Someone snorted.
‘The news of Darnley’s death is brought to her and she is properly horrified and appalled.
In the play, she immediately distances herself from Bothwell. As far as we can tell, she never sees him again. So, there’s no rape, no disgrace, no fatal third marriage, no uprisings against her, no long imprisonment in England.’
I drew a deep breath.
‘Bloody hell! So, that’s it, then. That’s what’s different. No Bothwell.’
‘It would seem so, yes.’
‘What next?’
‘Well, of course, we’re well down the wrong path now and picking up speed as we go. Encouraged by Mary, the north rises against Elizabeth, aided by Scottish and French troops. Philip of Spain, alarmed by French ascension in Europe, overcomes his religious scruples and secretly aids Elizabeth. An unlikely scenario but contemporary sources always reckoned he fancied her a bit. Holland falls, of course, because Elizabeth is in no position to send it aid. Vast numbers of Protestants flee England for the safety of America. The Armada sails, only this time to save England, rather than invade, but the result is the same. The ships are scattered by the weather. French and Scottish troops – The Auld Alliance – pour down across the border. Elizabeth flees but is captured and imprisoned. She plots with Spain to return to power and is betrayed.
‘In the climactic scene, Mary visits her secretly on the eve of her execution and as one queen to another, begs and implores her to renounce her claim to the English throne. If she publicly acknowledges her illegitimacy, she will be allowed to live out her life quietly under house arrest. Elizabeth rejects this offer with scorn, obviously remembering she spent her childhood in a similar situation, and the two redheads spit unqueenlike insults at each other before a brief moment at the end, when we see them, women in a man’s world, tearful and regretting the past. It’s a moving and emotional finale. Except …’
‘Except what?’
‘Except it’s all bollocks.’
She opened a file and paused dramatically. Considering it was full of historians, the hall was abnormally silent.
‘From the murder of Darnley onwards, everything is a fake. This is Dr Dowson’s report. Paper, ink, style – all different. Definitely not Shakespeare.’
‘A modern forgery?’
‘That’s the weird bit, Max. The second part is contemporary with the first. It was written at the same time but just not by the man himself.’
‘But it was buried at the same time as the first part?’
‘Oh yes. Someone – God knows who – wrote the second part, substituted their version, and it was all buried by Dr Bairstow in good faith.’
I struggled to make sense of this.
‘So the play is early 17th century. All of it. But was written by two different people, only one of whom was Shakespeare?’
‘Yep. Here’s a summary for you.’ She passed it over. I took it blindly, while various thoughts ran through my head. Everyone was very quiet. I could hear people’s brains working.
I said slowly, ‘Very nice work, you two. Well done. I’m off to see Mrs Partridge to make an appointment with the Boss. Work all that up and you can present it to him tomorrow sometime.’
They backed off and started to gather material. I looked around. David was at the back, still coughing slightly. I raised my eyebrows and he nodded and smiled.
It was only now that I became aware of a rhythmic thumping noise in the background. No one else seemed to notice, so I said nothing.
It grew louder as I climbed the stairs and walked around the gallery to Mrs Partridge’s office. She wasn’t there. I stuck my head into Admin and they told me she was down the corridor. The thumping noise got louder as I approached the door. I felt my scalp prickle.
Something was happening.
I found her in the printing room. Our nice, sleek, up-to-the-minute digital printer was ominously quiet in the corner and some old clanking thing with moving parts was crashing and thumping away to itself. Papers spewed from an orifice and were being gathered and stapled by Mrs Partridge and her team. I pulled one off the pile. It was nothing, just the annual archive update.
But something was happening.
I turned my head slowly, trying to locate … something.
With one final, dying clatter, the machine ceased. The silence that fell only emphasised the noise that had gone before. Everyone sighed with relief. Mrs Partridge’s team loaded everything onto a trolley and disappeared. Mrs Partridge herself walked quietly around the room, switching things off. That done, she turned to face me.
‘Can I see the Boss sometime tomorrow? To report on The Play.’
Without a blink, she said, ‘Ten o’clock, tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you.’