Who's to Blame?: A Literary Comedy

Who’s to Blame?

A Literary Comedy

Jeffery S. Williams

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Who’s to Blame?

A Literary Comedy

Copyright © 2009 Jeffery S. Williams

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ISBN: 978-0-595-52979-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-51726-8 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-63032-5 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 3/12/2009

To Kathy,

My beloved bride

For your love and laughter

You are beside me always

To Calvin,

My awesome son,

For inspiring me

With your creativity and wit

Contents

Acknowledgements

Cast of Characters

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

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

Whose Stars Crossed?

Book Two

List of Characters

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

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

Chapter 34

Acknowledgements

I must express my gratitude to my excellent good friend Richard Melella for his continual inspiration and enthusiastic support while I wrote and edited Who’s To Blame? He provided me so many sage insights into character, structure, pace, and style — all with his witty brand of humor and appreciation for comic timing.

To Caroline Ferdinandsen, my heartfelt gratitude for all her careful editing, valuable insights, and thoughtful suggestions. I like thy wit well. And I am grateful for her creative input into the cover design.

Renee Schwetzer do not think I flatter when I say her perspective on language, description, point-of-view, and plot was of great value in the development of this project.

I also wish to express my gratitude to my colleagues of English literature - Ted Hawkins, Cathy Cirimele, and Karen Kyer for their many useful literary observations and suggestions.

I want to thank Karen K Brees Ph.D., who edited Who’s To Blame?

My mother, Diane Williams, and my mother-in-law, Rosalie Gilcrest, offered their excellent galley proofing skills for a second time.

And to my former students from Clovis West High School who endured my maniacal pleasure in dragging them through Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet. Thank you for letting me bounce the quirky ideas in my mind’s eye off you all and giving me terrific feedback.

Lastly and most importantly, I must thank my wife Katherine for her constant encouragement and support and love. She is always with me when I sit down to write.

Cast of Characters

Detectors:

SherChristispeare, the greatest sleuth during Renaissance England

Pancho, the most loyal of sidekicks during Renaissance England

Specters:

Hamlet, ghostly Prince of Denmark, spectral son of ghostly Queen

Gertrude, ghostly Queen of Denmark, spectral mother of ghostly Prince

Claudius, ghostly King of Denmark, apparitional husband to ghostly Queen

Polonius, ghostly counselor of the ghostly King of Denmark

Ophelia, ghostly daughter to ghostly counselor, spectral love interest in ghostly Prince

Laertes, ghostly son to ghostly counselor

Suspecters:

Voltemand, emissary who recently became a page

Cornelius, emissary who also recently became a page

Marcellus, Francisco, Barnardo, still just soldiers

Horatio, grieving friend of ghostly Prince, now a count

Reynaldo, servant to ghostly counselor, now a viscount

King Fortinbras of Norway, newly crowned king of Poland and Denmark

Svetlana and Svetlina, twin spies/servants to King Fortinbras

Textures:

The Ambassador

The Actors

The Pirate

The Fool

The Jailer

The Priest

The Minstrel

The Gravediggers

The Captain

The Seer-Soothsayer

The Stable hand

The Dog Mastiff

Chapter 1

What the fie?

I caught my tongue and stood up to recover my wit, only to spill my stein of beer down the front of my garments. I felt the cool liquid seep into my codpiece. Oh, foh! I whispered more loudly than I did indeed intend.

SherChristispeare, you coxcomb, watch your language. Remember you are in the presence of royalty, Prince Henry admonished.

I bowed. My humblest apologies, sire. Forsooth, could you repeat what you said?

Prince Henry arched his brow, threw me a frown, and shook his head, which shook his little crown. Forsooth? Goodness, please speak English. I am weary of all the ‘heretofores, and ‘whithersoevers’ I hear. Keep it simple. But soft, the entire court of Denmark has been brutally slain. The King wants you to investigate the foul crimes. He fears there is a conspiracy afoot.

Long live the King! I proclaimed, regaining my composure and trying to ignore the spreading moisture that drowned my jewels and gave me the sudden urge to relieve myself. It would be an honor, but wouldn’t Denmark have its own crime investigator?

The Prince sneered and sighed. He did not suffer the company of knaves patiently. The Danish investigator? He’s just a crazy priest, and a drunkard and hypocrite at that. Need I remind you that England is sovereign over all the lesser kingdoms and their subjects? Remember, the world is full of serfs and the Britons are destined to rule them all. King Henry VIII, my father (long live the King), assumes something unsettled there has gone amiss, awry, and askew.

I dually smiled and nodded at his dull wit. These tedious young fools.

The Prince continued. Fortinbras, newly crowned King of Norway has sent summons that he has sacked Poland, and in sudden absence of any nobles in Denmark, he has with gravest sorrow embraced the crown of Denmark as well.

An ambitious Prince, I quipped, but thought, "Why, what a king is this."

He’s an upstart crow who may have set his eyes on Switzerland too. The Prince spat the words, but I would have to wait until his noble presence departed before I could wipe the royal spittle from my face. Fortinbras grows too powerful too swiftly, he continued. My father is readying troops, but… the Prince paused, looking down at the wetness on my crotch. He thought you might be a good beginning, though I have doubts.

I waited, wanting nothing more than to slap his proud face.

Go to Denmark, no shriving time allowed, and ferret out the ghosts and goblins of these strange and unnatural deaths. While you are there, send us a report of the movements, maneuvers, and machinations of Fortinbras.

I bowed as low as my calf muscles would allow and gritted my teeth when I felt a cramp coming on. When the Prince blessed my presence with his absence, I let loose a groan and began stretching and massaging my right leg, even as I removed my codpiece to dry my manhood. Just then a long-limbed, bosomy wench with willowy hair and silky skin entered carrying a parchment. She towered a full foot over me without the aid of any heeled boots. She leaned forward and extended the document without attempting to cover her wondrous cleavage. Then, noticing me in all my un-glory, she smirked and snorted.

I considered explaining that when a man’s nether regions meet with a copious amount of chilled moisture, all men are created equal, but decided against it when she asked, Did I interrupt your private pleasure time? So much more freedom now for you poor Britons since England parted ways with the Catholic Church, ay, milord? Well, I always say: ‘Each man knows his own needs; to each by his own deeds.’

She ambled out of the room, humming a bawdy tune. I strained to deliver a witty couplet but none arrived in time. Besides, there was nothing as poetic as her ass swaying down the hallway. Instead, I began dreaming a shadow of a dream. Then I sighed. Aristocratically, she was not in my league; physically, I was not in hers — all which I powerfully and potently believed.

I had known only one woman in my life — and that a devout, virginal nun.

I changed my clothes, tossed back a draught of Rhenish, broke the seal, and opened the parchment. I knew I had been drinking too much of late — drinking to dull the pain of my loss. My weakness for sweet meats had also become a source of comfort in my sorrows. Marzipan, marmalet, and custard tarts had produced a premature and portly paunch. I promised myself I would start cutting back on the morrow. But to the task at hand.

I squinted through the dim light at the message, which contained instructions directly from the King. After some florid doggerel — wishing me good health and Godspeed — he directed I should begin my investigation by interviewing the Ambassador dispatched to Denmark to confirm the Crown’s wishes of removing the heads of one Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The ambassador had examined the crime scene before Prince Fortinbras had tampered with it. Included in the contents of the parcel was the letter calling for the immediate execution of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern — a document supposedly from the hand of King Claudius, but, according to Horatio, forged by the hand of Prince Hamlet.

I scanned the letter and shook my head. It didn’t take an expert to decipher right then and there the plain and simple truth. Neither Prince Hamlet nor King Claudius is to blame. There is a conspiracy afoot, and by Saxo, I will prove it to the Kingdom and reading public of the future! I boldly proclaimed to the heavens.

The challenge of uncovering the truth behind the mystery ignited me to action.

I took off the flat cap I normally wore, went to my closet, and brought down a hatbox. I opened it and pulled out my cavalier with a burgundy plume — my sleuthing hat. I brushed it meticulously and determined I would need a fresh plume soon. I set it on my pate, tilted it slightly, and spied myself in a glass. I could strike a dashing pose when the occasion demanded. I winked into the mirror and pointed at myself: I now felt ready for my next investigative adventure.

But in the next moment I frowned at the drooping state of my chestnut curls and the uneven shape of my beard — speckled with gray hairs. I would deal with them later.

For now, I had an appointment with an eyewitness to the Denmark Debacle.

Chapter 2

The Ambassador of England, the first Briton upon the crime scene in Denmark, had a grey beard, rheumy eyes, weak hams, a gaunt face, and a plentiful lack of wit. There was a derelict and drunken manner he cast: a cautionary tale for me to remember. The affairs of the kingdom must have become mundane and he seemed more preoccupied by his goblets of mead than the questions I asked.

Noble Ambassador, I said and bowed, I am SherChristispeare, court—

He waved me off. I know who you are.

I straightened to my full measure. I am here to ask you about—

The Queen, the King, the Prince, and a soul named Laertes — all blood-stained and most still, most secret, and most grave. His eyes twinkled at his pun.

So they were all at supper, ay? I said.

Supper?

Food for worms.

For what?

Never mind. What did you learn?

The Ambassador recounted the story of woe he had heard from the voice of Horatio — rife with carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, and deaths put on by cunning and forced causes.

Tragical-comical. Historical-ironical, I said.

What? the Ambassador asked, tossing back his third goblet and pouring a fourth.

Nothing, I said, thinking this old man is twice a child. And did the ear of England believe the voice of Horatio?

You speak weirdly, sir, the Ambassador said. What did he have to gain by lying? Osric confirmed part of the testimony. Fortinbras was pleased because Hamlet gave him his dying voice.

What happened after Horatio told his story?

I spent the evening with Fortinbras and we delved into country matters.

I smirked at the faux pas. Matters of the country is what I think you meant, right?

Uh, I think nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

In my mind’s eye, the man protested too much methought.

A serving dwarf carrying a platter of drink and food entered the room. He wore motley and bells that jingled when he moved. Sweet wine from today’s press and fried rabbit from this morning’s hunt, his voice was a whispery yet sonorous croon, pleasing to the ear. If not for his appearance, he would have made a fine reader. Perhaps he was an even better fool.

Do you have a pithy epigram to entertain us with, Fool? I asked.

His face grew grim. He wiggled his snub nose, waggled his ears, and scratched the stubble on his dimpled chin. I am Fool to giddy fops and witty fools too. Tell me, pithy sage, who is the fool behind you?

Too few to count and none to mount, I replied.

He gazed at me with glistening eyes. Your forced wordplay? Nay — just a fay. He bowed and exited the room. The plump Ambassador was nodding off — the drunken sot. The sun was falling in the east. My time was out of joint. At the door I considered taking the remainder of the Ambassador’s liquor but forced myself to refrain. I sensed I would need my sharpest wits for this case; alcohol would only dull them.

I headed for the Tower of London.

As I trekked to the chamber of horrors, I baffled over the Fool’s repartee, wishing I had delivered a better retort. I cast my befuddlement aside and deliberated on my next move. I must know what last words Rosencrantz and Guildenstern might have uttered before they lost their heads. I located the official executioner in the dank prison. The initial sight of him jolted me. He was silhouetted by candlelight and held a dripping battleaxe. I held my breath and took a step back. Bull-muscled and well girthed, the executioner moved into the light to reveal not an ax but a chicken quarter in one hand and a tankard in the other. His eyes gleamed with an unnatural and macabre aspect. The walls of the Tower were damp, the smell foul. It no longer resembled what it once had been: an armory, a bakery, a kennel, a lavatory, and a sewer before it was reduced to a dungeon of torture.

Not much time. Work to do, he said. He gave a toss of the head in the direction of the corridor of cells from which escaped the groans and sighs of prisoners.

I swallowed and drew a breath.

The more I whip and chop, the more ducats I make.

A grand commission. Well, time be thine, I drawled.

You wish to see me? Why? His voice croaked. He took a deep drink, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and broke into a fit of coughing.

I covered my mouth and nose and turned away until his hacking and hawking had ceased and he had finished with a full-mouthed spit which lodged against the wall. About a week ago you executed two men: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of Denmark, I began.

Ay, the whimpering pair. One wet himself, the other soiled himself. Stunk bad. They move just before I chop. Had to chop twice — twice. He held up his fingers to emphasize the onus of it all.

Did they say anything?

Something ‘bout pirates and a prince. Don’t listen.

Why not?

Words, words, words.

That’s a bit redundant, don’t you think? Remember brevity is the soul of wit. What words did they say?

Who, who, who, why, why, why.

Nothing more?

He shrugged and raised the chicken leg to his mouth. He began to gnaw at the center of leg and thigh. The fat-covered bones at both ends smeared his greasy cheeks. That’s all they keep saying, he mumbled through the bones.

Keep saying?

He pointed down the corridor. Their ghosts haunt this place. They walk holding heads in hands. Don’t like it. Upsets the prisoners.

Unfinished business?

Wish they’d finish and go away.

Do their ghosts say anything else?

Yah, one says, ‘Life in a box is better than no life at all,’ and ‘Do you think death could possibly be a boat?’ The executioner raised his hands, perplexed. The other one says, ‘Death is the ultimate negative. Not-being. You can’t not be on a boat.’ Makes no sense.

Just blathering, prattling gibberish, ay?

Ay. Times up. Must flay that one. He pointed at a prisoner set in bilboes sitting in the corner of his cell. When the executioner pointed at him, the man began to threaten and curse. The executioner winked at me. Like it better when they fight. He picked up a mace and started for the cell.

I wanted to stick around until the witching time of night. Frankly, I doubted the executioner’s sanity. Chopping off heads and flaying bodies with whips for a livelihood likely triggered ghostly hallucinations and antic dispositions — an already feeble mind overthrown.

Chapter 3

The wind sat in the shoulder of my sail. Just before I was scheduled to embark on a sloop for Denmark, a messenger arrived with a sealed parcel which contained a meager supply of money for my investigation. I silently cursed the tight pockets of England’s throne and swore aloud when I read the letter informing me another soul would be joining me.

I work better alone, I grumbled.

A throat cleared behind me. I turned, expecting to see the messenger but instead I encountered a sight strange to my nation.

A man youthful in age, slight in size, slender in limb, yet ample in gut stood before me. He wore a flat cap tilted a bit askew for style, which contradicted the rest of his clothing, which was humble and patched though clean. I judged him fifteen years my junior and three inches shorter, with a face wise beyond its years. The scars on his hands suggested he was no stranger to violence. What stood out was the nature of his eyes — Oriental in origin. While he wore an expression wholly without emotion, his eyes betrayed him. He was excited about the adventure that awaited us.

My liege, I am Pancho. Here, sweet lord, at your service. Your Royal Majesty has bid me accompany you. His voice, a bit shrill in pitch, grated upon the ear. He bowed.

Could he be a castrati of the Church? To what purpose? I inquired of him.

Well, let us see, he said, unrolling a parchment. Yes, yes, it is all here. I am to be your chief assistant, squire, courtier, councilor, apprentice, confidant, advocate, jester, fool, minstrel, knave, and comedic reliever when the circumstances warrant.

You left out one role.

Pray tell, what is that, my lord?

The King’s chief sponge, snitch, and spy.

He looked at me, jarred. A vein protruded down the middle of his forehead and his lips turned a pallid hue. My lord, your insult hath cleft my heart in twain. If I were not under strict and direct orders, I would challenge you to a duel with rapiers to defend my much-maligned honor. You would not escape calumny.

I did not ask for, nor do I need a sidekick. I trust you like adders fanged.

I have orders, my lord. He handed them to me. By the way, ‘adders fanged’? That is a vile phrase. Wouldn’t ‘fanged adders’ be better, and is ‘fanged’ really a necessary adjective for an adder? Remember brevity is the soul—

—of wit, and I like thy wit well, arrant knave.

This order sounds like a knavish piece of work – investigating the scene of a brutal crime, the young man said. But what of that? We have free souls and I am certain this means to be quite a knight’s errand.

What is thy name again? I asked.

He bowed with ceremony. Pancho, your humble and loyal servant.

The time will out to suit your action to the word, the word to your action. Tell me, why is your name Pancho when you are obviously — I paused.

Pancho eyed me. Master, are you afraid of a misstep? Not sure whether to say Japanese, Chinese, Cantonese, Siamese, Burmese, Nepalese—

I raised my hand. Enough, enough, Pancho.

He railed on: Or perhaps you thought to hyphenate a few with your superior European stock — British-Korean, French-

Enough!

It is enough — enough that you know I will be trustworthy to your cause, my liege. And I am eager to learn your investigative skills and Aristotelian logic.

Socratic too.

But not Pythagorean or Euclidean?

I sneered. Mathematics is evil.

I’ve always thought so, Pancho said.

I winked. It is the Word that reigns. I smiled.

Pancho paused, blinked, squinted, frowned, and cleared his throat. Huh, yes, sire. How about Platonic philosophy as well? After all, our relationship will be entirely platonic, am I correct? Because I am utterly hetero—

As am I, I said. Completely and uncompromisingly.

In faith, totally, Pancho added.

Undividedly, I reinforced.

Absolutely.

Unabridgedly.

Thoroughly.

Conclusively. Are we clear?