‘I wanted to be a LiteraTec.’
‘You did?’ I replied, seeing if there was anything in the fridge that wasn’t a year past its sell-by date.
‘Yeah. But they said you had to read a book or two.’
‘It helps.’
There was a knock at the door and Buckett instinctively reached for his handgun. He was more on edge than I had thought.
‘Easy, Buckett. I’ll get it.’
He joined me at the door and released the safety from his pistol. I looked at him and he nodded back in reply.
‘Who’s there?’ I said without opening the door.
‘Hello!’ replied a voice. ‘My name’s Edmund Capillary. Have you ever stopped to wonder whether it was
We both breathed a sigh of relief and Buckett put the safety back on his automatic, muttering under his breath: ‘Bloody Baconians!’
‘Steady,’ I replied, ‘it’s not illegal.’
‘More’s the pity.’
‘Shh.’
I opened the door on the security chain and found a small man in a lumpy corduroy suit. He was holding a dog-eared ID for me to see and politely raised his hat with a nervous smile. The Baconians were quite mad but for the most part harmless. Their purpose in life was to prove that Francis Bacon and not Will Shakespeare had penned the greatest plays in the English language. Bacon, they believed, had not been given the recognition that he rightfully deserved and they campaigned tirelessly to redress this supposed injustice.
‘Hello!’ said the Baconian brightly. ‘Can I take a moment of your time?’
I answered slowly: ‘If you expect me to believe that a lawyer wrote
The Baconian was not to be put off. He obviously liked fighting a poor argument; in real life he was most likely a personal accident barrister.
‘Not as daft as supposing that a Warwickshire schoolboy with almost no education could write works that were not for an age but for all time.’
‘There is no evidence that he was without formal education,’ I returned evenly, suddenly enjoying myself. Buckett wanted me to get rid of him but I ignored his gesticulations.
‘Agreed,’ continued the Baconian, ‘but I would argue that the Shakespeare in Stratford was
It was an interesting approach. I paused and Edmund Capillary took the opportunity to pounce. He launched into his well-rehearsed patter almost automatically: ‘The Shakespeare in Stratford was a wealthy grain trader and buying houses when the Shakespeare in London was being pursued by tax collectors for petty sums. The collectors traced him to Sussex on one occasion in 1600; yet why not take action against him in Stratford?’
‘Search me.’
He was on a roll now.
‘No one is recorded in Stratford as having any idea of his literary success. He was never known to have bought a book, written a letter or indeed done anything apart from being a purveyor of bagged commodities, grain and malt and so forth.’
The small man looked triumphant.
‘So where does Bacon fit into all this?’ I asked him.
‘Francis Bacon was an Elizabethan writer who had been forced into becoming a lawyer and politician by his family. Since being associated with something like the theatre would have been frowned upon, Bacon had to enlist the help of a poor actor named Shakespeare to act as his front man—history has mistakenly linked the two Shakespeares to give added validity to a story that otherwise has little substance.’
‘And the proof?’
‘Hall and Marston—both Elizabethan satirists—were firmly of the belief that Bacon was the true author of “Venus and Adonis” and “The Rape of Lucrece”. I have a pamphlet here which goes into the matter further. More details are available at our monthly gatherings; we used to meet at the town hall but the radical wing of the “New Marlovians” fire-bombed us last week. I don’t know where we will meet next. But if I can take your name and number, we can be in touch.’
His face was earnest and smug; he thought he had me. I decided to play my trump card.
‘What about the will?’
‘The will?’ he echoed, slightly nervously. He was obviously hoping I wasn’t going to mention it.
‘Yes,’ I continued. ‘If Shakespeare were
The Baconian’s face fell.
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.’ He sighed. ‘I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?’
‘I’m afraid you are.’
He muttered something under his breath and moved on. As I threw the bolt I could hear the Baconian knocking at the next door to ours. Perhaps he’d have better luck down the corridor.
‘What is a LiteraTec doing here anyway, Next?’ asked Buckett as we returned to the kitchen.
‘I’m here,’ I answered slowly, ‘because I know what
I poured some yoghurty milk down the sink and rinsed out the container.
‘Might be a blessing.’
‘I don’t see it that way. What about you? How did you get in with Tamworth?’
‘I’m antiterrorist usually. SO-9. But Tamworth has trouble with recruitment. He took a cavalry sabre for me. I owe him.’
He dropped his eyes and fiddled with his tie for a moment. I peered cautiously into a cupboard for a dishcloth, discovered something nasty and then closed it quickly.
Buckett took out his wallet and showed me a picture of a dribbling infant that looked like every other dribbling infant I had ever seen.
‘I’m married now so Tamworth knows I can’t stay; one’s needs change, you know.’
‘Good-looking kid.’
‘Thank you.’ He put the picture away. ‘You married?’
‘Not for want of trying,’ I replied as I filled the kettle. Buckett nodded and brought out a copy of
‘Do you ever flutter on the gee-gees? I’ve had an unusual tip on Malabar.’
‘I don’t. Sorry.’
Buckett nodded. His conversation had pretty much dried up.
I brought in some coffee a few minutes later. Snood and Buckett were discussing the outcome of the Cheltenham Gold Stakes Handicap.
‘So you know what he looks like, Miss Next?’ asked the ancient Snood without looking up from the binoculars.
‘He was a lecturer of mine when I was at college. He’s tricky to describe, though.’
‘Average build?’
‘When I last saw him.’
‘Tan?’
‘At least six-six.’
‘Black hair worn swept back and greying at the temples?’
Buckett and I looked at one another.
‘Yes—?’
‘I think he’s over there, Thursday.’
I jerked the headphone jack out.
