The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

  He had expected to see someone inside but the chamber was empty. It was lavishly furnished, with desks, small tables and upholstered chairs scattered about. The wall-hangings rippled slightly in the draughts of air penetrating even such a finely constructed dwelling as this. Candles burned in sconces on the wall and a fire flickered in an elaborate chimney-piece. Facing Nick as he stood by the door was an oriel window with a quilted bench beneath. He walked across and, leaning against the bench and shielding his eyes from the light in the room, he squinted through the thick leaded panes.

  The view was to the west and upstream, with Southwark to his left and the city to his right. Extending away in front of him was the black river. There were glimmers of light from the little ferries still at work as well as from the buildings on either shore, but these feeble sparks served only to intensify the cold and dark beyond the wooden walls of Nonesuch House. From beneath Nick’s feet came the unceasing rumble of the water. On this spot he was standing directly above it since the sides of Nonesuch House projected out from the piers of the Bridge. It occurred to Nick that, if it were daytime and the tide in full flow around the piers, it would be like standing on the prow of a ship. Then it occurred to him that he ought to feel afraid, taken against his will from the public street and confined in the grandeur of Nonesuch House.

  Continuing to gaze at the dark river, although without really seeing it, Nick considered his predicament. He had a fair idea now of who was responsible for it. Hans de Worde, also, must have recognised the people striding towards him in Long Southwark. Recognised them not as individuals, perhaps, but for what they represented. They were surely the same ones who had called at George Bruton’s printing-house. They were . . .

  The door opened. A shadow cut across the candlelight reflected in the windowpanes. Nick turned slowly. It was the leader of the group. He was still wearing his broad-brimmed hat and Nick could not be sure whether this was for disguise or as an affectation. Nick saw only that he was clean-shaven. Behind him came the servant who had opened the front door. She was carrying a tray on which was a pitcher and two glasses, already filled.

  The man indicated that Nick should sit and, when he did, the woman offered him a glass. He took it and sipped, wondering what fate he was being softened up for. The wine was spiced and warm. By this time, the man had sat down on a chair opposite and taken the other glass. The woman placed the tray and pitcher on a nearby table. Then she exited the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Only when the man had swallowed some of the contents of his glass did he finally remove his hat. He did it with a flourish that would have done him credit on the stage. Nick had been expecting someone sinister or threatening but here was a man of about his own age, with a full head of straw-coloured hair and an open gaze. The man took another swallow from his glass.

  ‘This is very welcome on a cold night, eh, Mr Newman?’

  These were the first words he had spoken. His voice, like his manner, was easy, confident. Nick examined his glass, as if to savour the mere sight of the warmed wine. But his mind was elsewhere, working furiously. The man had addressed him as Newman, hadn’t he? Not as Revill. Which meant that he was unaware of his real identity. As if to confirm the mistake, the man now added in a tone that was more of a statement than a question: ‘You are Richard Newman of Prince Henry’s Men.’

  ‘That’s right, although we still refer to ourselves as the Admiral’s Men,’ said Nicholas Revill in a tone that he hoped would convey slight surprise at how well-informed the speaker was. For an instant, it occurred to him to put the man right, to give his real name and to declare he was a member of the King’s Men. But some instinct told him to stick with the assumed name. And, even as he decided this, he struggled to remember the limited number of people who knew him as Richard Newman.

  Meanwhile, it seemed that the man wanted to test Nick’s claims for he now said: ‘So, if you are with Prince Henry’s or the Admiral’s, you must be acquainted with Thomas Downton and Richard Jones of that company?’

  ‘Of course I know them, and I also know . . .’ And here Nick reeled off half a dozen names of players with the Admiral’s Men. He did know some of them personally, while the rest he had heard of. It was unlikely the man would detect the pretence, or at least it would take him a bit of time to do so. The big names in any group of players were familiar but there was quite a bit of coming-and-going between the London companies and no outsider would be able to keep track of all the latest arrivals and departures. For once, Nick was glad of his relatively junior status in Shakespeare’s company. He decided to take the initiative.

  ‘Since you know who I am, you ought to return the courtesy,’ he said, pleased at the steadiness in his voice.

  ‘You can call me Henry Ashe,’ said the man, staring at Nick as if daring him to dispute the name. Nick’s hold on his glass tightened. When he next spoke, it was harder to keep his voice even.

  ‘Henry Ashe, the author of The English Brothers?’

  ‘That’s a seditious and satirical piece, so it is not likely that I would be the author.’

  ‘Why is it unlikely you’d be the author, Mr Ashe? Who are you? Why am I here?’

  Nick did not meant to ask so many questions but they came tumbling out. Be careful, he told himself.

  ‘I said that you can call me Henry Ashe, Mr Newman. Let’s be satisfied with that, as I am satisfied for the moment that you are who you say you are. As for the reason I keep sedition at arm’s length – why, that is what any true-born Englishman should do. But, more precisely, it is because I work for . . . because I am a Messenger of the Chamber.’ This title was uttered with a little flourish, like the hat-removing.

  Nick nodded. It confirmed his fears. The harmless sounding ‘Messenger of the Chamber’ was a title sometimes used by agents of the Privy Council. From the number and efficiency of the group that had apprehended him on the Bridge, as well as the opulence of the chamber in Nonesuch House, Nick already knew he could be at the mercy of only one particular arm of the state. This was the Council, operating under the direct control of its secretary, Robert Cecil. Diminutive Cecil, now the Earl of Salisbury. Cecil, the man with the crooked back, who had his finger in more pies than you could count and who ran a network of spies and informants in the name of national security. Nick had encountered Robert Cecil once at the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. It was not a happy memory.

  Nick’s only weapon was that, for the time being, the man calling himself Henry Ashe thought he was someone else.

  ‘If you are what you say you are,’ he said to Ashe, ‘then of course you cannot be the author of The English Brothers.’

  ‘That was Christopher Dole. I hear he is dead – by his own hand.’

  ‘And I heard,’ said Nick, the blood thudding in his ears as he spoke, ‘that Mr Dole was visited before his death by a gentleman who bore a great resemblance to you. He even gave your name.’

  Ashe didn’t reply straight away. He got up and refilled his glass, then came over to refill Nick’s. It was if they were two old friends chatting in comfort. When he sat down again, he said: ‘Yes, it’s true, I did call on Dole. I gave the name of Ashe because it amused me to do so. I heard the name bandied about in a tavern called The Ram.’

  Nick barely suppressed a start of surprise at the mention of the place where he’d gone in search of George Bruton. Ashe noticed Nick’s reaction.

  ‘You are probably thinking that The Ram is rather a low place for someone more used to Nonesuch House. But I tell you, Mr Newman, all kinds of information can be garnered there. People are less careful what they say in such places. It is a regular resort of ours. And of yours, I believe. Your voice sounds familiar.’

  Nick remembered the recent occasion when he’d seen Bruton in the tavern. He had given his name as Newman, had claimed to be from the Admirals’. He remembered too that there was a group of drinkers in another corner of The Ram. Was Ashe one of them? He must have been. Perhaps it was not de Worde that t
he group was after but himself, under the assumed name of Newman. Perhaps they had been tracking de Worde but only in the hope that he would lead them to more valuable prey.

  The man from the Privy Council continued: ‘I went to visit Christopher Dole because I was looking into some . . . careless comments that had been written about our sovereign. When I left him, he was still alive.’

  Nick said nothing. Ashe’s words agreed with what Hans de Worde had said. It looked as though Dole had not been murdered, after all.

  ‘It may be,’ said Ashe, ‘that something I said caused Mr Dole to reflect on the continued worth of his existence. He was not in good health, poor fellow. On the contrary he was thin and shaking and in a very low mood. Perhaps he feared further investigation. Not every conversation can take place in such pleasant surroundings as this, Mr Newman.’

  Henry Ashe gestured at the room where they were sitting. His meaning was plain enough: we have other spaces to talk in, other means by which we might interest you in talking to us.

  Ashe suddenly said: ‘What do you know about the Oseney text?’

  Nick had heard of the Oseney text from Alan Dole, but it meant nothing to him. His look of confused ignorance must have been convincing to Ashe since, for the first time in their encounter, the other man appeared uncertain.

  ‘It is the reason we have been keeping an eye on various people – one of the reasons. The other is Mr Dole’s unwise mockery of the monarch. But it is the Oseney text we are after. It is the old manuscript of a play reputed to have unusual powers. Some phrases from the Oseney text were used in that play called The English Brothers. The phrases were recognised by . . . those who are knowledgeable in such things. It followed that whoever penned The English Brothers must also be in possession of the Oseney text or know its whereabouts.’

  ‘What do you mean by “unusual powers”?’ said Nick, genuinely curious.

  ‘The Oseney text is reputed to be cursed.’

  As a theatre man, Nick was familiar with stories about those dangerous phrases and spells that ought not to be uttered on stage. Hadn’t an extra demon, one not accounted for in the list of players, appeared from nowhere during a performance of Doctor Faustus? And the thought of the devil suddenly explained why Secretary Cecil’s man was concerned about a text with a curse on it.

  ‘This is all on account of the King, isn’t it?’ said Nick. ‘Everyone knows of his interest in witchcraft and devilry. He collects books on the subject. Why, he even wrote a book on demonology many years ago.’

  ‘It may be so,’ said Henry Ashe.

  The man’s guarded answer indicated to Nick that he was right. The order to lay hold of this dangerous manuscript – the Oseney text – must have come directly from Secretary Cecil, who in turn would have been given instructions by King James. Perhaps the King wanted it for his book collection. Perhaps he wanted it for some darker purpose.

  ‘Are you telling me all you know?’ asked Ashe.

  ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘You see, Christopher Dole assured me that he too knew nothing about it. I might have questioned him again but now he is dead. Yet you are still here, Mr Newman.’

  Nick felt sweat break out on his forehead. It was not because of the warmth of the room or the wine, which suddenly tasted bitter on his tongue. He was aware of the rumble of the river below, although he had not noticed it for many minutes.

  ‘Prince Henry’s or the Admiral’s Men, you said?’ said Ashe. ‘And to confirm it, you provided me with a string of names, a little too eagerly, perhaps. Suppose I summon a member of the company now to confirm that you are who you say you are, Mr Newman.’

  Nick shrugged. Do as you please, the gesture said. He was thinking, the Admiral’s are based in the Fortune theatre just outside the city walls. It will take a little time to lay hands on someone from the company and to bring them to Nonesuch House. A lot could happen in a little time. He might still be able to talk his way out of this.

  ‘As it happens,’ said Henry Ashe, ‘I believe that Philip Henslowe is dining at another of the houses on the Bridge tonight. I’m sure he won’t object to being interrupted at his table and coming along here to identify you. Not if he knows that he will be assisting the Council. I can see the idea makes you uncomfortable, Mr Newman, so I don’t think I should leave you in here while I fetch Henslowe. Let us see if you can be lodged somewhere more secure.’

  The sweat started to run down Nick’s face. His beard itched. Henslowe was not a player but someone much more important: a builder of playhouses and a shareholder in the Bear Garden. He was closely associated with the Admiral’s Men, now Prince Henry’s. He would be familiar with every player on their books. He would not recognise the name of Richard Newman. More to the point, he would probably recognise Nick as one of the King’s Men, despite the dye on his face and the lamb’s-wool beard.

  Henry Ashe got up, indicating that Nick should rise too. He stood aside to let the player go first through the door. It crossed Nick’s mind to make a run for it. But immediately outside stood two of the caped men from the original group. Ashe, who seemed to employ gestures rather than words when giving orders to his underlings, nodded towards a second and smaller door to one side of the chamber they had just exited.

  Once again Nick was grasped by the upper arms and, with more force this time, guided towards the second door. It was opened and he was shoved inside. On the threshold he stumbled and fell to the floor. Behind him the door was closed, a key turned. He heard footsteps striding away, squeaking on that well-polished floor. Henry Ashe, no doubt, off in search of Philip Henslowe. There was some talk from the other side of the door, inaudible because of the background sound of the river, but it meant that the two men were remaining outside as guards.

  Nick sat up. After the dazzle of the large chamber it took some moments for his eyes to adapt to what was an unlit, narrow area made more confined by piles of boxes and heaped-up sacks and bags as well as barrels.

  He pushed himself to his feet. More by touch than sight he made his way around some obstruction in the centre of the room and across to a window. This was no more than an aperture giving a view onto a narrow slice of river and sky, though it was too dark to see the point where one became the other. The window was glazed but it seemed to have no catch, no means of being opened. Its function could only be to allow a little light into this side room.

  The function of the room itself was clear to Nick. He could smell spices. There was a faint odour of fish. One of the smaller bags contained what felt like nuts – filberts from their size. An upright and open-topped barrel gave off no tang apart from a faint whiff of the river: water therefore. This was a storage area and sited here on the ground floor of Nonesuch House so that goods might be drawn straight up from the river rather than being brought to the Bridge on a long roundabout journey by road. Indeed, for a couple of items – fish and water – the river was the nearest and most convenient source. You might even catch your fish directly by dangling a line straight down.

  As Nick’s eyes grew more used to the gloom he could see that the obstruction in the centre of the room was some kind of hoist, a sturdy wooden frame complete with a ratchet-wheel and handle, together with cords and a wicker basket. He got down on his hands and knees and fumbled for the trapdoor, which had to be close to the hoist. It took him only a few seconds to locate a metal ring, cold to the touch, and then the square outlines of the trapdoor itself, which stood slightly proud of the floor where it was embedded. He estimated it was about three feet on each side. The hinges were opposite to the hoist which meant that the door opened upwards and in the direction of the slit-like window over the river.

  Nick was about to take hold of the iron ring when he heard noises outside the door. The handle rattled. Surely it was not Ashe come back with Henslowe so soon? No, for the rattling ceased almost immediately and Nick guessed that it was one of the guards testing that the door was fast. He would have to beware of noise, although the rumble of the river prov
ided some cover. Fortunately, it seemed to be getting louder. The tide must be turning. Nick reached out for the ring and pulled at it. No movement. Making sure his feet were clear of the trapdoor itself, he craned over it and, using all the strength in his shoulders, tugged hard. The trapdoor came free so suddenly that, had he not been grasping the iron ring, he would have fallen over backwards. Even so, he put out his arm for balance and struck a pile of boxes, which toppled over with a crash.

  He froze, still crouching and holding on with one hand to the ring on the trapdoor. No response from outside. No door flung open. He waited for as long as he dared and then gradually eased the trapdoor all the way open until it lay flat with its edge against the outer wall. There was an uprush of cold air and the noise of the river grew more insistent. Nick kneeled down and, with fingers curled round the planking at the edge of the square hole, he peered below. What took his breath away was not the chill night air but the fall to the river. From this angle, it seemed an impossible, dizzying distance through the dark.

  Nonesuch House, although built almost entirely of wood, was too heavy to rest on a span of the Bridge and so was set firmly on one of the great piers that thrust up from the boat-shaped foundations. The storeroom where Nick was imprisoned was on the north-west corner of the building and therefore half over a foundation, half over the water. Nick couldn’t see them but he knew that there would be mooring rings on the wooden piles that held in the stone and gravel of the foundation-blocks. Here suppliers could tie up their boats while provisions were winched up to Nonesuch House. He glimpsed white flecks where the water broke against the pier. That, and the deep roar, showed the tide was ebbing. This was when the river was at its most turbulent since all of its upstream expanse was squeezed between the many arches of the Bridge, causing a dangerous, tumbling drop down to the far side.