “I’m afraid to say, he’s a bit of a pill. Not a bright sort of chap.  He helped quiet everyone down after the Town Council approved the castle project.”  He threw back his head and laughed. “But, he was a little peeved, I must say, when a couple of years later, the Bada Corporation, Limited donated five-million pounds to the project. The donation was to set up the now prestigious Frederick Hollister Literary Research Center there to do research on the Shakespeare and de Vere thing. Dell thought it was only going to be a small bookstore.” He laughed again. “Like I said, he’s not  a bright sort of chap.”

            Thorne said, “I’m pleased to hear Freddie’s being honored. I always knew he was quite sincere about the research.”

            “That’s right. Freddie was quite a fellow.” He continued talking as he limped down the street to his Rotary Club meeting. He assumed Thorne wanted to walk with him, which fortunately, Thorne did. “I only have a block or two to go. You don’t mind do you?” he said.

            Thorne never had a chance to answer as the colonel continued with a chuckle. “Linsdame was never one to buck against, but Bada did, and good for him.”

            Thorne asked, “You remember the Neville Forestal case, don’t you? I remember Gweneth Bada, and she and Forester had  planned to be married, but—”

            “Ah, yes. Nasty business, that. Forestal and Roger Linsdame went to prison, and that other Kirk-Halstrom
,
went to a mental institution. There doesn’t seem to be a chance he’ll ever get out.

            Thorne asked, “What ever happened to Gweneth Bada?”

            “Best thing that could have. She married two years ago. Man in the music business. Makes violins and cellos and such. Nice fellow. Family’s well-known in London.”

            He stopped in front of a large hotel. “Well, here’s my stop.”

            He shook Thorne’s hand for the third time. “Again, it was a pleasure to meet you, Sir, and I’ll tell Helena you came by. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

            Favoring his bad leg, he clutched the handrail and mounted the steps. “Best of luck to you,” he said as he snapped a sharp salute and disappeared through the revolving doors.

The hulking form of Kilshire Castle still brooded over the River Avon. The addition had been completed, but the massive stone structure still retained its original character.

            Thorne parked in a large lot outside the walled-in Outer Ward and caught a shuttle to the main gate of the castle. As the shuttle bounced along the cobble-stone road, he glanced out of the window to the large Bada manor house high up on the hill. Nothing seemed to have changed in its outward appearance, but inside the manor house he knew it was quite different.

            Inside the castle, much had also changed. The workmen were gone. The Inner Ward, the main courtyard, was empty of all the equipment and materials he remembered piled high during the demolition and construction.

            The gate keeper, a large man over six and a half feet tall, was dressed in Elizabethan era clothing. He welcomed everyone in a booming voice one could hear from across the moat. The rest of the museum staff were dressed in contemporary clothing. The Great Hall and the rest of the rooms on the ground floor were furnished in reproductions, and in some cases, the actual furniture of the late sixteenth century.

            In the center of the Queen’s Keep the large table remained. A clear glass cylindrical case was set in the center of the table.

            Thorne was stunned to see the diamond necklace suspended in the center of the case.

            He looked around for guards. There were none.

            Perplexed as to how a priceless piece of historical jewelry could be displayed so casually, he moved closer and found the answer.

            It was a hologram.

            He walked around the table and viewed it from all sides. The digital representation of the necklace was spectacular. He’d seen holograms before, but none of this quality. He suspected the original may still be in the castle, and his eyes moved quickly to the poesies plaque on the first landing.

            There was a framed document next to the plaque. He went to it and read the information on the papyrus under glass in a gold frame.

The Fire of Ar-Wan

This necklace was a gift to

Elizabeth I

Queen of England, Ireland and Wales

1533-1603

By Richard Moldar

2
^nd
Earl of Hofley

Lord of Kilshire Castle

1515-1595

Thorne smiled at the succinct description. It wasn’t inaccurate as much as it was incomplete. True, the necklace was never delivered, presented, or accepted, but that didn’t alter the fact that it was a gift—a gift of a totally devoted, but flawed man—a man hopelessly loyal to a queen who despised him.

            Thorne left the Keep and strolled toward the new library. He thought this was as good a time as any to do what he came here for.

            Reaching into his coat pocket, he removed an envelope with a cashier’s check for twenty-thousand dollars. On a small separate piece of paper he wrote,
Donation to the Freddie Hollister Memorial Library.
He placed both check and note in the envelope, sealed it, and dropped it into the donation box.

            Thorne smiled as the slot in the donation box received the envelope. He was satisfied. He realized the Bada Corporation didn’t need his donation. He knew he was donating it for his own peace of mind, as well as for Freddie’s memory. The necklace he’d taken had been returned three years earlier to the rightful owner, the Bada Corporation. Now, he felt this donation partially completed his atonement for what he’d done.

            Strolling through the library, Thorne was pleased with Rainier’s design and layout as well as the great number of books on the literary history of England, Europe and the New World.

            The large circular room was four stories high with a large circular skylight in the center. Wide balconies housed bookshelves on the walls surrounding the enormous central volume.

            On the ground floor on opposite sides of the room were two large glassed-in rooms. Inside were stacks containing thousands of books. Above the door on one was the inscription:

THE WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LIBRARY

The inscription on the other door read:

THE EDWARD de VERE LIBRARY

            Fitting. Thorne thought. Freddie would have been proud.

            On his way back to his hotel, Thorne reflected on the reason he had been brought to Stratford three years earlier. He had completed his task, that of uncovering the de Vere documents. When he took the job, he needed the money, and had no interest who wrote Shakespeare’s work. However, for the past three years it had become impossible for him to maintain his original disinterest and skepticism.

            When he returned to Arizona he went on with his life. He would occasionally surf the web to see if anything had come of the studies of the documents and the controversy in general. Bada, Raskin, Blackstone, and the Oxfordians were still studying what had been found, and trying to make the case for de Vere as the true author. Just as often, the Shakespeare Trust came up with new information proving the Stratford man
was
the true author.