“In what way?”
“Look at the newspapers, Rosalind. The situation is increasingly grim. War clouds seem to be gathering all over Europe.”
“Too true!” she sighed, pulling a face.
“The play is essentially about war and its implications. It’s a pity you can’t invite Adolf Hitler over to see it. He’d learn how futile war really is. One of the papers reckoned that if things go on as they are doing, Britain might be dragged into the conflict.”
“Oh, I hope not. Tony would rush to enlist.”
“A good patriot, obviously.”
“My brother just likes adventure, that’s all.”
As they were talking, the platform had been slowly filling up and the noise level had risen markedly. There was a tangible air of anticipation. When the train came into the station, everyone surged towards the cream-and-brown carriages. Rosalind stood on tiptoe to look around her.
“Where on earth can he be?” she said anxiously.
“You’ll have to go without him,” suggested Mary Anne.
“Impossible-Tony has our tickets!”
“Oh dear!”
“Ah, there he is,” declared Rosalind, looking back towards the barrier. “Do excuse me, I’ll have to go.” She moved away and tossed a farewell comment over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at the theatre.”
“What a charming young woman!” said Mary Anne.
“Yes,” agreed Cyrus, helping her into the carriage.
Lifting up his suitcase, he paused long enough to watch Rosalind Walker greet a tall young man near the rear of the train. After exchanging a few words, the two of them got into a carriage. Mary Anne put her head out of the open door.
“Come on, Cyrus,” she cajoled. “What are you waiting for?”
The locomotive was an elegant green monster of gleaming metal. It left on time in an explosion of steam and sustained clamor. When it hit its cruising speed, the train took on a steady rhythmical beat. Mary Anne was soon asleep. Travel of any kind invariably made her eyelids droop and her husband was grateful. It meant that he was spared any conversation and could concentrate on going through the text of Troilus and Cressida once more, savoring its multiple pleasures without having to persuade his wife that they actually existed. Mary Anne had many virtues and he loved her for them. She was not, however, an academic. Plays only existed at a surface level for her. She missed their deeper subtleties.
After stopping at High Wycombe, the train steamed on through the Oxfordshire countryside, rattling amiably and leaving a thick, gray cloud of smoke in its wake. When it eventually slowed again, Cyrus looked up, expecting to see the name of Leamington Spa on the station. Instead, he discovered that they were making a brief stoppage at Banbury. Back in motion once more, the Shakespeare Express gathered speed, its insistent chuffing like an endless stream of iambic pentameters.
It was not until they reached their destination that Cyrus nudged his wife awake. Mary Anne blinked her eyes and sat up abruptly. She peered through the window.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Stratford-upon-Avon.”
“Already?”
“You’ve been asleep for two hours.”
“Never!”
“As long as you don’t do it during the matinée.”
“I won’t, Cyrus, I promise. I’d never let you down.”
“William Shakespeare is the person you’d be letting down.”
Mary Anne was alarmed. “I’d never dare to do that-it would be a form of sacrilege.”
The jewelry shop was a double-fronted establishment in the High Street. It had a wide selection of rings, brooches, necklaces, watches, and clocks on display. Inside the shop, it also had a range of silver cups that could be engraved on the premises. Albert Ives was a slight individual of middle years who prided himself on his ability to sum up a customer instantly. When the young man came into the shop, Ives needed only a glance to tell him that his customer had serious intentions. The man was there to buy rather than browse.
“Good morning,” said the newcomer affably. “I’m looking for an engagement ring.”
“What did you have in mind, sir?” asked Ives.
“Well, you have a tray in the middle of the window that rather caught my eye. One, in particular, looked promising. Solid gold, twenty-two karat, with a cluster of five diamonds.”
“Would you like to take a closer look?”
“Yes, please.”
“One moment.”
Albert Ives unlocked the glass doors and reached into one of the front windows. The customer, meanwhile, glanced idly around the shop. When the tray was placed in front of him, he took out a monocle and slipped it into his eye, examining the array of rings with care. Ives took the opportunity to study the man. Tall, well dressed, and well groomed, he wore an expensive suit and a trilby that sat at a rakish angle on his head. A neat brown moustache acted as a focal point in a face that was pleasant rather than handsome. Ives noticed the costly gold cufflinks.
The customer was intrigued. “This is the one that I liked,” he said, indicating the diamond ring, “yet this solitaire is almost twice as much. Why is that?”
“The stone is of a far higher quality, sir.”
“But it’s smaller than the cluster.”
“Size is not everything,” explained Ives. “If the solitaire were identical to the one that first caught your eye, then the price would be considerably higher.”
“Really?”
Customers did not often show such a genuine interest in the trade, so Ives made the most of his captive audience. He talked at length about the virtues of the respective diamonds and drew the attention of the young man to the way that they were cut.
“Fascinating!” said the other.
“All that glitters is not gold, sir,” said Ives complacently.
“I’ll remember that, old chap. Well, it looks as if you’ve saved me from buying the wrong one.” He indicated the solitaire. “Is this the best one you have in the shop or do you have any others?”
“We do keep a small selection in the safe.”
“That’s all right,” said the customer airily as the other man raised a questioning eyebrow. “Money is no object. There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.” He laughed. “Heavens above, one only gets engaged once in a lifetime! Why spoil the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar?”
Ives ventured a smile. “I think you’ll find it will be rather more than a ha’p’orth, sir. But, as you say, it’s a unique occasion.”
“Let me see what you have.”
“I will, sir.”
Albert Ives moved to the back of the shop and drew back a small curtain that hung at waist height. A large safe came into view. After using a key to begin the opening process, he then twiddled the tumblers until he found the correct combination. The heavy door swung silently open. Ives was about to reach into the safe when he realized that his customer was now standing directly behind him. Before he could turn, he was knocked unconscious with a vicious swing of a cosh. The safe was ransacked within seconds.
After checking into their hotel, the Hilliers had a light lunch before sauntering along to the theatre in the bright sunshine. The river swarmed with activity. Young men in baggy trousers, white shirts, and boaters were showing off their punting skills to decorous sweethearts who lounged on leather cushions under their parasols. An occasional rowing boat went by. Gaudily painted barges were moored along the towpath and swans glided effortlessly past, viewing the invasion of their territory with utter disdain. Crowds milled on both banks. Invisible to the eye, Shakespeare was nevertheless a discernible presence.