“I suppose this is the point where I fill in the plot holes,” Cheese sat at the head of the table and rested his hands on his cane. He gestured to the others to resume their seats. Harry was still gaping. Olly touched him under the chin to close his mouth.
“But - but - you’re dead!” Harry kept repeating.
“Then I suppose I had better start with that,” the professor, clearly anything but dead, smiled. His eyes twinkled. “You will have read or at least heard of the Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.”
Brownlow nodded sagely. So did Olly. Harry was too stricken to respond. Caliban was eyeing Dickie’s aquarium with an expression that could have been either thirst or hunger - or both.
“In that inestimable work, Shakespeare makes use of a storytelling device, a magic potion which renders the young Juliet, to all extents and purposes, deceased. It wears off of course and the poor girl is restored to life - too late. I have taken my inspiration from that story in order to remove myself from the main action. I trust, gentleman, that my resurrection is not too late.”
“Magic potion?” frowned Brownlow. “You mean like herbs and shit.”
“Quite.” The professor sent the American a patronising smile.
“Okay, okay,” Harry struggled to keep his thoughts from colliding with each other, “let’s put that to one side for the moment. Are you telling me you faked your own murder? I saw the crime scene. There was blood everywhere. And the police! I was nearly arrested!”
Cheese waited for Harry to finish.
“Theatre, you see, Harry, is not restricted to that building by the river. You were in the profession yourself.” The ‘were’ stung Harry like a serpent’s tooth. “You may have come across a marvellous substance called Kensington Gore.”
“Stage blood,” Olly murmured.
“I know!” Harry snapped. “But the police? Are you telling me they were all actors? I don’t believe it!”
“Their credentials are impeccable, although they were in on it. I believe you’ve met Detective Inspector Fisk several times recently. My son, Montmorency. He took his mother’s last name for professional purposes. Although what’s wrong with Cheese, I’d like to know.” He harrumphed a little. Brownlow tapped the tabletop.
“So, you and little Monty -”
“Montmorency, please,” the professor was against over-familiarity.
“So you and your son cooked up this little scenario between you. But what about the mad bitch who tied me up in the frickin’ boathouse?”
Brownlow and Harry turned to Caliban who was crouching on a chair and humming softly to himself.
“We saw him - her! - transform in to that.” Brownlow waved a finger. “What’s her - his - involvement?”
Professor Cheese smiled fondly at the monkey-fish-man.
“This remarkable creature has unwittingly been my henchman, my assistant. When he was conjured up -not by me, you understand - he lacked corporeal form. Of course, he did. Prior to this, he was no more than an idea, a character in a play. But now, look at him! He’s here! In the flesh! A character from Shakespeare before our very eyes.”
“Er,” Olly raised his hand as though interrupting a lecture, “Professor? I’m understudying Caliban at the moment.”
“Congratulations,” said Cheese.
“What I mean is, this is not Caliban. Not as Shakespeare wrote him.”
The professor nodded. “Of course he isn’t. This is Caliban the tabula rasa version. This is Caliban before Prospero wound up on the island. This is Caliban in the raw, uncorrupted and free.”
They all looked at the creature, appraising him anew. Caliban became aware of their scrutiny. He smiled happily, his gills wiggling like puppies’ tails.
“I don’t get it...” Harry spoke for them all.
Dickie came in with a tray of coffee mugs and a bowl of water for Caliban.
“When he was conjured,” the professor accepted a digestive biscuit and snapped it in two, “he was an idea, an entity in need of a body. And so he went from form to form, doing his master’s bidding. Unfortunately, the occupations led to the death of the host. He’s laid quite a trail up and down the country.”
“His master?” Brownlow again.
“The twat in the hood,” Harry reminded him. “He had a -” he gestured to his neck, “Some kind of pendant?”
The professor nodded. “That would be his scrying crystal. Or a piece of mirror or something. It is through this that he communicated with our hairy, fishy friend here, and was able to control him.”
“Scrying crystal? You keep throwing these words out there, professor.”
Cheese patted the American’s hand.
“A kind of supernatural Facebook, you might say. I’m sure if you conduct one of those googly searches, you will find out more about it.”
“So,” Olly counted on his fingers, “the bloke in the hood conjured up a character, controlled him with a magic necklace and sent him out to kill people and steal their bodies?”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Cheese. “I imagine your next question is ‘but why?’”
“Yes,” said Olly, amazed at the professor’s perspicacity.
“The item you retrieved from the garden; where is it?”
Brownlow removed a parcel from his jacket and placed it on the table. It was the piece of wood, wrapped in his handkerchief.
“This, and three others like it, is the reason behind all of this palaver.”
They all regarded the uninspiring object, more than a little nonplussed.
“I fear its three counterparts have fallen into the enemy’s hands. This single fragment might not be enough to countermand the power the other three will convey.”
“Power?” said Olly.
“Yes,” Brownlow took it upon himself to explain. “What we have here, my friend, is a piece of Burbage’s staff. You know Richard Burbage, right? The actor?”
“Oh, yes! Love his work,” Olly nodded quickly.
“He’s dead, Olly,” Harry nudged him.
“Not poor Burby!” Olly was griefstricken.
“For about four centuries,” Brownlow resumed. “This staff was used in the first production of The Tempest. It is believed that Shakespeare himself was the model for the wizard Prospero, and this was his staff. But it was broken into four pieces. Someone is going around putting the pieces together and accessing occult forces.”
“The man in the hood...” Olly said.
“Your boss, Jeremy,” said Harry.
“Or, to give him his full name,” Cheese interjected, “Jeremy de Vere!”
This declaration failed to have the impact the professor hoped. He rolled his eyes.
“You know! As in ‘Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford’?”
Their faces remained blank. Brownlow attempted to blag it. “You mean... the same Earl of Oxford of whom it is believed... he wrote the works of Shakespeare?”
Cheese lowered in contempt. “Believed by twats and jackanapes,” he scowled.
“So...” Olly chose his words carefully, “Jeremy is related to Earl....”
“Not just Earl. The Earl. Dead also, before you say anything else.” The professor gestured to the American to continue but Brownlow held up his hands in surrender.
“It was while researching spurious evidence to back up the family claim to authorship of the plays that Jeremy stumbled across the legend of the staff. Suddenly, he became distracted from the quest to prove once and for all that Oxford wrote Shakespeare, and became consumed by a lust for power. As we have seen, he is not shy of inciting his minions to commit murder in order to achieve his ends. We must not apportion blame to this poor creature here, no more than we would blame someone who impersonates a chicken at the behest of a hypnotist.”
“So...” Olly was still trying to keep things clear, “Jeremy’s a wizard now?”
“Something along those lines, yes,” said Cheese. “And it behoves us to put a stop to him.”
“Why?” This was Harry.
“Why what? Why put a stop to him?”
“Why is he doing this?”
“Who can say?” the professor said with an enigmatic expression.
“I was hoping you could,” said Harry. “Honestly, prof, I’m a bit narked with you. Why did you put me through that? The whole murder scene, I mean.”
Cheese’s face darkened. He tapped his cane on the floor.
“I had to impress on you the vital importance of what is going on. I cannot tackle de Vere alone. So, when I saw you had become friends with that airy spirit, I decided to recruit you.”
“You could have just asked!” Harry sat back, cross.
“Airy spirit?” Brownlow prompted.
“It appears that Furry Fishface was not the only character conjured out of thin air,” Cheese waved at the air as if Ariel was present.
Brownlow glanced around. “In the chapel... This de Vere guy is controlling him now, right? Having discarded Fishy Furface for an upgrade?”
Caliban slapped the table. “Caliban!” he declared. He beat his chest. “Caliban!”
“Quite so!” said Cheese. “I apologise, my dear fellow.”
“Yeah, sorry,” muttered Brownlow.
“So de Vere has got three pieces of the staff and Ariel. I think that means we’re all fucked,” said Harry, glumly. Olly patted his arm.
“But we have this!” Cheese gestured to the piece of wood. “I buried it so that in the event that you failed to decipher my elementary clue, it would be safe from de Vere, for the time being at least. But now here we all are, and here is the piece, and what, gentlemen, are we to do about it?”
They sat in sober silence.
“Here,” said Dickie. They’d forgotten he was in the corner, taking it all in. “He won’t be coming here, will he? The Amazing Jeremy and his lovely assistant? I don’t want no trouble.”
Cheese winced at the double negative.
“I don’t believe Ariel will do anything to injure us, while friend Harry is present. Harry, I think you should keep the staff about your person. Ariel likes you. He won’t hurt you.”
He nodded to the tabletop. Harry pulled the handkerchief towards him and wrapped it around the piece of wood. Still frowning, he held the parcel on his lap.
“This might just be me being a bit thick,” Dickie piped up again, “But I’m a bit bamboozled by all of this. I mean, you’ve got fictitious characters running around, you’ve got a theatre director with three bits of a magic wand, you’ve got dead bodies galore, the police colluding with a faked death, and God-knows-what-else going on.”
“That’s right,” said Brownlow. “Your point?”
Dickie pouted. “More coffee?”
He bustled out to the kitchen.
“Dickie’s right,” said Olly. “How can there be fictional characters in the real world? How does that work?”
“Ah,” said Cheese as if that was explanation enough.
“Well?” said Olly. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
“My theory,” said Cheese, “and it is only a theory, is that beings like Ariel and Caliban were once commonplace. You’ve heard tell of the faerie folk, I am sure, in your cribs and nurseries. I think that Shakespeare somehow encapsulated the essence of two such beings in the text of his play. That is how they have survived through the centuries. De Vere footling around with the staff and his scrying necklace has somehow released them from the pages and back into our realm, our physical plane. Are you still with me?”
“Um, yes,” said Olly, although he was glazing over a little.
“De Vere was able to make use of Caliban’s essence to do all his dirty work. My contention is he was unaware of the emergence of Ariel until much later on. Naturally - or should I say, supernaturally? - the spirit’s talents and abilities are more suited to de Vere’s purposes - whatever those purposes may be.”
The group assimilated this latest idea.
“So... free from Jeremy’s influence, Caliban has become real?”
“Caliban!” said Caliban, striking the placemat before him.
“That would appear to be the case,” said the professor. “And very welcome he is too.”
“Are you saying, Professor, that Shakespeare was in fact a magician? A real-life wizard? And it turns out I’ve not just been blowing smoke?”
“I admit the evidence is tending towards support of your hypothesis, Mr Brownlow.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Hoo-ee!” Brownlow ran his hands down his face in delight and relief. “I actually got one right! After all this time, to finally have a show based on truth and not bullshit.”
Cheese chose to overlook the American’s split infinitive. “Hang your infernal television programme! De Vere has to be stopped - that is our one and only priority.”
“Well, sure, yes, of course,” Brownlow agreed. “The show can come later, when all this is over.”
“If we survive,” said Cheese grimly. “If any of us survive.”
“What is he planning, Prof?” asked Harry, one hand on the handkerchief on his lap. “De Vere?”
“Who can say?” Cheese shrugged. “Who knows what a man like that will do with access to untold power? Perhaps he will conjure more characters and build an army of fantastical creatures? Perhaps he seeks to populate the world with faerie folk. Perhaps he wishes to establish a new rule of law with him as the Emperor of the World. I haven’t given it much thought.”
“Well, let us know if anything occurs to you,” muttered Brownlow.
“Coo-ee,” said Dickie, coming back in. “I’ve got the breakfast on. Here’s some fresh coffee. Your faces, gentlemen! You’ve talked the whole night through. Good morning! Good morning to you!”
***
Jeremy de Vere awoke feeling refreshed and raring to go. He had slept with the three-quarter length staff beside him like a skinny bedfellow and he caressed it lovingly before getting up to shower. He toyed with the idea of leaving the air spirit Ariel in the pine chest. He was sure he could handle the day’s events alone - with the staff, of course. Three parts are not as good as four, he was aware, but if the American had somehow gained access to the remaining piece, there was no way one piece could counteract three.
He shaved and showered - a wave of the staff could have completed these tasks for him in the blink of an eye but he preferred to conserve its energy for what was to come.
He gave the chest at the foot of his bed a kick, still in two minds about releasing the spirit. If Ariel was left to stew in there for a while longer, he would be more compliant with his new master’s wishes. He would value the outside world a good deal more after a prolonged period of confinement.
Jeremy groaned and unlocked the chest. He opened the lid and peered inside. It appeared to be empty but then the air in the box shimmered and Ariel coalesced. The spirit stood naked before him, stretching his arms and back.
“Morning,” said Jeremy. “I trust you slept well.”
“I do not sleep,” said Ariel.
“Whatever,” said Jeremy. “You are to do my bidding without question.”
“And then you will set me free?”
“Yes - but I said without question!”
“What am I to do, Master?”
“Do you even know what ‘without question’ means?”
Jeremy swore and went downstairs to nuke some porridge. He would need to keep his strength up for the day’s proceedings. Ariel hovered in the kitchen. The scrying crystal around Jeremy’s neck meant the spirit could not venture far from his master’s presence, unless his master expressly commanded it.
He watched his master slurp his way through a bowl of unappetising slop. Ariel considered making him drop his spoon and splash his necktie but even the thought of it squeezed his head.
That bloody crystal, Ariel understood. I can’t even think about hurting my master.
“And now...” Jeremy rinsed the bowl under a tap - hardened porridge can be a bugger to shift if you let it dry on - “to the theatre!”
“Are we going to see a show, Master?”
Instead of remonstrating with him about the ‘without question’ rule, Jeremy laughed. “No, my aerated friend. We are to be the show!”
He retrieved his car keys from a little basket on the worktop and went out to start the 2CV.
Ariel floated behind. He dissolved through the roof of the car and nestled into the passenger seat.
He had a very strong intuition that the day was not going to be a good one.