SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET

  “It’s warm this afternoon,” she said idly. “I keep expecting the weather to turn cooler, but perhaps we’ll have summer for a bit longer.” She stood, stretching, and pulled open the front door. “Lemonade?”

  “Sure,” Hero said. “That’d be great.” She hesitated, then called through the screen, “I’m . . . sorry about the other day. I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I don’t know why I was so mad.”

  There was no response from inside. Hero waited nervously. Then Mrs. Roth returned with her tray, balancing the frosted glasses and the china plate of cinnamon toast. She rested it on the steps between them and sat down again, looking at Hero thoughtfully.

  “I was surprised you were so angry,” she said finally. “But then I realized you were angry because you consider me your friend. You felt I had betrayed your trust.”

  Hero looked away embarrassed. “I guess I just thought you would have told me about being married to Mr. Murphy. Something important like that. It changes things.”

  Mrs. Roth sighed. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because it would have changed the story for you. It would have made you question my friendship with Eleanor, just as the police did.” She rubbed her forehead, closing her eyes. “It’s strange, isn’t it? One small bit of information—a private relationship, something that happened a long time ago—and the whole story seems different. But why should that one fact be more important than anything else? Why should it make all the rest suspect?”

  Hero shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just hard to believe. People don’t usually become best friends with their ex-husband’s new wife. How did that happen?”

  Mrs. Roth sipped her lemonade. After a minute, she spoke. “Arthur and I were married for nineteen years. There was no dramatic, terrible end to it. We didn’t fight or come to hate each other. But something happened. ...” She looked away. “And we couldn’t go on together. So we divorced, but we remained close friends.”

  Hero didn’t say anything. If they could stay friends, she didn’t understand why they couldn’t stay married. Being married didn’t seem that hard; compared to putting up with your parents or your sister, for instance.

  “When he married Eleanor,” Mrs. Roth continued, “I was very happy for him. I liked her immensely. Is it strange that he would choose someone I liked so much? I don’t think so. We had similar taste. At any rate, they moved here, and when I was ready to leave the city, they encouraged me to buy this house.”

  “Right next door to them?” Hero asked.

  Mrs. Roth nodded. “That’s odd, I suppose, on the face of it. It seems such a coincidence.” She looked over at the Netherfields’ house. “But really there are no coincidences. Coincidences are just other people’s choices, plans you don’t know about.”

  Hero watched her lift her lemonade glass in both hands, turning it so it caught the sunlight. Mrs. Roth said, “I have no family except for Arthur. He always felt responsible for me. Through the years, Eleanor and I became close friends. When she died, both Arthur and I were devastated. We shared that. He couldn’t bear to stay here. And I—well, I couldn’t bear to leave.”

  They sat in silence for a while, and Hero felt the story hanging in the air between them.

  “The Murphys didn’t have any children? They had no one but you?” she asked.

  Mrs. Roth looked away. Her face seemed different, full of shadows. “No. They didn’t have children,” she said slowly. “But Arthur and I had a child.”

  This was so unexpected that Hero almost dropped her glass of lemonade. “What?” she asked.

  Mrs. Roth laced her fingers together, gazing steadily into the garden. “A daughter. My daughter, Anna.”

  Hero stared at her. “You never mentioned her before. Where is she?”

  Mrs. Roth kept looking at the flowers. Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “When we were married, Arthur and I found out we couldn’t have children. It was something I desperately wanted. So we took a foster child, a little girl. She was so beautiful. Lovely blue eyes, the sweetest smile. She was four years old when she came to live with us. We adored her.” Mrs. Roth sighed, folding and unfolding her hands. “But she was . . . troubled.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, now there would be a diagnosis for it. Depression probably. I’m not sure. As she got older, she had these startling mood swings. We didn’t know anything. We thought it must be typical adolescence. But it was more than that. She ran away a week after her seventeenth birthday.”

  “She ran away? And you never found her?”

  Mrs. Roth shook her head slightly. “She didn’t want to be found. I know that now. But at the time, I couldn’t stop looking. It was the only thing I cared about. And Arthur and I couldn’t get past it. It was the end of our marriage.”

  Hero didn’t know what to say. She touched Mrs. Roth’s arm. “That’s terrible.”

  Mrs. Roth turned to her then, and her face seemed creased with history and secrets. “Oh, my dear. There are no words for it.”

  “Did you ever find out where she went? Did she ever call you?”

  “Years later, she sent me a postcard. It was from California, from Disneyland, actually. She was there on vacation. She said she’d gotten married, had a baby.” Mrs. Roth sighed. “Isn’t that remarkable? I might have been a grandmother to some little girl or boy.”

  “But couldn’t you find her after that?” Hero asked.

  “Well, I did think about hiring another private investigator. But, as I said, it was so clear that Anna didn’t want to be found. I finally realized I had to respect that.”

  “Wow.” Hero stared out at the garden, at its colorful, unkempt beauty. She’d never met anyone like Mrs. Roth, anyone who was as good at letting things be, accepting them in all their messiness and imperfection. But this was so sad. Hero wanted to help her somehow, to make her feel better. Suddenly she remembered the book in her backpack.

  “Oh!” Hero said. “I have something to show you— about the necklace.” She pulled out the book and paged through it, finding the image of the falcon. “Look at this,” she said.

  “Why, it’s the bird from the pendant!” Mrs. Roth exclaimed. “How did you find it?”

  “I was copying it from that pencil rubbing I made, and my dad saw the sketch, and he said it was Anne Boleyn’s crest—”

  “The wife of Henry VIII?” Mrs. Roth interrupted, staring at Hero. “The queen?”

  “Yes!” Hero leaned forward, smiling. “The initials, remember? Not AE; AB.”

  Mrs. Roth gasped. “But that means—”

  “I know,” Hero said happily. “The necklace must have belonged to her!”

  “Well, this is amazing.” Mrs. Roth grabbed Hero’s hand. “Oh, how I wish Eleanor could hear this! Her ancestors inherited a necklace from the queen of England.” She paused. “But I wonder how that happened. Eleanor said the necklace came from her Vere family ancestors. How would Edward de Vere have gotten Anne Boleyn’s necklace?”

  Hero thumbed through the book. “I don’t know. Were they related?”

  “No, I’m sure not,” Mrs. Roth said. “If there were a family relation to royalty—Anne Boleyn of all people—Eleanor would have known.”

  “Maybe they were friends? He was a nobleman, right?”

  “It’s possible. But it seems unlikely that she would give such a valuable necklace to a mere friend. I wonder what the connection was between them.”

  Hero thought for a minute. “I can ask my dad about it. He recognized the falcon. Maybe he’d have some idea.” She continued turning the pages of the book. “Look,” she said, sliding it across her lap so Mrs. Roth could see. “It says that a skilled swordsman came over from France for the execution. Anne Boleyn said, ’I have heard that the executioner is very good. And I have a little neck.’”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Roth said. “I remember that. A little neck. And it is a little necklace.”

  Hero thought of the small circle of pearls and rubi
es. Her eyes darted over the page. “Oh! Listen,” she cried. “Here are Anne Boleyn’s last words, right before she was beheaded on Tower Green:

  “Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law, and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor more merciful prince was there never: and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of this world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.”

  Hero looked up. “It says here that she was only twenty-nine years old.” She read the words again, to herself. “She was very brave, wasn’t she?”

  Mrs. Roth nodded. “Oh, yes. And honorable.”

  Hero bit her lip. “I mean, at the end it seems like she forgave all those people who lied about her. Even her husband, the king. And it was all his fault that she had to die.” Hero frowned. “I wonder how she could forgive that.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Roth said slowly, “I suppose we never know what we have the capacity to forgive until we’re truly tested.”

  They were considering this in silence when they heard the familiar skid of a skateboard out on the street.

  CHAPTER

  18

  As Danny came through the front gate, Hero felt a resurgence of the week’s misery. She couldn’t help glaring at him, thinking about everything that might be written on a metal stall in the boys’ bathroom.

  But Mrs. Roth called out warmly. “Hello, Daniel! How are you? Come join us.”

  Danny strode toward them, dropping the skateboard with a clatter on the walkway. He stretched out comfortably on the bottom step of the porch.

  “Hey, Miriam,” he said. “Did Netherfield tell you we tried to check the police file on the Murphys?”

  Mrs. Roth looked at Hero in surprise.

  Hero said reluctantly “Danny knows about the diamond. He pretty much figured it out.” She paused, racked with guilt. But I didn’t tell him about the necklace, she wanted to say. I didn’t tell him anything we

  talked about. She knew how she would have felt if Mrs. Roth had shared their secret. But Mrs. Roth only nodded at her, her blue eyes clear and kind.

  “So, anyway,” Hero continued, “Danny had the brilliant idea of sneaking into his dad’s office to see the police report. Only guess what—we got caught.”

  Mrs. Roth turned to Danny. “Oh my. Whatever did you tell your father?”

  “We made something up,” Danny answered promptly. “About a school project. We said Netherfield needed to interview him. He went for it hook, line, and sinker.”

  Mrs. Roth shook her head. “You shouldn’t lie to the people you care about,” she said gently. “Especially if you think you might get away with it.” She tilted her glass of lemonade so the ice clinked and settled. “That’s why I never told you anything myself, Daniel, last summer when you worked on the garden. I didn’t want you to have to lie to your father. Or to have to conceal something from him.”

  Danny rested one foot on his skateboard and pushed it back and forth over the uneven flagstones. “That’s what I figured,” he said. “But, you know, I wouldn’t have told him. That diamond doesn’t belong to the police.”

  Hero wondered if he was right about that. If the diamond was stolen property, it probably did belong to the police, at least until the insurance company could claim it. She watched Danny swivel the skateboard with his heel. He looked up at Mrs. Roth.

  “So where do you think it is? Really. If it’s in the house, it’s got to be in a good hiding place.”

  “A good finding place,” Mrs. Roth corrected, then smiled. She turned to Hero. “What my daughter used to say about hide-and-seek. She was always looking for a good finding place.”

  Danny looked at her strangely. “What did you say?”

  Hero turned to him. “I know, it’s weird, isn’t it? Mrs. Roth has a daughter, a girl she adopted when she was married to Mr. Murphy. She ran away a long time ago.”

  Danny looked at Mrs. Roth in surprise. “Really? You have a kid? How come you never said anything about her?”

  “I suppose I think of her as part of that other life, my life with Arthur.”

  They sat in silence together. Hero thought about all the things that were lost: not just the diamond, but Anna as well as Mrs. Roth’s old life as a wife and mother. She noticed that even Danny seemed preoccupied.

  “What would you do with the diamond if you found it?” he asked suddenly.

  Mrs. Roth smiled. “Put it back where it belongs. Look at it. Remember Eleanor.”

  Hero shrugged. “I never thought that far.”

  “Oh, come on,” Danny protested. “It’s worth almost a million dollars. What would you do with a ton of money like that?”

  “Ah, the money,” Mrs. Roth said teasingly. “What would I do with that kind of money? Travel, perhaps. I’d love to go to Australia. I’ve always wanted to visit the desert there.”

  “Me too,” Hero said enthusiastically. “I’d travel, too. I’d love to go someplace really different. Any place. I’d get as far away from here as I could.”

  Mrs. Roth studied her. “More dog jokes?”

  Hero shot a glance at Danny. “Sort of.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Danny said. “I heard Aaron talking about it. You’re famous.”

  Hero looked away. “Thanks to you,” she muttered.

  “Oh, come on, don’t let them bug you. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ll get rid of it if you want me to.”

  Mrs. Roth looked at them in bewilderment. “What happened, Hero?”

  Hero scuffed her sneakers on the edge of the step.

  “One of the girls in my class saw me with Danny on Saturday, when we were going to the police station. When I got to school on Monday, she was asking me about it, and then everybody started making fun of me.” She paused, embarrassed. “Some of the boys wrote things about me in the bathroom.”

  Mrs. Roth pursed her lips. “What kind of things?”

  Hero twisted one of her shoelaces. “I don’t know. But I can guess.”

  Danny touched her arm. When she turned to him, he said coaxingly, “Listen, I can get rid of it. Really. I’ll do it tonight. The window on that bathroom doesn’t latch. We used to sneak in there after school all the time to—” He stopped, grinning at Mrs. Roth. “Anyway, my dad has cans of black spray paint in the garage. The cops use it to get rid of graffiti. I’ll cover up whatever they wrote.”

  Hero felt a flicker of hope, but Mrs. Roth shook her head firmly. “No, no. You mustn’t do anything like that, Daniel. Breaking and entering, defacing public property. It’s wrong. You’re a policeman’s son, for heaven’s sake. What if you get caught?” She turned to Hero. “You should speak to your teacher, Hero. However deplorable, I’m sure this isn’t the first time such a thing has happened.”

  Hero glanced at her doubtfully.

  “Who’s your teacher?” Danny asked.

  “Mrs. Vanderley.”

  He looked skeptical.

  Hero sighed, standing up. “I have homework.”

  “May I keep the book here?” Mrs. Roth asked, lifting Tudor England from the porch step. “I’d like to look at it.”

  “Sure,” said Hero. “And I’ll talk to my dad about”—she glanced at Danny—“you know, the other things.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Roth patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Hero. I know you’ve had a hard time, but you mustn’t lose faith. Remember your namesake. ’Who can blot that name with any just reproach?’ Think of Shakespeare. He puts everything in perspective. It will be all right.”

  Danny gave the skateboard a hard kick. “Yeah, it will,” he said with conviction. He looked at Hero, and at that moment she recognized his father
in his face. Beneath the easy smile and the laughing blue eyes there was something unyielding, a kind of determination. As she walked home, she shivered, dreading the thought of school on Monday.

  CHAPTER

  19

  That night, after dinner, Hero found her father in his study, reading. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  He slid the book aside and turned to her. “Of course. What is it?”

  “Well, I’ve been looking at that history book you gave me, and I just wondered, do you know of any connection between Edward de Vere and Anne Boleyn?”

  Her father tilted back in his chair. “No. Why do you ask? Anne Boleyn was executed in 1536, and Edward de Vere was born later. Let’s see. ...” He reached for the bookshelf and pulled out a slim volume. “This is another one you should look at. It’s a collection of papers about the theory that Edward de Vere was the real Shakespeare.” He opened the book and flipped through it. “Here. Edward de Vere was born in 1550 or thereabouts. The dating from that era is notoriously inaccurate. But that’s fourteen years after Anne Boleyn’s death. I don’t know of any link between those two.” He handed the book to Hero. “The connection was with Queen Elizabeth.”

  Hero turned the pages. “What connection?” she asked. She found a portrait of Elizabeth I, with her red curls and white face, sitting stiffly in an elaborate jeweled gown.

  “Well,” her father began, clasping his hands behind his head. “It’s unclear, actually. There’s much speculation, even that he might have been her lover. But what’s known is that, from the time he was small, de Vere—Oxford, as we call him—was a great favorite of Queen Elizabeth’s. His father died and he was raised by one of her top advisors. When Oxford was an adult, Elizabeth gave him an allowance of a thousand pounds a year.”

  “A thousand pounds?” Hero asked. “That doesn’t sound like a lot.”

  “Not in today’s currency.” Her father smiled. “But at the time, it was a small fortune, the equivalent of around $700,000 dollars now.”