Death in Vineyard Waters (7 page)

I smiled. “That was quick. What? Where?”

“I know because my son is reading
Henry IV, Part I.
Hotspur says something about Merlin. Let me see if I can find it for you . . .”

I handed her the copy of
Complete Shakespeare
that I'd taken from the shelves, and a moment later there it was: act 3,
scene 1. Hotspur says, “He angers me with telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies . . .”

It seemed likely that Shakespeare knew about more of the Arthurian tales than just the Merlin bit. “Anything else?” I asked.

She pursed her lips and thought. “Well, I'm not sure. There is one play, but . . . The problem is that though some people think it might have been written in part by Shakespeare, most of the authorities pretty much discount it as not really his work. Do you know about that?” She didn't want to suggest that I was guilty of such ignorance.

I, on the other hand, thrive on admitting ignorance. “Tell me,” I said. “ ‘I'm a man who likes talking to a man that likes to talk.' ”

“You do a bad imitation of the fat man,” said the librarian.

“Sorry. Blush.”

“You're forgiven. I don't know much myself about the play, I'm afraid, but I remember reading about it in a Shakespeare course I took at college. I don't think we have a copy of it in the library, but I do believe we have a reference to it somewhere. Let me see if I can find it.”

She went to the files and with faster fingers than mine flipped through the cards. Then she went into the stacks and came back almost immediately with one of the numerous books I had decided not to look at.

“Here you are.” She ran a finger down the table of contents. “Ah. Here it is.
The Birth of Merlin
” She smiled as she gave me the book. Helping me made us both happy. I went back to my table wondering if Shakespeare ever wrote about anybody in Arthur's court
but
Merlin.

The Birth of Merlin
was first published in 1662, long after Shakespeare had crossed the pale, but was apparently written much earlier than it was published. Its title page said that it had been written by William Shakespeare and William
Rowley. I had never heard of William Rowley. The play had been published by a Thomas Johnson, whom I'd never heard of, for two other people I'd also never heard of: Henry Marsh and Francis Kirkman.

Apparently, during the 1600s and 1700s nobody had any particular reason to doubt that Shakespeare had helped write the play. Besides, at that time, most people didn't think that he was anyone special, so it probably wouldn't have occurred to anyone to tack his name on the title page of
Merlin
unless it was believed that he really wrote it. Ergo, it would seem that Thomas Johnson, at least, thought Shakespeare had helped write it.

A hundred years or so later, on the other hand, Shakespeare forgeries were far from unknown. A guy named William Ireland wrote one called
Vortigern
and even managed to get it staged before confessing that it was his work, not Shakespeare's. At a distance of nearly two centuries I admired Ireland's gall. There's something in me that cheers when experts in the arts get conned. I wondered if Marjorie Summerharp would approve of such an attitude and decided that she might.

Most scholars, it seemed, now considered
Merlin
to be of doubtful authenticity. Apocrypha, as it were. On the other hand, other scholars held the opposite view. I wasn't surprised. What else do scholars do but disagree? As with economists, apparently, you could lay all Shakespearean scholars end to end and they could not reach a conclusion.

I didn't blame them for disagreeing. When I examined the evidence about Shakespeare, as an ex-cop I didn't see enough to make a case that would hold up in court one way or another.

I was thinking about that as I was leaving the library and so managed to bump into a woman coming in as I was going out.

“Excuse me,” I said, then saw that the woman was Marie Van Dam.

“Why, Mr. Jackson,” she said in her soft voice. She smiled up at me with her perfect, small white teeth.

She was wearing some sort of silky, flowing dress made of thin pastel-blue layers with some lilac and rose layers showing here and there. Not a sari, but something akin to one. She had on some sort of makeup that reminded me of pictures I had seen of Theda Bara. She was carrying books, the cover of the largest of which had a design that included zodiac signs.

“Mrs. Van Dam. We meet again.”

“Kismet,” she smiled. “Good fortune is mine. I had been thinking of you.” She put her small hand on my brown arm. “I wanted to thank you for what you did at John Skye's party. Dr. Hooperman, I fear, momentarily lost control of himself.”

She held her esses just a flicker longer than her other letters, and it gave her voice a hissing quality that made me think of a snake. A gentle hiss, like that of a small serpent.

“Glad to help,” I said. “Tell me what it was all about. Something had happened before I got there.”

We were in the library doorway, and she glanced inside. Then, her hand still on my arm, she led me out and to one side. Her small voice got even smaller.

“It was nothing, really. Dr. Summerharp, poor thing, made some remark about”—she looked up into my eyes—“religion being a substitute for sex.” She paused. I waited, looking down into those siren eyes and remembering that “vamp” was derived from “vampire.” She gave a small shrug. “That's all. It's too bad the woman is so vindictive. I understand she was a great beauty when she was younger. Now, unfortunately, she is reduced to making spiteful comments about those of us who still have faith and find life beautiful. I feel sorry for her. It's sad to hear people say cruel things.”

“What did she say? She's an elderly woman, but she seems too intelligent to make foolish remarks.”

Again that small, feminine shrug accompanied this time by a slight tightening of her hand on my arm. “Nothing new, I assure you, Mr. Jackson. Are you familiar with the formal religions?”

“Not as familiar as some might wish.”

She smiled a forgiving and understanding smile. “I assure you that I have no intention of converting you, Mr. Jackson. Her remarks had to do with the notion that intense religious experience is a manifestation of sexual frustration. The evidence offered by people who advance that theory consists in part of writings wherein varieties of religious experiences, particularly those which are visionary or ecstatic, are described in what the theoreticians perceive as highly sexual terms. Some of Donne's poetry seems to lend itself to that interpretation, as do the words of certain saints and Catholic nuns. The religious experience is orgasmic, as it were.” She raised a brow. “And if you prefer to pick on Protestants, the theorists will point out that the hymn that begins ‘I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses'—do you know that one?—is actually more of a sentimental love song than anything else.” She cocked her head. “Do you know what I mean? There's much more, but that will give you an idea of what she was talking about. Naturally, she directed her remarks at my husband and me.”

“And you took no offense?”

She gave a small smile. “Of course not. I believe a salesman would say it comes with the territory. Besides, there may be something to the idea. Why should flesh and spirit be separate, after all? D. H. Lawrence thought that the separation of the two was the major malaise of western civilization, you know.” Her fingers played on my arm and then suddenly withdrew, as if she had just become aware of them being there. “Dr. Summerharp is just an old . . . woman without a good word for anyone. She needs love and understanding, not hatred.”

“Dr. Hooperman was not so generous in his feelings.”

“Ah, well, he must be forgiven, too. Momentarily done in by gin, I believe. I recall that my husband invited you to visit us at Sanctuary. I echo that invitation. Please do come up.” Her eyes looked up at me from beneath hooded lids.

“Thank you.” I was suddenly sure that her husband would never leave her no matter how involved she might sometimes be with some other man or woman, I looked at my watch. “I'm afraid I must go and save my car,” I said.

She offered her hand. “A pleasure seeing you again. Do come and visit us.”

I went down the library walk. Glancing back, I saw that she was watching me. We exchanged waves. Three cars behind mine a meter maid was scribbling out a ticket. I just beat her to the Landcruiser, thus thrice escaping the clutches of the law in a single day. Not willing to press my luck, I left town and went home, where I worked at things that I'd been meaning to tend to but hadn't because I'd been occupied with Zee. Now I had the time. Too much of it, really.

That evening, I looked up “moldwarp.” I learned that it was a name for the common European mole. I had now pulled even with Hotspur on one word, at least.

Precisely one week later I read that Marjorie Summerharp was dead.

5

I remembered my last conversation with her.

It had been a beautiful week, with bright sun, soft winds, and a rapidly warming sea. The blue Vineyard waters were alive with fish below and boats above, graceful yachts leaning before the breeze, their sails white and gold or spinnaker bright against the pale blue sky. I had been working harder than normal in pursuit of both blues and shellfish and in getting my garden into shape. This, so I'd have less time to think of Zee and Ian McGregor off together. I'd not phoned Zee, nor had she phoned me, nor did I expect such calls, though more than once I caught myself holding my telephone in my hand; each time, I returned it to its cradle and busied myself at some task.

After first spotting Marjorie Summerharp swimming off the beach, I'd fished Wasque for two days, until the tides changed too late to make that profitable. Around Martha's Vineyard, the tides rise to the east and fall to the west an hour later each day. Generally the best times for fishing the rip are the two hours before and after the change in early morning or evening, so when the tides are wrong at Wasque, I fish other spots until they're right again. On the first morning, as I'd come off the beach shortly after six, I'd seen Marjorie Summerharp's blue Nova parked at the end of the pavement. On the second morning I met her as she was toweling herself off beside the car.

She wore an old black bathing suit that revealed a lean, bony body with ropy muscles under an aged tanned skin. As I pulled alongside and stopped the Landcrusier, she wrapped
herself in a bright robe of many colors and gave a last hard rub to her short gray hair.

“Hello.”

“You smell of fish, young man.”

“I nailed a few at Wasque. You need one?”

“Am I robbing you of income?”

“There are more where these came from. Take your pick.” I climbed out of the driver's seat and opened the back so she could see the fish box.

“A nice haul,” she said approvingly. “We used to catch blues off the Maine coast when I was growing up. I like them filleted, then grilled with mayonnaise and dill.” She grabbed a six-pounder and hoisted it out. “I've got a grocery bag in the back of my car. This fellow will just about fit in it.”

I walked with her to her car and held the paper bag while she slid the fish into it.

“The last time I caught a Vineyard bluefish was way back when,” she said. “Tris Cooper took me out in his boat to Noman's Land and we must have caught fifty of them. You've inspired me. I'll ask him to take me again while I'm down here.”

“It's good fishing there. So you two were fishing buddies in spite of your arguments about this work he's been doing since he left Weststock.”

“He always had a lot of interests. Very bright. Too bright, maybe. Too complicated for most people, anyway. A little off tilt, some would say. But a good fisherman and the best Renaissance man I've ever known. And yes, he used to take me fishing when I came down here years ago.” She ran her hands through her hair and shook it. There was something girlish about the gesture that made me smile.