“Objectionable? Exactly what are you referring to, might I ask?”
“Among others, there is this line: ‘Her words felt like a foul blow…”
“What is objectionable about that, Mr. Tilney?”
“Why Mr. Marlowe… a ‘foul blow’ could also be heard as a ‘fowl blow’. Fowl blow, sir! Do you think audiences will find oral pleasures from a chicken appropriate? Oral pleasures from a chicken! Abomination! That’s what this is… an abomination! This play is not fit for the stage! Re-write the offending scenes Mr. Marlowe, or write a new play. Good day, sir!”
And the playwright Christopher Marlowe took his leave.
I heard this exchange from the room next door. My name is William Short… or Will Short, for short… I was a junior in the employ of the Lord Chamberlain. It was my first Appointment. At one time the Lord Chamberlain’s Office was responsible for Royal Festivities & Entertainments. With the rule of Henry VIII, however, a separate Appointment of Master of the Revels was awarded to Thomas Cawarden. That would have been… let’s see, 1544 I should think. And twenty-five years later Edmund Tilney received the patent as Master of the Revels. Mr. Tilney reports to the Lord Chamberlain. The Lord Chamberlain reports to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. And I report to Mr. Tilney. I assist Mr. Tilney…
Mr. Tilney maintains a very busy schedule. There isn’t a production at The Curtain or The Rose that he hasn’t first judged for the appropriateness of its content. He watches rehearsals, he supervises productions for the Court. He is forever on the move… and when he’s out on the rounds of the playhouses, I am “in charge,” as it were. Which means that I have to respond to inquiries and/or make the necessary appointments and/or recommendations in Mr. Tilney’s stead.
One such day when Mr. Tilney was attending a rehearsal of The Jew of Malta, I responded to the knock on the door.
“Mr. Tilney?” the question coming from a woman as she opened the door.
Ignoring the direction of her address, “Can I help you?”
“My card, sir.” Which she proffered to me with a rather lofty air. Unusual for a Lady to have a calling card, a beautifully perfumed card at that…
“Mrs. Poodle?”
“Poo-dell. Poodle, sir.”
“Quite. How can I be of service Mrs…. uh, Mrs. Poodle?”
Before I proceed with my story, perhaps I should tell you that Mrs. Poodle was married to Reginald Poodle, a wealthy grain merchant. Mr. Poodle spent much of his life elsewhere. But he was always sure to keep his wife well appointed… hand carved carriages, homes in the country, a house in London, servants every where, lavish wardrobe. A rare example of what wealth can do, even when it was not connected to Nobility.
Her status preceded her to the door of Mr. Tilney. That she had never crossed paths with the Master of the Revels put me in a position to adopt his Office, after all… I did answer the door.
“Mr. Tilney, I understand that you are known to the great writers of our time?”
“Yes, that is correct Madame.”
“Mr. Marlowe? Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Of course.”
“Then there is a matter in which you may be of invaluable assistance. It will require a high degree of discretion.”
“Mrs. Poodle, you can rely on my integrity.”
Perhaps it was lucky that Mrs. Poodle had by chance encountered me, thinking me my employer, instead of my employer, whose integrity could be challenged on a daily basis… a challenge that, more often then not, could put a chink in his vaunted reputation.
In short, he could be bought. Either in coin of the realm, or in the case of the lovely and beautifully scented Mrs. Poodle, perhaps in kind…
I pondered this as I tried to imagine what could bring this woman of social standing to the door of the Master of the Revels… on a matter of discretion? I closed the door to insure our privacy.
“Now, how can I be of service?”
She produced a substantial portfolio, untied its ribbon to reveal numbers of pages in manuscript. “Are you aware that Christopher Marlowe was killed last night in a Depford Inn?” she asked.
“Killed? Why no!”
“I am told it was an argument over a bill…”
“Oh, the vanity, the vanity!”
“It was a bill, not the billing! I bring manuscripts in his hand that prove his authorship of a number of works that have been attributed to William Shakespeare.”
“How did you come by these Mrs. Poodle?”
“Mr. Tilney… a proper gentleman wouldn’t ask that of a lady.”
If I was going to reveal my true identity to this exquisite lady, it wasn’t going to be at this time. I had a number of ethical situations before me… most significantly, that I was representing myself as someone else. Next, that I was now party to proof of plagiarism, or even worse, literary theft… putting at risk the reputation of England’s finest poet and playwright. Lastly, there was the matter of Mrs. Poodle herself… a lady of high standing, very much married, whose compensation for a matter of discretion would potentially compromise her reputation as well.
I am sure you can see, in short, that this was a complicated issue ripe with hazards.
“Why bring these pages here?” I asked, as I scanned through the manuscripts — and having seen Marlowe’s work before, I could attest to their authenticity. Surely she could have kept them or destroyed them, none to be the wiser. Or turned them over to Master Shakespeare himself.
“It’s about reputation Mr. Tilney. How shall I put this? Mr. Marlowe had been a close friend. A very close friend. If it were known that I held these manuscripts for his safekeeping, it would produce questions about the nature of our relationship… a relationship which I assure you was strictly literary. But still, in the eyes of others, say Mr. Poodle, he might think there was an involvement of a different sort.”
At this point the lovely Mr. Poodle produced a delicate linen handkerchief from her sleeve and brought it to her cheek to absorb a single tear. She continued, “It would pain me to think that Will Shakespeare, that reprobate, will take credit for that which rightfully belongs to Kit Marlowe.”
“I see, and what specifically would you like me to do, Mrs. Poodle?”
“Mr. Tilney, you’re Master of the Revels. You know Kit Marlowe’s hand. You’re in the position to expose William Shakespeare as a fraud!”
“I see.”
“Don’t you see how important this is?”
I nodded, “I can imagine that you would prefer that your connection in this episode remain, in short, anonymous?”
“Mr. Tilney… I knew I could count on your discretion.”
You can see that we were at a critical tip point in our negotiation. I doubt whether the real Mr. Tilney would have been overly troubled by the situation. His concern would only have been, what’s in it for me? The real irony here was that the real Mr. Tilney couldn’t stand Shakespeare. He may not have liked Marlowe; but he had contempt for Shakespeare and he would have welcomed any piece of evidence to shatter his reputation. What Mrs. Poodle didn’t know — Tilney would have done her bidding for nothing.
I, on the other hand, thought very much of Shakespeare, and had no interest in causing him harm.
In terms of what would now take place, in a matter of delicate discretion, the reputation of Shakespeare or Marlowe was neither here nor there in my mind. My mind focused on the lovely and fragrant Mrs. Poodle. And if I laboured initially over the ethical questions, I now surrendered body and soul to the presence and aroma that captivated me.
“Mrs. Poodle… let me refresh you with some wonderful wine and perhaps we can share our literary interests…”