If actors are late, the entire flow of the stage crumbles. Therefore, they all enter together into the private dining room at the Globe theatre, each one cautious beneath their cheerful disposition. With an air of imperiousness honed in Bridgerton, the handsome Adjoa Andoh crosses over to the window and smiles at the bustling river below. “Both Shakespeare and Marlowe would recognize this bend in the river,” she remarks.
Equally handsome, exuding energy and sophistication, Paterson Joseph adds, “The perfect setting to debate who was the superior playwright. Poor Marlowe receives unfair treatment simply for not being Shakespeare. However, he was Bill’s predecessor. It’s difficult to imagine one without the other.”
Andoh turns and links arms with Joseph. “How delightful to be here,” she exclaims, her voice rich and warm.
“But also quite mysterious,” Joseph continues.
“Well, our host is a crime writer. What else would you expect? Val, tell us who else is joining us.”
A young man enters the room. His brown hair curls over a white linen collar, as if compensating for his receding hairline. His black jerkin is plain, along with his moleskin breeches. His expression appears puzzled as his dark eyes take in all of us.
“Master Shakespeare,” I announce. “Fresh from the success of your play Richard III.” The two actors snap to attention. I introduce them to the playwright, whose frown deepens.
“How is it that you, a woman, are cast as a player here?” he demands of Andoh. “No stage in England permits females. What sort of place do you consider home, pray?”
It’s not a favorable question; I see the skin around Andoh’s eyes tighten.
I intervene. “The issue is not where we come from, but when. Will, it’s 1593 for you. However, for us, it’s 2023. Tonight, the years between us have vanished, as if in a midsummer night’s dream.”
The serving wench enters with oysters and a jug of spiced wine. As she sets them on the table, I say, “We’re one person short, but please proceed.”
“1593?” Joseph asks while reaching for an oyster. “So, Will, you’ve only just begun.”
The door bursts open, and our final guest saunters in, sweeping his hat from his head and tossing it on the banquette. He runs a hand through his dark hair. “I came as quickly as I could, but I am still late,” he states. “I was detained at the Star Chamber.” He grins, as if being on bail is something to be proud of. “They can’t seem to decide whether I’m a traitor or heretic. Now, who among you is my hostess?”
Before I can answer, he spots Shakespeare. “Will! What are you doing here?”
“The allure of good food and drink, just like you,” Shakespeare replies.
Marlowe takes a proper look at the rest of us. “Have I gone from one inquisition to another, then?” He reaches for a cup of wine.
The waitress arrives with platters of small roasted fowls and fried fish for us to enjoy.
“I want to know how it feels in 1593,” I say. “Kit, you were at the peak of your career, and Will, you were at the beginning of yours, just starting to taste success.”
“Only because I guided his apprentice hand when he arrived from Stratford with nothing but the skills of a jobbing actor,” Marlowe remarks, helping himself to more wine.
“Will was a quick learner, though,” I interject. “He brought his understanding of theatre to what you taught him. He’s going to be the great star of his time and ours.”
Marlowe turns on me. “What do you mean? Every man knows I am the superior playwright. My words are mighty, my name is on everyone’s lips.”
“That may be true of 1593,” I reply. “But Kit, you’ll be dead within the month.”
A stunned silence ensues, broken only by the arrival of a roast rib of beef accompanied by a bed of carrots.
Shakespeare bursts into laughter. “That’s amusing,” he exclaims.
“Amusing?” Marlowe shouts. “You find the prospect of my death humorous?” He grabs the carving knife and waves it at Shakespeare.
Andoh reacts swiftly, her hand circling Marlowe’s wrist. “There’s no need for this, Kit. Why not sit down and join us for a meal? Let’s converse as friends. We have so much to learn from each other.”
For a moment, it hangs in the balance. Then Marlowe glares at me. “You nearly had me there, madam. I won’t fall for your ill-conceived jest.” He flops down onto the banquette and starts eating.
I signal for more wine, a lot more wine, and the conversation flows. The actors have their queries answered, and the playwrights have their egos stroked. By the time the lemon posset is served, we have become friends for life. Well, in Marlowe’s case, it won’t be for long.
Val McDermid is an author. Her book “Past Lying” is now available from Sphere
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