Shane MacGowan died this morning. As a small nod in his honor, I wanted to repost this piece about my favorite song that he wrote, which I originally posted on St. Patrick's Day in 2021.

My Irish bloodline is more personal trivia than heritage. My forebears sailed across the sea to farm in Pennsylvania nearly two centuries before my birth and roughly a generation before the Potato Famine, all of which is to say, there’s a great deal of distance there. Ireland is an abstraction, and my connection to it is ancestral rather than lived.

I never experience that connection more strongly than when I listen to The Pogues, “Thousands Are Sailing.” That song encapsulates anything I’ve ever read, seen, heard, or felt of my Irish heritage. There’s a push and a pull, grief and love, genuflection and spit, grit and pride. It’s a great song.

I’m putting a YouTube link with the very-much-still-relevant lyrics below. By all means, wear the green plastic hat, drink the Shamrock Shake, tell the kids the leprechaun left a chocolate gold coin, and down some Guinness and Jameson alongside your corned beef. But if you can spare five minutes and twenty odd seconds this St. Patrick’s Day, give them to The Pogues and think of the Irish.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27iJsZpQn3A

Love at first sight

It is a shared neurosis

A disease

Which you believe

Within one another

Is found the cause and the cure

Love at first sight

Is circular reasoning

Which sadly, does exist

Broken and barely beating,

I gave you my heart.

I did not foresee myself wanting you to want it

but I had nothing left to offer,

a friend

than my beaten and bloodied heart.

I'd have given you one of my hands

but they had been severed

from holding on too long

to loose threads of lives that weren't mine

I'd have given you my legs

if I’d had them to offer,

but dance had claimed them long ago,

stuffed them into tan tights

and tan shoes

and they ran off together.

I’d have given you my voice,

if I’d had one,

but she was taken away

and declared insane

after too many screams

fell upon deaf ears.

I'd have given you my brain

if it was mine to give,

but my thoughts were

overrun, overcrowded, overwhelmed,

overall, not mine.

So, I had nothing left to offer,

but my heart,

tired of beating.

The only part of me

no one seemed to want.

I’ve watched it fall from

hand to hand,

pocket to pocket, alone,

collecting dust on shelves

and drying out in drawers.

No one ever thought to store my heart by their own.

You took the my of my heart,

but you too, didn’t want it,

so you left it to rot on a table by your bedside.

How could something so close evade your gaze so often?

The quick looks and passing glances

were all I thought there should be,

it was blackened

and cold

and decaying

but it was yours to have,

still is,

should you ever change your mind.

Time has tempted me to take it back,

but

I did not foresee myself wanting you

to want it.

It's never easy

to be

far away

we miss the months

singed by the flames

of yesteryears...

the leaves and petals

drifted

over red

careless breath

given wing

till pooled

in dampened

fields

The roof still stands

though walls have caved

in faith

we stand

transfixed

a penny

beneath the water

lost in thoughts

for two pence

corroded

green again

calling

the kettle

whistling

blue

across the oceans

we've underestimated

one another

by several billion

seconds

each of us

flipping

for altered ego

Well? you say,

heads or tails...

we toss a wish

& for a moment

before the ripple

everything stays

the same

First breath, dawn's embrace,

Amidst city hum and glow,

A new story starts

Youth, a fervent blaze,

Chasing dreams down city streets,

Stars in fleeting days.

Love, deep and profound,

Whispers shared in candlelight,

Time's embrace grows tight.

Years blur, memories fade,

Yet the heart remembers beats,

Echoes of past flames.

As dusk looms nearer,

In the dance of love and loss,

Soul seeks the cosmos.

You were the adventure

That came to my door

You took me places

I’d never been before

Now I aimlessly wander

In this new and strange land

Looking for you since

You let go of my hand

Not to be

Too ruminative

But the choice

To live

By bit and bridle

Is nothing more

Than mere survival

Evidence has come to light that casts England's best known and much revered playwright William Shakespeare in the role of villain. The stage is set for second year archaeology student and erstwhile gigolo Max Rush to not only reveal the truth but to solve two murders. Crimes committed five centuries apart. With Dr Godfric Templeton and Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Doyle of Scotland Yard in supporting roles, the final dramatic scene could re-write history.

Titus Andronicus: A tale of revenge and bloody murder in which the number of dead bodies continues to rise until there's no room left on stage.

Roman Britain / 61 A D

"Pray to the Devils. The Gods have given us over."

Boudicca, surrounded by her vassal lords, stands in the ruins of a Roman villa. The broken mosaic on the floor depicts the famous scene of a defiant Horatius defending the bridge of Rome. A messenger enters.

Messenger

'My Queen! The Roman governor approaches. The strength of his forces are far less than we expected. Our spy within the Roman camp reports the troops based at Isca have refused his call.’

Boudicca

’So much for the iron legions of Rome. Soon our righteous fury shall be fully sated. Thus will I encounter Suetonius and say I am revenged.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"My heart suspects more than mine eye can see."

Max Rush is taking part in a joint Harvard-Oxford excavation led by Dr Godfric Templeton who believes Roman Tripontium is the site of the last battle of Boudicca’s rebellion.

The expedience of barrows and shovels has given way to the time consuming tedium of sifting and brushing. Shards of pottery. Small coins. Colour-glazed tessera.

Templeton

'The devil of archaeology is in the detail.'

Harry Cromwell is an accomplished English actor who has fallen on hard times. He's desperate for a new hit, and the open-air production of Titus Andronicus in the ruins of Coventry Cathedral could be just what his failing career needs.

Cromwell himself is directing and appearing as Emperor Saturninus.

An overcast morning. Godfric Templeton politely shakes the hand of his unexpected visitor.

Templeton (gestures enthusiastically)

'The Queen of the Iceni has burned Camulodunum, Londinium and Verulanium in her desire to avenge the humiliation she and her daughters experienced at the hands of Rome. Governor Suetonius Paulinus, recently returned from slaughtering druids in North Wales, commands the last Roman army that stands in her way. The outcome of this battle between Romans and Celts will decide the fate of Britain.'

Cromwell

‘Fascinating. It's very kind of you to show me around, Doctor.’

Templeton

'The pleasure's all ours. This is the first time we’ve had a star of stage and screen come by.’

Cromwell

’A somewhat faded star these days. But I’ve always had an interest in history. As, of course, did Shakespeare. Such a shame he never chose Boudicca as a subject for one of his plays.'

Templeton

'But Tamora, Queen of the Goths, and the main female character in Titus Andronicus could have been inspired by her.’

Cromwell

'You surprise me, Doctor. I didn't know you were a fan and a scholar.'

Cromwell peers down at the dig. A dapper man in his mid-forties, he's come poorly dressed for wandering around an archaeology site. Young Max Rush calls Templeton's attention to their latest find, a bronze buckle from the leather strap of a Roman sandal.

Attracting Cromwell’s attention as well.

Cromwell

‘And who do we have here?’

Templeton

‘This is Max. One of our students from Harvard. Max, come and say hello.’

Max is polite, of course, but not naive. The nature of Cromwell’s interest in him is clear

(if not obvious to everyone).

Max

‘Is it true that all the female parts were played by boys?’

Cromwell

‘Parts? Well, yes. If by "parts" you mean roles. Have you ever thought about acting yourself, Max? I'm sure we could find a part for you.’

Max (laughs)

'Me? Maybe, if it was a comedy.'

Cromwell

'How about coming to tea one afternoon and meeting the company? Read a few lines. You’d look good dressed as a Roman. You have the legs for it. And we don't have an understudy for Gloucester's Lucius.'

Max looks at Dr Templeton.

Max

‘What about the dig?’

Templeton

‘I don’t think we’re going to get much more done. Not if the weather forecast is right. But before you run off to join the theatre, you can help the rest of the team get the rain covers in place.’

Cromwell

’Splendid. If you think the role of Lucius might be too much, you can understudy for a couple of the smaller parts.'

Max

'Lady parts?'

Cromwell (winks)

’I think if you were under me, I could study you more closely.'

Max

'When you said you might have a small part for me, I didn't know it was going to be yours.'

Cromwell

'Oh, sauce! Don't be so bloody cheeky!'

Dresden Germany / 1945

"Must my sons be slaughtered in the streets for valiant doings in their country’s cause?"

The carpet-bombing of Dresden results in the death of 25,000 people and is later viewed by many as one of the more morally questionable acts of the Allied forces.

All around, as far as the eye can see, is the ruin of war. Rubble, smoke, twisted metal, pulverised stone, and broken bodies. A middle-aged woman is clambering across a wreck of broken bricks, the remains of an elegant town-house. A youth wearing the uniform of the Hitlerjugend is beckoning her.

Youth

'I found the door to the basement. Hurry!'

Woman

'Go. I will follow you. Please, my little bear, save yourself!'

The young man nods and turns away to hurry down the steps, where he tries the handle of the door to the cellar. It’s locked. He throws himself against the door in frustration and fear, but it refuses to budge. He can hear the sound of bombers overhead. Explosions draw closer. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he redoubles his efforts. The door opens and he falls through. Even as he does so, he hears the sound that will haunt him night after night for years to come.

His mother screaming as she's engulfed in flames.

Thirty thousand feet above, Squadron Leader Peter Carter looks down from the cockpit of his Lancaster at the firestorm below.

Carter

‘Dresden. The Jewel Box of Saxony. Look what we’ve done to it.’

Bob (The Bomber’s Sparks / or Engineering Officer)

‘Payback for London. And Swansea. And Coventry.’

Carter (shakes his head)

’No, Sparks. It's madness. Sheer and utter bloody madness.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"She is Lavinia; therefore she must be loved."

Coventry Cathedral is only a short distance away from the site at Tripontium, and no one is more excited at the possibility of being backstage during rehearsals than Lavinia Kauffmann, Max's fellow student and sometime lover.

Promiscuous and manipulative, what Lavinia wants, Lavinia gets.

Lavinia

'Isn't it wonderful? You must let come with you!'

Max

'I don't know that I'm going. It all seems a bit silly.'

Lavinia

'Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud. Your bits of old pot will still be here. What's a few more days after two thousand years?'

Max (reluctantly)

'I suppose so.'

Lavinia

'You won't be sorry!'

Tea with the cast. Max prefers crumpet to a piece of victoria sponge.

Bernard Quandt is an up and coming young German actor who has been cast as Aaron, the Moorish lover of Tamora and one of the villains of the piece.

Tamora will be played by Delphine Bouchard, a young French-Canadian starlet who Harry Cromwell had seduced while in Hollywood.

The title character of Titus is to be played by Rupert Dyson, a rising star who's flirting dangerously with Delphine. Although she seems to lavish more of her affection on her Siamese cats, Salt and Pepper.

For the role of Titus' daughter - also called Lavinia - Cromwell has chosen Miss Ivonna Turner, who will be making her stage debut.

Miss Turner turns heads, and has certainly turned Max's. It doesn't matter to Max that the inside of Miss Turner's head is an unfurnished room.

Max suddenly takes an interest in all things dramatic. Cromwell and Bouchard both take an interest in Max. And Lavinia is seduced by Bernard Quandt's swashbuckling charm.

Quandt

‘How curious that you should share the same name as Titus’ daughter.’

Lavinia

‘Is it a big part?’

Quandt

‘Let’s just say she diminishes somewhat as the play goes on.’

Other members of the cast are Richard Gloucester, Anthony Burton, Ellen Moreau,

Dante Tyrell, and Lincoln Forrester. All of whom, as well as their singular parts, will share the minor and the non-speaking roles of Tribune, Senator, Soldier, Goth, Messenger or Captain etc.

No one licks the cream from a chocolate eclair quite like the lascivious Lavinia Kauffmann.

Max is already sorry he brought her.

Ivonna Turner's trailer. A chaise-lounge is not the perfect setting for a romantic tryst. The lounge is too short and the angles of the chaise are proving problematic. But young people are flexible, and Max is keen to make it work.

Ivonna

'If only Mummy could see me now.'

Max

'It might be better if she didn't.'

Ivonna

'Don't be silly, darling. She'd be in fits and giggles.'

Max

'Is she as beautiful as you?'

Ivonna

'Ooh, you are wicked! Be a sweetie and pour me another snort of champers?'

Coventry Cathedral / Cromwell's Titus Andronicus

"And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, returns the good Andronicus to Rome,

renowned Titus, flourishing in arms."

Stone walls in various stages of disrepair are the unburied bones of religious reformation. The vacant eyes of windows open on to a scene from the very depths of Hell itself. Beauty defiled beyond belief.

A body is discovered in the ruins of the cathedral. It’s one of the students.

Lavinia Kauffmann is the daughter of an official at the Israeli embassy in London. Her body has been mutilated just like the other Lavinia: Titus’ daughter in the play.

Beside her body is an old manuscript. It’s an original of Titus Andronicus minus the final page. On the front page, scrawled in Lavinia's blood, are the words "The Titus Principal".

It’s initially presumed by investigators that "Principle" has been misspelled.

And the "Titus Principle" is REVENGE.

London England / 1950

“Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive that Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?”

An unremarkable office in a nondescript building in an undistinguished street. Donald Maclean - also known as "Homer" - sits across an unnoteworthy desk from MI6 agent Mandrake.

Maclean

'Have you read the report on this nasty business in Coventry? We’ve managed to keep the more graphic elements of the murder from the press and, most importantly, not a hint of the Israeli angle. The ambassador was on the phone to me this morning. Scotland Yard are sending one of their finest detectives to head up the investigation. A man named Doyle, if you can believe it, Arthur Doyle.'

Mandrake

‘Let's hope his sleuthing is equal to Sherlock Holmes and not Watson. Should I be involved?’

Maclean

‘Not with this business in Korea. You might be needed over there.’

Mandrake

’I’m not sure we can leave this to the police, however good their man is.'

Maclean

'What do you suggest?'

Mandrake

'There’s someone.we could borrow from the Americans. Our archaeologist friend, Templeton, just happens to be working on a dig nearby. In fact, I’ve learned the murder victim was one of his students. And another of his students had recently joined the company that was performing the play.’

Maclean (scowling)

‘Another student? Who?’

Mandrake

'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.'

Maclean

'Not that damn boy again. Always sticking his oar in where it's not wanted. Absolutely not! Max Rush is a menace, and a dangerous one.'

Mandrake

'Perhaps we should ask C. I know Templeton has convinced his superiors at the CIA that Rush has potential, and has taken him under his wing.'

Maclean (grimaces)

’That won’t be necessary. Templeton can be our liaison with Doyle. But tell him to keep Rush out of it. If it's not already too late.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

“Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust."

Coventry Cathedral. The scene of the crime. Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Doyle bums a cigarette off one of the local constabulary, then asks for a light. The packet of Players and the box of Lucifer matches both disappear into a pocket of Doyle's grey Macintosh.

Doyle

'What do we know about the victim?'

Constable

'Popular girl.'

Doyle

'How so?'

Constable

'When I was a lad, our village only had one bicycle. It belonged to the vicar, but he was in his eighties and couldn't manage the hills, so he'd leave it out front for anyone who wanted to borrow it. Anyone who did would put it back for the next person.'

Doyle

'Where is this going?'

Constable

'Our lass was like that bicycle.'

'Doyle

'What's your name?'

Constable

'Dunstable, sir.'

Doyle

'There's nothing amusing about murder, Dunstable. Where are the pages that were found near the body?'

Constable

'A Doctor Templeton has them.'

Doyle

'Why the hell would - Never mind. Where's he?'

Constable

'Here he comes now, sir.'

Doyle

'Templeton?'

Templeton

'Detective Chief Inspector.'

Doyle

'How do we do this?'

Templeton

'I'm here to assist in any way I can.'

Doyle

'Right. In that case I want my bloody evidence!'

Templeton raises an eyebrow at Doyle's unfortunate choice of words.

A demountable building serves as the cathedral's visitors' centre and souvenir shoppe. Dr Templeton fans the pages of the manuscript across the information counter.

Templeton

'We think Lavinia Kauffmann took the manuscript from Harry Cromwell's dressing room. We don't know when, exactly, but it had to be some time during the performance. I've shown photographs of several of the pages to a friend of mine in Stratford who's an expert on Shakespeare and his contemporaries. He's compared the writing to other samples, and we now have the possible identity of its author.'

Doyle

'Not Shakespeare?'

Templeton

'No.'

Doyle

'What does any of this have to do with our dead girl?'

Templeton

'Cromwell's theatre company is virtually bankrupt. The manuscript, if it can be authenticated, could be priceless.'

Doyle

'You think he might have killed her to get it back?'

Templeton

'There's more. The last page is missing. If you can find that last page, you'll have found the murderer.'

Doyle

'I don't suppose I can bother you for a cigarette?'

Dr Templeton hands Doyle a pack of Chesterfields. When Doyle fumbles in the pocket of his overcoat for matches, Templeton passes him a gold-plated Dunhill lighter. Doyle takes his time, tapping one end of the unfiltered on the mostly full packet and thumbing the Dunhill.

Doyle (smokes)

'Thank you, Doctor. I'll handle the investigation from here.'

Doyle stands up and leaves.

Some time later, as he's walking towards his car, Dr Templeton reaches into a pocket of his houndstooth coat for his cigarettes.

Templeton

'The son of a bitch!'

The Globe Theatre London / 1599

"Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, that we may know the traitors and the truth!"

The yard is filled with unwashed bodies, but this is Elizabethan England, and the actors on the stage of this splendid new theatre are used to the stench of the city. There is a hushed silence from the audience as the production being performed draws to its iconic close.

Lucius Andronicus

"Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,

And give him burial in his father’s grave:

My father and Lavinia shall forthwith,

Be closed in our household’s monument."

"As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora,

No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weed,

No mournful bell shall ring her burial;

But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey.

Her life was beastly and devoid of pity."

The theatre erupts in applause and the actors take a bow. From the wings, the Bard of Avon - Will Shakespeare himself - looks on, smiling. Next to him is his business partner, Richard Burbage.

Burbage

’They do like a bloody tragedy of revenge and mayhem.'

Shakespeare

’Aye. A pack of curs baying round the slaughterhouse gate.'

Burbage

'But Will, this play be mere trifle when one compares it to that noble tale of Julius Caesar.'

Shakespeare

'Titus is not my finest tragedy, I grant thee, but always have I felt a desire most tender for it.'

Burbage

'Tell me once more, why Titus?’

Shakespeare

'As thou remarked, Dick, the crowds complain not.’

Burbage

'Nor does De Vere, I wager. Do we render unto Caesar all that is Caesar's?'

Shakespeare

'Oxford tells me his next is almost complete.'

Burbage

'Does it have a title?'

Shakespeare

'He refers to it only as "the despairing Dane".'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"These words are razors to my wounded heart."

The tea room where Max first met the members of Cromwell’s company. It's a summer's day, though it's lease has all too short a date, and a troubled Max is not a happy camper.

Max

'Why can't I help?'

Templeton

‘I’m sorry Max, but my orders are you’re not to become involved.’

Max

‘Orders? Who from?’

Templeton

‘From whom. And I can’t say. I think you should go back to Tripontium. The weather has cleared and we can recommence the dig. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

Max

‘Lavinia was my friend.’

Templeton

’We both know that’s not true. She used you the same way she used everyone. Lavinia didn't deserve to die so horribly, but don’t pretend it’s giving you sleepless nights. You saw much worse in Germany. I don't know how you survived a winter in the ruins of Berlin.'

Max

'I ate a lot of cats. But, listen, I can help with the investigation in ways that you can’t.'

Templeton

'Oh, I can imagine, Max! Just try not to get in Doyle's way. He doesn't want any Baker Street Irregulars snooping around.’

Max (puzzled)

‘Any what?’

Templeton

’Never mind, Wiggins. If you find that missing page, come to me first.'

Ivonna Turner’s trailer. Max avoids the chaise-lounge, but notices all evidence of his conquest is concealed by a paisley silk pelerine in jade-green and cinnamon-brown.

Ivonna

‘I’m not sure if I can go back on stage as Lavinia now. Not after what’s happened.’

Max

‘How did you come to join the company in the first place?’

Ivonna

’Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington. But Mummy wasn’t having any of it. She was a chorus girl herself when she was younger. Let’s just say Daddy Cromwell owed her a favour. He came to see me after the performance. The night your friend... '

Max

‘What did he want?’

Ivonna

‘It's not important, darling. He wasn't very pleased. I think he thinks I'm trying to steal you away from him.’

The resemblance suddenly strikes Max like a bolt from the blue.

How had he missed it?

Max

'Harry Cromwell's your father!'

Ivonna

'Yes, but you mustn't tell. You haven't touched your champers. Don't you like it? Let me make you a vodka martini.'

Max

'I have a better idea.'

Max leaves Ivonna shaken (if not stirred).

Delphine Bouchard is in her mid-twenties. Far too young for the role of Tamora. But the fear of fading looks and a bulging waistline aren't stopping her from tucking into a large meat pie when Inspector Doyle knocks on the door of her dressing room, only minutes

after Max has left.

The air is thick with the fug of french cigarettes and the redolence of too-recent sex. Doyle's eyes narrow behind the lenses of his black hornrims and his ginger moustache twitches.

Delphine

’Ah Inspector! This really is too much. When can our performances resume? We have

three more nights and a matinee on Saturday.’

Doyle

’I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we’re still pursuing our investigations. I'm endeavouring to ascertain the whereabouts of each member of the cast during and after

the performance. Where were you, Mademoiselle?’

Delphine

‘So sad. This curious double tragedy. Life imitating art.’

Doyle

'We believe Miss Kauffmann was murdered because she discovered something someone didn't want to be found.’

Delphine

’The manuscript that Harry was always boasting about. He was most mysterious about it, saying it would help him recover his fortune.'

Doyle

‘Did you ever read the manuscript yourself?’

Delphine finds a curious hair in her pie and frowns. She disposes of it discreetly into the folds of her white-satin serviette, but the sharp-eyed detective notes her action.

Delphine

’Never. And in answer to your question as to my whereabouts, speak to Rupert. I was with him, going through my lines. The art of perfection. Max might know more about the manuscript than I do. You just missed him.'

Doyle

‘Pumping you for information, was he? We’ve already spoken to Mr Dyson. I gather he doesn’t have much of a liking for your cats. And I wasn't looking for Rush, as it happens, but perhaps I should be.’

Delphine (shrugs)

’Rupert claims he’s allergic to them. But - now that you mention it - where are my little darlings? They do like to go mousing around the ruins of the cathedral. And I haven’t seen them all morning.'

“Why, there they are both, baked in this pie, whereof their mother daintily hath fed.”

Templeton pops his head around the door of the Cathedral visitors’ centre, which Doyle has commandeered as his incident room. The Inspector is reading a cheap pocket edition of Titus Andronicus, and frowning.

Templeton

‘Any new developments?’

Doyle

’You could say that. Bouchard has been rushed to hospital. It seems that there was too much Salt and Pepper in her steak and kidney.'

Evening. Sunset. Max is sitting on a bench on the bank of the river Sherborne, brooding. He’s spoken with most of the members of the Company without learning anything of value. Almost without him noticing, a young man sits down next to him. Max glances across. It’s the neat, precise figure of Bernard Quandt.

Quandt is just a few years older than Max.

Quandt

'Penny for your thoughts.’

Max

'Thoughts? Not much. I just needed to find somewhere quiet.’

Quandt

’Ja. All these policemen asking questions. And then there's you.'

Max

'Me?'

Quandt

'Also asking.'

Max

'Do you have any answers.'

Quandt

'You also are from Germany, I think. Though you go to much trouble to hide it. Like many of us abroad these days.’

Max

’My father was German. I live in America now. My mother was from Boston. What about you?'

Quandt

’I am from Dresden. My father was an industrialist, part of a rich and powerful family. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. The war put an end to all that. I was closer to my mother. She called me her “Little Bear”.'

Max

'You talk about her as if she's gone.'

'She was killed. In the war.'

Max

'Really? I'm sorry. So was mine.'

Quandt

'My mother was an actress with a great, artistic heritage. Her father was an antiquarian,

a collector of old manuscripts. My mother’s family were related to Goethe. You’ve heard

of Goethe?’

Max

‘He wrote Faust.’

Quandt

‘Marlowe was there before him. The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. But when does influence become imitation? And when does imitation become theft? Anyway, I’m off for a stroll around the cathedral ruins. Das lebewohl, Max.’

Meanwhile.

Doyle is looking thoughtfully at a list of names he’s scrawled on a chalkboard in the incident room.

Doyle

‘These are the names of everyone the company who knew about the manuscript. The killer is one of these, I’m certain of it.’

He crosses off the name of Delphine Bouchard.

Doyle

‘The latest hospital report isn’t hopeful. The pie was laced with strychnine as well as substantial chunks of cat. I think we can safely assume that she didn’t poison herself. That still leaves the others.’

Templeton

‘You can eliminate Max from your list of suspects.’

Doyle

‘How can you be so sure? Something tells me he’s more than capable.’

Templeton

‘And you’d be correct. But sadistic? No, never. That’s what we’re looking for. Only a twisted, tortured mind could have done what was done to that poor girl.’

Doyle

‘I think we should speak to Cromwell again. He’s holding out on us.’

Templeton and Doyle are sitting in Harry Cromwell’s well-appointed dressing room. It's large enough for Cromwell to pace up and down, which he's been doing with increasing agitation ever since they arrived. His smoking jacket is slightly askew and his normally immaculate hair is ruffled.

Cromwell

‘I told you, Detective Chief Inspector, I showed no one the contents of that manuscript. No one!’

Templeton

‘But you weren’t being particularly circumspect about possessing a document that could overturn four hundred years of Shakespearian scholarship, were you? Delphine Bouchard knew about it. So did Rupert Dyson. And Bernard Quandt. You even told my student, Max Rush. You offered to show it to him. Did you make a similar offer to Lavinia Kauffmann?’

Cromwell

‘I’m sorry, but why is an archaeology professor interrogating me about a murder?’

Doyle

‘Dr Templeton is assisting in the investigation. Did you show the manuscript to Miss Kauffmann?’

Cromwell

‘Of course not! I might have mentioned something about it to her. Nothing more.’

Doyle

’You know a fair bit about Shakespeare, I gather. Bit of a mystery man, our Will. Spelled

his surname six different ways, from the various signatures he left behind. What does it say about a man that he can’t spell his own name?’

Cromwell

‘Conventions in orthography weren’t so rigorous in those days. Shakespeare died a century and half before Johnson published his epic Dictionary. Spelling was more fluid then than it is now.’

Templeton (excitedly)

‘Spelling! That’s it! That’s what Miss Kauffmann was trying to tell us!’

Doyle

‘What do you mean?’

Templeton

‘We’ve all been presuming Lavinia’s message was about the Titus Principle, i.e. Revenge. When she wrote Principal, we thought she made an error. That she'd meant to write Principle. But what if she didn't make a mistake? In the theatre the term “Principal” normally applies to the lead actor!’

Cromwell (nodding)

‘Yes, of course.’

Templeton

‘And the lead actor in Titus Andronicus would be the man who played the role of Titus himself. Which points us to - ’

Doyle

‘Rupert Dyson. He's our man. Come on, Doctor!’

Cromwell stops them.

Cromwell

'Rupert can’t possibly be the murderer. It’s rather embarrassing, but I can prove he’s innocent.'

Coventry Cathedral / The Scene of the Crime

"Thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge and manners, to intrude where I am graced."

Night has fallen. All is quiet. The old stones of the cathedral courtyard glow eerily in the moonlight. A single bright spotlight falls upon the altar, bearing the three large mediaeval nails salvaged from the ruined building that had been bound together with wire to form a cross. Max looks towards the wooden gantry erected a week before in preparation for the play. Looking down upon him from his high vantage point is Bernard Quandt, holding a Luger pistol in his left hand.

Quandt

‘I had a feeling you’d follow me here, Max.’

Max

‘I think I’ve worked it out. Your maternal grandfather - the antiquarian - he had a certain manuscript in his possession, didn’t he?’

Quandt

‘Yes. One passed down to him from Goethe. The original manuscript of Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus.’

Max

‘Except it wasn’t really Shakespeare’s.’

Quandt

‘No more than the manuscript belongs to Harry Cromwell. It’s not enough that he steals other men’s wives. That bastard also stole my grandfather’s most valuable possession. And now I’ve liberated it. Or the all-important final page, at least. Lucius’ closing speech. You know it. You learned it well enough. But on the reverse there’s a signed statement from the true author.'

Max

'Do you have it? The page? Can I see it?'

Quandt

Enough talk. I think it’s time for us to enact that most famous of Shakespearian stage direction. Exit: pursued by a bear.’

Quandt raises his pistol, just as two more figures step into view. DCI Arthur Doyle and Dr Godfric Templeton have arrived for the final act.

Doyle

‘Wrong stage direction, wrong play, Quandt. It was the Titus Principle all along, wasn’t it? Revenge, pure and simple. You wanted us to think that Lavinia Kauffman’s last message - which you wrote in her blood - was intended to point us towards Rupert Dyson, the principal of the play. When you learned from that plod, Dunstable, that we'd misread your intention, you became frustrated. You poisoned Bouchard. But why Dyson? Could it have anything to do with the fact that his father was Air Commodore Thomas Dyson. One of the key staff in British Bomber Command responsible for planning and executing the fire-bombing of Dresden?’

Quandt

‘Thomas Dyson. Harry Cromwell. William Shakespeare. All guilty as charged. And as the French say: Revenge is a dish best served cold.’

Doyle

'In a pie.'

Max

'What about Lavinia Kauffmann? Why her?’

Quandt

’Miss Kauffmann was no innocent. She was ready enough to play the role I set for her, stealing the manuscript from Cromwell’s dressing room. But as to why I killed her? Being

a verschmutzt Juden was reason enough.’

Quandt takes aim at Max. But before he can pull the trigger, he's winged by Dr Templeton, who has pulled his Beretta from inside his jacket. Quandt loses his balance and falls from the gantry. Max races toward him. Quandt fires his Luger. Max stumbles, clutching his side. Quandt raises his gun again and points it at Dr Templeton.

A single shot rings out. Bernard Quandt is dead before he hits the ground.

Detective Chief Inspector Doyle re-holsters his Colt Navy.

Doyle

'Not standard issue. But the bigger the bullet, the harder they fall.'

After all the excitement, Templeton and Max are alone, silently contemplating the ruined cathedral. Max's wound isn't much worse than a graze and the bleeding has stopped.

Templeton

’You know, they’re planning to build a new cathedral, but on the adjacent grounds. The plan is to leave the ruins here as a memorial.'

Dr Templeton points towards the wall behind the altar and the cross of nails.

Templeton

’Father, forgive. Words to remember, Max. In the world of an eye for an eye, we all end up blind.'

Max

‘I’m not sure I’m cut out to be an actor. Can we go back to the dig?’

Templeton

‘Certainly. There's just one thing, though.’

Dr Templeton takes a single piece of manuscript from his jacket pocket.

Max

‘Is that - ?’

Templeton

‘The final page. I found it in Quandt’s jacket. The question is, what do we do with it? Return it to Harry Cromwell?’

Max

‘Why should he make millions from it? Quandt said he stole it in the first place.’

Templeton

’I’m not sure what the law courts would say about that. But I think we can persuade Cromwell to “donate” the whole manuscript, including this final page, to the British Library. It can be properly studied there. And kept safe from any undue scrutiny. I don’t think the British people are quite ready for the truth about their greatest literary figure,

do you?’

Max

‘How are you going to convince Cromwell?’

Templeton

‘Ah, well. That’s easy. You see, he was the one who provided Dyson with his alibi. It seems, the night Lavinia was killed, after the performance, Rupert Dyson, Harry Cromwell and Delphine Bouchard were engaged in a - what do the French call it? - une liaison amoureuse? I know that actors have a certain reputation, but there are limits to what their adoring public will stomach.’

Max

‘Blackmail, Doctor? I’m shocked.’

Templeton

‘No you’re not. So, do you want to read the note on the final page?’

The script is faded and hard to read, but Max can make out the signature.

Max

’Marlowe.'

Templeton

'There's more on the back. Turn it over.'

Max (reads)

'This playe written by Kit Marlow fromme whom I did steale it and in his murrder I did conspire. May Godde have mercye on my soul. Will Shakespear.'

Max

'So, if Marlowe was dead, who wrote Shakespeare's other plays?’

Templeton

‘That’s just it Max. We don’t know. And we probably never will.’

Kent England / 1593

"Not till I have sheathed my rapier in his bosom, and withal thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat that he hath breathed in my dishonour here."

A tavern in Deptford. A darkened den of darker mood. A stable of slatterns to disgrace the dandling knee.

Shakespeare

'The boil on my buttock that is Marlowe must be lanced.'

Taverner

'What would you have me do, start a war?'

Shakespeare

'An argument will suffice. The chaos that ensues will both cloak the deed and give you just cause should anyone inquire as to the circumstance of his mortal injury.'

Taverner

‘What grievance do you hold against him? A rivalry of hearts?’

Shakespeare

’Aye, though not as thou would esteem, but a ballot for the affections of the people. He is jealous, too, of my newfound success on the stage with my Roman tragedy, Andronicus. His friendship with Robert Greene - who did slander my name in ways most vile - has also caused me much offence. Greene now rots beneath an sward of green, and I would have Marlowe moulder with him.'

Taverner

'First, let me see what coin you offer..’

Shakespeare (tossing over a purse)

‘Gilded tombs do worms enfold. Will this suffice?’

Taverner

‘Aye. It will. We have a deal.’

Shakespeare

‘One worthy of Faustus, methinks.’

Oxford England / 1600

"Here are no storms. No noise, but silence and eternal sleep."

An Elizabethan manor. A spacious library in oak and leather where walls of shelves host voluminous volumes and tightly rolled scrolls. Edward De Vere, the 17th Earl eponymous, paces the floor, cogitating verbally.

De Vere

'Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Milan where we lay our scene. Milan? No, strike that. Venice? Verona! In fair Verona where we lay our scene.'

His manservant, Falstaff, looks up from the scratching of his oft-inked goose quill.

Falstaff

'Verona? Again?'

De Vere

'I like Verona.'

The dawn's light breaks through tall lead-light windows set between Doric columns.

De Vere steps out onto a balcony.

De Vere

'It is the East, and Jocelyn is the sun.'

Falstaff

'Jocelyn?'

De Vere

'Give me a name!'

Falstaff

'Janet, Julia, Juliet, Joan.'

De Vere

'Yes! Juliet. That's it. Well? What are you waiting for? Write it down!'

Falstaff

'It's not very Italian.'

De Vere

'The great unwashed of London will not know, nor care.'

Falstaff (sighs)

'Juliet. A Capulet. And her star-crossed lover.'

De Vere

'There is our title, Falstaff. The tragedie of Rudolfio and Juliet!'

The Ortolan is a French songbird. It must be captured at the perfect time, blinded, forcefully fattened, and drowned in brandy. Those who choose to indulge must do so wholly. Bones, feet, head. All but the beak. The diner must veil their head. Some say it is to savor the aroma. Tradition says it is to hide from the piercing eyes of the savior.

The birds are dead. They do not feel the cracking structures between the teeth of their masters, hollow bones pricking gums and scraping teeth. I will not be as fortunate once I am plucked from this gilded room. I will feel the cracking of my bones. The piercing of my flesh. Ground between molar and canine, my fear-soaked fat will burst through my skin, bringing forth a sinful ecstasy that cycles for eternity. They feast as we feast, maddening further with each bite, insatiable greed for forbidden delicacies.

Saturn devouring his son. Jupiter has better luck than I.

Do they dare shield their eyes from God? Perfect faces free from shame, crafted by the astuteness of divinity. They act in His command. They act outside of it as it suits them.

Truth. Speculation. Pessimism? Prophecy.

They are older, more powerful.

Purgatorio. The fated shall always be.

I thought about sex yesterday

At first i felt guilty

Then i felt fine

And then i prayed

And changed my mind

I thought about his hand

And me shivering at his touch

But when does this thinking become

A thought too much?

I smiled at his smile

And the sound of his voice

Low and soft, and gentle in a way

Then i felt bad

Because what would my parents say?

I got in his car

Dark trap music blasting

Kept glancing over at him

My soul was asking

No, begging I suppose

He almost obliged

But i decided a kiss would do