answer that he did not know. But Will was gone on to the stage and the voice of the Prince rang out across the Rose.
Abruptly Ugo Stell was there, with the bookkeeper in tow. 'Tell Tom what you told me,' ordered the Dutchman quietly. Pope held up the prompt book. It was covered in scrawled additions - mostly to Julius Morton's speeches. 'I noted what Mercutio said at the end, Master Tom,' he said breathlessly. 'The speech about plagues and houses and making worms' meat of the man. For Master Will had written nothing like it in his original book. There's nothing like that in the original at all.'
'But you have it written down?'
'Everyword, truly, sir. But what's the significance?'
'I have a suspicion,' answered Tom, glaring out on to the stage where Will was delivering the Prince of Verona's doom on Romeo, all unaware of the doom awaiting him back here, 'that there may be a message hidden within it. A message from a murdered man who dared not make his dying message clear. There is work for a Master of Cyphers here.'
'And for a Master of Logic,' added Ugo.
'And for a Master of Defence, I shouldn't wonder,' concluded Tom, grimly. And all too soon he was to learn just how true those last words were.
Chapter Eight - A Death Re-played
Later that afternoon the whole company except for Julius Morton was again assembled on the Rose's stage. The whole company of actors, that was. The Bookkeeper was at work in Master Henslowe's office copying out with laborious accuracy every word the dying Morton had spoken, marking the difference between those which followed Master Shakespeare's original and those that he had extemporised for himself.
As the wet boards and sodden rushes out on the stage itself steamed lazily under the gathering weight of the next thunderstorm, it seemed to more than one mind there that Julius was as fully among them as any of the others, passing spectrally from one ghostly wisp to the next. And in fact he was figured there in person as Will paced out his last moments, rolling in Dick Burbage's arms across the brawny chests of all the others.
The badly shaken Sly, still half convinced that he must have struck the fatal blow after all, worked carefully and precisely as Tom, narrow-eyed, watched the whole performance, with Ugo by his side.
The actors were all at their points. Inevitably, after so much rehearsal of such a dangerous piece of action destined to be repeated over and over, every man there knew to within a whisker where every part of his body must be placed. The only difference, apart from the absence of the little tragedy's principal actor, was the equally crucial absence of the sword-wielding sixpenny gallants. But the actors were beginning to build up a clear picture of who among the courtly audience was where, when they left their stools.
'Now,' called Burbage and Sly together.
'Hold,' commanded Tom. The action froze. Will was standing in a slight crouch, trapped against the rock-steady chest of Hemminge, held by the encircling arm of Dick Burbage. Sly, caught in the act of bouncing off Condell's solid front, balanced the length of his leaded rapier precisely, ready to thrust under Dick's arm, apparently into the depths of Will's unprotected breast. 'Look about you,' commanded Tom. 'Stir your memories. Who else was close by at this very moment? Where were they facing? What were they doing? What did they look like?'
Of course a babel of answers arose at once, for there had been eight gallants up from their stools in the midst of the action and all of the horseshoe of actors had seen at least one of them. Tom held up his hand for peace, then he put a simple order on the matter by starting with the outer ends of the half-circle, and establishing through the testimony of at least two actors apiece what each of those eight men had been doing at the vital moment. The outer two - one on each side - had simply been pushing against the wall of actors apparently seeking a clearer view.
Abruptly Ugo Stell was there, with the bookkeeper in tow. 'Tell Tom what you told me,' ordered the Dutchman quietly. Pope held up the prompt book. It was covered in scrawled additions - mostly to Julius Morton's speeches. 'I noted what Mercutio said at the end, Master Tom,' he said breathlessly. 'The speech about plagues and houses and making worms' meat of the man. For Master Will had written nothing like it in his original book. There's nothing like that in the original at all.'
'But you have it written down?'
'Everyword, truly, sir. But what's the significance?'
'I have a suspicion,' answered Tom, glaring out on to the stage where Will was delivering the Prince of Verona's doom on Romeo, all unaware of the doom awaiting him back here, 'that there may be a message hidden within it. A message from a murdered man who dared not make his dying message clear. There is work for a Master of Cyphers here.'
'And for a Master of Logic,' added Ugo.
'And for a Master of Defence, I shouldn't wonder,' concluded Tom, grimly. And all too soon he was to learn just how true those last words were.
Chapter Eight - A Death Re-played
Later that afternoon the whole company except for Julius Morton was again assembled on the Rose's stage. The whole company of actors, that was. The Bookkeeper was at work in Master Henslowe's office copying out with laborious accuracy every word the dying Morton had spoken, marking the difference between those which followed Master Shakespeare's original and those that he had extemporised for himself.
As the wet boards and sodden rushes out on the stage itself steamed lazily under the gathering weight of the next thunderstorm, it seemed to more than one mind there that Julius was as fully among them as any of the others, passing spectrally from one ghostly wisp to the next. And in fact he was figured there in person as Will paced out his last moments, rolling in Dick Burbage's arms across the brawny chests of all the others.
The badly shaken Sly, still half convinced that he must have struck the fatal blow after all, worked carefully and precisely as Tom, narrow-eyed, watched the whole performance, with Ugo by his side.
The actors were all at their points. Inevitably, after so much rehearsal of such a dangerous piece of action destined to be repeated over and over, every man there knew to within a whisker where every part of his body must be placed. The only difference, apart from the absence of the little tragedy's principal actor, was the equally crucial absence of the sword-wielding sixpenny gallants. But the actors were beginning to build up a clear picture of who among the courtly audience was where, when they left their stools.
'Now,' called Burbage and Sly together.
'Hold,' commanded Tom. The action froze. Will was standing in a slight crouch, trapped against the rock-steady chest of Hemminge, held by the encircling arm of Dick Burbage. Sly, caught in the act of bouncing off Condell's solid front, balanced the length of his leaded rapier precisely, ready to thrust under Dick's arm, apparently into the depths of Will's unprotected breast. 'Look about you,' commanded Tom. 'Stir your memories. Who else was close by at this very moment? Where were they facing? What were they doing? What did they look like?'
Of course a babel of answers arose at once, for there had been eight gallants up from their stools in the midst of the action and all of the horseshoe of actors had seen at least one of them. Tom held up his hand for peace, then he put a simple order on the matter by starting with the outer ends of the half-circle, and establishing through the testimony of at least two actors apiece what each of those eight men had been doing at the vital moment. The outer two - one on each side - had simply been pushing against the wall of actors apparently seeking a clearer view.
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