The Shakespeare Stealer by Gary Blackwood Page A

burning thatch with more water than the poor players could have carried to it in a week. A cheer went up from the line of water bearers, then from the crowd. I joined in.
    I was so relieved that I scarcely minded the soaking rain. I turned my face up to it and laughed appreciatively. The timing of the deluge had been so perfect, I could almost believe it was some grand theatrical effect produced by the company for our amazement. The whole world practices theatrics, I thought, and laughed again.
    Then, as the crowd dispersed, I caught a glimpse of a sinister figure standing at a distance, looking out over the river as before. Sighing, I moved toward him. I laid one hand on my wallet, to reassure myself that the hard-won script was still safely tucked within. The pouch seemed flat and empty. My heart suddenly felt the same. I halted, yanked up the flap of the wallet, and plunged my hand inside. My fingers closed on the pencil, but the table-book was unquestionably, inexplicably gone.

10
    F or a moment, I stood unmoving and unthinking, feeling as though I’d been struck soundly on the brain-pan. Then my mind began to react. How could the table-book be gone? I clearly remembered putting it in my wallet back on the balcony of the theatre. I turned the wallet upside down and shook it vigorously, as if hoping the book was lodged in some out-of-the-way corner. It was not, of course.
    I glanced fearfully at Falconer. He was still gazing out over the Thames. Cautiously, I backed toward the playhouse. When I had put several groups of lingering theatregoers between him and me, I retraced the course I had taken when I emerged so hastily from the playhouse a short time before. I wiped the rain from my eyes and scanned every inch of the soggy ground. If I didn’t find the table-book soon, it would be a useless mass of pulp.
    But already I was halfway around the building and had seen nothing but orange peels and apple cores, discarded playbills and ballad-sheets. To proceed was to risk encountering the men from whom I’d just escaped. Yet, if it came down to it, I might be better off with them than facing Falconer without the script in my hands. After all, he had killed a man just for calling him a Jew. Though I doubted my fate would be so drastic, the man was unpredictable. Even if all he did was abandon me, that in itself was a frightening prospect. How would I survive in this strange city on my own?
    I went on, keeping my eyes open both for the table-book and for trouble. I came to within a few yards of the rear door and still saw no sign of either. “The devil take me,” I breathed. “It must be inside, then.”
    It took me some time to muster the nerve required to pull the door open an inch or two and peer inside. Just as I stuck my face up to the crack, the door flew open, knocking me on the forehead and sending me flying backward, to land on my huckle bones in the mud.
    Before I could scramble away, a strong hand took my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Well, now,” a hearty voice said. “What have we here?”
    Groaning, I held my hand to my afflicted head and squinted at my captor. It was the second gravedigger, the hefty old man who had blocked my way on the stair. “You’ve brast me costard!” I complained.
    He laughed at my Upland speech. “Brast your costard, have I? Well, it serves you right, for all your mischief. What are you up to, scuttling about behind the stage like a great rat?”
    â€œMe?” I tried to sound as innocent as I might while moaning in pain. “Behind the stage?”
    The old man laughed again. “Ho, quite the actor, aren’t you? Perhaps you belong on the stage and not behind it, eh? Yes, my lad, you’re the only one going about in a pudding-basin hair style and a skirt, I’m afraid.” He referred to my knee-length tunic and the bowl-shaped haircut common among country lads. He gently pulled my hand away from my head.