The Queen's Cipher Read Free

behaved at home.”
    Freddie was struck by a terrible thought. It was entirely possible that the women in Shakespeare’s life never read a word he wrote.
    “Where Shakespeare differs from his contemporaries is in his admiration for the female intellect. Many of his heroines are almost as clever and manipulative as Elizabeth herself. Shakespeare knew women were not short of intelligence, merely worse educated. What they lacked was opportunity and he gave them a dramatic platform on which they could shine.”
    She was talking about democracy and no one had a better right to do so. For all its imperfections, the United States believed in individual freedom and practised open government. Dr Dilworth stood for liberty and female emancipation and if that was sexual stereotyping, he really didn’t care.
    He sat in rapt attention as she wandered around the conference stage offering textual analysis. There was nothing frail or submissive about witty, resourceful heroines like Portia, Helena or Beatrice. “The playwright clearly studied the psychology of his royal patron and gave his female characters some of her inner strength. This was Shakespeare’s homage to Elizabeth and his gift to us too. It is a noble legacy.”
    As she left the lectern Freddie rose to his feet to lead the clapping and, to his relief, other delegates followed suit. He could only hope their motives were purer than his own.
    Dr Dilworth’s departure from the stage marked the end of the opening session and, as delegates began to drift out of the conference hall, he caught sight of Dame Julia Walker-Roberts bearing down on him. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Oxford’s dragon lady had a soft spot for him.
    “Ah, there you are, Freddie,” she said. “Professor Cleaver is hosting a cocktail party in the Sanmicheli Suite and I would like you to accompany me.”
    It was more of a summons than an invitation.
    “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Dame Julia.” Freddie bowed his head, acting out the unfamiliar role of the gallant.
    An hour later he was standing on his own, empty champagne flute in hand, feeling sorry for himself as he watched his distinguished partner networking with the Chinese delegation. He had little small talk at the best of times and none at all in Mandarin.
    A tinkling laugh carried across the room and there she was looking tanned, blonde and utterly gorgeous, surrounded by elderly male admirers. Dr Dilworth must have sensed his presence because she quickly excused herself and came towards him. The prospect of actually meeting her made his throat go dry. He had always been awkward around girls, even when they appeared to fancy him.
    “Hi, I’m Sam,” she said establishing eye contact. He could smell her perfume: something expensive, he supposed.
    “Hello, I’m Freddie Brett.” His breath was high and tight inside his chest.
    “Yes, I know who you are.” Beneath her long eyelashes she was already assessing him.
    “I suppose you h-heard I shopped my tutor.”
    “Sure, did you realise the consequences?”
    In truth he hadn’t stopped to think. The similarities had been too extensive. Whole paragraphs had been lifted, give or take a synonym or two, and most of his original ideas paraphrased. It was kill or be killed.
    “I had to do it or I wouldn’t have got my doctorate.”
    What had caused the trouble was a dissertation in which Freddie claimed that Hamlet was a sensitive thinker caught between two courses of action, murder and suicide, knowing that each led to the sacrifice of his immortal soul. He had shown an early draft to his supervising tutor Professor Cartwright who, eight months later, published a book called The Poisoned Mind advancing exactly the same thesis. When Freddie complained, his college conducted an internal inquiry which led to Cartwright being dismissed to howls of outrage from his many friends in the literary fraternity.
    Then the press got wind of it. Seizing his opportunity, Cartwright played