SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET by Elise Broach Read Free Book Online Page B

reached Mrs. Roth’s, her sneakers were soaked and squelching, and wet strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. She scampered over the puddled walkway to the porch, where Mrs. Roth held open the front door and motioned her inside.
    Hero ran into the house, shaking her hair away from her face. Gingerly, she leaned her sodden backpack against the door.
    â€œMy goodness! You’re wet to the bone,” Mrs. Roth exclaimed. “Let me get you a towel.”
    Hero looked around. The inside of the house was not so different from the outside: shabby, cluttered, interesting. There were books everywhere, spilling out of the dark bookcases in the living room, stacked high on the dining-room table, even heaped on the piano in the corner. There were also flowers—marigolds,snapdragons, roses—stuffed haphazardly in odd-looking containers all over the room. A gleaming, ornately carved staircase curved away from Hero, and an old glass milk bottle filled with tiger lilies perched on the bottom step. On the wall straight ahead, a cluster of photographs hung next to a faded map of Australia and two large gilt-framed oil paintings of the ocean.
    Mrs. Roth appeared with a thick blue towel in her outstretched hand. Hero buried her face in it. It smelled sweet, like detergent, and musty at the same time, as if it had been in the closet awhile. When she finished rubbing herself dry, she peeled off her shoes and socks and followed Mrs. Roth into the kitchen. A wreckage of bowls and baking supplies littered the countertop.
    â€œI’ve made muffins,” Mrs. Roth explained. “Blueberry, just put them in. Tea?” She filled the kettle and began pulling her china cups and saucers from the cupboard. “What a heavy rain! I love summer storms. They make the house feel so cozy.”
    Hero nodded. “My mom says that when it rains you never feel like you should be anywhere but home.” She sat down at the table and looked through the window at the rain-drenched garden. “Hey, I asked my dad about Mr. Murphy. He said the reason Mr. Murphy was so interested in his job at theMaxwell was because of Mrs. Murphy. She was descended from some Englishman who might be the real Shakespeare.” She told the rest of the story, trying to remember all the details, looping back to correct herself, her words tumbling over one another. As Mrs. Roth listened, her eyes widened, and finally she slid into a chair and rested her chin in one palm. The teakettle whistled untended.
    â€œWell, isn’t that astonishing,” she said when Hero finished. “I had no idea.” She shook her head slowly. “Eleanor said the Veres were English nobility but she never mentioned Shakespeare. If it’s true—well, does your father really think it could be true?”
    â€œHe’s not sure,” Hero answered. “He says there’s no proof. No one’s been able to explain why Edward de Vere would try so hard to keep it a secret that he wrote the plays.”
    â€œWell, that is curious, isn’t it?” Mrs. Roth agreed.
    She poured their tea. Hero held the cup with both hands and lowered her face into the warm vapor. “You were going to show me something, remember?” she said. “The other day?”
    â€œOf course I remember. I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Daniel.” Mrs. Roth sounded almost apologetic. “He’s a dear, and I don’t like deceivinghim. But he is the son of the police chief. I’d rather not put him in the position of having to lie to his father. Or of having to tell his father the truth, for that matter.”
    So she hadn’t told him anything after all. Hero smiled at her, feeling a warm swell of gladness that something remained a secret. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Who knows if you can trust him?”
    â€œOh, I trust Daniel,” Mrs. Roth said decisively. “I’m a notoriously good judge of character. But I’m not