For Nick, making a descent from the house on the Bridge was a frightening enough prospect. But a yet more frightening one was to stay and wait for the man calling himself Henry Ashe to return with Philip Henslowe. All too soon the Privy Council agent would discover that his prisoner wasn’t Dick Newman, as he’d claimed to be. He would start to wonder what else Nick was concealing. The whereabouts of that item known as the Oseney text, for example. Ashe had already threatened Nick with a less comfortable conversation in a less agreeable place. That meant real imprisonment, and probably worse. The Council could authorise torture. Nick would have given up the secret of the Oseney text as easily and willingly as dropping a feather. They wouldn’t even have to resort to torture. The trouble was that he had no idea what Ashe was talking about.
So, if it was a choice between the dangers of a sheer drop and the freezing river, and a dank cell courtesy of the Privy Council, he’d choose the drop and the river every time.
Even as these thoughts and fears were racing through his head, Nick had been testing the ropes that were heaped and coiled in the area of the wooden hoist. He was trying to select the longest by running stretches through his hands and extending his arms to either side. That amounted to between five and six feet, didn’t it? But the ropes got tangled and Nick began to lose count. Besides, he had only a vague notion of how far it was down to the water and the pier foundation. The distance from the top of an arch in the centre of the Bridge might have been as much as thirty feet at low tide. But this corner-room jutted out below the level of the nearest arch. Then it occurred to him that, since these various ropes must be used for hauling goods up from below, they would all be of about the same length.
He could not afford to waste any more precious moments in choosing precisely the right rope. He untangled one that seemed a little more sturdy than the others, looped it around the frame of the hoist and tied a primitive knot. The very thickness and bulk of the cord made this awkward. He could not see clearly what he was doing and was forced to work mostly by touch. Once he thought it was secure, he pulled at it. Pulled hard because his life depended on that knot. Tugged twice more and then tossed the rope out so that it slithered through the gaping aperture in the floor. Even then he might have hesitated before launching himself into the air but, fearing he heard renewed noises outside the door of the storeroom, he grasped the rope in both hands. Lying on his front, he edged himself feet first over the lip of the hole.
Too soon he reached the point where more of his weight was outside than in. Almost convinced that the rope would not bear his weight or the knot would fail, Nick nevertheless started to clamber down. At first his legs swung free until, instinctively, he wrapped his feet about the rope. Nick was not fearful of heights. But he was very afraid of falling. Death was certain if he did, whether he struck the loose stone blocks and wooden piles of the pier-foundation or whether he plunged into the water.
For an instant, when he completely cleared the trapdoor opening and was out in the open, feeling exposed and insignificant beside the massive bulk of the Bridge, Nick found his bare hands refusing to unclasp themselves from the ridged rope. It was as if his fingers had a will of their own, locking themselves round the thin thread, which was all that prevented him from dropping down like a stone. With a great effort, he uncurled one hand, and swiftly placed it beneath the other on the rope. Then he prised that one away and positioned it beneath the first. And so on and on, until the action became almost automatic and his fear subsided slightly as, not daring to look down to see whether he was over ground or water, he concentrated on inching down the rope.
Careful hand over careful hand, feet and calves sliding down the coarse hemp strands, gusts of air plucking at his garments, Nick risked a look upwards and was disappointed to realise he had travelled hardly any distance. The trapdoor entrance showed as a darker square against the jutting floor of the store room. At any moment, Henry Ashe would be returning with Philip Henslowe and finding the room empty. They could haul him up again, using the rope. Worse, they could simply untie or sever the cord, and allow Nick to plunge to his death. He was an escaper, he was an imposter, an enemy to the Council, whatever name he might adopt.
He started to move more quickly, much more quickly. And the rope started to sway because of his jerky movements and because he was emerging from the shelter provided by the bulk of the Bridge overhead. The swaying became more violent and Nick found himself twisting helplessly in the air so that one moment he was facing the stonework of the pier and the next confronting the open river. The end of the rope lashed around beneath him like a monstrous tail. At the conclusion of one swing his back struck the stone flank of the pier and the jarring force of the blow almost caused him to release his hold. He willed himself to be still, to keep gripping tight with hands and feet, and to wait until the worst of the swaying, sickening motions of the rope had diminished.
Only now did he look down and, this time, was surprised to see that he had less than twenty feet to go, as far as he could judge. By good fortune the rope would take him through that distance. But those twenty feet would also deliver him straight into the foamy water, whose smell filled his nostrils and whose roaring filled his ears. To one side was the edge of the foundation of the pier holding up Nonesuch House. At this instant, just when he needed to swing himself across to reach the foundation, he hung quivering, almost without motion. His arms and shoulders burned with labour, his bare hands were slick with sweat or blood or both.
One final effort. He jerked his body until he managed to gain some momentum and the rope was swaying now out above the current, now over the boat-shaped projection below the pier. At the same time he shifted himself lower. And then it seemed to Nick as though the rope began to slide down of its own accord before making an abrupt descent of some dozen feet. It jolted to a stop. The knot around the hoist in the storeroom was giving way. Or someone up there was attempting to loosen it. Without thought, and as the arc of his swing brought him back once again over the pier foundation, Nick let go his hold and, though his feet struck the top of the wooden piles, he tumbled onto solid ground. At the same moment, the rope sprang free and snaked down behind him into the water.
For some time Nick lay where he’d fallen. The noise of the river was thunderous. He scarcely dared to move for fear that he would not be able to move at all. He tested his limbs with slight flexing movements. There were some pains but nothing beyond bearing. He scrabbled in the loose stone and gravel and got to his feet. He looked up. Nonesuch House hung above his head like a Jonah’s whale brought to land. He could not see the trapdoor hole through which he had descended. There were no lights up there. Perhaps his escape was not yet detected after all.
He huddled against the elmwood stakes that surrounded the pier-foundation. He wondered what to do next. He had escaped from one predicament into another. There was no way off this place except by boat and, although there were still lights showing a little traffic on the river, no means of attracting anyone’s attention in the cold and dark. He could not even climb back into Nonesuch House since the rope that had delivered him had disappeared, presumably to join all the other rubbish in the river.
He didn’t know how long he huddled there. It was bitterly cold and his hurts were beginning to trouble him. He might even have slept for a few moments. He was afraid that the winter’s night might do for him. He staggered to his feet. Keep moving, keep warm, keep alive. He stumbled over one of the stone blocks beneath his feet. He cried out in pain and anger and crashed to the ground. He lay there, wondering if this was his last night on earth. Then he saw two figures clambering over the piles.
One of them said: ‘Mr Revill? Are you there? Please answer.’
VI
All was explained by Hans de Worde. He was very apologetic for having deserted Nick when the Privy Council agents strode into view in Long Southwark. It was pure fear. But after a moment or two his better and braver nature prevailed. Overcome by guilt, he turned back to follow the
band of four as they took up Nick and ushered him into the ground-floor of Nonesuch House. There by the entrance he had hung about, in an anguish of indecision, watching the comings and goings, and unnoticed himself in all the busyness of the Bridge. After about an hour there was a great stir, with men rushing out of Nonesuch and word spreading like fire along the Bridge that someone had toppled into the river from the very wing of the house where Nick had disappeared. Convinced it must be Nicholas, and consumed twice over by guilt, Hans went to find his brother, the ferryman, so that they might go in search of Nick’s— Here Hans stopped himself from saying ‘body’ although that was surely the most likely outcome of the search.
Nick and Hans were in the Southwark lodgings of Antony de Worde, ferryman and brother to the printer’s journeyman. Antony was a rough-hewn version of the fastidious Hans. No attender at the Dutch church, he was, like other inhabitants of Southwark, and especially those engaged in the ferry-trade, almost indifferent to the law. He was not taken by his brother’s suggestion. Not until Hans offered the ferryman enough money to take his boat out onto the river by night in this futile quest.
By chance, a miraculous chance, the brothers were about to give up and were navigating their way back to the dock by St Mary Overie’s and so passing the region of the Bridge near Nonesuch House when they heard, above the roar of the river, a cry of pain coming from one of the foundations. Nick owed his life to the fact that he had fallen and shouted out in rage, in pain, in fear.
Once in the warmth and comfort of Antony de Worde’s lodging – so much better than anything that Nonesuch could offer – Nick was revived with warm spirits. Salves were put on his scraped and bleeding hands. Finally, Nick removed his lamb’s-wool beard, thinking that it had provided a useful disguise both on and off stage.
Words tumbled out of Hans de Worde’s mouth as he described how glad he was to see Mr Revill alive and well, or at least fairly well. How he could not forgive himself for bringing down trouble on the player’s head. How he could not wait to hand over the Oseney text, which he had retrieved from Christopher Dole’s room, from its hiding place in the dead man’s chest. He thought he recognised the text as he was setting it up in type for The English Brothers and the source was confirmed by a chance remark of George Bruton’s, when Dole visited his printing-house the day he died. Hans was familiar with the stories about The Play of Adam. He did not believe that such a dangerous script should be allowed to roam free in the world. It was against religion.
More quick-witted than his employer, George Bruton, Hans had already worked out that Dole (and not the imaginary Ashe) was the author of The English Brothers. Believing that Dole must have the text of the old play as well, he went to his lodgings. Shaken to discover the hanging body – and wondering whether this was not another malign effect of The Play of Adam – he nevertheless persisted in his search and rapidly unearthed the scroll from among the few shirts and other items in Christopher’s chest.
Hans now reached into his doublet and brought out an antique roll of vellum. He handed over the manuscript known as the Oseney text, saying, ‘I don’t want it any more. I should never have taken it. It is a play and you, sir, are a player. Do with it what you will, Mr Revill. There are words of warning on the outside of the scroll. Read them and ponder.’
The scroll was unexpectedly weighty, as though made of more than mere vellum. Hans tapped at some words on the outside, to indicate it was the warning he’d just mentioned. Nick thought, this is the very item for which Henry Ashe is searching, on behalf of the King. His first impulse was to hobble out of the Southwark lodging of Antony de Worde, to return to Nonesuch House, find the man calling himself Ashe and deliver the manuscript with some pithy comment. But a moment’s further thought told him that that would be foolish. He’d be walking back into the lions’ den all over again. No, he’d return the scroll to Alan Dole, who owned it.
Another small mystery was solved while he was being restored at Antony de Worde’s. Hans produced a scrap of paper which, he said, had fallen from Nick’s pocket. It was the piece Nick picked up in Dole’s room, the one bearing the words ‘Guilielmus Shakespeare hoc fecit’ or ‘William Shakespeare did this’. Hans identified the writing as Dole’s. It was the same writing as on the original foul papers brought to the printing-house. Christopher Dole was determined that Shakespeare should be taken as the author of this dangerous work. Not only had he spread rumours round town to that effect and provided a mocking version of Shakespeare’s coat of arms on the title page, he had left a slip of paper claiming the false authorship inside a copy of the book. There was something pitiful in that little scrap of paper.
‘So we are going to perform The English Brothers?’ said Nick Revill.
‘Yes,’ said Shakespeare. ‘It’s a good story. It has rivalry between noble knights, the threat of battle and the drumbeat of patriotism, it has love unrequited and devotion rewarded. And we think it would be a fitting tribute to Christopher Dole.’
‘As well as being likely to draw in an audience,’ said Richard Burbage. ‘In fact, the circumstances of Dole’s death give off a whiff of tragedy and pathos so that alone will probably attract a few people. We’ll put it about that The English Brothers was his final masterpiece.’
Nick was astounded to hear these things. They were sitting, the three of them, in the small, snug office behind the Globe stage. A fire was burning while the weather beyond the walls of the building was bitter. If it continued like this the river would freeze over. Every sight or thought of the river reminded Nick of Nonesuch House and his encounter with the Privy Council agent. Looking back, it seemed more like a dream, a bad dream, than reality.
Nick had not gained anything from his adventure on London Bridge, except a renewed respect for the power of the river. But nor had he lost anything of significance, such as his life or liberty. There had been no serious consequences. That is, no hue and cry after an individual by the name of Richard Newman. By now, Ashe must have discovered that no such person existed, at least not as a player with the Admiral’s Men. And, presumably, Ashe would have concluded that Newman – whoever he was – had perished after making an ill-judged attempt to escape from Nonesuch House. It was not the kind of failure Ashe would be keen to enlarge on to his superiors, like Secretary Cecil. Nick had some anxiety that he could have been identified by anyone coming to see him at the Globe, but it helped that when Ashe questioned him he was wearing the false beard of lamb’s wool; it also helped that his face was dyed a darker colour than natural. And, although Ashe had undoubtedly glimpsed him in The Ram, as well as hearing him give the false identity to George Bruton, the illumination in the tavern was little better than in the street outside.
So Richard Newman vanished as if he’d never come into being. It was fitting, really, since Henry Ashe had not existed either.
But now Nick could not understand why the shareholders of the King’s Men were looking to stir up more trouble by staging a performance of The English Brothers.
Nick had already got rid of the original Play of Adam. He’d returned it to Alan Dole, only hinting at the trouble it had caused him. He did not say that it was possible that King James himself was interested in the Oseney text. That was none of his business. Dole was glad to have the manuscript back but only in the way that one might be glad to see a dangerous animal put back in its cage. What he said about the dubious provenance of the play, and its connection with murders in Ely and elsewhere, showed why he was wary of it.
Nick said a little more about his adventures to William Shakespeare, and was gratified at the look of horror that passed across WS’s face and then the mixture of contrition and concern that followed it. But now, some time afterwards, they were talking about performing Dole’s play, despite its connection with The Play of Adam.
‘What about the warning?’ asked Nick. ‘The prior’s words on the scroll about being infected with the worm of madness?’
‘You are superstitious?’ said WS.
‘W
ell, you can hardly say that this Play of Adam has brought luck to those involved with it: not only the fate of Christopher Dole but those earlier stories of misfortune from Oseney and Ely.’
‘The dangerous lines to do with Cain and Abel shall be removed,’ said WS.
‘While any references that nasty minds might think refer satirically to King James will also be cut,’ added Burbage. ‘There is no sense in offending our royal patron.’
‘Or falling foul of the Council,’ said Nick.
‘I am adding a scene or two of my own,’ said WS, ‘as well as smoothing out some of Dole’s.’
‘I thought you believed him to be an inferior writer,’ said Nick. ‘Besides, it looks as if he wrote The English Brothers mostly as an act of revenge.’
A pained look seemed to pass across Shakespeare’s face. He said: ‘Christopher is dead and de mortuis nihil nisi bonum, you know. Let us speak only good things of the dead, in the hope that others will treat us in a similar style after we have departed. Now that I look more closely at the piece, I think better of it. I am even prepared to overlook the mocking coat of arms on the title page. Perhaps I was too harsh on Dole when he was alive. If so, I shall make up for it now.’
William Shakespeare did make up for it. He tinkered with The English Brothers, and a handful of other dramatists threw in some extra scenes and lines until the play became a strange, mingled affair, the work of several hands but growing out of Christopher Dole’s original conception and advertised as being by the late dramatist.
Burbage’s commercial instinct was correct. Whatever the reason, whether it was the stirring quality of the story, or the melancholy tale of Dole’s end and the hint that he’d left behind him a great work, The English Brothers became a palpable hit for the King’s Men. It was performed several times and revived the following year. It was even published, in the revised form, and sold by Alan Dole, among other booksellers. From beyond the grave, Christopher Dole achieved his dream of being acclaimed – although all he had been seeking was revenge.
The First Murder Page 26
