ANNOUNCEMENT: Results of the 20-20 Club's Autumn Short Story Competition 2024

The judges have made their decisions about the 20-20 Club's 2024 Autumn Short Story Competition. This year, the theme of the competition was 'Shakespeare', and we had entries based on specific plays by the Bard Of Avon, tales based on Shakespeare's life, and contemporary tales about stolen folios or supernatural goings-on. Stories had a word-limit of 3000 words.

COMPETITION RESULTS:

First Prize [£30] - 'What Silent Love Hath Writ' by Ruth Loten

Second Prize [£20] - 'Unnatural Deeds' by Sue Davnall

Third Prize [£10] - 'Anne' by Jane Langan

Highly Commended:

'A Brush With The Bard' by Ron Hardwick

'Titania's Turmoils' by D.H.L.Hewa

'The Job' by Lin De Laszlo

'The Days Before Christmas' by Glen Lee

Below is a short selection of stories that made it onto the shortlist of seven and who have given their permission to be posted here:

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What Silent Love Hath Writ

by Ruth Loten

Susanna shoved her hands into the pockets of her apron to conceal their trembling. She would not have him believe her nervous, for she was not. She was angry. Furious, in fact.

‘He said what?’

‘That you had been untrue.’

‘And you believed him?’

John wouldn’t meet her eyes, his gaze sliding to where their daughter, Elizabeth sat, playing with a doll.

‘She is your daughter,’ Susanna hissed, correctly interpreting the look. ‘I suppose he also suggested loose morals run in my family, given the timing of my birth.’

John studied his feet. Susanna thought he looked ashamed and decided to press home her advantage.

‘Have we not been happy, husband?’ She stretched out a hand and laid it gently on his arm. ‘What need would I have of other companions?’

‘I am sorry,’ John muttered. ‘I did not want to believe him. I did not want to hear his false words.’

‘Then you do know they are false?’ Susanna prompted. She wanted to make him say it.

He nodded his head, still looking down at his feet. Definitely shamefaced, Susanna thought, just as he should be. She could never express the notion aloud, never give it air, but, she pondered, perhaps he should be less quick to judge her by his own standards. She had long known he kept a woman in the country, but as it kept him clean and therefore her safe, she did not trouble herself over the knowledge. It was the hypocrisy which annoyed her. She knew herself to be innocent of the charges, but why should she be held to different standards? He had made the same wedding vows she had. Why was she alone expected to uphold them?

‘I know you love me,’ John said quietly. ‘Though I do not always understand why.’

And there it was. For the truth was, she did love him. He was older than her by several years and the hours he kept were not the kind which promoted youthful looks, but he was a gentle man. For all his experience – she had known he was a man of the world when they wed – there was a vulnerability to him and it was this which had first attracted her. Over the years she had learnt that though it was not artifice – he was as unassuming as he appeared – it was something he used to his advantage when the occasion arose. This was her cue to coddle and cajole, to prove her love. She pressed herself against him, feeling him grow hard against her hand, as she slipped her tongue between his lips and kissed him. He groaned and rubbed himself against her. This, after all, was what he had wanted. A demonstration of her devotion.

Conscious of the child in the corner, she led him up the stairs and into her bedroom. Lifting her skirts, she allowed him to thrust into her, receiving all his feelings of inadequacy and shame. It was the same whenever he had been with her. He came home to prove his devotion to his wife and rid himself of the guilt he felt. Susanna had no strong feelings either way. Sex with him did not repulse her, but nor did it excite her. The love she bore her husband was a tender one, his constant need to be soothed and reassured made him childlike in her eyes and she could feel no passion for a child.

Her gaze fell on the Bible on her nightstand and she closed her eyes and her heart against it. Matthew proclaimed that anyone who looked at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery in their heart. She had never liked Matthew, although it pleased her that he made no reference to looking lustfully at a man. Perhaps he didn’t believe women were capable of lust. She bit her lip. She would soon have set him straight on that score.

An image floated into her head and she moaned. John thrust harder, delighted at the sound. Susanna pondered pushing the image away, then decided it did no harm. Bugger Matthew and his pontificating. She allowed the image to remain, implanting it onto the grunting figure above her.

Tall and slimly built, Rafe Smith owned the haberdashery where Susanna bought the fabric for her clothes. Golden hair with a tint of strawberry running through it topped the handsome face, which always rewarded her custom with a smile. She had first seen him in church and in the midst of prayer, had thought him an angel. When they had chance to speak, he was no angel, but a flesh and blood man, whose vast knowledge far surpassed his role in life. Like Susanna, he had lacked opportunity not intelligence. Unlike her, it had not made him bitter and he was content to run his business. Susanna had married John Hall partly because he encouraged her to think. He had seen and embraced the qualities other men had run from. Men like John Lane. He had wanted her, but was frightened by her ready wit, for he had not the intellectual capacity to match her.

Susanna had never entertained the thought of an affair and Rafe had never given her any indication his mind ran that way. They were friends, united by their faith and he and his wife had enjoyed many discussions with Susanna’s husband as well. Susanna was well aware she was as guilty of hypocrisy as her husband was. She knew her faith taught that sex was to be enjoyed in marriage, that a man should bring pleasure to his wife, but there was no mention of fantasising about a handsome neighbour while your husband laboured away. She consoled herself with the thought that John could not see inside her head and she could never have brought herself to be truly unfaithful. It did John good to think he was the one to extract the exultant ‘yes’ from her lips. She wondered if his mistress ever did the same. Was she picturing another man as well? Poor John.

He was flagging now, moving slower and Susanna knew he needed subtle help.

‘You know why he did it, don’t you,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘John Lane. He tried to put his hand up my skirt and when I wouldn’t let him, he said he’d have his revenge. He wanted me and I turned him down. For you.’

With a roar, John returned to his endeavours with new vigour. Susanna turned her face away to hide her smile. That should do it.

 

Later, after dinner, Susanna’s needle flew in and out of her sewing as they sat by the fire.

‘I meant what I said, you know. John Lane’s a nasty sod and I’m sure he’ll be spreading his vile lies all over Stratford if we don’t stop him. It’s not just that either, he’s trying to deflect attention away from himself.’

‘What do you mean?’ John looked up from his book.

Susanna licked her cotton and rethreaded the needle. ‘He was with that lot throwing rocks at the church. They’re a wild bunch and they don’t like the reverend teaching about the need to temper ourselves. It won’t be the first time he’s said it neither, not if he’s told you. He’ll have wanted to make sure there were others to hear it as well. It becomes the truth if enough people say it. Well, I’m not risking a nunnery, or worse, on his say so.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Susanna tilted her head defiantly. ‘I’m going to sue him. My father might think it entertaining on the stage, but I do not find it so in real life. We have a good name and I will do what it takes to protect it. I am no Hero, content to die to slander. We will fight this.’

John nodded, his expression half-hidden in shadow, but Susanna knew him well. She was magnificent in his eyes and he would be home at night for the forseeable future.

It was as well he was, for Susanna’s fears were soon proved correct. Lane’s story rippled through every street in town. Women Susanna had known all her life, crossed the road to avoid greeting her. Heads were pointedly turned away from her when she entered a shop and credit was only available in a handful. Eliza Smith made a point of strolling arm in arm with her on market day.

‘We will show them, Susanna,’ she reassured the older woman. ‘Surely they must see there is no animosity betwixt us.’

But Susanna was more experienced in the ways of the gossips and she forbade Eliza from another such show of support, when she overheard the whispered suggestion there was something unnatural about their own relationship and perhaps Eliza had welcomed the addition of a third party into her marital bed. Instead, John escorted her everywhere and delighted in his overt show of loyalty.

Things came to a head when the whispers of disease came to Susanna’s ears. There was an ugly scene in the marketplace, when one woman too many muttered under her breath as Susanna passed. She whipped back mid-step and whirled the woman round to face her.

‘How dare you,’ Susanna hissed. ‘You of all people. At the time I was supposedly pox-ridden and diseased, you know what ailed me, for I called you in to help.’

The unfortunate woman flushed deeply.

‘You knew which herbs to give to ease my pain. You reassured me there would be other children and though you have been proved wrong thus far, I bear you no ill will for that miscalculation. You examined me and you know there was no sign of disease, simply the loss no woman truly recovers from.’

The midwife scuttled away, but Susanna was gratified to see a few sympathetic nods from the crowd who had gathered around them. From then on, she no longer shrank away from the condemnation, she met it head on. If she had to fight to clear her name, she was going to do it on her own terms.

 

‘How went the first day in court?’ Rafe greeted Susanna as she entered the shop.

‘He did not turn up,’ she said, with a shrug.

‘Then it is over?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘I am pleased. It has been a difficult time for all of us.’

Susanna nodded and turned away to run her fingers over a bolt of fabric. ‘This is exquisite.’ She held it up against her and turned back to see him watching her. ‘See how it shimmers as it moves.’

Rafe nodded but did not speak. Susanna held his gaze. She wanted to remember the exact light in his eyes, the quirk of his eyebrow and the parted lips. She knew she should turn away but could not tear herself away from the look which held her trapped. There was a noise from the storeroom at the rear of the shop and the spell was broken.

‘I’ll take it,’ she decided, beginning to lift the heavy bolt from its stand.

In an instant Rafe was at her side, reaching for it. ‘Here, let me, it’s too heavy.’ His hands were thrust underneath it, long fingers closing over hers.

For a moment, Susanna stood motionless, holding her breath. Their eyes met again. Her lips parted and at the whispered breath that escaped them, Rafe leaned a fraction closer to her.

Susanna stepped back, dropping her hands to her side. ‘Thank you,’ she stammered and followed him to the counter, where he cut the cloth and parcelled it up for her.

As he passed it over, their fingers brushed again and she looked shyly up at him. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated. ‘For everything.’

Then, she turned and left the shop. A solitary tear caught in the wind and flew away, dissolving into nothingness.

 

The End

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The Days Before Christmas

by Glen Lee

 

 

The new girl in the office asked, ‘What’s this Malcolm Violet like?’

‘How long have you got?’ Marie said.

The office door opened. Not with a bang, but in a very determined fashion.

‘We don’t pay you to sit around talking.’

Mr Violet dropped a fat file of papers on a desk. Without even looking at Marie, he addressed the new girl.

‘You. I’ve already spoken to you once this week about that short skirt. This is a respectable establishment, not a low-class bawdy-house. Tomorrow you will wear something at least twelve inches longer or go to HR to have the office dress code explained to you. I will be watching you.’

‘But …’

Mr Violet turned from her and exited the office, leaving the door open in a very determined fashion.

‘Does that answer your question?’ Marie said to the trembling teenager when the sound of

Mr Violet’s firm footsteps had disappeared round a corner.

 

The Company Manager, Mr Violet, never used the lift, preferring to move around silently, to appear amongst his employees, for so he already considered them, and put things right. There were always things to put right. He owed it to the owner of the business to make sure it ran like a well-oiled machine. He knew Octavia Caesar-Smith appreciated him by the way she always smiled her thanks when he did some little task for her or solved some unsolvable problem. He often thought what a great team they would make if they were … he dared not let his imagination go much further, but in time, he knew he would win her love.

Stepping into reception, he took one look at the Christmas tree onto which a youngish man was fixing a bauble matching those already hanging on its boughs. Another man, in his forties, was holding a bright shiny ball, ready to hand to him.

Striding across the floor, he said in a raised voice, for Mr Violet never shouted, ‘Where is the usual tree?’

‘Oh,’ the young man said. ‘It was too old. We found this one in the accounts office. They said we could swop. That they’d swathe the old tree in tinsel to hide the patches where it’s lost its needles. It wouldn’t have looked right in reception.’

‘And you received permission for this exchange?’ Mr Violet asked. His voice steady, despite his growing anger.

‘Well, no.’

‘And those ornaments you are handling. Where did they come from? Accounts?’

 ‘Well, yes. We just thought it was time to brighten things up a bit.’

‘Brighten things up a bit? Who gave you leave to ‘brighten things up a bit.”’

‘Well, no one.’

‘That’s right. We have procedures that must be followed. The staff cannot go round making executive decisions. The tree we always have here in reception will be returned and those baubles will be destroyed. We will not have such common dross on the premises. There are rules, and you,’ he said, speaking to the older man, ‘have been working here long enough to know better.’

With that, Mr Violet returned to the stairs and went quietly about his business.

 

Felix stared at his back as he went. ‘Is he for real?’ He bent one of the branches. It looked as though the tree was giving his boss the finger.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Toby agreed and put the bauble back in the decorations’ box. ‘Watch your step or he’ll throw the book at you. You’ll be force fed it, page by page and you’ll be passing terms and conditions for a week.’

As they packed away the decorations, Toby said, ‘It really is time he was taken down a peg or two.’

‘How can we do that?’

‘I don’t know but I’m sure my clever niece, Marie, can come up with something. She’s no fan of his. She needs two cups of coffee to get her going in the morning, but he forbade the employees to drink stimulants on the premises. No tea. No coffee. And he goes mad if he sees an empty can of Coke in a bin. It’s a sackable offence.’

 

Every company has an office that remains empty, that no one wants to use because it’s small, dark, cramped, looks out upon a rain-stained brick wall and feels musty. And it was where the conspirators had arranged to meet later in the morning of the 23rd of December, the day before the office Christmas Party. Marie was the last to arrive. She looked both ways down the corridor, knocked once on the door and when it was half open, she slipped inside.

‘Have you come up with an idea as to how we can take prison officer Violet down a peg or two.’ Toby asked his niece as Felix closed the door.

‘Oh, yes,’ Marie grinned, taking a small notebook from a pocket. ‘I, er, borrowed this from Octavia. It’s full of notes, in her handwriting. Our writing is very similar, and I spent much of last night practising. So here’s what I’ve come up with. A letter to dear Malcolm from Octavia, which I will make sure he finds.

She handed the sheet of paper to Toby. ‘It certainly looks like Octavia’s handwriting,’ he said. ‘Listen to this, Felix.’

Dearest, M.V.,

I cannot be seen to be talking to you in the work environment as earnestly as I would wish, hence this letter. Beloved, you are so sweet, so precious, but so stern. Please smile more in my presence. Your smile, so rare as it is, warms my heart and lifts my days. Your smile becomes you but is too often disguised by your sternness. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and you can loosen those stays that bind your natural amiability for that while at least.

And to celebrate the season, please, do wear seasonable clothing. May you wear a Christmas jumper? It would so delight me to see your strong, male torso wrapped in something warm and fluffy, with maybe Rudolph’s face and red nose on the front? I yearn to see a break in your strict and dour demeanour, if only for one day.

You know who I am, the one who adores you, and would be yours,

O. C-S.

‘Do you think this will work? Will Olivia think him mad?’ Felix wondered.

‘Oh, yes,’ Toby said. ‘Like alcohol with a politician, it will make a fool of him. His reputation will forever be destroyed.’

‘I worry it might upset Olivia. She’s so sad these days,’ Felix said.

‘I’ve noticed she’s unhappy,’ ‘Marie agreed. ‘Something to do with a man, I believe. Maybe this will cheer her up.’

 

After the lunch hour, as was his custom, Mr Violet met Octavia on her arrival at the workplace to accompany her to her office on the top floor. Two of her aides walked in with her and they headed towards the lifts. Mr Violet hovered in the rear of the group.

Marie made sure that she was walking through reception at the same time. Felix and Toby, like sheepdogs, cut Mr Violet from the pack, waylaying him.

‘We’ve done like you said and brought the old tree back.’ Felix took his manager’s attention, breaking his stride.

‘Can’t we have just one bauble on the tree? Just one? It looks so bare,’ Toby joined the conversation.

 

The lift doors closed behind Octavia and her aides.

 

Mr Violet turned to reply to Toby, giving Marie time to cross in front of the lift doors and drop the letter.

‘No baubles,’ he barked. Turning away and picking up his stride again, he crossed to the lifts and stabbed the up button.

Look down, Marie pleaded silently. See the letter.

 

Mr Violet looked down. Saw the letter. Stooped. Picked it up, just as the lift doors opened. He hastened into the lift, letter in hand.

 

It was 7 o’clock on the morning of Christmas Eve when Toby and Felix let themselves into the office.

Felix yawned. ‘Now I know why I don’t start work till nine.’ His second yawn was longer and louder than his first.

‘I hope you don’t fall asleep,’ Toby said. ‘You might miss all the fun.’

‘Do you really think he’ll be taken in by the letter?’

‘Man’s a fool. I know he will. Now let’s hide behind the reception counter. He could come any minute.’

 

Ten minutes later, Mr Violet came into work. He crossed reception to the lifts and before pressing the button, studied himself in a mirrored door, practicing a smile.

It was a wonder that Toby and Felix didn’t give themselves away as they peeped around the counter, so odd a grimace did they see in the reflection. Mr Violet must have been satisfied. He tapped the lift button and waited. Felix pressed a fist against his mouth to prevent outright laughter. Toby doubled over, trying to stop a guffaw from escaping.

The lift counted down. 4 - 3 - 2 - 1. Mr Violet smiled again.  ‘Yes. I will smile. I will do everything that she wishes so that she will love me,’ he said to his reflection.

The lift doors opened. He stepped in. The doors closed and Toby exploded, unable to keep his merriment in any longer.

‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what he said?’ But Felix couldn’t respond, unable to catch a breath for his laughter.

Octavia was not due to make an appearance until the party started at 7pm but popped in and out a couple of times during the day, checking up on the arrangements, bringing and arranging flowers and small, Christmassy table decorations. She couldn’t help but note her manager was wearing a Christmas jumper with a red-nosed reindeer on the front.

 

‘It’s so out of character,’ she said to Marie. ‘And that silly grimace on his face. Is he trying to smile? It’s quite asinine. Do you think he’s ill?’

Marie could only shake her head and hide her own smile.

‘I am becoming quite concerned,’ Olivia said. ‘Maybe I should send him home for a rest.’

The party was in full swing. Beer flowed as fast as it always does when it’s free. Wine, too. One couple tried the door of the broom cupboard, but it had been locked by a spoil-sport janitor. 

Mr Violet strode around, grimacing and gurning at Olivia as he had been doing all day. After two hours of this, she’d finally had enough. ‘Get him out of here,’ she whispered to Felix, who’d stayed by her side to watch the antics of the manager, whose jumper must have been a cheap one as it was shedding red and green bits of wool over the clothing of anyone who brushed past him as they moved through the crush in the boardroom.

‘Get rid of him,’ she said, ‘before I commit murder,’ and she escaped to the ladies.

The queue was too long though and she soon gave up and returned to find Felix and two bulky security guards trying to restrain Mr. Violet, whose long limbs were thrashing around, refusing to be restrained.

‘Dearest,’ he shouted at Olivia, who couldn’t disguise the look of distaste that flickered across her face. ‘Please tell these oafs to let me go. I must talk with you.’

‘I don’t want to talk with you,’ she said.

‘But that’s not what you said in your letter.’

‘What letter? I sent you no letter.’

One of his arms was still free and he pulled the sheet of paper from under his jumper.

‘Here. Here it is. I’ve kept it close to my heart.’

A beefy guard snatched the letter as though it were a deadly weapon. Olivia held out her hand and ha gave it to her. She read the letter. She shuddered. ‘This is awful. Scurrilous trash. What were you thinking? That I could admire you? That I could want you? I don’t even like you. I only put up with you because Daddy asked me to look out for you when he was dying. Your being here was not my choice.’

She read the letter again. ‘How could anyone be so wicked as to write such horrible things?’ She inspected the paper more closely, then waved it in Malvolio’s face. ‘I didn’t write this. It’s not my writing. How dare you believe I’d even think such things.’

She looked at Marie. ‘But I know who did write it. I recognise the hand, the ‘f’s and the ‘s’s. It was you, wasn’t it. How could you?’

Marie didn’t meet her eyes, so Olivia knew the truth.

‘Malcolm, in falling for this silly joke, you have shown just how arrogant you are, desiring to a greatness which you do not deserve and believing you could be raised above your station. You are obviously mad. You may leave the party. I do not wish to cast sight of you ever again. You disgust me.’

The guards led a raving Mr Violet away, followed by Toby, Marie and Felix. 

‘What shall we do with him?’ one guard asked.

‘Take him to that small office at the back until he calms down. We’ll take care of him’. Marie said.

‘You mean the office no one uses? That looks out over a brick wall?’

‘Yes,’ Toby confirmed.

 

Mr Violet showed no signs of calming down and was dumped into the office. The guards left, picking bits of red and green wool from their serge uniforms. Felix locked the door.

‘An hour or two on his own, powerless, his fate in the hands of others. It will teach him a lesson,’ he said. ‘Come on, you two. There’s beer in your office, Toby. I stashed it there earlier, for when the party became tedious.’

Toby laughed. ‘This is the least tedious party I’ve ever been to. They’ll be talking about it forever. Beer will go down a treat but there’s just one thing we need to do first.’

Felix and Marie followed him down to reception where Toby dragged out a box of baubles and began to hang them on the tree. Rather haphazardly as he’d had a couple or so beers already.

As had Felix and Marie, so they didn’t care that the tree now stood with a drunken tilt.

‘There, that’s better. Now for the beer,’ Toby said.

A couple of hours later, they heard people leaving the party and decided it was time for them to go home too. Just as she was struggling into her coat, Marie remembered something.

‘Dearest Malcolm! I’d forgotten all about him. He’s still locked in. We’d best let him out.’

Chuckling and slapping each other on the back they made their way to the rear of the building.

Malcolm, for they would never again need to call him Mister Violet, was sitting on the floor near the door. He staggered to his feet. Ranting, raving, swearing, waving his arms.

Shoving them aside, he ran past to freedom. As he stumbled down the corridor they heard, ‘You foul, ungodly creatures. I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you.’

 

THE END

 

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A Brush With The Bard

by Ron Hardwick

 

‘Paul Cox’s Private Detective Agency here, Paul Cox speaking. How can I be of assistance?’

‘Good day, Paul. I’m in real bother. it’s missing. It’s gone.’

Paul recognised the Australian twang of his good friend, the antique bookseller, Bruce Emory.

‘Calm yourself, my friend. What is missing?’

‘A book. First edition. Priceless.’

‘I think it better if I pop round to see you to discuss the matter. I shall be with you in ten minutes.’

Paul replaced the receiver. He had never known his antipodean friend to be in such a state.

His mobile phone rang as he turned the corner into Leather Lane. It was Ray Cross, his great friend and colleague.

‘Raymond, how are you?’

‘I’m fine, Paul.  I’m on a day off and wondered if you fancied a coffee and Danish at one of your favourite haunts.’

‘I am afraid not. I have just received a telephone call from our friend Bruce Emory to say one of his rarest books is missing.’

‘Are you on your way there now?’

‘I’m a few hundred yards away from his shop.’

‘I’ll join you. I’m in Bow, with the wife, shopping - one of the reasons I fancied a coffee with you. I’ll be there a few minutes.’

 

The pair entered Bruce Emory’s emporium. His little shop was lined with shelves of classics, full of musty pages and leather bindings, each one a universe unto itself.

‘Paul and Ray,’ the bookseller said, ‘thanks for coming round.’

‘Think nothing of it, my friend,’ said Paul, ‘kindly provide my associate and I with full details of your loss.’

Bruce indicated two deal chairs in front of the counter and the pair seated themselves.

‘It’s a first folio of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets, my most prized possession. It’s a treasure-trove of the bard’s works. It was there yesterday morning when I checked the shelves, but now it’s gone.’

‘You are of the opinion it has been stolen?’ asked the detective.

‘Yes.’

‘Think carefully. Was there any time between yesterday morning and today that you absented yourself from the shop, perhaps to the back room where you prepare your elevenses?’

‘Yesterday afternoon, around three o’ clock, a man came into the shop. He said he felt faint and could I fetch him a glass of water? I went out the back. I was only away forty seconds or so. He drank the water, thanked me, and went. It must have been then.’

‘Leary-looking cove, was he?’ asked Ray, ‘tattooed face, broken nose, low forehead, look of a criminal, that sort of thing?’

‘No. He was quite the gentleman.’

‘Can you describe him?’ asked Paul.

‘About sixty, I should say - tall, pencil-thin, white goatee beard and a turkey neck. He wore a black, broad-brimmed fedora.’

‘Not much to go on,’ said Ray. ‘Anything else?’

‘One thing struck me as peculiar,’ said Bruce.

‘What was that?’ asked Ray.

‘It was a warm afternoon, yet this man wore an enormous black greatcoat.’

‘Easy enough, then, for him to conceal the book,’ said Paul. ‘One thing puzzles me. How did he know precisely where it was?’

‘The buff-coloured leather binding has five horizontal stiffeners down its spine and the lettering in gilt reads ‘Shakespeare’s First Folio.’ He must have been able to read the lettering.’

‘Where was the man standing?’ asked Paul. The bookseller moved nearer the door.

‘About here.’

‘He must have been a fellow with exceptional eyesight,’ said Paul. ‘Come here, Ray, as your eyes are better than mine, and read me the title on the spine of the fourth book from the left on the middle shelf.’

Ray did as he was bid.

‘Bosworth’s Life of …Jackson, I think it is.’

‘Almost, Ray, but not quite. It’s Boswell’s Life of Johnson. You can see how keen-eyed our thief is.’

‘Can you help me get it back?’ asked Bruce.

‘It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ said Ray.

‘Do not despair,’ said the detective, ‘we have some clues. We now need to give the matter some thought. Come, Raymond, we will adjourn to the Alchemy café and discuss this further. Good Morning, Bruce, and have no fear. We will find a way.’

 

The Alchemy café, with its long, narrow interior and walls of white glazed brick, might easily have been mistaken for a public urinal, but it was only yards from Paul’s office on New Street and, in his opinion, it served the best latté in east London.

‘Two lattés, please, Maria,’ said the detective, as they approached the counter.

The girl brought them to their table near the window.

‘Now, Raymond, let us go over what we have learned from Bruce thus far.’

‘Next to bugger-all,’ remarked Ray, drily.

‘Not exactly. We know our thief is elderly, slim and dresses well. He has exceptionally good eyesight and a keen mind, because he reacted instantly when he saw the folio. We can assume, therefore, he is educated and likely to be middle-class. Bruce Emory says he did not arrive in a motor vehicle. It’s probable then that he lives in the vicinity. He steals a rare book. Surely that cannot be because he wants to sell it, for who would want to buy it? Book collectors might baulk at something as rare as this, because, once the Police are on the trail, and the buyer is discovered, he or she faces ten years in prison.’

‘Why doesn’t Bruce let the Police handle it?’

‘There is no evidence, Raymond. We only have Bruce’s word that the book was stolen and that he thinks the man in the fedora took it. The Police  require more proof than that.’

‘So, if he doesn’t want to sell it, what on earth does he need it for?’

‘Because he loves Shakespeare. He eats, sleeps and dreams Shakespeare. None of this is premeditated. I believe he does feel faint, does enter the shop and genuinely wants a glass of water. However, when he sees the book, he cannot resist taking it. It is manna from heaven to him. This man is no common thief, Raymond, in fact, I suggest he has never before committed a misdemeanour.’

‘Could he be a professor or some such?’ asked Ray.

‘An academic? Possibly. Or a writer, a poet, a playwright, perhaps.’

‘A poet?’

‘Certainly. Shakespeare wrote sonnets as well as plays.’

‘What’s a sonnet?’

‘A poem of fourteen lines, often in rhyming couplets. Usually love poems.’

‘Soppy drivel, then.’

‘Oh, no, my friend. Consider these lines from Sonnet 116:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom:

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

‘As I said, soppy drivel.’

‘On the contrary, I think it highly romantic.’

‘Is that the sort of stuff you whisper to Daniella when you’re alone together?’ asked Ray.

Daniella Parker was the detective’s paramour, who, after tiring of Golders Green, now lived and worked in the south of France.

‘Certainly not,’ said Paul, ‘one has to be careful not to be misinterpreted. Such declarations of…ahem…love…make early wedlock more likely.’

‘She won’t wait for ever,’ said Ray.

‘No,’ replied the detective, ‘nor will I. Once we have cracked this case…’

Ray smiled. He’d heard it all before.

 

The next morning, Paul was seated, deep in thought, at his computer. The sun shone through his office window, glinting off his gold-rimmed spectacles and illuminating a water-colour of Waterloo Bridge, given to him by a grateful client, hanging on the wall behind him.

The detective’s reverie was disturbed by a curious squawking sound that emanated from his laptop. He pressed a couple of keys (Ray had showed him how, for Paul was a confirmed technophobe) and a face appeared on his screen.

‘Daniella !’

‘How are you, Paul?’ she asked.

‘I am well, thank you, and so pleased that you have installed ‘Chatbot’ or whatever it is called.’

‘Facetime. My neighbour suggested it and it’s been a godsend. I can see you as clearly as if you were standing next to me.’

‘And I you.’

He looked at this raven-haired beauty, with her short hair swept back like a coxcomb, her alabaster skin, her regal posture, and the mischief twinkling behind her enchanting hazel eyes, and he experienced a stab of regret because he felt remaining in east London, detecting, was better than soaking up the sun in Cap Ferrat.

‘I’m ringing to tell you that I’m coming over in a fortnight. You remember Hermione Beaumont?’

‘A strange red-haired woman with a cast in one eye?’

‘Yes. Well, she’s having a dinner party for her fiftieth, and we’re invited.’

‘What, you and I?’

Paul had a horror of formal occasions.

‘Of course. Who else? You’ll have to hire a dinner suit from Moss Bros. It won’t do for you to turn up looking like a third-rate bank clerk.’

‘Very well.’

‘By the way, are you working on a case just now? Raking around in dustbins? Finding lost dogs? Peering through women’s bedroom windows at three in the morning?’

‘As a matter of fact, Daniella, Raymond and I are working on a case concerning the theft of a very valuable book. You remember Bruce Emory?’

‘The Aussie bibliophile?’

‘The same. It would appear a man entered his shop on a pretext and stole a very valuable folio first edition of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets.’

‘Any leads yet?’

‘A description of the alleged perpetrator. He’s a tall, thin man of sixty, well educated, resourceful, wearing a fedora hat and an expensive greatcoat. I expect he’s local. We think he’s a writer of some sort.’

‘A playwright?’

‘That’s possible.’

‘Know what I’d do?’

‘No doubt you’re about to tell me.’

‘Get a hold of the programmes for every play that’s being held within, say, ten miles of your office and look at the mugshots of the writer - there’s bound to be an image  tucked away somewhere inside. When you see your sexagenarian, you can unmask him.’

 ‘My word, that’s a good idea.’

‘You can take me into partnership once we're married. Meantime, I have to attend a coffee morning with the Purbrights. They’re stultifyingly dull, but it’s better than being on my own. Don’t forget - dinner-suit, and I’ll see you a fortnight on Thursday. You can collect me from London City airport.’

The image of Daniella’s lovely face faded away and Paul was left pondering the advice she had given him.

 

The trio were seated in Bruce Emory’s shop after closing time. The bookseller had provided wine and a few nibbles and the atmosphere was light and cordial.

‘Right Raymond, and you, Bruce. Here are the names and telephone numbers of the theatre companies within a ten-mile radius of New Street. There are thirty-nine in all. I suggest we each take thirteen theatres, ring them and ask them to send a current programme. I expect a few will be putting on plays by the likes of Arthur Miller and our friend Shakespeare, so we can discount those, but I believe our thief is a local, probably amateur playwright’

‘Are you sure this isn’t a wild goose chase?’ asked Bruce.

‘I always think that a woman’s intuition is well worth following up,’ said the detective.

‘Daniella?’ asked Ray.

‘Yes, Raymond. It was Daniella’s suggestion and I think it has great merit. It might not bear fruit, of course, but it’s worth spending a little time finding out.’

 

‘Eureka,’ said Bruce, a few days later, when they met in Paul’s office. The bookseller had shut up shop for the morning. There was a pile of programmes lying on the detective’s desk and the very last one was in Bruce’s hands.

‘I swear that’s our man,’ Bruce said. ‘Put a fedora on his head and wrap him in a greatcoat and he’s the spitting image.’

He passed the programme to Paul, who read it assiduously. ‘Funny name for a play - “Z” - just one letter. No matter. The playwright is called Ellis Thorpe. The play is on for a week at the Arcola.’

‘Where’s that?’ asked Ray.

‘Hackney,’ said the detective.

‘We’ll have to go and see it,’ said Bruce, ‘I bet he’s the type of bloke who attends every performance. Vainglorious, I call it.’

‘What?’ said Ray, ‘sit through a whole play called “Z”? I should co-co.’

‘No, Raymond, Bruce is right. We can then follow Mr Thorpe to his home and confront him. We go tonight.’

 

The Arcola theatre was one-third full. The trio took their seats at the back, so they could see whether Ellis Thorpe was in the audience.  The play commenced. It was a rather unorthodox piece of drama, for it comprised a single actor, sitting on a kitchen chair, exploring subjects as diverse as the decline of coral in the Great Barrier Reef, the wealth of Argentinian gauchos on the pampas, the surfeit of tattoos on British women, and the obesity of children in the Irish Republic. They had to strain to catch his strangulated delivery. Thankfully, there was an intermission.

‘What a load of codswallop,’ said Ray.

‘I have to admit that I am unable to follow the plot closely,’ said Paul.

‘It’s an allegory,’ said Bruce, ‘All his inane chat masks a man lonely, insecure and with suicidal tendencies.’

‘It’s still a load of codswallop,’ said Ray.

‘There he is,’ said the detective, pointing to the front row.

‘That’s him,’ said Bruce.

‘Let’s go and sort him out now,’ said Ray, ‘then we won’t have to sit through the second half of this tripe.’

‘No, Raymond,’ said Paul, ‘we must bide our time, watch the rest of the play, follow Thorpe home, and challenge him there. That’s where the book will be, you mark my words.’

 

“Z” seemed to take an eternity to finish, and there were just seven people left in the auditorium by the time the solitary actor took his bow. Thorpe left the theatre and the three friends followed him. It was a balmy evening, but the playwright still wore his greatcoat and fedora hat.

‘Proof positive’ said Bruce.

The triumvirate followed twenty yards behind Thorpe, who, minutes later, turned into a side street and stopped outside a small terraced house. He went inside and closed the front door.

‘What now?’ asked Ray.

‘We wait ten minutes and then ring his bell. I do not want him to think we have followed him from the theatre.’

Ten minutes passed then Paul pressed the bell-push. Thorpe answered the door.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘My name is Paul Cox. I am a private enquiry agent. These gentlemen are Mr Raymond Cross, my associate, and Mr Bruce Emory, a bookseller whose shop you visited yesterday. We wish to question you about a missing Shakespeare folio first edition.’

‘Go away,’ said Thorpe, ‘you’ve no right to question me about anything.’

He partially closed the door, but the squat and muscular Ray put his shoulder against it and flattened the playwright against the wall. The three men entered.

‘This is trespass,’ said Thorpe, ‘I’m going to ring the Police.’

‘You will find that trespass is a civil offence, Mr Thorpe, so you will just have to sue us,’ said Paul.

‘Stay there a minute,’ said Thorpe, ‘let me into the lounge first.’

He raced along the passage, the three men behind him. To their surprise, he stood holding a revolver in his hand and pointing it straight at them.

‘An Enfield Number 2, Mark 1, .38 calibre,’ said Paul, who had made a recent study of small arms.

‘And I’m not afraid to use it,’ said Thorpe.

‘All I want is my book back,’ said Bruce, ‘and we’ll say no more about it.’

Thorpe laughed, a raucous, magpie’s rasp. With his free hand, he picked up a book from the table and advanced towards the fireplace, in which a roaring fire was burning, despite the warmth of the evening.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Thorpe, ‘you are about to witness a Shakespeare book-burning. Stay back, or I’ll put a bullet in your ribs.’

‘He’s as mad as a wet cat,’ said Ray.

‘Hang on,’ said the detective, ‘I thought you loved Shakespeare. Why burn one of his most precious works?’

‘Love Shakespeare?’ Again that insane laugh. ‘I hate Shakespeare - that hell-hound, that feeble scribbler, that jackanapes, that fake. He stopped me receiving my true desserts. I am a genius, yet nearly every play I submitted to the theatres in London was rejected because they were putting on one of that devil’s works.’

‘I’m not surprised they were rejected,’ said Ray, ‘if they were all as awful as that hogwash we watched tonight.’

‘Hogwash? You are a man of no taste, no discernment. I reject your words as being those of a buffoon. Now I will exact my revenge on the so-called Bard by burning his most valuable possession.’

‘He’s been dead nearly 500 years,’ said Bruce, ‘it’s my possession and I want it back.’

Thorpe made as if to drop the book into the flames. Ray acted. He picked up a hardback Bleak House from the table and flung the 800-page volume at the playwright. It caught him behind his left ear and he went down like a felled tree. The folio flew from his hand and in a gentle parabola descended towards the fire. Bruce, like a greyhound in the slips, dived full length and knocked the book safely into the hearth. Paul leaned over and dispossessed the unconscious man of his gun.

‘The chamber is full,’ he said, ‘we took a real chance there. Well done, Raymond, and you, too, Bruce.’

‘What about him?’ asked Ray.

‘He will come to in a few minutes. Meanwhile, we will make haste and return to our respective abodes. Bruce has been reunited with his most treasured possession. Our work here is done.’

THE END      

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