The Late Mr Shakespeare

Chapter Forty-One Jack Naps of Greece: his story concluded

'You mean that there is more to it?' asked William Shakespeare.

'I mean that there is more to it,' the storyteller said.

And he began to tell the more to it, as follows.

'Lord Fox,' he said, 'had been invited to dine with us on New Year's Day. My sister did not cancel that invitation because of what she now knew about him. So Lord Fox came, and was his usual self, the heart of charm, the soul of wit. Ted and I were ready to fall in with his pleasantness, just as we always had been. But the Lady Mary was not. She sat stroking spoons until after dinner, when Lord Fox turned to her with a sudden smile and said, "You are very quiet this evening, my dear." My sister did not look at him, but she answered him sidelong: "It is because of a strange dream I had at Christmas." "Dreams," said Lord Fox, "always make me wake up feeling hungry." "I do not think that you would like this one," said Lady Mary. But Lord Fox insisted that he would like it, and Ted and I said that we were curious to hear it too, so Lady Mary began telling it, and this is what she said: "I dreamt that I visited your house, Lord Fox, just as you invited me to. I set out north of north, east of east, south of south, and west of west, and in no time at all I found it: Bold House. I knocked on the door, Lord Fox, but there was no answer, so I went in, and down the long, dark hall, and up the turning stair, round and round, until I came to the gallery. That gallery I went down, Lord Fox, and at the end of it I found a door. And on the door some words were written," my sister said. Lord Fox was frowning at my sister, sir, frowning, frowning, as though he would think her out of existence. "Really?" he said. "Really," said Lady Mary. "Oh, but in my dream," she added. "Strange dream," said Lord Fox. "Tell me, dear lady," he pursued, "what did the words say?" "They said," said Lady Mary, "Be bold, be bold, but not too bold - lest that your heart's blood should run cold." She did not look at our guest as she said this. "But remember," she added, "that this is only a dream, and of course it is not so in your real house, Lord Fox, is it?" "It is not so," agreed Lord Fox readily. "Nor was it so," he added. "Of course not," said Lady Mary. "Well," she went on, "I opened the door of the room at the end of the gallery and looked in, Lord Fox, and there I found, all in my dream, of course, skeletons on hooks, and tubs full of blood, and subtle skulls galore. And the floor, Lord Fox, the floor was strewn with coils of human hair. But, of course, it is not so in your real house, is it?" Lord Fox bit his tobacco pipe in half. "It is not so," he muttered, "nor was it so." "Of course not," said Lady Mary. "Well," she went on, "I did not stay to look long at that room. In my strange dream, that is, Lord Fox. But looking from the window, looking from the little diamond-shaped window, leaning to look across the sill of that little window with the leaded panes in shapes of hearts and diamonds, I saw you, Lord Fox, coming through the snow across the lawns, and you had your collar up, Lord Fox, and your drawn sword in your left hand, naked naked sword, naked naked hand, your naked sword in your naked hand, those nakednesses touching, and with your right hand, also naked, you dragged a poor shrieking girl by the hair." "Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" cried out Ted. "This was the work of the night-mare," I added. "Why, Lord Fox, if any of this dark dream of my sister's were the least bit true, you would be a monster, sir, a devil in disguise." "That's right," said Lady Mary, "but it is not so, is it, Lord Fox?" Lord Fox was sweating now. His eyes went to and fro. His hands shook. He pulled on his gloves. His fingers played with each other, touching through the skin of the gloves. They were fine yellow gloves, made of kidskin.* Lord Fox opened his mouth. "It is not so," he said, his voice like dead leaves rustling together on the ground. "It is not so," he said, "nor it was not so, and God forbid it should be so." My sister ignored him. "I hid myself under the stair," she went on. "You came in, Lord Fox, and you did not see me. You came in and you did not see me there. You dragged that poor girl down the hall. She was kicking and fighting and begging you, Lord Fox, begging you most piteously to let her go. But you had no pity, Lord Fox. You started to drag her up the stair." "Enough!" cried Lord Fox. "It is not so," he cried. "Nor was it so," he cried. "And God forbid it should be so," he added. My sister ignored him. "That poor girl caught hold of the bannister to try to stop you," she went on, "and you struck at her hand, which had a silver bracelet about the wrist, you struck at her hand, Lord Fox, and you cut her hand off, Lord Fox, you cut her hand off. Cut. Cut." "No, no, no," cried Lord Fox, "no, no, no, no, no. It is not so, nor it was not so, and God forbid it should be so!" "Be calm, Lord Fox," said Edward, moving his hand up and down his sword-hilt. "Be calm, be calm, sir, for my sister merely tells her dream." "Her Christmas dream," said I, fingering my own good sword. "No dream," said then the Lady Mary. "No dream at all, Lord Fox," she cried, "for it is so, and it was so, and here the hand I have to show!" And my sister snatched the hand and its silver bracelet from where they lay hidden in her lap, and she threw the bloody bundle in Lord Fox's face. That devil roared with rage. He ran to the door. But we had locked the door. Then Lord Fox was at the window, clawing, clawing, but not before us. For we had known, Edward and I, known from the start, sir, that our sister Mary's dream was not a dream. We met him with our swords, sir, that wicked Lord Fox, and we fell upon him, sir, and we cut him into a hundred little pieces. And we threw the hundred pieces into the sea, where they boiled and hissed and turned the water black as pitch before they sank from sight and were seen no more.'

The stranger stopped treading on the tread-wheel. His eyes were mild as milk as he blinked in the gloom.

'That, sir,' he said, 'is the end.'

A good story,' said Shakespeare. 'I do not know,' he added, 'which half I liked the better.'

The storyteller looked at him, then he stopped looking at him, then he went away. His work on the wheel was not done, but then he went away.

'Come back,' mouthed William Shakespeare, without speaking.

The man did not come back.

Nor did Shakespeare see him again during the remainder of his spell in Warwick Jail.

On the day of his release he asked a jailer what had happened to the fine fellow with the white hair who had worked beside him betimes on the tread-wheel, the man the other prisoners seemed to shun. Had he gone home? Had he escaped? Had he been moved to another prison?

'Not him,' said the jailer. 'That was Jack Naps the murderer.'

'Murder?' said Shakespeare.

'Didn't you hear all about it in Stratford?' the jailer said, mockingly. 'He cut up his sister with a carving knife. She'd been making the beast with two backs with a tinker from Greete moor. Just enjoying a bit of luxury, poor girl. You know how it is, some brothers are that jealous.'

'What happened to him though?' demanded Shakespeare.

'He went for a long walk,' the jailer replied.

Shakespeare asked no more questions. He had been in prison long enough to know what that meant. The walk in question is done with a hank of hempen rope about one's neck. It does not end in sights.

* My poor dead father left me a dictionary bound in the same substance.