The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  © 2013 Loy Ray Clemons

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by Low Ray Clemons at Smashwords.

  Published by LRC PRESS, [email protected]

  Cover design by Peter Clemons

  Cover design © 2012 by Loy Ray Clemons

  Typeset by Heather Justesen

  Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

  Is the immediate jewel of their souls,

  Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing;

  Twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands;

  But he that filches from me my good name

  Robs me of that which not enriches him,

  And makes me poor indeed.

  —Othello, Act 3, scene 3

  I am sort of haunted by the conviction that the divine William is the biggest and most successful fraud ever practiced on a patient world.

  Henry James

  In a career of over fifty years I have constantly read and re-read Shakespeare, studied and taught his life and works . . . During all this time, though I have never seen the slightest reason to doubt his authorship.

  Stanley Welles, CBE

  Chairman—Shakespearean Birthplace Trust

  So far as anybody actually knows and can prove, Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon never wrote a play in his life.

  Mark Twain

  I think Oxford wrote Shakespeare. If you don’t, there are some awfully funny coincidences to explain away.

  Orson Welles

  There have been dozens of other such nominations since the Bard's death, and none have yet presented proof enough to discredit the man from Stratford.

  J. M. Pressley

  The Shakespeare Resource Center

  . . . he was a jovial actor and manager. I cannot marry this fact to his verse.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  The sheer number of candidates put forward as having had the unique qualifications of position and education to be the True Author is evidence that these qualifications were not at all unique in Shakespeare’s time.

  Irvin Matus

  The Case for Shakespeare

  I have never thought that the man of Stratford-upon-Avon wrote the plays of Shakespeare.

  I know of no admissible evidence that he ever left England or was educated in the normal sense of the term. One must wonder, for example, how he could have written The Merchant of Venice.

  Lewis F. Powell, Jr.

  Associate Justice of the Supreme Court

  It is therefore only in comparatively rare instances that we can find any evidence of authorship more positive than that on which Shakespeare’s rest before the last quarter of the seventeenth century.

  H.N. Gibson

  The Shakespeare Claimants

  I am firm against Shaksper--I mean the Avon man, the actor.

  Walt Whitman

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  PART 2

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  PART 3

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  PART 4

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  PART 5

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  For Gloria Clemons Watts, who believed.

  Prologue

  EAST LONDON

  Monday, November 15

  10:00 AM

  As Freddie Hollister picked his way down the narrow lane, he weighed the possibility of finding priceless documents against getting a knife in his ribs. He tugged nervously at the edge of his watch cap and pulled up the collar of his pea coat. The fog-shrouded Limehouse district had not been his first choice for the meeting. He imagined any of the hard-faced men leaning in the dark doorways would easily put that knife in his ribs for a ten-pound note or his gold wristwatch.

  In the dim light, moisture glistened on the cobblestones and ancient stone walls of the weathered buildings. Far out in the mouth of the Thames horns from barge boats echoed the low rumble of a foghorn. He slowed as he passed a small window with the familiar neon-lit red triangle of the Bass Ale sign and stopped at a low weather-beaten door under a peeling signboard displaying a white horse.

  Inside the noisy, smoke-filled room, he glanced from side to side at the knots of rough men—sailors off ships docked close by—sitting at tables scattered throughout the dark room. The smooth, pale skin of his young face contrasted sharply with the rough-hewn and sunburned faces of those around him. Amid the grunts and snatches of conversation, Freddie knew he was out of his element. He immediately felt panic and stopped short. He wanted to leave.

  The only illumination in the room—other than a few neon beer and ale signs on the walls—was the flickering television set on a high shelf at the end of the bar. Smoke clung to the underside of the low, soot-covered ceiling, but failed to dampen the noise from the crowd when one of the soccer teams scored.

  An old crone yelled from behind the bar. “Here! Here! You blokes put a sock in it. I can’t
‘ear a thing from the telly,”

  Gathering his courage, Freddie squinted in the low light. In a far corner booth, he saw his contact, an old man sucking on a pipe and nursing a pint of porter. A dirty red kerchief was knotted around his bony neck and his face was half-covered by a floppy-brimmed felt hat. Freddie turned in his direction as the old man signaled by removing the kerchief.

  Freddie approached and asked, “Do you know if the Greyhound out of Lisbon docked this morning?”

  The words Greyhound and Lisbon obviously had their effect. The old man said softly, “Sit down.”

  Freddie eased into the booth and the old man said, “Cor, you look like a right proper seaman in that cap and pea coat. That’s a smart move, lad. You come mucking about down here in a Burberry and a fedora and you’ll get popped for sure.”

  Freddie skipped the perfunctory small talk. “Do you have the goods with you?”

  The old man patted the front of his coat. “Got the whole lot of ‘em right here.”

  “May I see the papers please?”

  The old man took a sip of porter and screwed up his pockmarked face in a wry grin. He made no move to produce the papers. “Of course, Guvnor. Could I be seeing your bono fides?”

  Freddie reached into his jacket pocket, produced a thick envelope, and exposed ten ₤50 notes.

  Without moving his head, the old man shifted his eyes around the room. “I was given to understand Mr. Jones would be meeting me.”

  Freddie smiled knowingly. “I understand your concern for precaution—and it was Mr. Harper that sent me.”

  With a sly smile the old man said, “Oh, yes. Mr. Harper it was. Names sometime slip my mind.” He removed a large manila envelope from beneath the front of his heavy coat and placed it on the table. “These old letters must be quite valuable. They look like they’re written in Old English or something similar.”

  Freddie took a jeweler’s loupe from the inner pocket of his jacket and bent over the aged documents. He squinted in the dim light. The old man was wrong. With a cursory glance, he recognized they were written in Middle English—or possibly Early Modern English—the language of the Elizabethan era and Shakespeare. His eyes widened as he looked closer at the text on the second and third pages of the documents. He leaned back to contain his excitement “These appear to be of possible interest to me. May I ask where you found them?”

  “Come now. You must know things are sometimes just . . . found. There’s many a fine manor up around Birmingham where things can be found. I have an associate who finds things. He doesn’t say where, and I don’t ask.” He quickly drained his glass and knocked the ashes from his pipe. “So, if you’re satisfied, I’ll be taking my leave now.” He reached for the envelope with the money. “I have other business.”

  Freddie relinquished the envelope with the money and drew the large manila envelope to his side of the table. The old man passed through the outer door to the street as Freddie buttoned his coat and slipped the envelope behind the lapels.

  The chill pressed against his face as he emerged from the pub. The old man had been engulfed by the fog, and was nowhere in sight. Freddie stopped short when he heard a commotion up ahead and quickly ducked into a doorway.

  He could barely make out the shapes of two men in the fog as they bent over an unconscious figure lying on the edge of stone steps. Coming closer, he recognized the figure. It was the old man from the pub. They were going through his pockets and running their hands under his coat. They found his wallet with the pound notes and looked up quickly as Freddie ran past on his way up the lane to the main road.

  He found his waiting taxi and, said with urgency, “Let’s go. Quickly, please!” He reached over and locked both doors as the taxi sped away. He heard the sound of the footsteps of the two men pounding along-side the speeding taxi before they slowly receded into the distance. His adrenaline was pumping as he pressed his hand on the envelope under his coat.

  Was this what his partner thought it was?

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  PHOENIX

  Thursday, November 11

  2:30 AM

  Thorne was awakened by the crunch of gravel outside his bedroom window. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and saw a dim light illuminating his carport. Rolling over, he quickly put on his trousers and house shoes, and reached for a gun he kept in the drawer of the nightstand. He picked up a flashlight from the kitchen counter, went out the kitchen door, and moved stealthily around the back of the carport. Dim parking lights shown on the back of his pickup truck, and a man with a Slim Jim bar was working it through the driver’s side window.

  Thorne switched on his flashlight and shown it in the man’s face. He raised the gun and said, “Hold on there, Buster.”

  As he moved closer, a big man appeared from behind the back of the truck. “You David Thorne?” His voice was low and menacing.

  “I’m Thorne. What do you yahoos think you’re doing?”

  The big man produced a sheet of paper and said “We’re returning this vehicle to its rightful owner—the finance company.”

  Thorne lowered the gun and shoved it into his pocket. “I guess you guys didn’t get the word. I spoke with Dennis at the finance company yesterday. We agreed I’d be bringing in the payments in the morning.”

  The man with the Slim Jim pulled it out of the window and looked to the big man.

  The big man shook his head. “”We got this order today. You can work it out with Dennis when you pick up the truck in the morning. You got a key?”

  “No, and I’d suggest you get in your truck and get out of here. You talk to Dennis in the morning. Now move!”

  “No can do,” said the big man as the man with the Slim Jim slipped it back down the into the window slot.

  Thorne moved casually over and cocked his fist. “Looks like we’re through talking.” The man with the Slim Jim started to turn just as Thorne caught him on the side of the jaw with a left hook. The man bounced off the side of the truck and grabbed Thorne by the sleeve. They fell into the gravel driveway and the man’s foot came up and grazed the top of Thorne’s head. Thorne punched him again and he fell against the pickup’s fender before collapsing face down in the gravel..

  The big man moved forward and Thorne hit him hard with a right cross. He staggered against the truck door, but didn’t go down. He regained his footing and grabbed Thorne, picking him up and crushing him against the door of the truck. The air went out of him and a fist at the side of his head sent a bright light skittering across in front of his eyes and everything went black.

  The following morning the voice on the phone was cheerful. “Hey Dave, sorry about the problem last night. Mix-up with the paperwork. I gave a note to my gal, but . . .”

  Sure,” Thorne said sarcastically. “

  Dennis said, “Here’s my situation, Dave, old buddy. I need three payments—today. That’ll come to nine-hundred and sixty dollars—cash—okay? If you can come up with it before we close up today, okay. If you can’t, your truck goes to auction tonight.”

  “All right, I’ll be there with the cash this afternoon. Keep your eye on the truck. I don’t want my toolbox walking off, understand?”

  “No problem.”

  Thorne locked the house and walked down the hill to the main road to wait for a bus. When he reached McDowell Street, he got off the bus and walked to the bank. Inside, he went to his safety deposit box and retrieved the last of the traveler checks—twelve hundred dollars—and converted them into cash.

  He transferred to another bus and rode to the finance company office. He found his truck, checked his tool box, and found it intact before paying the three month’s payment. As he drove back to his house, he went over in his mind where he could get a job and some cash. The three hundred dollars he had left was not going to last him very long.

  Chapter 2

  SCOTTSDALE

  Monday, November 15

  12:15 PM

  The Arizona winter sun streamed th
rough tall windows and threw bright streaks across the lush carpeted lobby of the casually elegant Arizona Biltmore Resort Hotel. Thorne found a large leather chair set in an out-of-the-way corner of the lobby, and let the sun warm his back as he contemplated his financial situation. He scribbled a few calculations on a note pad before giving up and putting it a way.

  If the prospective job he was meeting for today came through, his money problems would be solved. He leaned back in the chair, took a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket, and re-read the printed e-mail message.

  To: Mr. David Thorne,

  From: Chester Raskin

  We understand you are a construction investigator and architect, with construction experience. You come highly recommended as one having unique qualifications in stone construction and construction forensics.

  Our group’s project requires a man with the above talents who can keep confidential information, and you have been recommended as one who can be trusted with such sensitive information. We would like to hire an American; we can provide an explanation when we discuss the project at length.

  I’m from England and I also have a home in the Paradise Valley area. My associates, Mr. Kirk-Halstrom and Mr. Blackstone will attend a special Sons of Britannia Soccer Club luncheon with me on the occasion of the 63rd birthday of His Royal Highness, Prince Charles on November 15. His Highness will not be in attendance, it will only be a symbolic celebration.

  The meeting will be held tomorrow at twelve-thirty at the Biltmore Hotel in North Phoenix. You can recognize two of us by our Oxford blue and white soccer club caps and Oxford ties. I also have a short white beard.

  We would like to meet you at the club’s check-in desk at the entry to the Aztec Banquet Room. If you have time, we would also like to invite you for lunch.

  Thorne looked across the lobby at the line of men forming at the entry to the Aztec Room. Most wore colored soccer caps, but none wore Oxford blue and white.