The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘You have many books in your shop.’

  ‘And I know the provenance and price of each of them,’ said Alan. ‘I know all their shapes and smells – except this one . . . which smells fishy.’

  ‘Written by Shakespeare?’ said his brother.

  ‘That’s the rumour. But we are all aware of the hostility you feel towards Shakespeare.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about this play.’

  ‘That is most surprising of all,’ said Alan, ‘because when I look through it, I find your handprint. I mean, the style of Christopher Dole, his tricks and turns of phrase.’

  ‘Perhaps I have imitators.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. More conclusive is that within these pages are fragments of an older play, to do with Cain and Abel.’

  Christopher grew uneasy. Instinctively, his eyes flicked to the chest, barricaded behind piles of books, from which he had filched the manuscript of The Play of Adam. Alan noticed.

  ‘Ah-ha. I thought so. Where is the manuscript now?’

  Never much good at standing up to his more forceful sibling, Christopher gave a partial version of the truth.

  ‘I might have borrowed it to have a look at it, just to see how they did things in the old days. Perhaps William Shakespeare also obtained a copy and included portions in that play you’re clutching.’

  ‘There is only one manuscript,’ said Alan. ‘And I have it. Or rather, I had it. It disappeared some time ago but I never suspected you, Christopher. You bloody fool.’

  This seemed an excessive response and the playwright, realising that argument was futile, made to go. Outside flakes of snow were starting to dribble from a low-hanging sky. He wouldn’t get any money from Alan now. He’d be more likely to obtain cash from the falling snow.

  ‘Just a minute, brother. You do not realise the ill reputation of that old play.’

  ‘No doubt you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘There was a seal on it, wasn’t there? An unbroken seal?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Christopher.

  ‘It should not have been broken.’

  Christopher was struck by Alan’s tone. In it there was not just anger or indignation but something that sounded close to fear. Alan continued: ‘If you’d examined the outside of the scroll before breaking the seal, you’d have seen a warning.’

  ‘A warning?’

  ‘Yes, you parrot, a warning. Written by a prior. If memory serves, it went like this: “In that this scroll contains Holy Writ, you shall not suffer it to be destroyed. Yet neither shall you break the seal upon it, lest fools and knaves make of it swords to slay the innocent and infect man’s reason with the worm of madness.”’

  As he was reciting, Alan closed his eyes. Christopher was impressed that his brother recalled the words so exactly. Moreover, he began to feel the first tremors of alarm.

  ‘The story goes that it was composed for a priory in Oseney near Oxford and that a murder took place before it could ever be performed. There are other tales of murder – in Wales, in Ely – all linked to presentations of “The Story of Cain and Abel”, which you have been so foolish as to include in this – what’s it called? – The English Brothers.’

  ‘I never thought you were superstitious, Alan.’

  Christopher Dole tried to keep his voice calm and even amused, but the fact was that, like most people who make their living in the theatre, he was the superstitious one. If he’d known of this warning beforehand, he’d never have picked up the manuscript, let alone copied out parts of it. But he’d been too eager to break the seal, to unroll the manuscript and then snatch gobbets of it for his own use. Eager to fill up the pages of his own play as fast as possible, with most of his attention being on those satirical jabs directed at King James and his favourites, and intended to bring down trouble on the bald pate of the man from Stratford.

  ‘I am not one for old wives’ tales,’ said his bookseller brother, ‘but these bad-luck stories don’t spring from nowhere. I tell you, this old piece can bring misfortune or worse. You were foolish enough to write a play in the hope of somehow damaging Shakespeare, but you were downright foolhardy to include a cursed text in it.’

  ‘Well, The English Brothers will never be performed on stage,’ said Christopher. By now, he’d given up any pretence that the play was not by him.

  ‘Performance on a stage does not matter. Printing and publishing is a kind of performance, isn’t it? A sort of utterance. You still have the manuscript?’

  Christopher nodded. He wondered whether he should destroy it, since the thing apparently brought such dangers with it. But it seemed that Alan was able to read his thoughts for he said: ‘If you have the manuscript in that little upper room of yours, then go now and return here with it. Don’t attempt to get rid of it. Worse luck will follow if you do. You know how the thought of destroying a book is abhorrent to me.’

  More likely, thought Christopher, his brother was calculating what he might get for the original manuscript of The Play of Adam. He said nothing further. He nodded, turned on his heel and quit the shop. Although still early in the afternoon, dusk seemed already to be drawing in. The snow was falling sporadically. The upper reaches of St Paul’s were hidden in the murk.

  The chill struck Christopher to the bone. He pulled his thin coat tighter about him and trudged his way through the city and back to his lodgings. There was nowhere else to go. Head down, approaching the front door, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Stephen, the disagreeable son of his landlady.

  ‘Why, Christopher, this is well met. I am on my way out.’

  Not for the first time, Dole noticed how close-set were the young man’s eyes. Even in the gloom they had a bird’s glitter to them, a kind of malice. He shrugged Stephen’s hand from his shoulder and did not reply.

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘How should I know? I do not pry into other people’s business.’

  Christopher made to move past the insolent, lying youngster and get into his lodgings. Stephen said: ‘I invited him in, seeing as the day is turning nasty. I directed him to your room and told him to make himself at ease up there. He has the appearance of a proper gentleman.’

  Christopher hadn’t imagined he could be any colder than he was but a fresh chill broke out along his body. He paid no attention to Stephen’s parting words – ‘Aren’t you going to thank me for being nice to your visitor?’ – and entered the lobby. He paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs before starting up them. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Laboriously, he climbed to the top floor. There he hesitated again. A glimmer of light was showing under the lintel of his door. All at once, Christopher’s apprehensions fell away to be replaced by anger. The unknown stranger must have lit a candle, one of his meagre supply.

  The playwright did not have the advantage of surprise since the stranger would have heard his steps, but he turned the handle of his own door and pushed it open with as much force as he could muster. The first thing he saw was that the occupant had lit not one but two candles. The second was that his visitor was indeed a proper gentleman, or at least a prosperous one. He was sitting on Christopher’s stool, which he had positioned against the wall so that he might rest his back against it. His arms were folded and his legs were fully extended and crossed at the ankles.

  Christopher Dole saw the stranger’s cloak, with its points, or lace, gleaming a dull gold, and he saw the rich red lining where an edge of the cloak was casually folded back. He observed the gentleman’s leather boots reaching almost to the knee, and it flashed through his mind that such well-made footwear must provide a good defence against the filth and cold of the streets.

  What he could not see was his visitor’s face, for the intruder was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow over the upper part of his body. He kept his head down, resting his chin on his chest. For an instant Christopher wondered whether he was asleep and, absurdly, felt guilty for having di
sturbed him. Next, he felt almost ashamed of the little space where he lived, with its simple bed, its desk, chest and stool. Then his eyes flickered back to the two – two! – candles burning on the desk and he moved a couple of paces further into the room.

  So small was his chamber that this brought him almost to the outstretched feet of the stranger. If the gentleman had been asleep he was not asleep now, for the fingers of his gloved right hand, half concealed by the cloak, flexed and stretched. He looked up. Yet all Christopher could see under the shadow of his hat was a square, clean-shaven chin. Nevertheless Christopher had the feeling that he’d seen this individual before.

  ‘Mr Dole?’ This hardly amounted to a question for the stranger went on without a pause: ‘Forgive me, but as it was growing dark I took the liberty of lighting your candles while awaiting your return.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, Christopher? You should recognise me. I am Henry Ashe.’

  IV

  Nicholas Revill made tortuous progress in his search for the author of The English Brothers. Carrying Shakespeare’s copy of the play with him, he began the quest at the printer’s in Bride Lane, saying he was Dick Newman, and that he came from the Admiral’s Men. George Bruton was absent but his journeyman, an individual who introduced himself as Hans, reluctantly answered questions. He spoke with such precision that Nick would have known him for a foreigner even without being given his name. Dutch or German, he assumed.

  Yes, it was in this workshop that they printed the play that was in the visitor’s hand. The author? Hans fiddled with his spectacles and peered at the title page, which Nick held open for his benefit, even though the printer must have been aware already it didn’t contain the information. Eventually he said, ‘I am not sure but I believe that the author is an individual called Henry Ashe.’

  Nick thought he knew the names of all, or almost all, the playwrights in London but he’d never come across anyone called Henry Ashe. Of course, Ashe might be a newcomer or a false name, rather like Dick Newman.

  Hans did not seem to have any more information, and Nick asked whether he might talk to George Bruton if he was in the house. He cast his eyes up at the ceiling – there was the thumping of feet overhead – but Hans shook his head. No, Bruton was not available. Do you know where your master is then? The journeyman looked uncomfortable.

  At that point the apprentice, who was hanging back in a corner of the room but attending to every word that passed between Nick and Hans, piped up: ‘Are you really a player?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nick.

  ‘You’ll find Master Bruton in The Ram, sir. That’s where he is when he isn’t here.’

  Hans spun round so fast his glasses almost fell off his nose. He looked annoyed as though some family secret had been revealed. In this way Nick knew the information was reliable. He thanked the apprentice and left.

  Nick was acquainted with The Ram although he had not stepped across its threshold for several years. He wondered why George Bruton habitually drank in a tavern that was quite a way from his work and his home, before it occurred to him that the distance was probably the reason.

  He trudged through the slushy streets. The snow that had fallen the previous evening was lying in dirty, half-frozen pools in the road, and the white rooftops were now smudged all over with soot. Pulling his cloak about him and avoiding the other passers-by as they negotiated slippery corners, Nick thought about his ‘mission’. He wasn’t sure whether William Shakespeare was more worried because of the potentially treasonable lines in the play called The English Brothers or more outraged because someone – Henry Ashe? – was attempting to pass the piece off as his (WS’s) work. Nick decided it was outrage rather than worry.

  By now he had reached The Ram. The place showed no improvement in the years since his last visit. Still very dingy and disreputable. Despite the dim light, he observed a man sitting by himself in the corner. He recognised Bruton from Shakespeare’s description: a man with a large belly pressed against the table before him and with the reddened nose of a drinker. Bruton looked up. When he saw that Nick was heading directly for him, he tapped with his fingers against his tankard. The gesture was clear. Since Nick needed him to co-operate he ordered two pints before sitting down opposite the printer.

  And he waited until the drinks arrived before announcing that he’d come from the Admiral’s Men.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Bruton, taking a big swig from his mug.

  ‘We are interested in staging a play that you have recently published.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘It is called The English Brothers.’

  Nick was gratified to see a change come over Bruton’s hitherto impassive face. Not a positive change, since he now looked both wary and irritated.

  ‘You are sure you are from the Admiral’s Men? You’re not from . . . the Council.’ Bruton lowered his voice as he said the last two words, and in such an artificial way that it would scarcely have been believed on stage. There was nobody nearby, although a knot of men was sitting and drinking in another corner. Bruton’s manner told Nick that WS’s fears about the Privy Council were justified. He assured Bruton that he really was a player and not a government agent.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Richard Newman,’ said Nick promptly. He was pleased not to have been caught out by the abrupt question. ‘You may call me Dick, if you prefer.’

  ‘I have no preference over what to call you. I’ve never even heard of you. You are sure the Admiral’s want the play?’

  ‘Absolutely sure,’ said Nick, then went on quickly before he could be asked any more questions. ‘But there is no author to go to, no one named on the title page.’

  ‘The author is Henry Ashe.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Nick. ‘Did he deliver the play to you himself?’

  Bruton paused before replying. ‘No. Mr Ashe gave it to a friend – or an agent – I don’t know which.’

  It took another two drinks before Nick was able to prise the name of this supposed agent out of the printer. He was called Christopher Dole. This was a name that was familiar, or half familiar, to Revill. Wasn’t Dole a bookseller?

  ‘That’s his brother, Alan,’ said Bruton. ‘Keeps a bookshop by St Paul’s.’

  Nick knew the bookshop. He tried again. Was Dole an actor? Or a playwright?

  Yes, said George Bruton, he’d been both. Dole was an actor with Lord Faulkes’s company for a time and he’d penned a few plays for them. Not very successfully. The last piece he wrote more or less finished him off. It was about the Roman emperor Nero and it was called The Matricide.

  ‘A tragedy?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Meant to be,’ said Bruton, ‘but it was received as a comedy. Dole was humiliated. He blamed everyone but himself. Turned his back on the drama, which is why I was surprised when he presented me with this new piece, The English Brothers, even if it is by someone else.’

  Nick thought that the play was probably by Christopher Dole, and not the elusive Henry Ashe. It was Dole he should be calling on. But if the printer knew where he lived, he was not going to reveal it. This might have been connected to the fact that Nick refused to buy him another drink. However, he did add, as Nick was leaving The Ram, ‘And, if you catch up with him, tell that bastard – Christopher Dole, I mean – tell him that he owes me money.’

  Nick thought that next he ought to visit Alan Dole. He would surely be familiar with his brother’s whereabouts. Reflecting that he was having to go a long way round the town to carry out this task on behalf of Shakespeare, and warmed only a little by the thought of WS’s friendship, Nick duly called at Dole’s bookshop. At first the bookseller was reluctant to talk about his brother, but then he suddenly grew angry and made mention of Christopher’s ‘foolish crimes’. When Alan Dole calmed down, he was able to identify the street and house where Christopher lodged.

  ‘The landlady is Mrs Atkins. Christopher occupies a meagre top-floor ch
amber and that is all he is entitled to,’ said Alan. ‘If you see him, ask him why he didn’t return yesterday with the . . . the thing he promised to bring. He’ll know what I’m talking about. And when he does return, I want a word with him, more than a word.’

  So now, in the early afternoon and with the feel of snow in the air once again, Nick stood outside the house he’d been directed to. A young man opened the door to his knock. His close-set eyes scanned Nick without approval.

  ‘I am looking for Christopher Dole, I believe he lodges here.’

  ‘The world is beating a path to his door,’ said the young man. ‘You are the third visitor since this time yesterday.’

  He stood aside to let the caller in, although in a grudging sort of way so that Nick had to squeeze past him. He pointed a finger upwards and said, ‘Go as far as you can go.’

  Nick groped his way up a dark staircase, which narrowed and grew more rickety as he reached the top of the house. Once there, he paused and listened. The house was silent and any street sounds were muffled by the snow outside. Suddenly Nick was reluctant to proceed with this. Yet he had his mission. He tapped on what, since it was the only door on this floor, must be the entrance to Dole’s room.

  No response. He rapped more loudly. Nothing. He reached out and twisted the handle, not expecting to get anywhere. But the room was not locked. His sense of unease grew stronger. Nick would have turned and gone back down the stairs but for the thought that he might find some evidence inside that Christopher Dole was the author of The English Brothers.

  He pushed the door right open. It was a small room, even smaller than Revill’s own lodgings. In the gloom he could make out the shape of a bed, a desk beneath the small window, a stool against the wall and a chest in the corner immediately to his left. Perhaps Nick looked at these things to avoid looking at what was in front of his nose.

  Directly before him, so close that it was almost touching the door, was a body. Swaying very slightly in the draught from the open door, it hung from a belt or girdle looped round a beam in the low ceiling. The head was almost crammed up against the beam, and the feet pointed downwards so that they dangled a few inches above the floor. Not much of a distance perhaps, but even those few inches had been enough to ensure Christopher Dole choked to death.