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BIBLICAL READINGS AND LITERARY
WRITINGS IN EARLY MODERN
E N G L A N D , 1 5 5 8 –1 6 2 5
Biblical Readings and
Literary Writings in
Early Modern England,
1558–1625
VICTORIA BROWNLEE

1
3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of
Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
© Victoria Brownlee 2018
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First Edition published in 2018
Impression: 1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
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above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
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for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials
contained in any third party website referenced in this work.
This publication received a subvention from the Publications
Fund of National University of Ireland, Galway, for image and
indexing costs.
For Andy, with love
Acknowledgements

The research for this book began during my doctoral work at Queen’s
University Belfast. This early research was generously funded by an
AHRC Doctoral Award and enriched by discussions with staff and post-
graduates in the School of English. I am deeply grateful to Adrian Streete
who was an outstanding supervisor to my doctoral research. In 2007 I was
privileged to be one of four students in an MA module convened by
Adrian on literature and religion. I can trace the idea for this project to that
class, and to my engagement with Adrian’s important research. Since then,
I have benefited enormously from Adrian’s wisdom, advice, and readings,
and I am grateful for his continuing support and interest in my work.
Mark Burnett and Ramona Wray were my chief encouragers as an
undergraduate at Queen’s. Their classes were a joy, and I was fortunate
to benefit from their insight throughout my graduate studies.
Without my year as an Irish Research Council post-doctoral fellow at
University College Dublin this book might yet be unfinished. During that
time Danielle Clarke was an enthusiastic and inspiring mentor, and an
endless source of knowledge and encouragement. Danielle’s rigorous
engagement with the arguments in this book, and her professional advice,
support, and friendship have been instrumental to the completion of
this project.
I am grateful for the support of my colleagues in the Department of
English at NUI Galway, especially Dan Carey, Marie-Louise Coolahan,
Lindsay Reid, Sean Ryder, and Elizabeth Tilley, as well as for conversa-
tions with colleagues further afield, particularly Dermot Cavanagh, Laura
Gallagher, Jane Grogan, Stephen O’Neill, Michele Osherow, Emma
Rhatigan, and Shelley Troope. I would also like to thank warmly the
two anonymous readers at Oxford University Press for the considerable
time invested in reading and commenting on these pages. This book is
better for their suggestions.
I am thankful for the assistance of the fantastic editors and staff at
Oxford University Press, and to the University of Chicago Press for
permission to reproduce material that appeared in ‘Literal and Spiritual
Births: Mary as Mother in Seventeenth-Century Women’s Writing’,
Renaissance Quarterly 68.4 (2015): 1297–1326, in Chapter 5 of this
book (© 2015 Renaissance Society of America. All rights reserved).
viii Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks are owed to my family. My mum, Roberta Brownlee,
impressed upon me the importance of reading at a young age, and provided
the resources for me learn. David Brownlee, Matthew Brownlee, Stephen
Carroll, and Adeline and Roy Fleming have, in different ways, inquired
about the progress of this project faithfully, and Naomi Reaney has listened
and encouraged on more occasions than I can recall. My greatest debt is
to Andy Carroll, who has cheered, consoled, discussed, and distracted
since the beginning, and whose support for this book has been unwavering.
To Reuben and Martha, you have provided joy and perspective in more
ways than you know.
Victoria Brownlee
Contents

List of Illustrations xi
Note to the Reader xiii

Introduction 1
1. ‘The engrafted word’: Reading and Receiving the Scriptures
in Early Modern England 14
2. ‘Our King Salomon’: Biblical Typology and the Kingship
of Solomon in Tudor and Stuart England 49
3. A Tale of Two Jobs: Reading Suffering, Providence, and
Restoration in King Leir and King Lear 79
4. ‘By moste sweete and comfortable allegories’: Discerning
Spiritual Signs in the Song of Songs 113
5. Typologies of Marian Maternity: Literal and Spiritual Birth
in Seventeenth-Century Women’s Writing 143
6. Reading Revelations: Figuring the End in Post-Reformation
Literary Culture 169
Afterword 211

Select Bibliography 215


Index Locorum 247
Index 249
List of Illustrations
2.1. ‘Regni Angloisraelitici Typus’, from Thomas Morton, Salomon or
A treatise declaring the state of the kingdome of Israel (1596 M88). 53
2.2. ‘Solomon and the Queen of Sheba’, c.1535, by Hans Holbein
the Younger. 60
3.1. ‘The burning of Martyr Laurence Saunders at Couentry’, from
John Foxe, Actes and Monuments (RB 59843). 91
6.1. The Whore of Babylon, from Martin Luther, Das Newe
Testament Deutzsch. 179
6.2. The Pope on the seven-headed beast, from Patrick Forbes, An
exquisite commentarie vpon the Reuelation of Saint Iohn (RB 20180). 181
Note to the Reader

Original spelling and punctuation has been retained in quotations and in titles
of early printed works. Unless otherwise noted, all biblical references are to the
1587 edition of the Geneva Bible: The Bible that is, the Holy Scriptures contained in
the Olde and Newe Testament (London: Christopher Barker, 1587).
Introduction

OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,


And the configurations of their glorie!
Seeing not onely how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the storie.
This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christians destinie:
Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev’ry thing
Thy words do finde me out, & parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.
Starres are poore books, & oftentimes do misse:
This book of starres lights to eternall blisse.1

For a book examining the relationship between biblical reading and the
literature of the early modern period, George Herbert’s ‘The Holy Scrip-
tures (II)’ is an evocative reminder of literary interest in matters of biblical
interpretation. Herbert’s sonnet ruminates on a core principle of reformed
hermeneutics, namely, that the Bible is a collection of constellated writ-
ings that speak of one story, ‘the storie’. The unifying metanarrative that
the sonnet’s opening quatrain celebrates is the life and death of Christ,
who identified himself in the Gospels as the one written of in ‘the Lawe of
Moses, and in the Prophets and in the Psalmes’ (Luke 24:44). Herbert’s
poetic meditation on scripture’s Christological ligatures conveys much to
us of early modern attitudes towards biblical reading. Of particular rele-
vance to this book is the case made for typological reading. The compari-
son of scripture with itself and with history reveals a ‘motion’, as Herbert
terms it, that stretches across biblical history and into the present.2

1
George Herbert, The Temple Sacred poems and private ejaculations (Cambridge: Thom.
Buck, and Roger Daniel, 1633), 50–1.
2
For an explanation of typology as a reading practice in this period, see pp. 28–35.
2 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
Read in this way, the scriptures speak of ‘Christians destinie’ and ‘me’, as
well as Christ.
The belief that the Bible’s narratives were prefigurative of the present
was a compelling one in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and it is
with this dominant supposition of early modern biblical reading that this
book is concerned. Biblical Readings and Literary Writings in Early Modern
England, 1558–1625 considers how the Bible was read and applied to
individual and national circumstances, and maps the connection between
these readings and various forms of writing.3 It argues that drama, poetry,
and life writings, as well as sermons and biblical commentaries, bear the
hallmarks of the period’s dominant reading practices, and do interpret-
ative work. In tracing the impact of biblical reading across a range of early
modern writing, this book also demonstrates that literary reimaginings of,
and allusions to, the Bible were common, varied, and ideologically evoca-
tive. As the chapters that follow illustrate the extent to which early modern
literature participated in theological debate and articulated innovative
programmes of exegesis, this book attests to the Bible’s extraordinary
impact on sixteenth- and seventeenth-century culture more generally.
The Bible was, as Hannibal Hamlin puts it, ‘the age’s most important
book’, and in recent decades the field of early modern studies has become
much more attuned to the precise nature of scripture’s profound influence.4
Investigations into the circulation of the Geneva Bible, printed in England
from 1576, and the 1611 Authorized Version Bible, have shown that the
Bible was the book most likely to be owned in English households, and
traced how the availability of the scriptures in the vernacular contributed to
significant developments in domestic reading practices.5 It is clear that
Bible-reading and attendance at sermons shaped the education, religious

3
The literary works considered by this book emerge during the reigns of Queen
Elizabeth I and King James I & VI; yet, I have endeavoured throughout, where appropriate,
to acknowledge how these writings engage with earlier and later traditions of biblical
interpretation. Equally, although the literary writings that I address were published or
performed in England, my discussion of the period’s exegetical culture frequently addresses
interpretative trends across Europe as a means of acknowledging the continuities, and
fissures, in post-Reformation readings of scripture.
4
Hannibal Hamlin, The Bible in Shakespeare (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 3.
5
William Sherman, Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England (Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 72; Femke Molekamp, Women and the Bible in
Early Modern England: Religious Reading and Writing (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2013), 11, 19–50. See also Gordon Campbell, Bible: The Story of the King James Version,
1611–2011 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); Hannibal Hamlin and Norman
W. Jones, eds., The King James Bible after 400 Years: Literary, Linguistic, and Cultural
Influences (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Euan Cameron, ed., The New
Cambridge History of the Bible: Volume 3, From 1450 to 1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2016).
Introduction 3
beliefs, and day-to-day routines of individuals, and that the devotional
habits of the laity could include various modes of reading.6 The growing
interest in early modern devotional practices has demonstrated the particu-
lar importance of writing to biblical reading habits in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries.7 Bible-reading frequently involved annotating
scripture’s margins, compiling commonplace books and note-making
on sermons and spiritual conversations. These kinds of active reading
habits were practised routinely by literate women, as well as men, as
Femke Molekamp’s study of female devotional habits has shown. ‘Private
Bible reading’, Molekamp explains, ‘was sometimes accompanied by
rigorous acts of writing . . . the literate reader might annotate the scrip-
tures and printed marginalia as she digested them.’8 Certainly, biblical
reading was generative in early modern England—those who could read
the Bible frequently did so with pen in hand.
The kinds of writing induced by Bible-reading in early modern England
were richly varied. Beyond markings and annotations, biblical read-
ing shaped the information recorded in diaries, life writings, and advice
manuals. Many such writings cite and encourage daily Bible-reading
habits and contain religious reflection. Others, like Richard Stonley’s
diary, capture habitual reading through the transcription of a portion of
biblical text before each entry.9 Cultures of biblical reading are also
traceable in the period’s poetic writings. The Bible informs the structure
and imagery of meditative poetry by writers including Anne Wheathill
and Robert Aylett, as well as Passion poems, devotional lyrics, and epics.
The Bible’s impact on poets such as Mary Sidney, George Herbert, and
John Milton has been established in several important studies, but there
remains a sizeable chunk of biblical verse that has been little explored.10

6
On daily habits of Bible-reading see Naomi Tadmor, The Social Universe of the English
Bible: Scripture, Society, and Culture in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2010); Kate Narveson, Bible Readers and Lay Writers in Early Modern
England: Gender and Self-Definition in an Emergent Writing Culture (Farnham: Ashgate,
2012); Molekamp, Women and the Bible, 84–118; Alec Ryrie, Being Protestant in Reforma-
tion Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 259–92. For consideration of early
modern sermon culture see Arnold Hunt, The Art of Hearing: English Preachers and their
Audiences, 1590–1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Mary Morrissey,
Politics and the Paul’s Cross Sermons, 1558–1642 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011);
Peter McCullough, Hugh Adlington, and Emma Rhatigan, eds., The Oxford Handbook of
the Early Modern Sermon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).
7
See Sherman, Used Books; Narveson, Bible Readers; Molekamp, Women and the Bible,
51–150.
8
Molekamp, Women and the Bible, 34.
9
Stonley’s diary is in the Folger Shakespeare Library, MS V.a.459–61.
10
Scholars who have considered the Bible’s influence on these poets include: Danielle
Clarke, The Politics of Early Modern Women’s Writings (Harlow: Longman, 2001), 127–47;
Hannibal Hamlin, Psalm Culture in Early Modern English Literature (Cambridge:
4 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
The Sidney Psalms aside, biblical verse paraphrase is particularly neglected
by literary scholars, despite the popularity of this genre among sixteenth-
and seventeenth-century poets and readers. One consequence of the
critical marginalization of biblical verse is the side-lining of a great deal
of writing by early modern women; another is a distorted impression of
the output of some prolific and popular writers.11 The paraphrases of
women including Mary Roper and Anne Southwell deserve further study,
as does the biblical poetry of William Baldwin and Frances Quarles.
Although the biblical paraphrases penned by Quarles in the 1620s have
been dismissed as pious, these poems, as Adrian Streete points out, make
up a significant portion of Quarles’ canon and warrant scrutiny alongside
his better-known Caroline works.12 Streete has shown that some of
Quarles’ biblical paraphrases offer sharp critique of the religious politics
at the end of James’ reign, while others, like Sions Sonets (1625), which
I consider in Chapter 4, confront complex questions about the represen-
tative process and the limitations of language.13
While there remains much work to do on the period’s explicitly biblical
literature, biblical drama has fared somewhat better than poetry in recent
critical history. Paul Whitfield White has demonstrated that biblical plays
addressing Old Testament patriarchs and the Passion narratives, as well as
parts of the Mystery Cycles, provided regular entertainment across rural

Cambridge University Press, 2004), 85–147; Michele Osherow, Biblical Women’s Voices in
Early Modern England (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), 11–43; Margaret P. Hanney, ‘Re-
revealing the Psalms: Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke and her Early Modern Readers’,
in Psalms in the Early Modern World, ed. Linda P. Austern, Kari B. McBride, and David
L. Orvis (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), 219–34; Barbara K. Lewalski, Protestant Poetics and the
Seventeenth-Century Religious Lyric (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979); Alison
Knight, ‘ “This verse marks that”: George Herbert’s The Temple and Scripture in Context’,
in The Oxford Handbook of the Bible in Early Modern England, c.1530–1700, ed. Kevin
Killeen, Helen Smith, and Rachel Willie (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 518–32;
James H. Sims, The Bible in Milton’s Epics (Gainesville, FL: University of Florida Press,
1962); Mary Ann Radzinowicz, Milton’s Epics and the Book of Psalms (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1989); Philip J. Donnelly, Milton’s Scriptural Reasoning: Narrative and
Protestant Toleration (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009).
11
Notable exceptions include Adrian Streete, ‘Frances Quarles’ Early Poetry and the
Discourses of Jacobean Spenserianism’, Journal of the Northern Renaissance 1.1 (Spring
2009): 88–108, and Sarah C. E. Ross, ‘Epic, Meditation, or Sacred History? Women and
Biblical Verse Paraphrase in Seventeenth-Century England’, in The Oxford Handbook of the
Bible, ed. Killeen, Smith, and Willie, 483–97.
12
See, for example, the comments about Quarles’ Jacobean poetry in Karl Josef Hölt-
gen, ‘Quarles, Francis (1592–1644)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2004; online edition, Jan. 2008), <http://www.oxforddnb.com/
view/article/22945>, accessed 30 Sept. 2016. For a useful overview of Quarles’ critical
history see Streete, ‘Frances Quarles’ Early Poetry’, 88–95.
13
See Streete, ‘Frances Quarles’ Early Poetry’, and pp. 130–6 in this volume.
Introduction 5
England until the mid-seventeenth century.14 Inside London there was an
audience for biblical drama too. A flurry of plays reimagining biblical
narratives were performed on public stages at the turn of the sixteenth
century, and some of these plays, like George Peele’s The Love of King
David and Fair Bethsabe (c.1581–94), were replayed countless times.15
Michele Ephraim and Beatrice Groves’ attention to stage dramas devoted
to the narratives of Deborah, Esther, Rachel, and Jonah has illustrated the
cultural significance and political bent of some biblical plays, and Peele’s
play, which I explore in Chapter 2, is no exception.16 The representation
of court politics and succession in David and Bethsabe reminds that
although biblical dramas frequently appear, from their titles, to offer
straightforward retellings of scripture, these plays must be understood to
offer readings of scripture. The movement from biblical page to another
medium necessarily involves elements of reconstruction or renovation.
The act of rewriting the scriptures is, as this book explores, always an
interpretative one.
Biblical Readings and Literary Writings is interested in the interpretative
work undertaken in biblically inspired plays and poems, but also in biblical
readings that occur on a more subtle, ideological level in the period’s
writings. Biblical imagery and allusions are embedded regularly within
ostensibly secular narratives. This has been shown to be the case in much
of Shakespeare’s work, where the study of biblical allusion is an established
and vibrant field of study. Biblical and religious references in Shakespeare’s
plays have been catalogued, direct and indirect allusions to scriptural
imagery and language have been traced across individual plays, and the
Bible has also been discussed in the context of wider considerations of
Shakespeare’s religious beliefs and engagement with Christian doctrine.17

14
Paul Whitfield White, Drama and Religion in English Provincial Society, 1485–1660
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008).
15
For a list of these plays see pp. 17–19, and for more on Peele’s popular play, see pp. 73–8.
16
Michelle Ephraim, Reading the Jewish Woman on the Elizabethan Stage (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2008); Beatrice Groves, ‘ “They repented at the preachyng of Ionas: and beholde, a
greater then Ionas is here”: A Looking Glass for London and England, Hosea and the
Destruction of Jerusalem’, in Early Modern Drama and the Bible: Contexts and Readings,
1570–1625, ed. Adrian Streete (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 139–59.
17
Some notable book-length studies that have considered biblical usage in Shakespeare
include Roland Mushat Frye, Shakespeare and Christian Doctrine (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1963); James H. Sims, Dramatic Uses of Biblical Allusions in Marlowe and
Shakespeare (Gainesville, FL: University of Florida Press, 1966); Naseeb Shaheen, Biblical
References in Shakespeare’s Plays (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1999); R. Chris
Hassel, Shakespeare’s Religious Language: A Dictionary (New York: Continuum, 2005);
Steven Marx, Shakespeare and the Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Beatrice
Groves, Texts and Traditions: Religion in Shakespeare, 1592–1604 (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 2004); Hamlin, The Bible in Shakespeare.
6 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
Most recently, Hamlin has argued in his book-length investigation into
biblical allusions in Shakespeare’s plays that ‘no book is alluded to more
often, more thoroughly, or with more complexity and significance than the
Bible’.18 Although scholarship addressing scripture’s literary impact in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries has focused disproportionately on
Shakespeare, the Bible’s influence on a wider range of commercial theatre
is becoming better established. We now know that playwrights including
Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Heywood, Philip Massinger, Thomas
Dekker, and John Webster invoked biblical imagery, narratives, and
text in their works in a variety of ways for different purposes.19 What
scholarship on the Bible in drama has made clear is that the scriptures
were ideologically evocative in early modern England—‘even a brief
allusion to a biblical story’, as Groves explains, ‘could open up a fund
of associations, ambiguities and analogies’ to audiences and readers.20
That there is a strong and discernible relationship between the Bible
and literature in this period is in no doubt, and yet there is still work to be
done on the particularities of this relationship. To this end, Biblical
Readings and Literary Writings examines not simply those passages of
scripture commonly read and used in literary writings, but how they
were read, reworked, and applied. Biblical interpretation, that is, the effort
to understand what the Bible means, was central to early modern under-
standing of the world and its effects are visible across a variety of contem-
porary thought. Since Deborah K. Shuger illuminated the shaping
influence of biblical scholarship on politics, gender, and subjectivity in
The Renaissance Bible (1994), others have shown how developments in
Christian humanism and the English language were indebted to the
vernacular scriptures, and traced the effect of biblical reading on science
and understanding of the natural world.21 Book-length studies by Chris-
topher Hill, Achsah Guibbory, Elizabeth Clarke, and Kevin Killeen have
illustrated the Bible’s pervasive presence in early modern politics.22 It is

18
Hamlin, The Bible in Shakespeare, 3.
19
See, for example, the essays gathered in Early Modern Drama and the Bible, ed.
Streete, as well as Victoria Brownlee, ‘Imagining the Enemy: Protestant Readings of the
Whore of Babylon in Early Modern England, c.1580–1625’, in Biblical Women in Early
Modern Literary Culture, ed. Victoria Brownlee and Laura Gallagher (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 2014), 213–33.
20
Groves, Texts and Traditions, 25.
21
Deborah K. Shuger, The Renaissance Bible: Scholarship, Sacrifice, and Subjectivity
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). See also Brian Cummings, The Literary
Culture of the Reformation: Grammar and Grace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002);
Kevin Killeen and Peter Forshaw, eds., The Word and the World: Biblical Exegesis and Early
Modern Science (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007).
22
Christopher Hill, The English Bible and the Seventeenth-Century Revolution (London:
Allen Lane; New York: Penguin Press, 1993); Achsah Guibbory, Christian Identity: Jews &
Introduction 7
now clear that the scriptures invaded a large and diverse corpus of political
writings—sermons, tracts, and treatises, as well as poetry and plays—and
images too, as several chapters in this book attest, disseminated biblical-
political ideas to significant effect. Killeen’s neat summation that ‘the
scriptures provided both a sledgehammer and a scalpel for political ana-
lysis, amenable to subtle as well as crude deployment’ is applicable across a
variety of media.23 The amalgam of uses to which the Bible could be put is
clear in debates about female silence. Michele Osherow has argued that
early modern women and men found that the Bible authorized a ‘freedom
to resist’ and a means of celebrating the female voice through ‘the
rhetorically powerful women scattered throughout the Bible’s pages’.24
Certainly, Dorothy Leigh, whose maternal advice text, The Mothers Bless-
ing (1616), is examined in Chapter 5, looks to a catalogue of biblical
women to authorize her writing, but she also identifies with the apostle
Paul, using his words in Galatians to fashion her voice.25 Aside from
studies that have illustrated the Bible’s importance to women who wrote,
several Marian scholars have weighed the impact of the Gospels on early
modern ideas of suffering and grief, while Streete, Ephraim, and Guibbory
have demonstrated the extent to which the scriptures were enmeshed with
conceptualizations of identity and subjectivity in this period.26
My study builds on these approaches in recognizing that Bible-reading
fed into writing on almost all fields of knowledge in this period, and that
cultures of biblical reading were inflected by the concerns and circumstances

Israel in Seventeenth-Century England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); Elizabeth


Clarke, Politics, Religion and the Song of Songs in Seventeenth-Century England (Basingstoke:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2011); Kevin Killeen, The Political Bible in Early Modern England
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016).
23
Kevin Killeen, ‘Hanging up Kings: The Political Bible in Early Modern England’,
Journal of the History of Ideas 72.4 (2011): 549–70 (551). See also Killeen’s ‘Chastising with
Scorpions: Reading the Old Testament in Early Modern England’, Huntington Library
Quarterly 75.3 (2010): 491–506.
24
Osherow, Biblical Women’s Voices, 9. For scripture’s importance to women writers
see also Molekamp, Women and the Bible; Clarke, Politics, Religion and the Song of Songs,
134–73.
25
Dorothy Leigh, The mothers blessing. Or the godly counsaile of a gentle-woman not
long since deceased (London: Iohn Budge, 1616), 9–12. For Leigh’s reading of biblical
women, see pp. 143–68.
26
On Mary see, for example, Helen Hackett, Virgin Mother, Maiden Queen: Elizabeth
I and the Cult of the Virgin Mary (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995); Gary Waller, The
Virgin Mary in Late Medieval and Early Modern English Literature and Popular Culture
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); as well as the essays in Regina Buccola
and Lisa Hopkins, eds., Marian Moments in Early Modern British Drama (Farnham:
Ashgate, 2007). See too Ephraim, Reading the Jewish Woman; Adrian Streete, Protestantism
and Drama in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009);
Guibbory, Christian Identity.
8 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
of individual readers. The chapters that follow elucidate the extent to which
biblical interpretation was wedded to the realities of everyday life in early
modern England. Herbert’s sonnet speaks to this assumed relationship by
stating that reading the Bible involves ascertaining how scripture’s words
find ‘parallel’ with the circumstances of individual readers. The challenges
and blessings of the people of Israel, the sufferings of Job and the Psalmist,
and curses lavished on the enemies of God were for many readers the
normal means of understanding, and commenting upon, national, local,
domestic, and personal circumstances.
Christopher Hill’s now famous description of the Bible as a ‘huge
bran-tub from which anything might be drawn’ pithily captures scrip-
ture’s perceived relevance to all aspects of early modern life, and speaks to
the seemingly arbitrary nature of this applicatory process from a modern
standpoint.27 Yet, for early modern readers, the process by which scrip-
ture’s contemporary relevance was discerned was no haphazard lottery.
Indeed, so seriously was biblical reading taken in this period that some
individuals were willing to die for the right to read and interpret the
scriptures.28 Chapter 1 makes clear the seriousness with which Bible-
reading was undertaken in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Com-
plex calendars of reading, cross-referencing systems, memory aids, and the
tradition of scriptural commonplacing supported the painstaking effort of
many readers to discern scripture’s personal relevance. Of course, the fact
that readers understood the interpretative process to be divinely guided by
the Holy Spirit lent credibility to this interpretative pursuit, and meant
that a variety of applications could be brought to bear on a single text
without being considered contradictory. For early modern readers of
scripture, a single biblical narrative could contain concurrent identifica-
tions without difficulty.
This book investigates the diverse uses to which biblical texts were put
in this period and, to that end, is structured around five popularly
interpreted biblical narratives. In this regard, this book differs from the
majority of previous investigations of the relationship between literature
and the Bible that have clustered around a particular author or genre.29

27
Hill, The English Bible, 5.
28
For the relationship between Bible-reading and martyrdom in this period see James
Simpson, Burning to Read: English Fundamentalism and its Reformation Opponents
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), esp. 10–33.
29
See note 17 for a list of titles that have focused on drama, and particularly Shake-
speare’s work. Although research on the early modern Bible has disproportionately centred
on drama, scholarly awareness of biblical usage in other genres is growing. A number of
works have explored the relationship between poetry and the Bible, particularly the Book of
Psalms, such as Rivak Zim, English Metrical Psalms: Poetry as Praise and Prayer, 1535–1601
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987); Hamlin, Psalm Culture; Beth Quitslund,
Introduction 9
Taking a biblical text or figure as my starting point in each chapter,
I explore scripture’s shared and varied applications by a range of writers
working across a variety of genres. My aim, however, is not to offer an
encyclopaedic record of biblical use. Rather, as suggested earlier, I am
interested in exploring the diverse ways that biblical texts were read and
applied, and in the interpretative practices that facilitate mapping the
biblical past on to the early modern present. The biblical texts and figures
addressed in Biblical Readings and Literary Writings received widespread
attention in the century of writing considered by this book, and this
popularity accounts, in part, for their inclusion in this study. My selec-
tions have been influenced by the work of previous critics too. I have not,
for example, considered the Book of Psalms, as recent scholarship has
made clear that the Psalms were sung, paraphrased, and rewritten with
staggering frequency across the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and
traced the wider influence of this biblical book on early modern culture.30
The biblical texts and figures selected for inclusion in this volume have
also been shaped by my desire to showcase the diverse fields of knowledge
that biblical reading informed. Biblical hermeneutics was a buoyant and
varied field of discussion that influenced most other intellectual discip-
lines. The chapters that follow demonstrate how interpretation of the
scriptures informed domestic politics and foreign policy, underpinned
how history and language were conceptualized, and shaped attitudes
towards bodily suffering and childbearing.
The Bible’s centrality to such discussions reinforces that early modern
readers did not approach scripture’s sacred narratives as remote histories.
Instead, the Bible was understood to record a history that was, as Killeen
observes, ‘omnipresent’.31 The narratives of scripture, although historical
in their own right, were understood to be prefigurative of the present. In
subsequent chapters I examine the exegetical principles that underpin the
shuffle between biblical past and early modern present, and facilitate the
recapitulation of the Bible’s narratives within myriad contemporary
debates and literary contexts. In this regard, biblical typology emerges as
an interpretative tool that was fundamental to the application of scripture

The Reformation in Rhyme: Sternhold, Hopkins and the English Metrical Psalter, 1547–1603
(Farnham: Ashgate, 2008). See also Thomas Luxon’s consideration of John Bunyan’s prose
writings, Literal Figures: Puritan Allegory and the Reformation Crisis in Representation
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), and Clarke’s Religion, Politics and the Song
of Songs.
30
See, for example, Zim, English Metrical Psalms; Hamlin, Psalm Culture; Quitslund,
The Reformation in Rhyme; Austern, McBride, and Orvis, eds., Psalms in the Early
Modern World.
31
Killeen, ‘Chastising with Scorpions’, 493.
10 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
to the present. This manner of reading the scriptures prioritized the
connectedness of the Old and New Testaments and sought to ascertain
the bonds between this sacred history and the present. My interest in the
use of typology to discern ‘constellations’ across Christian history has also
led to the scrutiny of a key hermeneutic principle of the reformers,
namely, that scripture has, as William Tyndale put it, but ‘one sence
which is ye literall sence’.32 Several of the chapters that follow suggest that
biblical typology was a more figural and contested reading practice than
the literally minded reformers claimed it to be. Figurative and highly
symbolic readings of the scriptures abound in Protestant commentary,
and allegory—a reading practice much maligned by reformers—could, as
Chapters 4 and 6 make clear, have its uses. With this in mind, Biblical
Readings and Literary Writings argues for a brand of Protestant literalism
that was much more flexible and capacious than the soundbites of
reformed hermeneutics imply.
Although many of the writers included in this book can be termed
‘Protestant’, or be said to be in broad agreement with the central tenets of
reformed theology, writers are addressed whose confessional stance is
ambiguous.33 Shakespeare is a case in point. He has been labelled Catholic
and Protestant, and, as Hamlin notes, identified as an atheist and a Jew.34
While the religious outlook of well-known writers is an avenue of study
that continues to pique critical interest, ascertaining the confessional
beliefs or doctrinal particularities of individual authors is not an objective
of this book. Early modern writers, irrespective of their religious beliefs,
can be familiar with, and influenced by, popular reformed interpretations
of scripture, and by the broader Protestant imperative to read and apply
the scriptures to the present. To this end, as this study considers how
various writers read Solomon, Job, and Christ’s mother, Mary, and the
narratives of the Song of Songs and Book of Revelation, it elucidates how

32
William Tyndale, The Obedie[n]ce of a Christian man and how Christe[n] rulers ought to
governe (Antwerp: J. Hoochstraten, 1528), R2v.
33
I use the terms ‘reformed’, ‘Protestant’, and ‘Protestantism’ in this book as a means of
referring to a religious outlook that, however fragmented by the understanding of the
Eucharist or the limits of free will, was theologically distinct from Catholicism. Reformed
theology, or Protestantism, maintained a belief in the key doctrines of justification by faith,
the power of grace to save the elect, sola scriptura, rejection of intermediaries between man
and God, and a broadly defined anti-Catholicism. This list is not designed to be exhaustive
but merely serves to demonstrate key points of general agreement in reformed thinking. For
this list of the central tenets of reformed theology I rely on Streete’s Protestantism and
Drama, 9.
34
Hamlin, The Bible in Shakespeare, 2, and see 3, 9–16 for an overview of these
arguments, and 43–76 for an overview of the various studies addressing Shakespeare’s
confessional beliefs.
Introduction 11
Protestant interpretative practices shape literary constructions of a range
of theological, political, and social debates.
With the exception of the first chapter, which takes a broad look at the
reception and circulation of the Bible, the chapters have been ordered
according to biblical sequence. This format is designed to reflect how the
Bible was read typologically from Old Testament to New. That said,
individual chapters regularly cross-reference a variety of biblical texts in
line with trends in early modern exegetical practices. The conventions of
early modern Bible-reading and the influence of the period’s exegetical
culture are the subject of Chapter 1. Lay engagement with the scriptures in
this period could take place through traditional modes of Bible-reading, or
via non-textual media such as public sermons, catechizing, household
readings, as well as biblically inspired drama, ballads, and songs. The
question of how the Bible was to be read in early modern England is
central in the first chapter, which addresses the emphasis on sequential and
typological reading, and the complexity of the reformers’ literal claims.
The ideological scrutiny of reformed reading practices continues in
Chapter 2 as part of an investigation into the importance of King Solomon
to visual conceptions of monarchical authority after the break with Rome.
Although popular, figurations of England’s monarchs as antitypes of
Solomon were complex and exegetically demanding, not least because
Solomon ended his life as an idolater. Unsurprisingly, contemporary
applications of Solomon’s narrative use this biblical text selectively. Yet,
when scrutinized more closely, many such readings struggle to occlude
fully the unhappy death of scripture’s famously wise king. Attention turns
in Chapter 3 to the Old Testament figure of Job, and to a consideration of
the resonance of his biblical narrative amid a climate of religious persecu-
tion in Europe. Job’s narrative was typically understood to mark bodily
suffering as test of faith and, for many readers, affirmed that their suffer-
ing, like Job’s, was divinely authorized for a finite period of time. A wave
of theological and literary writings affirm the remarkable impact of the
Joban trajectory of suffering in early modern culture. Shakespeare’s King
Lear is no exception. Yet, instead of upholding the Joban paradigm of
eventual restoration, this play is notable for its deliberate disruption of the
typological process of promise and fulfilment, and for its shocking inver-
sion of established exegetical traditions of suffering more generally.
Chapter 4 concludes consideration of the Old Testament with the Song
of Songs. This biblical book, as a poetic dialogue between two lovers,
presented literally minded biblical commentators with a thorny exegetical
dilemma: either accept the presence of a purely erotic text in scripture, or
make the case for a literal reading that was figurative. Like early modern
exegesis of the Song, poetic recapitulations of this biblical book rely on
12 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
complex figural reading practices to substantiate a spiritual meaning not
directly implied by the biblical text. But this dependence on human words
to secure the relationship between sign and spiritually signified exposes
reformed anxieties about the inherently fallen nature of the human mind,
and the broader inadequacy of language to articulate spiritual truth.
In Chapter 5 focus shifts to the New Testament, and to female readings
of the fleshly connection between Christ and his mother, Mary. For
Aemilia Lanyer and Dorothy Leigh, Mary’s material labour had spiritual
consequences because, in delivering Christ, she delivered God’s plan for
salvation and inaugurated the new covenant which atones for Eve’s sin.
Yet a typological reading of the scriptures also allows these writers to
suggest that the new covenant initiates a form of maternity that has,
within the Christological dispensation, profound spiritual resonance. For
if, as Salve Deus and The Mothers Blessing advocate, the Bible is read
typologically, Mary’s maternity becomes a mechanism of deliverance for
all women, and inaugurates a form of maternity rich in spiritual issue and
consequence.
Fittingly, Biblical Readings and Literary Writings concludes with a
consideration of the end-point of typological history, apocalypse. The
discussion of the Book of Revelation in Chapter 6 focuses on the ways
in which the ongoing struggle between Protestantism and Catholicism was
filtered through an eschatological lens. Post-Reformation interpretation of
this biblical book claimed a special revelation, one that understood the
historic juncture of religious change as the final battle between good and
evil. Within this schema, the narratives and figures of this biblical book
became a mechanism to delineate Protestantism visually and ideologically
from Catholicism, and not just within sermons, biblical commentaries,
and woodcuts. The work of Spenser, Dekker, and Middleton illuminates
the extent to which drama and poetry participated in the extrapolation of
Revelation’s meaning for the present. Yet these literary interpretations also
point up the intrinsic difficulty of reading Revelation’s apocalypse in
relation to the early modern present, namely, the progression of time. In
revelations that are fractured, obscured, and stalled, these reimaginings of
apocalypse question if the final typological uncovering will be delayed
indefinitely.
Together these chapters showcase the extent to which Bible-reading was
rooted in the practical reality of early modern life. The words of scripture,
made available through public sermons, plays, and ballads, as well as
private study, were an instinctive means for many individuals of under-
standing the world around them. Bible-readers understood their rulers,
their enemies, and themselves through a series of ideologically inscribed
biblical narratives, and the prevalence of such associative readings reveals
Introduction 13
the extent to which Protestantism, for all its insistence on literalism,
remained reliant on figures. The societal impact of the reformers’ inter-
pretative practices is detectable in the period’s cultural output, in which
the dominant reading strategies and principles of Protestantism contribute
to, and problematize, literary constructions of contemporary debates and
ideas. By re-examining the relationship between literature and biblical
interpretation, Biblical Readings and Literary Writings in Early Modern
England, 1558–1625 reminds that scrutiny of how the Bible was read can
transform our understanding of early modern culture.
1
‘The engrafted word’
Reading and Receiving the Scriptures
in Early Modern England

The education of James Ussher, Archbishop of Armagh (1623–35),


begins, according to the seventeenth-century biographer Samuel Clarke,
with two women. Clarke records in A collection of the lives of ten eminent
divines (1662) that ‘James was taught first to read by two of his Aunts’.
That the early instruction of this prominent figure took place at the hands
of female relatives is certainly interesting, but what is extraordinary is that
these women were blind. Amidst his account of Ussher’s education,
Clarke pauses to note that the aunts ‘were blinde from their Cradles,
and so never saw letters, yet were they admirably versed in the sacred
Scriptures, being able suddenly to have given a good account of any part
of the Bible’.1 This momentary insight into the lives of these unnamed
women is revealing, for it makes clear that the ability to discern letters was
not a prerequisite for biblical literacy. Likely from listening to the Bible
read aloud and attending sermons, Ussher’s aunts apparently garnered
sufficient biblical knowledge to recall swathes of biblical text and, remark-
ably, teach a child to read.
The acquisition of this level of biblical knowledge among these women
is suggestive of the emphasis placed on individual engagement with the
scriptures during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. But familiarity
with the scriptures was not necessarily dependent on biblical ownership or
personal study. As this chapter explores, individuals could become con-
versant with biblical narratives through a variety of non-textual means, as
well as via more traditional modes of Bible-reading. Scripture’s words
could be heard in playhouses and taverns, as well as from pulpits and street
corners, and the Bible’s figures appeared in royally commissioned artwork
as well as in cheap print. Because each relocation of the Bible’s words and

1
Samuel Clarke, A Collection of the lives of ten eminent divines (London: William Miller,
1662), 190–1.
Reading and Receiving the Scriptures 15
topoi to other formats must involve a biblical reading, a study of the
Bible’s impact on early modern literary culture must take account of
reading practices, and their relationship to the core principles of reformed
hermeneutics. Simple though the reformed commitment to reading scrip-
ture literally sounds, the interpretative practices of Protestants are complex
and inconsistent, their literalist principles more capacious and accommo-
dating than they initially seem.

THE BIBLE IN SOCIETY AND CULTURE

Individual access to the scriptures evolved markedly during the sixteenth


century. Although the Bible had long been important to those seeking to
reform the Church, a number of studies have made clear that, from the
1520s onwards, the readership of vernacular Bibles mushroomed in
England, as well as in many parts of Europe, in response to the reformed
insistence on sola scriptura as the authority of the faith.2 Because only the
pages of scripture were understood to contain ‘all thinges necessarie to
saluation’, the ordinary individual was now obliged to scrutinize scripture
for personal meaning.3 Tyndale explains this injunction to readers of his
vernacular translation of the Bible: ‘endeuour thy selfe to searche out the
meanyng of all that is described therein, and the true sence of all maner of
speakinges of the Scripture . . . and note euery thyng earnestly, as thynges
pertainyng vnto thyne own hart and soule’.4 The reformed emphasis on
the Bible as the only authority for ascertaining matters of doctrine and
church practice, as well as the stress on individual scripturalism, was of

2
Prior to the sixteenth century steps had been taken to produce a vernacular Bible in
English by John Wycliffe, and in Czech by Jan Hus. Tyndale’s New Testament in English
was published in Antwerp in 1526, and Luther published the New Testament in German in
1522. The Bible was also published in Dutch in 1522, and in French in 1566. For more on
these developments see Matthew Spinka, John Hus and the Czech Reform (Hamden: Archon
Books, 1966); Mary Dove, The First English Bible: The Text and Context of the Wycliffite
Versions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Molekamp, Women and the Bible,
esp. 1–18; G. R. Evans, ‘Scriptural Interpretation in Pre-Reformation Dissident Move-
ments’, in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation (Vol. 2), ed. Magne
Sæbø (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), 295–317; Henry Wansbrough, ‘His-
tory and Impact of English Bible Translations’, in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, ed. Sæbø,
536–51; and the essays gathered in ‘Part II: Producing and Disseminating the Bible in
Translation’, in The New Cambridge History of The Bible, ed. Cameron, 159–386.
3
Church of England, Articles, whereupon it was agreed by the archbishoppes and bishoppes of
both prouinces, and the whole cleargie (London: Richarde Jugge and John Cawood, 1571), 5.
4
William Tyndale, The vvhole workes of W. Tyndall, Iohn Frith, and Doct. Barnes, three
worthy martyrs, and principall teachers of this Churche of England collected and compiled in one
tome togither, beyng before scattered, [and] now in print here exhibited to the Church (London:
Iohn Daye, 1573), 7.
16 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
course aided by the development of commercial printing. Practically,
increasing numbers of publishers and a rapidly expanding network of
booksellers across Europe ensured that the Bible became widely available.5
Indeed, before long, as Kevin Sharpe and Steven N. Zwicker have
observed, ‘an English Bible in every parish and nearly every household
literally placed Scripture within everyone’s reach’.6
It was the Geneva Bible, first published in English in 1560, that, as
Molekamp points out, brought the vernacular scriptures to the English
laity on an ‘unprecedented scale’.7 Cheaply produced and widely available,
this translation also offered the reader access to biblical scholarship in the
form of marginal notes, book prologues, and chapter summaries. It has
been estimated that between 1575 and the 1640s more than 140 editions
of the Geneva Bible were printed in England, which contributed to as
many as one million copies of the vernacular scriptures in circulation by
the mid-seventeenth century.8 That the numbers of Bibles in England
might have reached such staggering proportions in a matter of decades
attests to Protestantism’s status as, to use Alec Ryrie’s phrase, ‘a book-
religion’.9 While the impact of Protestantism in early modern England can
be measured numerically in the Bibles, reading aids, commentaries, ser-
mons, and scriptural indexes that flooded the English marketplace, less
quantifiable is the fact that it remained, as Ryrie observes, entirely possible
to be biblically informed and unlettered.10 Those who could not read

5
See Ian M. Green, Print and Protestantism in Early Modern England (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2000), 45–51.
6
Kevin Sharpe and Steven N. Zwicker, Reading, Society and Politics in Early
Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 4.
7
Molekamp, Women and the Bible, 5. It should be said that although the Geneva Bible
was never authorized for use in English churches, this version remained popular with the
laity into the seventeenth century, and continued to have large print runs after the
publication of the 1611 Authorized Version: see Molekamp, Women and the Bible, 5–8,
19–50. For further discussion of Bibles in English see Green, Print and Protestantism,
45–51; David Daniell, The Bible in English: Its History and Influence (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 2003); and the essays in ‘Part I: Translations’, in The Oxford Handbook of
the Bible, ed. Killeen, Smith, and Willie, 19–112. It should be said that although there was a
decisive shift towards lay reading of the Bible in English, Nicholas Hardy reminds that
‘there was no movement away from Latin as the language of biblical scholarship, towards
the vernacular’: ‘The Septuagint and the Transformation of Biblical Scholarship in
England, from the King James Bible (1611) to the London Polyglot (1657)’, in The Oxford
Handbook of the Bible, ed. Killeen, Smith, and Willie, 117–30 (129).
8
Molekamp, Women and the Bible, 14; L. B. Wright, Religion and Empire (Chapel
Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1943), 53. See also the figures noted in Sherman,
Used Books, 71.
9
Ryrie, Being Protestant, 259.
10
See Ryrie, Being Protestant, 259–69, for an extensive overview of the acquisition of
biblical knowledge among illiterate Protestants. For a list of the best-selling religious works
in the period see Green, Print and Protestantism.
Reading and Receiving the Scriptures 17
heard the scriptures at weekly church services during which the Bible was
read and preached, and metrical Psalms were sung before and after the
sermon.11 Ian Green has shown that the new Protestant liturgy, used in
church services in England from 1549, was an important oral means of
disseminating and enhancing biblical knowledge. Services ran according
to a yearly cycle of readings drawn from the Old and New Testaments,
and short passages of biblical text were used to direct worshippers in
thanksgiving, confession, and exhortation.12 For the illiterate, ‘the pas-
sages of the English Bible declaimed regularly in church continued to be
the primary source of their scriptural knowledge’, says Green.13 In add-
ition to the readings and biblically infused set prayers and responses in the
liturgy, the laity could acquire knowledge of the scriptures and key points
of doctrine by attending catechizing classes.14 Outdoor sermons too, like
those held at St Paul’s Cross, provided regular opportunities to hear the
Bible read and explained.15
The scriptures were also disseminated to the laity in less regimented
and formal ways as the early reformers harnessed the century-old tradition
of using drama to popularize the Bible’s contents.16 In the 1530s and
1540s Thomas Cromwell commissioned biblically inspired interludes
and morality plays as part of a government effort to promote lay reading

11
Church attendance was compulsory in Elizabethan England with heavy fines imposed
for abstentions. Groves notes that by 1581 the increasing fear of Catholicism drove fines
from twelve pence per abstention to twenty pounds: Texts and Traditions, 11–12.
12
Ian Green, ‘ “Hearing” and “Reading”: Disseminating Bible Knowledge and Fostering
Bible Understanding in Early Modern England’, in The Oxford Handbook of the Bible, ed.
Killeen, Smith, and Willie, 274. Green also notes that the new liturgy, devised under
Cranmer in 1549 and revised in 1552–61, retained some of the emphasis and practices of
medieval services of worship, if not the words (275–5). For consideration of the Prayer
Book’s cultural importance and popularity more broadly, see in particular Judith Maltby,
Prayer Book and People in Elizabethan and Early Stuart England (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2000).
13
Green, ‘ “Hearing” and “Reading” ’, 285.
14
For the catechizing of children and servants in this period see Ian M. Green, The
Christian’s ABC: Catechisms and Catechizing in England c.1530–1740 (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1996).
15
Several studies of public sermons have emerged in recent years: see especially Hunt,
The Art of Hearing, 60–116; Morrissey, Politics and the Paul’s Cross Sermons; McCullough,
Adlington, and Rhatigan, eds., The Oxford Handbook of the Early Modern Sermon; as well as
the essays in ‘Part III: Spreading the Word’, in The Oxford Handbook of the Bible, ed.
Killeen, Smith, and Willie, 257–350.
16
Drama had been a key means of teaching the laity about the Bible in the medieval
period. Medieval mystery cycles, based on the scriptures, were used by the Church to mark
the liturgical year and for devotional purposes. On the persistence and influence of this
tradition in early modern England see Michael O’Connell, The Idolatrous Eye: Iconoclasm
and Theater in Early-Modern England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), esp. 21–5,
87–91; White, Drama and Religion; Groves, Texts and Traditions, 10–59.
18 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
of the Bible. John Bale, for instance, who was in receipt of patronage from
Cromwell, wrote a number of plays based on seminal biblical episodes, such
as John the Baptist’s Preaching in the Wilderness (1538) and The Temptation of
our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ by Satan (1538). Such plays not only
familiarized audiences with the narratives of key biblical episodes, but were
used to make political comment and even to teach the basic principles of
biblical hermeneutics. Bale’s King Johan (1538), for example, which invokes
Moses and David as kingly types, stresses the reciprocal relationship between
the Old and New Testaments, and suggests how these biblical leaders find
their antitype in the figure of Henry VIII.17
Biblically inspired drama was, however, more than a didactic tool
wielded by England’s early reformers. The tide of biblical dramas that
were staged in commercial theatres between 1590 and 1602 suggests that
the Bible—its perceived contemporary relevance and the popularity of its
stories—continued to stimulate public interest in, and demand for, plays
based on biblical narratives.18 George Peele’s The Love of King David and
Fair Bethsabe is a case in point. The frontispiece of the printed edition of
the play, published in 1599, states that the drama ‘hath ben diuers times
plaied on the stage’, testifying to sustained public interest in the work
since its initial performance in 1593/4.19 Abraham and Lot (1594) and
Nebuchadnezzar (1596–7) also emerged in the same decade and, in 1602,
several plays were staged bearing the names of central biblical figures,
including Judas, Job, Pontius Pilate, Jephthah, Samson, and Joshua, all of
which are now lost.20 Importantly, biblically derived plays like these were
more than straightforward regurgitations of the biblical texts they

17
For more on the political resonance of this play see Robert Zaller, The Discourse
of Legitimacy in Early Modern England (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press,
2007), 357–64.
18
See Groves for a fulsome discussion of the debt later Elizabethan drama owed to
medieval mystery plays, and for the ways in which cycle plays persisted in England’s cultural
memory into the seventeenth century: Texts and Traditions, esp. 33–59.
19
George Peele, The Love of King David and Fair Bethsabe With the Tragedie of Absolom,
in The Dramatic Works of George Peele, ed. Elmer Blistein (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1952), title page.
20
For a record of biblical drama performed in the period see Alfred Harbage, Annals
of English Drama 975–1700: An Analytical Record of all Plays, Extant or Lost (London:
Routledge, 1989), 4–45; Philip Henslowe, Henslowe’s Diary, ed. R. A. Foakes (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2006); and O’Connell, Idolatrous Eye, 91. It should be said
that while biblical dramas continued to emerge until the early seventeenth century, the
onset of censorship in the 1570s made overt stage representation of religious matter more
difficult. The complete ban of such representations in 1606 sealed the decline of the overt
biblical dramas noted above, yet it by no means marked the end of theatrical engagement
with scripture. See Groves, Texts and Traditions, esp. 16–21; and Annabel Patterson,
Censorship and Interpretation: The Conditions of Writing and Reading in Early Modern
England (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1984).
Reading and Receiving the Scriptures 19
addressed. In The History of Jacob and Esau (1557/8), the Genesis account
of Isaac’s twin sons is used to consider election and reprobation and
scrutinize the Calvinist doctrine of predestination.21 In a different vein,
Thomas Lodge and Robert Greene’s A Looking Glasse for London and
England, which was staged several times during the 1590s and published
in 1594, dramatizes the reformed call to examine scripture for personal
meaning through a retelling of the Book of Jonah. In this play, the sins of
Nineveh are also the sins of London and England, and the audience is
called repeatedly, like their biblical antecedents, to recognize their need
to repent.22
In addition to drama, the laity could experience the Bible’s narratives
and topoi in the form of ballads and songs. Throughout the sixteenth and
the seventeenth centuries numerous editions of the Psalms and the Book
of Proverbs appeared in metre and, in 1569, William Samuel completed
the task of translating the entire Old Testament into Sternhold’s metre.23
Many of Christ’s teachings, particularly the parables, were set to familiar
ballad tunes, including the mustard seed (Matt. 13), the rich man and
Lazarus (Luke 16), and the beatitudes (Matt. 5).24 The Old Testament
too seems to have steadily attracted the attention of balladeers with works
such as ‘Sampson judge of Israell’ and ‘David and Berseba’ circulated in
broadside form for several decades.25 Yet the reach of biblical ballads
extended further than those who physically possessed a broadside copy.
Itinerant sellers of ballads, like dramatic touring companies, orally dissem-
inated the biblical works they sold as they advertised their wares through

21
While scholars agree that the play uses this biblical narrative to tackle predestination
there is some disagreement over how it represents the finer points of this doctrine. See Helen
Thomas, ‘Jacob and Esau—“Rigidly Calvinistic”?’, Studies in English Literature 9.2 (1969):
199–213; and Paul Whitfield White, ‘Predestination Theology in the Mid-Tudor Play Jacob
and Esau’, Renaissance and Reformation 24.4 (1988): 291–301.
22
For further discussion of this play see Groves, ‘ “They repented at the preachyng
of Ionas”.’
23
William Samuel, An abridgeme[n]t of all the canonical books of the old Testament
written in Sternholds meter (London: William Seres, 1569). Other popular editions of the
Psalms include Robert Crowley’s The Psalter of Dauid newely translated into Englysh metre
(London: R. Grafton and S. Mierdman, 1549) and Thomas Sternhold’s The whole booke of
Psalmes collected into Englysh metre (London: John Day, 1562). For an example of the Book
of Proverbs in metre see John Hall, Certayn chapters take[n] out of the Prouerbes of Salomo[n]
(London: Thomas Raynalde, 1550). For a more fulsome discussion of these and other
metrical versions of the scriptures, see Ryrie, Being Protestant, 302–5; Quitslund, Reforma-
tion in Rhyme.
24
See the examples and discussion in Tessa Watt, Cheap Print and Popular Piety,
1550–1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 119.
25
For a full list of ballads with their circulation and publication dates see Watt, Cheap
Print, 336–41.
20 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
reading and song.26 In doing so, these sellers facilitated the transmission of
printed ballad content to those who could not read. Circulated orally, as
well as in print, the ballad became, as Tessa Watt has shown, an important
mechanism through which the reformers could ‘give unlearned people
direct access to the concepts of the Christian faith’.27
Just as one singer had the potential to make the contents of a ballad
available to countless others, a single reader in a household or community
could play an important role in orally disseminating scripture’s words to
those who could not read. There are accounts of servants reading to other
servants and there is evidence to suggest that individuals became
renowned in villages for their willingness to read the Bible to others.28
John Foxe records in Actes and Monuments (1583) how one Edward Allen,
‘a milner’, prevented ‘many poore people’ from starving by selling corn at
half the price of his competitors ‘but also fedde them with the food of life,
reading to them the scriptures’.29 Certainly, as Andrew Cambers, Kate
Narveson, and Ryrie have shown, Bible-reading could be a communal,
even social, activity that brought together demographically diverse indi-
viduals.30 Masters read to their households—children and servants—
maids read aloud to their mistresses, and illiterate parents heard the
scriptures from children who had been taught to read.31 Presumably it
was the result of Bible-reading aloud that enabled James Ussher’s blind
aunts to learn the scriptures.32 Evidently, an inability to read, or see, was
no excuse for the absence of biblical knowledge.
While Bible-reading aloud was one way the illiterate could access the
scriptures, learning to read was a more satisfactory means of becoming
personally familiar with the Word of God.33 To this end, the pages of

26
Madeleine Gray, The Protestant Reformation: Belief, Practice, and Tradition (Brighton:
Sussex Academic Press, 2003), 127; Jonathan P. Willis, Church Music and Protestantism in
Post-Reformation England: Discourses, Sites and Identities (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 190.
27
Watt, Cheap Print, 119.
28
See Andrew Cambers for an overview of the variety of contexts in which the Bible was
read: Godly Reading: Print, Manuscript and Puritanism in England, 1580–1720 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2011). For examples of individuals who became renowned for
reading aloud see Ryrie, Being Protestant, 259–62.
29
John Foxe, Actes and Monuments of matters most special and memorable, happenying in
the Church with an vniuersall history of the same. Vol. 2 (second half) (London: Iohn Daye,
1583), 1979.
30
Cambers, Godly Reading; Narveson, Bible Readers; Ryrie, Being Protestant, 259–97.
31
See the examples of servants and children reading aloud in Ryrie, Being Protestant,
260–1, 272, and the instructions given to masters in Thomas Tuke, The practise of the
faithfull containing many godly praiers both of morning and euening and other necessarie
occasions (London: Io. Beale, 1613), 238.
32
See Clarke, A Collection of the lives, 190–1.
33
For a discussion of Protestant attitudes towards illiteracy see Ryrie, Being Protestant,
259–70, and for an assessment of literacy levels in this period see David Cressy, Literacy and
Reading and Receiving the Scriptures 21
scripture frequently provided the means, as well as motivation, for literacy,
as Ryrie explains: ‘once the Reformation was properly under way, almost
everyone who learned to read, learned, at least in part, by reading the
Bible. Therefore, to be literate was to be, in some measure, Biblically
literate’.34 Guides for biblical reading reveal that an individual’s access to
scripture was, at least in theory, not to be restricted by age, gender, or
rank. Dorothy Leigh explains to her sons that one of her reasons for
writing The Mothers Blessing (1616) is ‘to command . . . that all your
children, be they Males or Females, may in their youth learne to read
the Bible in their owne mother tongue’.35 Such is the importance of this
task that Leigh permits little excuse for failure asserting ‘let none of you
plead pouerty against this’ command for, if idleness is avoided, she
charges, might ‘all brought vp to read the Bible’.36 Thomas Cranmer
similarly seems to discount financial means and social rank as a bar to
biblical reading when, in the prologue to the 1540 edition of the Great
Bible, he claims that ‘publicanes, fyshers, and shepherders maye fynd their
edifycacion’ in the scriptures.37

ROUTINES AND MODES OF READING

Although it is difficult to assess the practical impact of the reformers’


literacy ideals on those who worked in the professions Cranmer mentions,
among those who did learn to read, Bible-reading, according to Mole-
kamp, ‘was practiced more frequently than any other kind of reading in
early modern England’.38 The popularity of Bible-reading in this period
was in large part due to the Protestant emphasis on the individual’s need to
adhere to a regular, and preferably daily, routine of reading. Tyndale
argued that the Bible itself authorized ‘lay men’ to ‘read dayly scriptures’,
and, writing later in 1622, John Downame advised individuals to set aside
a particular time each day for Bible-reading, and to ‘keepe themselues
constantly (as neere they can) to a settled course’.39 Guides for biblical

the Social Order: Reading and Writing in Tudor and Stuart England (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1980); John S. Pendergast, Religion, Allegory, and Literacy in Early Modern
England, 1560–1640: The Control of the Word (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006).
34
Ryrie, Being Protestant, 272–3.
35
Leigh, The mothers blessing, 24.
36
Leigh, The mothers blessing, 24–5.
37
Thomas Cranmer, ‘The Prologue’, The Byble in Englyshe that is to saye the conte[n]t of al
the holy scrypture, both of ye olde, and newe testame[n]t (London: Rychard Grafton, 1540), ii, v.
38
Molekamp, Women and the Bible, 10.
39
Tyndale, The vvhole workes of W. Tyndall, 287; John Downame, A guide to godlynesse
or a Treatise of a Christian life (London: Felix Kingstone, 1622), 649. See also the
22 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
reading frequently offered assistance to the reader in this pursuit.
Tables and calendars prescribing chapters to be read daily abounded.
Many of these rotas took readers through the whole of scripture in a
year, while others aimed at coverage in a matter of months.40 Individuals
who were zealously committed to programmes of daily reading were used
in sermons and devotional writings as exemplars to spur others to similar
diligence. In Francis Rogers’ funeral sermon for William Proud, the
scriptural commitment of the deceased marks him as ‘a true Christian
Noble’ for, in addition to attending weekly sermons and lectures, ‘he did
dayly vse to reade in the Bible’.41
Among women too, observance of regular biblical reading was con-
sidered exemplary. In The Christall Glasse (1592) Philip Stubbes com-
mends to readers the example of his dead wife, Katherine, whose ‘whole
delight’, he claims, ‘was to be conuersant in the scriptures, & to meditate
vpon them day and night: in so much that you could seldome or neuer
haue come into her house, and haue found her without a bible’. This
image of Katherine Stubbes with a Bible ever in hand is central to Stubbes’
effort to position his wife not only as a ‘Myrrour of womanhood’ but also
as the ‘perfect patterne of true Christianitie’.42 It reminds that in this
period Bible-reading was more than an act of Christian duty. Reading the
scriptures was widely understood to be an outward manifestation of inner
godliness and spiritual health. Leigh elucidates the perceived connection
between regular biblical reading and spiritual health in The Mothers
Blessing. She explains that:
spirituall food of the soule . . . must be gathered euery day out of the word, as
the children of Israel gathered Manna in the wildernesse . . . For as the
children of Israel must needs starue, except they gath’red euery day in the
wildernesse and fed of it, so must your soules, except you gather the spiritual

encouragements towards daily reading in Andreas Hyperius, The course of Christianitie: or,
As touching the dayly reading and meditation of the holy Scriptures (London: Henry Bynne-
man, 1579), 168; Edward Vaughan, Ten introductions how to read, and in reading, how to
vnderstand (London: A. Islip, 1594), Bir.
40
For an example of a reading calendar that allowed the Bible to be read in one year see
Nicholas Byfield, Directions for the priuate reading of the Scriptures (London: Printed by
E. Griffin, 1618), A4v. For a more ambitious reading calendar see Hyperius, The course of
Christianitie, 168–204. The parallel reading streams in the Book of Common Prayer, if
followed, offered readers impressive coverage of the scriptures in one year and of the Psalms in
one month. See Green’s discussion of these liturgical rotas in ‘ “Hearing” and “Reading” ’, 276.
41
Francis Rogers, A sermon preached on September the 20. 1632 . . . at the funerall of
William Proud (London: Iohn Norton, 1633), D3v. See Ryrie for more cases of exemplary
‘biblical over-eating’: Being Protestant, 271–2.
42
Philip Stubbes, A christal glasse for christian vvomen containing, a most excellent
discourse, of the godly life and Christian death of Mistresse Katherine Stubs (London:
[T. Orwin], 1592), A3v.
Reading and Receiving the Scriptures 23
Manna out of the word euery day, and feed of it continually: for as they by
this Manua co[m]forted their harts, strengthened their bodies, and preserued
their liues; so by this heauenly Word of God, you shall comfort your soules,
make them strong in Faith, and grow in true godlinesse.43
Just as God provided manna to sustain the Israelites physically, Leigh
considers the Bible to be the means through which God offers spiritual
succour to subsequent generations of his people. Because this ‘spiritual
Manna’ is a source of comfort and a means to grow in faith and godliness,
it must, like the Israelite’s manna, be treated with appropriate seriousness
and regularity.44 From God’s instructions to the people of Israel in Exodus
16 Leigh extrapolates the central tenets of biblical reading: reading must
be daily, continual, and effectual. What underpins Leigh’s advice is an
expectation that the words of scripture are transformative, and it is
an expectation that she shares with others who sought to promote individual
reading. Stubbes, for example, suggested that the outcome of his wife’s
fervent biblical study was that ‘her whole heart was bent to . . . the Lord’,
and Downame extols the Bible’s power to alter the condition of the heart
when he encourages individuals to ‘read with affection and deuotion . . .
framing and fashioning our hearts vnto it’.45 In a similar vein, Grace
Mildmay explains in her Autobiography (c.1617–20) that those who read
the Bible ‘every day in some measure’ will find that their ‘heart, soul, and
spirits, and whole inner man’ will ‘receive the true stamp and lively
impression thereof ’.46
The idea that the heart could be stamped or fashioned by the Word of
God has its basis in scripture itself. The Book of James calls readers to
ensure that ‘the worde . . . is graffed in you’ because such implantation will
make ‘ye doers of the worde, and not hearers onely’ (James 1:21–2) and,
in Deuteronomy, the people of Israel, having received the Ten Com-
mandments, are instructed to ‘lay vp these . . . words in your heart & and
in your soule’ (Deut. 11:18). But the process by which such internaliza-
tion of the scriptures could be achieved was not straightforward, and
demanded more than passive, daily reading. Margaret Hoby’s diary is
revealing in this regard in that it demonstrates how biblical reading was to
be complemented by a range of practical activities, each designed to aid

43
Leigh, The mothers blessing, 5–6.
44
God instructed the Israelites to collect and prepare manna daily, with the exception
of the sixth day, on which they were to collect and prepare enough for the Sabbath too.
See Exodus 16:4–5.
45
Stubbes, A christal glasse for christian vvomen, A3v; Downame, A guide to godlynesse, 647.
46
Grace Mildmay, Autobiography in Women Writers in Renaissance England: An Anno-
tated Anthology, ed. Randall Martin (London and New York: Routledge, 2014), 211.
24 Biblical Readings and Literary Writings, 1558–1625
personal familiarity with the scriptures. In her entry for Friday 7 September
1599 Hoby recounts a day demarcated by various tasks connected to
personal scripturalism:
After private prayers I writ my notes in my testament, which I gathered of the
lecture the night before: then I did eat my breakfast, then I walked abroad
and talked of good things, so that I found much comfort: after I came home
I writ my sermon that was preached the Sabbath day before, then I went to
private prayer, and so to dinner . . . then I prayed with Mr Rhodes, and after
walked abroad: and when I came home I prayed privately, and soon after
went to supper: after which I went to the lecture and then to bed.47
One of the most striking things about Hoby’s diary is the way in which it
records the effort to internalize what is read and heard from the scriptures
through the process of writing. The Bible text is annotated, in this
instance with pertinent observations from a lecture, sermons are recalled
and logged, likely in the commonplace book mentioned elsewhere, and
interactions, both prayerful and on matters of theology, with the house-
hold chaplain, Mr Rhodes, are memorialized in the diary itself.48 Hoby’s
diary reminds that, when it comes to the Bible, reading and writing are not
discrete activities. Biblical reading was frequently a generative process, and
the act of writing had the potential to enrich and consolidate what had
been read.49
It is because the act of writing was thought to aid the process of
internalization that biblical reading guides frequently advocated the prac-
tice of annotation. Recent work on readers’ material engagement with
their Bibles, such as that by William Sherman, has illuminated how many
‘found some method of annotating an indispensable practice for digesting
and mobilising the text’.50 The margins of Bibles offered a physical space
to record an individual’s response to the Word, either in the form of brief
reflection or scriptural cross-reference.51 Readers were also encouraged to
develop their own system of markings to memorialize sections of scripture

47
Margaret Hoby, The Diary of Margaret, Lady Hoby in Women Writers, ed. Martin, 194.
48
In the entry for 14 September 1600 Hoby mentions writing notes on a sermon in her
commonplace book. It should be noted, as Martin observes, that Hoby’s daily devotional
activities are not prioritized to the same degree after Rhodes moves out of her house in
1601, or at least less time is spent recording them: Women Writers, 194. See also Dorothy
Mead’s observations on this issue in Diary of Lady Margaret Hoby (London: George
Routledge and Sons, 1930), 280.
49
For an in-depth consideration of the relationship between lay biblical reading and
writing see Narveson, Bible Readers, and Molekamp, Women and the Bible.
50
Sherman, Used Books, 76. Narveson, Bible Readers, 19–100; Molekamp, Women and
the Bible, 34–65; Ryrie, Being Protestant, 270–314.
51
See the marked Bibles discussed in Sherman, Used Books, 71–86.
Reading and Receiving the Scriptures 25
that had personal relevance.52 Such markings functioned as discernible
evidence of affective biblical reading, as in the case of Ignatius Jurdaine,
who, according to Clarke, ‘did not onley read the Bible above twenty times
over, but read it with special observation (as appeareth by the Asterisks, and
marks in the Bible which he used) making particular application to
himself ’.53 The acts of writing that accompanied biblical reading resulted
in material changes to the text. Clearly the Bible, as Sharpe and Zwicker
put it, was ‘not only an authority but a text to be edited, emended,
retranslated, glossed, interrogated and, in fine, deconstructed’.54
This kind of active Bible-reading not only encouraged alterations to be
made to the Bible’s pages, but led to the creation of truncated and
reformatted biblical texts as readers relocated portions of scripture to
commonplace books. As Molekamp has made clear, biblical reading and
commonplacing often happened concurrently in this period.55 Before the
reader begins using Nicholas Byfield’s year-long track for reading the Bible
they are advised to ‘first make thee a little paper booke of a sheete or two of
paper, as may be most portable’ to record verses that will later be com-
mitted to memory.56 William Gouge’s impressive recall of the scriptures is
credited to his practice of writing in ‘a little book which he always carried
about him’. By this means he is said to have ‘made himself so expert in the
Text, that if he heard any phrase of Scripture, he could presently tell where
it was to be found’.57 To commit something to memory was, then, to
undertake the most literal act of internalization, and it is for this reason,
Ryrie explains, that memory aids became an important component of the
printing industry that grew up in support of biblical reading.58 Among
such works is John Lloyd’s rather unwieldy memory retrieval system, A
good help for weak memories, or, The contents of every chapter in the Bible in
alphabetical dysticks (1671). By memorizing a related dystick after daily
reading, the individual, Lloyd promised, would have embedded a means
of remembering the key points and scriptural reference of that biblical

52
Downame, for example, calls readers to observe those ‘Chapters of lesse ordinarie vse,
and others . . . most profitable for our edification, and as we goe, to prefix before them, with our
pen, a seuerall marke: as for example; before the former sort, this *; before the other, this +, or
some such like’: A guide to godlynesse, 648–9.
53
Clarke, A Collection of the lives, 453.
54
Sharpe and Zwicker, Reading, Society and Politics, 4.
55
On this relationship, see Molekamp, Women and the Bible, 13, 55–9.
56
Byfield, Directions for the priuate reading, A8r–9v. For further discussion and
examples of commonplacing in this period see Narveson, Bible Readers, 35–7.
57
Clarke, A Collection of the lives, 98. Clarke also attributes the ‘vast and tenacious’
memory of Robert Harris to his regular commonplacing (312).
58
For an overview of the practice of memorizing the scriptures, as well a list of texts
written to aid memorization, see Ryrie, Being Protestant, 277–9.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
"You reply so heartily," said Poirot. "If you had said in an indifferent
voice, 'Oh, quite nice,' eh bien, do you know I should have been
better pleased."
Katherine did not answer. She felt slightly uncomfortable. Poirot went
on dreamily:
"And yet, who knows? With les femmes, they have so many ways of
concealing what they feel—and heartiness is perhaps as good a way
as any other."
He sighed.
"I don't see—" began Katherine.
He interrupted her.
"You do not see why I am being so impertinent, Mademoiselle? I am
an old man, and now and then—not very often—I come across some
one whose welfare is dear to me. We are friends, Mademoiselle. You
have said so yourself. And it is just this—I should like to see you
happy."
Katherine stared very straight in front of her. She had a cretonne
sunshade with her, and with its point she traced little designs in the
gravel at her feet.
"I have asked you a question about Major Knighton, now I will ask
you another. Do you like Mr. Derek Kettering?"
"I hardly know him," said Katherine.
"That is not an answer, that."
"I think it is."
He looked at her, struck by something in her tone. Then he nodded
his head gravely and slowly.
"Perhaps you are right, Mademoiselle. See you, I who speak to you
have seen much of the world, and I know that there are two things
which are true. A good man may be ruined by his love for a bad
woman—but the other way holds good also. A bad man may equally
be ruined by his love for a good woman."
Katherine looked up sharply.
"When you say ruined—"
"I mean from his point of view. One must be wholehearted in crime
as in everything else."
"You are trying to warn me," said Katherine in a low voice. "Against
whom?"
"I cannot look into your heart, Mademoiselle; I do not think you would
let me if I could. I will just say this. There are men who have a
strange fascination for women."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine, with a smile.
"There are others—more dangerous than the Comte de la Roche.
They have qualities that appeal—recklessness, daring, audacity. You
are fascinated, Mademoiselle; I see that, but I think that it is no more
than that. I hope so. This man of whom I speak, the emotion he feels
is genuine enough, but all the same—"
"Yes?"
He got up and stood looking down at her. Then he spoke, in a low,
distinct voice:
"You could, perhaps, love a thief, Mademoiselle, but not a murderer."
He wheeled sharply away on that and left her sitting there.
He heard the little gasp she gave and paid no attention. He had said
what he meant to say. He left her there to digest that last
unmistakable phrase.
Derek Kettering, coming out of the Casino into the sunshine, saw her
sitting alone on the bench and joined her.
"I have been gambling," he said, with a light laugh, "gambling
unsuccessfully. I have lost everything—everything, that is, that I have
with me."
Katherine looked at him with a troubled face. She was aware at once
of something new in his manner, some hidden excitement that
betrayed itself in a hundred different infinitesimal signs.
"I should think you were always a gambler. The spirit of gambling
appeals to you."
"Every day and in every way a gambler? You are about right. Don't
you find something stimulating in it? To risk all on one throw—there
is nothing like it."
Calm and stolid as she believed herself to be, Katherine felt a faint
answering thrill.
"I want to talk to you," went on Derek, "and who knows when I may
have another opportunity? There is an idea going about that I
murdered my wife—no, please don't interrupt. It is absurd, of
course." He paused for a minute or two, then went on, speaking
more deliberately. "In dealing with the police and Local Authorities
here I have had to pretend to—well—a certain decency. I prefer not
to pretend with you. I meant to marry money. I was on the lookout for
money when I first met Ruth Van Aldin. She had the look of a slim
Madonna about her, and I—well—I made all sorts of good
resolutions—and was bitterly disillusioned. My wife was in love with
another man when she married me. She never cared for me in the
least. Oh, I am not complaining; the thing was a perfectly
respectable bargain. She wanted Leconbury and I wanted money.
The trouble arose simply through Ruth's American blood. Without
caring a pin for me, she would have liked me to be continually
dancing attendance. Time and again she as good as told me that
she had bought me and that I belonged to her. The result was that I
behaved abominably to her. My father-in-law will tell you that, and he
is quite right. At the time of Ruth's death, I was faced with absolute
disaster." He laughed suddenly. "One is faced with absolute disaster
when one is up against a man like Rufus Van Aldin."
"And then?" asked Katherine in a low voice.
"And then," Derek shrugged his shoulders, "Ruth was murdered—
very providentially."
He laughed, and the sound of his laugh hurt Katherine. She winced.
"Yes," said Derek, "that wasn't in very good taste. But it is quite true.
Now I am going to tell you something more. From the very first
moment I saw you I knew you were the only woman in the world for
me. I was—afraid of you. I thought you might bring me bad luck."
"Bad luck?" said Katherine sharply.
He stared at her. "Why do you repeat it like that? What have you got
in your mind?"
"I was thinking of things that people have said to me."
Derek grinned suddenly. "They will say a lot to you about me, my
dear, and most of it will be true. Yes, and worse things too—things
that I shall never tell you. I have been a gambler always—and I have
taken some long odds. I shan't confess to you now or at any other
time. The past is done with. There is one thing I do wish you to
believe. I swear to you solemnly that I did not kill my wife."
He said the words earnestly enough, yet there was somehow a
theatrical touch about them. He met her troubled gaze and went on:
"I know. I lied the other day. It was my wife's compartment I went
into."
"Ah," said Katherine.
"It's difficult to explain just why I went in, but I'll try. I did it on an
impulse. You see, I was more or less spying on my wife. I kept out of
sight on the train. Mirelle had told me that my wife was meeting the
Comte de la Roche in Paris. Well, as far as I had seen, that was not
so. I felt ashamed, and I thought suddenly that it would be a good
thing to have it out with her once and for all, so I pushed open the
door and went in."
He paused.
"Yes," said Katherine gently.
"Ruth was lying on the bunk asleep—her face was turned away from
me—I could see only the back of her head. I could have waked her
up, of course. But suddenly I felt a reaction. What, after all, was
there to say that we hadn't both of us said a hundred times before?
She looked so peaceful lying there. I left the compartment as quietly
as I could."
"Why lie about it to the police?" asked Katherine.
"Because I'm not a complete fool. I've realized from the beginning
that, from the point of view of motive, I'm the ideal murderer. If I once
admitted that I had been in her compartment just before she was
murdered, I'd do for myself once and for all."
"I see."
Did she see? She could not have told herself. She was feeling the
magnetic attraction of Derek's personality, but there was something
in her that resisted, that held back....
"Katherine—"
"I—"
"You know that I care for you. Do—do you care for me?"
"I—I don't know."
Weakness there. Either she knew or she did not know. If—if only—
She cast a look round desperately as though seeking something that
would help her. A soft colour rose in her cheeks as a tall fair man
with a limp came hurrying along the path towards them—Major
Knighton.
There was relief and an unexpected warmth in her voice as she
greeted him.
Derek stood up scowling, his face black as a thundercloud.
"Lady Tamplin having a flutter?" he said easily. "I must join her and
give her the benefit of my system."
He swung round on his heel and left them together. Katherine sat
down again. Her heart was beating rapidly and unevenly, but as she
sat there talking commonplaces to the quiet, rather shy man beside
her, her self-command came back.
Then she realized with a shock that Knighton also was laying bare
his heart, much as Derek had done, but in a very different manner.
He was shy and stammering. The words came haltingly with no
eloquence to back them.
"From the first moment I saw you—I—I ought not to have spoken so
soon—but Mr. Van Aldin may leave here any day, and I might not
have another chance. I know you can't care for me so soon—that is
impossible. I dare say it is presumption anyway on my part. I have
private means, but not very much—no, please don't answer now. I
know what your answer would be. But in case I went away suddenly
I just wanted you to know—that I care."
She was shaken—touched. His manner was so gentle and
appealing.
"There's one thing more. I just wanted to say that if—if you are ever
in trouble, anything that I can do—"
He took her hand in his, held it tightly for a minute, then dropped it
and walked rapidly away towards the Casino without looking back.
Katherine sat perfectly still, looking after him. Derek Kettering—
Richard Knighton—two men so different—so very different. There
was something kind about Knighton, kind and trustworthy. As to
Derek—
Then suddenly Katherine had a very curious sensation. She felt that
she was no longer sitting alone on the seat in the Casino gardens,
but that some one was standing beside her, and that that some one
was the dead woman, Ruth Kettering. She had a further impression
that Ruth wanted—badly—to tell her something. The impression was
so curious, so vivid, that it could not be driven away. She felt
absolutely certain that the spirit of Ruth Kettering was trying to
convey something of vital importance to her. The impression faded.
Katherine got up, trembling a little. What was it that Ruth Kettering
had wanted so badly to say?

27. Interview with Mirelle


When Knighton left Katherine he went in search of Hercule Poirot,
whom he found in the Rooms, jauntily placing the minimum stake on
the even numbers. As Knighton joined him, the number thirty-three
turned up, and Poirot's stake was swept away.
"Bad luck!" said Knighton; "are you going to stake again?"
Poirot shook his head.
"Not at present."
"Do you feel the fascination of gambling?" asked Knighton curiously.
"Not at roulette."
Knighton shot a swift glance at him. His own face became troubled.
He spoke haltingly, with a touch of deference.
"I wonder, are you busy, M. Poirot? There is something I would like
to ask you about."
"I am at your disposal. Shall we go outside? It is pleasant in the
sunshine."
They strolled out together, and Knighton drew a deep breath.
"I love the Riviera," he said. "I came here first twelve years ago,
during the War, when I was sent to Lady Tamplin's Hospital. It was
like Paradise, coming from Flanders to this."
"It must have been," said Poirot.
"How long ago the War seems now!" mused Knighton.
They walked on in silence for some little way.
"You have something on your mind?" said Poirot.
Knighton looked at him in some surprise.
"You are quite right," he confessed. "I don't know how you knew it,
though."
"It showed itself only too plainly," said Poirot drily.
"I did not know that I was so transparent."
"It is my business to observe the physiognomy," the little man
explained, with dignity.
"I will tell you, M. Poirot. You have heard of this dancer woman—
Mirelle?"
"She who is the chère amie of M. Derek Kettering?"
"Yes, that is the one; and, knowing this, you will understand that Mr.
Van Aldin is naturally prejudiced against her. She wrote to him,
asking for an interview. He told me to dictate a curt refusal, which of
course I did. This morning she came to the hotel and sent up her
card, saying that it was urgent and vital that she should see Mr. Van
Aldin at once."
"You interest me," said Poirot.
"Mr. Van Aldin was furious. He told me what message to send down
to her. I ventured to disagree with him. It seemed to me both likely
and probable that this woman Mirelle might give us valuable
information. We know that she was on the Blue Train, and she may
have seen or heard something that it might be vital for us to know.
Don't you agree with me, M. Poirot?"
"I do," said Poirot drily. "M. Van Aldin, if I may say so, behaved
exceedingly foolishly."
"I am glad you take that view of the matter," said the secretary. "Now
I am going to tell you something, M. Poirot. So strongly did I feel the
unwisdom of Mr. Van Aldin's attitude that I went down privately and
had an interview with the lady."
"Eh bien?"
"The difficulty was that she insisted on seeing Mr. Van Aldin himself.
I softened his message as much as I possibly could. In fact—to be
candid—I gave it in a very different form. I said that Mr. Van Aldin
was too busy to see her at present, but that she might make any
communication she wished to me. That, however, she could not
bring herself to do, and she left without saying anything further. But I
have a strong impression, M. Poirot, that that woman knows
something."
"This is serious," said Poirot quietly. "You know where she is
staying?"
"Yes." Knighton mentioned the name of the hotel.
"Good," said Poirot; "we will go there immediately."
The secretary looked doubtful.
"And Mr. Van Aldin?" he queried doubtfully.
"M. Van Aldin is an obstinate man," said Poirot drily. "I do not argue
with obstinate men. I act in spite of them. We will go and see the
lady immediately. I will tell her that you are empowered by M. Van
Aldin to act for him, and you will guard yourself well from
contradicting me."
Knighton still looked slightly doubtful, but Poirot took no notice of his
hesitation.
At the hotel, they were told that Mademoiselle was in, and Poirot
sent up both his and Knighton's cards, with "From Mr. Van Aldin"
pencilled upon them.
Word came down that Mademoiselle Mirelle would receive them.
When they were ushered into the dancer's apartments, Poirot
immediately took the lead.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, bowing very low, "we are here on
behalf of M. Van Aldin."
"Ah! And why did he not come himself?"
"He is indisposed," said Poirot mendaciously; "the Riviera throat, it
has him in its grip, but me, I am empowered to act for him, as is
Major Knighton, his secretary. Unless, of course, Mademoiselle
would prefer to wait a fortnight or so."
If there was one thing of which Poirot was tolerably certain, it was
that to a temperament such as Mirelle's the mere word "wait" was
anathema.
"Eh bien, I will speak, Messieurs," she cried. "I have been patient. I
have held my hand. And for what? That I should be insulted! Yes,
insulted! Ah! Does he think to treat Mirelle like that? To throw her off
like an old glove. I tell you never has a man tired of me. Always it is I
who tire of them."
She paced up and down the room, her slender body trembling with
rage. A small table impeded her free passage and she flung it from
her into a corner, where it splintered against the wall.
"That is what I will do to him," she cried, "and that!"
Picking up a glass bowl filled with lilies she flung it into the grate,
where it smashed into a hundred pieces.
Knighton was looking at her with cold British disapproval. He felt
embarrassed and ill at ease. Poirot, on the other hand, with twinkling
eyes was thoroughly enjoying the scene.
"Ah, it is magnificent!" he cried. "It can be seen—Madame has a
temperament."
"I am an artist," said Mirelle; "every artist has a temperament. I told
Dereek to beware, and he would not listen." She whirled round on
Poirot suddenly. "It is true, is it not, that he wants to marry that
English miss?"
Poirot coughed.
"On m'a dit," he murmured, "that he adores her passionately."
Mirelle came towards them.
"He murdered his wife," she screamed. "There—now you have it! He
told me beforehand that he meant to do it. He had got to an impasse
—zut! he took the easiest way out."
"You say that M. Kettering murdered his wife."
"Yes, yes, yes. Have I not told you so?"
"The police," murmured Poirot, "will need proof of that—er—
statement."
"I tell you I saw him come out of her compartment that night on the
train."
"When?" asked Poirot sharply.
"Just before the train reached Lyons."
"You will swear to that, Mademoiselle?"
It was a different Poirot who spoke now, sharp and decisive.
"Yes."
There was a moment's silence. Mirelle was panting, and her eyes,
half defiant, half frightened, went from the face of one man to the
other.
"This is a serious matter, Mademoiselle," said the detective. "You
realize how serious?"
"Certainly I do."
"That is well," said Poirot. "Then you understand, Mademoiselle, that
no time must be lost. You will, perhaps, accompany us immediately
to the office of the Examining Magistrate."
Mirelle was taken aback. She hesitated, but, as Poirot had foreseen,
she had no loophole for escape.
"Very well," she muttered. "I will fetch a coat."
Left alone together, Poirot and Knighton exchanged glances.
"It is necessary to act while—how do you say it?—the iron is hot,"
murmured Poirot. "She is temperamental; in an hour's time, maybe,
she will repent, and she will wish to draw back. We must prevent that
at all costs."
Mirelle reappeared, wrapped in a sand-coloured velvet wrap trimmed
with leopard skin. She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess,
tawny and dangerous. Her eyes still flashed with anger and
determination.
They found M. Caux and the Examining Magistrate together. A few
brief introductory words from Poirot, and Mademoiselle Mirelle was
courteously entreated to tell her tale. This she did in much the same
words as she had done to Knighton and Poirot, though with far more
soberness of manner.
"This is an extraordinary story, Mademoiselle," said M. Carrège
slowly. He leant back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and looked
keenly and searchingly at the dancer through them.
"You wish us to believe M. Kettering actually boasted of the crime to
you beforehand?"
"Yes, yes. She was too healthy, he said. If she were to die it must be
an accident—he would arrange it all."
"You are aware, Mademoiselle," said M. Carrège sternly, "that you
are making yourself out to be an accessory before the fact?"
"Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I
take that statement seriously. Ah no, indeed! I know men, Monsieur;
they say many wild things. It would be an odd state of affairs if one
were to take all they said au pied de la lettre."
The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.
"We are to take it, then, that you regarded M. Kettering's threats as
mere idle words? May I ask, Mademoiselle, what made you throw up
your engagements in London and come out to the Riviera?"
Mirelle looked at him with melting black eyes.
"I wished to be with the man I loved," she said simply. "Was it so
unnatural?"
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
"Was it, then, at M. Kettering's wish that you accompanied him to
Nice?"
Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this. She
hesitated perceptibly before she spoke. When she did, it was with a
haughty indifference of manner.
"In such matters I please myself, Monsieur," she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three
men. They said nothing.
"When were you first convinced that M. Kettering had murdered his
wife?"
"As I tell you, Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering come out of his wife's
compartment just before the train drew into Lyons. There was a look
on his face—ah! at the moment I could not understand it—a look
haunted and terrible. I shall never forget it."
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant
gesture.
"Quite so," said M. Carrège.
"Afterwards, when I found that Madame Kettering was dead when
the train left Lyons, then—then I knew!"
"And still—you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle," said the
Commissary mildly.
Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was clearly enjoying herself in
the rôle she was playing.
"Shall I betray my lover?" she asked. "Ah no; do not ask a woman to
do that."
"Yet now—" hinted M. Caux.
"Now it is different. He has betrayed me! Shall I suffer that in
silence...?"
The Examining Magistrate checked her.
"Quite so, quite so," he murmured soothingly. "And now,
Mademoiselle, perhaps you will read over the statement of what you
have told us, see that it is correct, and sign it."
Mirelle wasted no time on the document.
"Yes, yes," she said, "it is correct." She rose to her feet. "You require
me no longer, Messieurs?"
"At present, no, Mademoiselle."
"And Dereek will be arrested?"
"At once, Mademoiselle."
Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur draperies closer about her.
"He should have thought of this before he insulted me," she cried.
"There is one little matter"—Poirot coughed apologetically—"just a
matter of detail."
"Yes?"
"What makes you think Madame Kettering was dead when the train
left Lyons?"
Mirelle stared.
"But she was dead."
"Was she?"
"Yes, of course. I—"
She came to an abrupt stop. Poirot was regarding her intently, and
he saw the wary look that came into her eyes.
"I have been told so. Everybody says so."
"Oh," said Poirot, "I was not aware that the fact had been mentioned
outside the Examining Magistrate's office."
Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.
"One hears those things," she said vaguely; "they get about.
Somebody told me. I can't remember who it was."
She moved to the door. M. Caux sprang forward to open it for her,
and as he did so, Poirot's voice rose gently once more.
"And the jewels? Pardon, Mademoiselle. Can you tell me anything
about those?"
"The jewels? What jewels?"
"The rubies of Catherine the Great. Since you hear so much, you
must have heard of them."
"I know nothing about any jewels," said Mirelle sharply.
She went out, closing the door behind her. M. Caux came back to his
chair; the Examining Magistrate sighed.
"What a fury!" he said, "but diablement chic, I wonder if she is telling
the truth? I think so."
"There is some truth in her story, certainly," said Poirot. "We have
confirmation of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down the corridor
a short time before the train reached Lyons and she saw M.
Kettering go into his wife's compartment."
"The case against him seems quite clear," said the Commissary,
sighing; "it is a thousand pities," he murmured.
"How do you mean?" asked Poirot.
"It has been the ambition of my life to lay the Comte de la Roche by
the heels. This time, ma foi, I thought we had got him. This other—it
is not nearly so satisfactory."
M. Carrège rubbed his nose.
"If anything goes wrong," he observed cautiously, "it will be most
awkward. M. Kettering is of the aristocracy. It will get into the
newspapers. If we have made a mistake—" He shrugged his
shoulders forebodingly.
"The jewels now," said the Commissary, "what do you think he has
done with them?"
"He took them for a plant, of course," said M. Carrège; "they must
have been a great inconvenience to him and very awkward to
dispose of."
Poirot smiled.
"I have an idea of my own about the jewels. Tell me, Messieurs, what
do you know of a man called the Marquis?"
The Commissary leant forward excitedly.
"The Marquis," he said, "the Marquis? Do you think he is mixed up in
this affair, M. Poirot?"
"I ask you what you know of him."
The Commissary made an expressive grimace.
"Not as much as we should like to," he observed ruefully. "He works
behind the scenes, you understand. He has underlings who do his
dirty work for him. But he is some one high up. That we are sure of.
He does not come from the criminal classes."
"A Frenchman?"
"Y—es. At least we believe so. But we are not sure. He has worked
in France, in England, in America. There was a series of robberies in
Switzerland last autumn which were laid at his door. By all accounts
he is a grand seigneur, speaking French and English with equal
perfection and his origin is a mystery."
Poirot nodded and rose to take his departure.
"Can you tell us nothing more, M. Poirot," urged the Commissary.
"At present, no," said Poirot, "but I may have news awaiting me at
my hotel."
M. Carrège looked uncomfortable. "If the Marquis is concerned in
this—" he began, and then stopped.
"It upsets our ideas," complained M. Caux.
"It does not upset mine," said Poirot. "On the contrary, I think it
agrees with them very well. Au revoir, Messieurs; if news of any
importance comes to me I will communicate it to you immediately."
He walked back to his hotel with a grave face. In his absence a
telegram had come to him. Taking a paper-cutter from his pocket, he
slit it open. It was a long telegram, and he read it over twice before
slowly putting it in his pocket. Upstairs, George was awaiting his
master.
"I am fatigued, Georges, much fatigued. Will you order for me a
small pot of chocolate?"
The chocolate was duly ordered and brought, and George set it at
the little table at his master's elbow. As he was preparing to retire,
Poirot spoke:
"I believe, Georges, that you have a good knowledge of the English
aristocracy?" murmured Poirot.
George smiled apologetically.
"I think that I might say that I have, sir," he replied.
"I suppose that it is your opinion, Georges, that criminals are
invariably drawn from the lower orders."
"Not always, sir. There was great trouble with one of the Duke of
Devize's younger sons. He left Eton under a cloud, and after that he
caused great anxiety on several occasions. The police would not
accept the view that it was kleptomania. A very clever young
gentleman, sir, but vicious through and through, if you take my
meaning. His Grace shipped him to Australia, and I hear he was
convicted out there under another name. Very odd, sir, but there it is.
The young gentleman, I need hardly say, was not in want financially."
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
"Love of excitement," he murmured, "and a little kink in the brain
somewhere. I wonder now—"
He drew out the telegram from his pocket and read it again.
"Then there was Lady Mary Fox's daughter," continued the valet in a
mood of reminiscence. "Swindled tradespeople something shocking,
she did. Very worrying to the best families, if I may say so, and there
are many other queer cases I could mention."
"You have a wide experience, Georges," murmured Poirot. "I often
wonder having lived so exclusively with titled families that you
demean yourself by coming as a valet to me. I put it down to love of
excitement on your part."
"Not exactly, sir," said George. "I happened to see in Society
Snippets that you had been received at Buckingham Palace. That
was just when I was looking for a new situation. His Majesty, so it
said, had been most gracious and friendly and thought very highly of
your abilities."
"Ah," said Poirot, "one always likes to know the reason for things."
He remained in thought for a few moments and then said:
"You rang up Mademoiselle Papopolous?"
"Yes, sir; she and her father will be pleased to dine with you to-
night."
"Ah," said Poirot thoughtfully. He drank off his chocolate, set the cup
and saucer neatly in the middle of the tray, and spoke gently, more to
himself than to the valet.
"The squirrel, my good Georges, collects nuts. He stores them up in
the autumn so that they may be of advantage to him later. To make a
success of humanity, Georges, we must profit by the lessons of
those below us in the animal kingdom. I have always done so. I have
been the cat, watching at the mouse hole. I have been the good dog
following up the scent, and not taking my nose from the trail. And
also, my good Georges, I have been the squirrel. I have stored away
the little fact here, the little fact there. I go now to my store and I take
out one particular nut, a nut that I stored away—let me see,
seventeen years ago. You follow me, Georges?"
"I should hardly have thought, sir," said George, "that nuts would
have kept so long as that, though I know one can do wonders with
preserving bottles."
Poirot looked at him and smiled.

28. Poirot Plays the Squirrel


Poirot started to keep his dinner appointment with a margin of three-
quarters of an hour to spare. He had an object in this. The car took
him, not straight to Monte Carlo, but to Lady Tamplin's house at Cap
Martin, where he asked for Miss Grey. The ladies were dressing and
Poirot was shown into a small salon to wait, and here, after a lapse
of three or four minutes, Lenox Tamplin came to him.
"Katherine is not quite ready yet," she said. "Can I give her a
message, or would you rather wait until she comes down?"
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He was a minute or two in replying,
as though something of great weight hung upon his decision.
Apparently the answer to such a simple question mattered.
"No," he said at last, "no, I do not think it is necessary that I should
wait to see Mademoiselle Katherine. I think, perhaps, that it is better
that I should not. These things are sometimes difficult."
Lenox waited politely, her eyebrows slightly raised.
"I have a piece of news," continued Poirot. "You will, perhaps, tell
your friend. M. Kettering was arrested to-night for the murder of his
wife."
"You want me to tell Katherine that?" asked Lenox. She breathed
rather hard, as though she had been running; her face, Poirot
thought, looked white and strained—rather noticeably so.
"If you please, Mademoiselle."
"Why?" said Lenox. "Do you think Katherine will be upset? Do you
think she cares?"
"I don't know, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "See, I admit it frankly. As
a rule I know everything, but in this case, I—well, I do not. You,
perhaps, know better than I do."
"Yes," said Lenox, "I know—but I am not going to tell you all the
same."
She paused for a minute or two, her dark brows drawn together in a
frown.
"You believe he did it?" she said abruptly.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"The police say so."
"Ah," said Lenox, "hedging, are you? So there is something to hedge
about."
Again she was silent, frowning. Poirot said gently:
"You have known Derek Kettering a long time, have you not?"
"Off and on ever since I was a kid," said Lenox gruffly.
Poirot nodded his head several times without speaking.
With one of her brusque movements Lenox drew forward a chair and
sat down on it, her elbows on the table and her face supported by
her hands. Sitting thus, she looked directly across the table at Poirot.
"What have they got to go on?" she demanded. "Motive, I suppose.
Probably came into money at her death."
"He came into two million."
"And if she had not died he would have been ruined?"
"Yes."
"But there must have been more than that," persisted Lenox. "He
travelled by the same train, I know, but—that would not be enough to
go on by itself."
"A cigarette case with the letter 'K' on it which did not belong to Mrs.
Kettering was found in her carriage, and he was seen by two people
entering and leaving the compartment just before the train got into
Lyons."
"What two people?"
"Your friend Miss Grey was one of them. The other was
Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer."
"And he, Derek, what has he got to say about it?" demanded Lenox
sharply.
"He denies having entered his wife's compartment at all," said Poirot.
"Fool!" said Lenox crisply, frowning. "Just before Lyons, you say?
Does nobody know when—when she died?"
"The doctors' evidence necessarily cannot be very definite," said
Poirot; "they are inclined to think that death was unlikely to have
occurred after leaving Lyons. And we know this much, that a few
moments after leaving Lyons Mrs. Kettering was dead."
"How do you know that?"

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