The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

In the small dark lobby he almost collided with a figure who was leaning against the jamb of the front door and blocking the exit.

‘Ah,’ said the figure, ‘it’s Christopher, isn’t it?’

‘You are in my way.’

‘I knew it was you. I can identify every member of this household by their tread, even when they’re hurrying, as you are.’

‘I am going out.’

The figure pushed itself away from the door-jamb and moved slightly to one side so that Dole was forced to brush past him. He smelled meat and liquor on the other’s breath. It reminded him that he had not eaten properly for at least forty-eight hours.

The lounger in the lobby was Stephen. He was the landlady’s son. Stephen did not seem to do anything in his mother’s house other than pad softly around, like a cat, and push his nose into other people’s business, like a dog.

‘You are surely on your way somewhere important, Christopher,’ he said in his usual familiar style. ‘Judging by the way you came downstairs almost running – for a man of your age, that is.’

‘Shog off, Stephen,’ said Christopher, opening the door and stepping into the street. He heard the other say, ‘My pleasure’, as the door closed behind him.

It was damp and cold in the streets outside but no damper or colder than it was in Dole’s garret room. The playwright walked briskly so as to keep out the weather and because he was eager to reach his destination, a tavern called The Ram. The tavern was in Moor Street in Clerkenwell. Dole knew that he would find the man he wanted there. Old George preferred The Ram to his home. It was quieter in The Ram. It was too distant for any member of his household to come hunting for him. Ensconced in the tavern, he would not be bothered by wife and children.

Sure enough, George Bruton was sitting in front of a pint pot in a corner. The interior of the tavern was smoky and no better lit than Dole’s own quarters. But George always sat on the same bench in the same corner, and a blind man might have found him. There was a knot of men in another corner of the room. Christopher could see nothing of them except the flash of an arm, the turn of a jaw.

George Bruton observed Christopher coming in his direction. Before the playwright could reach him he pinged his fingers against the side of his pot, and Dole took the hint to order two more pints from the passing drawer. Then he sat down next to Bruton. He waited until the drinks arrived and his companion had taken several gulps, almost draining the pot. Bruton was a large man who occupied more than his share of the bench. Dole remembered the days when he’d been slender. Their association was through Christopher’s brother, Alan, the bookseller and publisher. George Bruton was a printer who sometimes worked for Alan.

‘A damp evening, George,’ said Christopher.

George humphed. He was not a great one for talk. Neither was Christopher Dole, for all that his business was to do with words. So Dole decided to get straight to the point.

‘You recall that commission, a private one, that I mentioned to you a few days ago?’

‘My memory is not so good these days,’ said the printer. ‘It will take another one of these to stir it into life.’

Christopher had hardly drunk anything from his own pint but he snapped his fingers for the drawer, a pimply lad, and placed a fresh order. There was a bark of laughter from the shadowed group in the opposite corner. The very sound of the laughter, and a disjointed sentence or two, was enough to tell Christopher that these were gentlemen. The Ram was rather a down-at-heel place but perhaps the group liked it for that reason. He turned his attention back to George Bruton.

‘I require something to be printed – printed privately.’

For the first time George swivelled his block-like head to stare at Christopher.

‘Printed in small quantities – and then distributed discreetly.’

‘Some filth, is it?’

‘Not filth, not exactly.’

‘A pity.’

‘It is a play.’

‘One of your plays, Christopher?’

The boy returned with Bruton’s fresh pint. Christopher took advantage to delay replying to Bruton’s question. Then he said: ‘No, not mine. I am merely an intermediary, acting for someone who wishes to see it published.’

‘That’s strange,’ said Bruton, ‘because from your silence I’d been assuming it was one of your things. Like your tragedy about the Emperor Nero? What was that called? The Mother Killer ? The Matricide ? It was put on by Lord Faulkes’s company for a single performance, wasn’t it?’

Christopher Dole might have replied that plenty of plays were only put on for a single performance but he said nothing. There was another bark of laughter from the shadowy group of gents in the other corner and, if Dole had not been so fixed on what he was saying to Bruton, his sensitive spirit might have interpreted the sound as a judgement on that disastrous play about Nero and his mother.

George Bruton took another great swig from his pint before saying, ‘But then I am forgetting that The Matricide is something you’d rather not talk about, my friend. I told you my memory is not so good.’

‘Then let us agree not to speak another word of that play, Mr Bruton. I have in my possession the foul version of a drama entitled The English Brothers . Who the author is doesn’t matter. It has not been performed. In fact, I do not think it will ever be staged anywhere. But I want it printed… no, he , the author, wants it printed on the quiet.’

‘Without a licence?’

‘Yes, without a licence,’ said Christopher. ‘Come on, George, don’t act surprised. We both know that books are issued from time to time that are not licensed or registered with the Stationers’ Company, whether by oversight or intention.’

‘Are you well, Christopher?’

‘Yes,’ said Dole, wondering whether Bruton meant well in his head or his body. ‘Why, don’t I look well?’

‘As a matter of fact, you do not. Even in this light, you appear white and thin, and there are bags under your eyes like sacks of coal.’

‘I’ve been too busy to sleep.’

‘Ah, yes. You say you’ve got the play with you. Let’s see it.’

Christopher Dole dug inside his doublet, retrieved the script that he had so recently finished in his little room, and gave it to George Bruton. For all that the light was poor in The Ram tavern, Bruton riffled through the pages, stopping every now and then as if he was actually able to read the thing. Perhaps he could. Christopher knew from his dealings with printers and publishers that they had an instinctive feel for a handwritten script. It was almost as if they were capable of reading with their fingertips.

‘It’s messy,’ said George.

‘It must have been composed at speed.’

‘Your author friend was obviously inspired. Even so, it would be easier to work from a fair copy.’

‘He doesn’t want it to be seen by more eyes than necessary. I can be on hand in your printing-house to help… interpret it.’

‘Your friend is prepared to pay well for this to be printed, Christopher Dole? Even to pay over the odds, seeing it has to be done on the quiet .’

‘Yes.’

‘Quarto size?’

‘Quarto size, and not bound in vellum either, but merely sewn together.’

‘We call it “stabbed” in the trade. But I gather your friend wants to keep the cost down.’

‘He is not concerned with appearances.’

‘I was concerned with appearances, once,’ said Bruton, handing back the sheaf of papers containing The English Brothers and staring mournfully into his newly empty pot. ‘Once I had ambitions to follow in the steps of John Day… of Christopher Barker… ’