SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET

  So she hadn’t told him anything after all. Hero smiled at her, feeling a warm swell of gladness that something remained a secret. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Who knows if you can trust him?”

  “Oh, I trust Daniel,” Mrs. Roth said decisively. “I’m a notoriously good judge of character. But I’m not sure it’s wise to trust him with information about the diamond. More for his sake than for ours.”

  Hero felt like asking Mrs. Roth if she knew about Danny Cordova’s suspension last year. How trustworthy was a kid who’d been thrown out of school? But instead she changed the subject.

  “What about his dad? His dad seems to think the diamond’s still somewhere at our house, too.”

  “Yes. But he doesn’t have as good a reason as I do.” Mrs. Roth pushed back her chair and left the room. When she returned she held a small cardboard box in her hands.

  “The day after Arthur Murphy decided to sell the house to your parents, he brought this to me. It was the last time I saw him.” She lifted the flap of the box and gently tilted it over the table. There was a rustle of tissue paper, then a musical clinking sound. Hero caught her breath.

  There in front of her was a glittering coil of gold, a heavy chain gleaming with pearls and rubies. An empty pendant dangled from the middle.

  CHAPTER

  9

  “Oh!” cried Hero. “The necklace!”

  She lifted it, still unable to breathe, and felt its cool weight settle in the furrows of her palm. It amazed her that something so old and fragile could seem so imposing. She was almost afraid to touch it. The rubies and pearls caught the light. The gold still glistened gamely.

  “It’s beautiful,” Hero whispered.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Mrs. Roth took the necklace and spread it on the table between them.

  Hero saw that the chain had small, shimmering gold beads alternating with lustrous white pearls. Blood-red rubies set in gold brackets studded the length of the chain at regular intervals. The ornate golden pendant hung at the bottom, bordered by rubies, with a teardrop-shaped pearl dangling at the base. It was forlornly empty.

  “So this is where the diamond was?” Hero asked.

  “Yes, there in the center. It was a pyramid cut, square at the base, rising to a point.”

  Hero turned the pendant in her hand, looking at the rubies. On the back, she saw something faint etched in the gold. “What’s this design? It looks like a bird.”

  Mrs. Roth nodded. “It’s faded. I can’t really tell. But it looks like a bird holding a tree branch, doesn’t it? Eleanor said that animal designs were quite common in the jewelry of the period.”

  Hero kept squinting at the back, holding it closer to the kitchen light. She touched the surface with her index finger. Suddenly she had an idea. “Can I have a piece of paper and a pencil?” she asked.

  Mrs. Roth pulled out one of the kitchen drawers and handed her a notepad and a stubby, pockmarked pencil. Hero pressed the paper against the back of the pendant and rubbed the pencil across it in dark strokes until the design appeared. She looked at it closely. “Are these initials?”

  Mrs. Roth squinted at the page. “I hadn’t noticed that. Yes, it looks like letters, doesn’t it? A something. What’s the second one?”

  Hero shook her head. “It’s pretty worn down. Maybe an E?”

  “Hmm, AE. Some Vere ancestor, I suppose.”

  Hero gently nudged the necklace into a circle again. “It’s so small,” she said. “It’s almost like a choker.”

  “Yes. That must have been the style. Or their necks were smaller in those days.”

  Hero tried to imagine the necklace clasped around a woman’s slender throat. “How old is it?” she asked.

  “Well, sixteenth century, so almost five hundred years old. Eleanor thought that it dated from the mid-1500s.”

  “I’ve never touched anything that old before.” Hero stroked it lightly, full of wonder.

  “Nor have I,” Mrs. Roth said, smiling at her.

  “But why did Mr. Murphy give it to you? I mean, it’s so old and valuable, and it had been in Mrs. Murphy’s family for such a long time. Why did he leave it here with you?”

  Mrs. Roth tilted the box again and reached inside. She pulled out a note card, creamy white with a navy monogram emblazoned across the front. “This was also in the package,” she said, handing it to Hero.

  Hero opened the note card. Inside, in bold cursive, it read:

  Hero frowned, puzzled. “It’s from Mr. Murphy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he giving you the necklace to keep?”

  Mrs. Roth looked away, her face shadowed. She didn’t say anything. Hero waited, but the silence gathered in the kitchen, as heavy as the downpour outside the window.

  At last Mrs. Roth spoke. “They had no one else. No . . . children, no other family to give it to. I think Arthur wanted me to have it because he knew it would mean something to me.”

  “But you can’t wear the necklace without the diamond in it.”

  “No,” Mrs. Roth said. “I don’t think that was his intention.”

  “Then what?” Hero wondered. “Does he think you know where the diamond is? Does he expect you to find it?”

  Mrs. Roth took the necklace from Hero and curled it in her hand, closing her fingers over it. “Read the back of the card,” she said.

  Hero turned the note card over and read, printed neatly across the back:

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Oh, my dear. For someone named after an illustrious literary character, you have an alarming ignorance of English literature.”

  “We don’t even study English literature in school,” Hero protested. “I don’t think you do that till seventh grade.”

  Mrs. Roth shook her head in mock dismay. “Is that an excuse? It’s from a poem by Dylan Thomas. It’s about dying. About how to die, really.”

  Hero kept looking at the card. “I don’t get it. Did Mr. Murphy write this on the back? Why?”

  “Because it’s quite like Eleanor, I think. He wanted to remind me of her. And perhaps it has something to do with the diamond.”

  “Like a clue?” Hero asked eagerly. She studied the verse more closely. “Is he trying to tell you where he hid it?”

  Mrs. Roth sipped her tea. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “But you said that he thinks you know where the diamond is. He wants you to find it.”

  “Actually, Hero, you said that.” Mrs. Roth seemed tired. She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know what Arthur thinks or what he wants to happen. It was horrible for the two of them during those last few months. All that uproar about the diamond, badgered by the police and the insurance investigators. And the whole time, Eleanor was dying. Even after she was gone, people were still talking about the diamond, the Murphy diamond. How much it was worth. Where it might be hidden. Would he get away with it. The poor man’s wife had died, and nobody would leave him alone. It was all very . . . disappointing.”

  Hero looked out at the rainy day. “But why would Mr. Murphy give you the necklace unless he wanted you to have the diamond, too?”

  Mrs. Roth opened her hand and stared at the necklace, absently touching the chain. “I imagine that he simply wanted the necklace and the diamond to be in the same place, as they’d been for over four hundred years. I think he wanted to put things right.”

  Abruptly she placed the necklace back in the box, folding the cardboard flaps closed. She seemed subdued, though Hero couldn’t figure out why. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  Finally Hero asked, “Should I go now? You seem kind of tired.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Roth said. “I’m not being a very good hostess, am I? It’s just that—” She hesitated. “I miss my friend.”

  Hero felt a pang of envy. She tried to remember the last time she’d had a friend she liked well e
nough to miss. Not Kate or Lindsey, certainly.

  The buzzer rang in the quiet kitchen, and Mrs. Roth hurried to open the oven door. A rush of heat filled the room, full of the fruity smell of the muffins. She carried the tin to the table and rested it on a pot holder between them.

  Hero dropped a hot muffin onto her plate and blew on it, watching the steam swirl in the air. She had so many questions she wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure if Mrs. Roth was still in the mood to answer them.

  After a minute, she said, “If the diamond is at my house, why do you think the police didn’t find it? They would know where to look better than we would.”

  “True,” said Mrs. Roth. “And you should have seen the mess they made. The house looked as if it really had been burglarized, by the time they finished with it.”

  “But if they didn’t find the diamond after all that, do you think it’s still there?”

  “Well, it’s a quandary, isn’t it? But we have several advantages over the police, my dear. For one thing, Eleanor and Arthur. I know how they thought. I know what they cared about. And for another, we have a clue.” She slid the note card across the table.

  Hero looked again at its crisp, dark letters. “Still ... it must be in a really good hiding place.”

  “A good finding place,” Mrs. Roth said quietly.

  “What?” Hero asked, puzzled.

  But Mrs. Roth only shook her head. She seemed distant and sad.

  “Okay” Hero said, trying to make things normal again. “Let’s look at what he wrote. Let’s try to figure out what it means.” She read aloud the script that looped generously over the paper: “Eleanor would have wanted you to have this. You were a good friend to her.”

  And, then, turning it over:

  “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  “The dying of the light,” Hero repeated. “What’s that? Sunset? Nighttime?”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Roth. “But the poet is talking about death.”

  “Okay. But what ’rages’ against death? Doctors? Medicine?”

  Mrs. Roth took another sip of tea. “Well, yes, literally, I suppose. But also love. Hope. Memory.”

  Hero shook her head in frustration. “That doesn’t help. Those aren’t places you can hide something.”

  “No, not really. Unless love meant a gift, something concrete. Like a book.”

  Hero leaned forward excitedly. “A book of poems? A book with this poem in it?”

  “That would be tidy. But there weren’t any books left in the house, were there? Everything went with Arthur when he moved away.”

  Hero sighed. She took a big bite of the muffin. The blueberries were so hot they burned her tongue. “Maybe I should start by looking everywhere the Murphys would have kept books. Where they would have kept a poetry book. There are lots of built-in bookcases at our house, and weird cupboards and things. Maybe a board is loose somewhere, or there’s a hidden compartment.”

  Mrs. Roth looked unconvinced. “That sounds like something out of a detective story, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, the clue is out of a book. Maybe the hiding place is, too.”

  “It’s a starting point, I suppose.”

  “I’ll check the bookcases and the medicine cabinets,” Hero decided. “But, the problem is, how am I going to do this without my whole family figuring out that I’m looking for something?”

  “You’ll just have to do your searching when they’re not around.”

  Hero stared out the window gloomily “They’re never not around.”

  Mrs. Roth patted her arm. “Then you’ll have to be clever and take advantage of unforeseen opportunities.”

  “I guess,” Hero answered doubtfully.

  Together they watched the rain streaming down the window. The storm seemed to be letting up, but the garden was soaked and shimmering. The flowers drooped on their stems, skimming the wet ground.

  Mrs. Roth lifted the note card and studied it. “This poem is about facing death belligerently not meekly succumbing to it. Eleanor definitely wasn’t meek. She wasn’t one to give in. But there’s a difference between giving in to something and accepting it.” She set the card on the table again. “Eleanor accepted that she was going to die, but I’m not sure Arthur ever did. Actually, this poem is more about Arthur than Eleanor.”

  “Do you think that’s important?” Hero asked.

  “I don’t know. Yes, it’s important, but it probably doesn’t have anything to do with the diamond.”

  Hero finished her muffin. “It’s stopped raining,” she said. “I should go home now. But I’ll try to start looking this weekend.”

  “Let me know how it goes,” Mrs. Roth said. “Oh, wait a minute. This is for you.”

  She reached behind to the kitchen counter and picked up a thick green book. It was battered from use, the corners rounded and soft. She handed it to Hero.

  “What is it?” Hero asked. She lifted the cover and read the delicate black print: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

  “I know you must have dozens of copies at home because of your father,” Mrs. Roth said. “But I thought perhaps you’d like one of your own. You shouldn’t have to wait until seventh grade to read the inspiration for your wonderful name.”

  Hero hesitated. She thought of her father, how Shakespeare belonged only to him. She ruffled the thin pages, staring at the dense columns of type.

  Mrs. Roth laughed at her. “My dear, it’s not a homework assignment. You don’t have to read the whole book. The play is very short. You’ll like it.”

  “Okay thanks,” Hero said reluctantly. “But if it’s boring, I’m probably not going to finish it.”

  Mrs. Roth smiled. “Spoken like a true scholar of English literature.”

  Hero took the paper with the pencil rubbing of the pendant and slid it into the book. In the entryway, she pulled on her wet socks and shoes, heaving the damp strap of her backpack over her shoulder. “See you later,” she called to Mrs. Roth.

  “Good luck with the search,” Mrs. Roth called back to her.

  Hugging the book to her chest, Hero picked her way through the wet shrubbery and across the shining garden.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The next morning, Hero lay in bed listening to the faint murmur of breakfast noises rising from the kitchen. She could hear the whir of the coffee grinder, her parents’ muted conversation, the occasional rustle of newspaper pages. Saturday, she thought: the weekend. She burrowed happily into her pillow. What a relief to have the school week over, no gym classes or cafeteria lines or bus stops for a while. Finally, she could start looking for that diamond.

  The green book was on her nightstand. Hero picked it up and opened it across her chest. The delicate pages crinkled under her fingers, and unfamiliar words jumped out at her. Anon. Thither. Twain. It was like reading a Spanish dictionary. After some searching, she found Much Ado About Nothing. There was her name in bold at the beginning. Dramatis Personae;

  that’s me, thought Hero. She took out the paper with the etching of the pendant on it.

  Beatrice came to the doorway, yawning and pushing her hair away from her face. “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah.” Hero slid her feet over the edge of the bed.

  “What’s the book?”

  “Oh, just something Mrs. Roth gave me.” Hero put it back on her nightstand, tucking the pencil rubbing into her T-shirt pocket before Beatrice could see it. “Much Ado About Nothing.”

  Beatrice laughed. “Does she know we have about twenty copies of it?”

  Hero shrugged. “She wanted me to have my own.”

  “Are you really going to read it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Bet you won’t understand it.”

  Together they padded down the stairs into the warm yellow light of the kitchen. Their parents sat at the table, drinking coffee and trading sections of the newspaper.

  “There they
are,” Hero’s father said. “All right, ladies, what’s the plan for today?”

  “I’m going over to Kelly’s,” Beatrice replied.

  “I don’t have a plan,” said Hero, thinking about the diamond.

  “Good, sweetheart.” Hero’s mother squeezed her arm. “You can come with your father and me to the National Gallery. Are you sure you don’t want to come too, Beatrice?”

  Hero winced. “Mom, I don’t want to go to a museum. Not on the weekend.”

  “There’s a Van Dyck exhibit,” her mother coaxed.

  Beatrice shook her head. “I’m going with Kelly and Sara to a movie.”

  “Now, Beatrice, Hero,” their father protested, “one of the advantages of living in this area is how close we are to the city. Think of all those wonderful cultural opportunities.”

  “I’ll go some other time,” Beatrice said. “I promised Kelly I’d come over.”

  With Beatrice standing firm, both of Hero’s parents turned to her. “We can visit the Library of Congress instead, Hero,” her father suggested. “If you’d prefer.”

  “No, Dad, I’d rather just stay home.” Hero tried to think of some explanation that would sway them. “It’s a nice day,” she said. “I kind of want to be outside. I could do some yard work.”

  Her parents exchanged a look. “That’s a generous offer,” her mother said wryly. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Really. I just want to hang out here. Is that okay?”

  Her mother rubbed her forehead, surveying the kitchen. “I guess we could all stay. There’s certainly enough to keep us busy. I could finish unpacking those boxes, and we could weed the flower bed near the garage.”

  Hero envisioned the day slipping away from her, filled with errands and yard chores and her parents’ constant companionship. She made a final, desperate gamble, trying to sound casual.

  “Oh, Mom, you do that kind of stuff every weekend. And then it’s Monday, and you complain that we didn’t have time for anything fun. You and Dad should go to the museum. Really.”