The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

WS must have sensed Revill’s willingness for he said: ‘I know the printer of this piece, not well but slightly. George Bruton of Bride Lane. A man with a large family and an appetite for drink. I can only imagine that he was unaware of what was coming out of his press. Or perhaps he doesn’t care.’

‘But he will know who the author is?’

‘He must do. Unless the real author used a go-between. At any rate, Bruton will have information.’

‘The Privy Council may be looking at him as well.’

‘In which case he will certainly disclose the author, probably under duress. I would rather go about it in a more roundabout way. And I do not wish to visit Bruton myself. He knows me. But not you, Nick. You may ask some questions. I have a further request. Do not say that you are from the King’s Men but another company. Which company would you choose if you were not with us?’

Nick thought for a moment. ‘The Admiral’s.’

The Admiral’s Men had recently acquired a new patron and become Prince Henry’s Men but almost everyone continued to refer to them under their old name.

‘And, as well as saying you are with the Admiral’s, why not take an assumed name for yourself?’

‘An assumed name?’

‘To cover your tracks. It’s an idea that should appeal to you as a player. It’s what I would do in your place.’

There was a glint in WS’s eye now. Nick thought again. Taking a different name was an appealing idea, for some reason. Why not do it?

‘Then I shall reverse my initials and become Rick Newman – better still, Dick Newman.’

All WS’s characteristic good humour was restored. ‘Very good, now you are a new man,’ he said. Nick smiled as though he had intended the pun (though in fact Newman was his mother’s family name). Shakespeare continued: ‘When our Richard Burbage wants to be taken seriously he remains a Richard, but when he requires a bit of swagger he turns into a Dick. So go to see Bruton as Dick Newman. Don’t threaten him or hint at trouble from the Council. You might go so far as to say that the Admiral’s are thinking of putting on this play, The English Brother s. Between ourselves, we might even stage it here at the Globe.’

‘Surely not?’

‘It has possibilities,’ said WS. ‘Besides, if this play is by the individual who I think wrote it, then I owe him amends.’

‘Why?’

‘I made some remark to do with another play of his, and the remark got about, as I perhaps intended it to.’

Shakespeare paused as if reluctant to say more. Nick kept silent.

‘I described the experience of sitting through that play as “the happiest, most comical two hours I have spent in the playhouse”.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘The piece was a tragedy.’

It was early in December and Christopher Dole was at the beginning of his last day on earth. By chance, it was the same day on which Shakespeare requested Nicholas Revill to look into the authorship of the play, now out in the world under the title of The English Brothers . As far as Dole was concerned, the piece was meant to draw down mischief on Shakespeare but it seemed to be causing more trouble for himself than anyone else. Under his direction, George Bruton printed about a hundred copies and Christopher caused them to be distributed round various shops and stalls, as well as simply dropping them in locations like the Inns of Court where they might be picked up by the curious or discerning reader. He spread the word among casual acquaintances that WS had penned a new piece.

It reached his ears that the word had not only been heard by WS but had come to the attention of the Privy Council. The Council was interested on account of some scurrilous remarks concerning King James. This was just as Christopher planned. But he had not planned carefully enough. Any investigation from the Council should initially be directed at WS but was then likely to turn towards the printer. Under pressure, George Bruton would name Christopher as the individual who’d brought him the play in the first place. It might not even be necessary to apply pressure. So Christopher needed to go back to the printing-house in Bride Lane and remind Bruton that, if questioned, he should refer to Christopher Dole only as an intermediary. The real author was Henry Ashe. That might waste a bit of time, with the Council looking for the mythical Mr Ashe.

The truth was that Christopher Dole had not really expected to be alive at this moment, approaching Christmas. Convinced of his imminent demise, he gave little thought to the penalties the Privy Council might inflict on him. What could the Council do if he was in his grave? Nothing. Now the question was, what would they do if he was out of it? An ingenious revenge plot was threatening to turn on its creator.

Dole still owed money to George Bruton, and he decided to return to Bride Lane with a promise of the final payment. He’d also take the opportunity to remind George that it was not he, Christopher, who was the creator of The English Brothers . Definitely not.

As soon as Dole entered the ground-floor press in Bride Lane, he was attacked by Bruton. Attacked with words rather than blows, but the corpulent printer looked as though he might be ready to resort to those too. Perhaps it was only the presence of Hans de Worde and John the apprentice that restrained him. The two were on the far side of the room, getting on with their work, but they kept casting covert glances towards their master.

‘You assured me there was nothing dangerous in this,’ said Bruton, holding up a copy of the ill-fated drama. ‘Nothing seditious, you said. But there are lines that are easily construed as mockery of the King.’

‘Not so easily construed, George. You did not spot them when the play was being set up in type.’

‘So you admit it?’

‘Sedition is in the eye of the beholder.’

‘ That is a very foolish answer pretending to be a clever one, Christopher Dole. You had better tell that friend of yours, Henry Ashe, to watch out. He will have some questions to answer himself.’

Christopher was surprised, even amazed, to hear that Bruton still believed in the existence of Mr Ashe. He played along.

‘Yes, yes. If the authorities want to know anything, you should direct them to Henry Ashe.’

‘Where does he live?’

Christopher thought fast, though not so fast as when he had plucked Ashe’s name out the air. He named a street at a little distance from his own. This seemed to satisfy the printer, for Bruton then moved on to the more pressing matter of money. Dole promised to pay him the final instalment.

‘And how will you do that?’ said Bruton, scornfully.

‘I’ll call on my brother,’ said Dole.

‘Much good that’ll do you. I saw Alan very recently. He did not have a good word for you. He was still asking me about that Oseney text. Are you sure you don’t have it?’

There was a crash from the other side of the press room. It was Hans de Worde. He had dropped a container full of type. Looking apologetic, he scrabbled around on hands and knees to pick it up.

Leaving Bride Lane, Christopher Dole had a thought. He had not seen his brother for some time, despite surreptitiously depositing a couple of copies of The English Brothers in Alan’s shop. He’d mentioned his brother to Bruton as a way of warding off the printer’s questions. Despite previous refusals, his prosperous sibling might advance him the money, enough to carry him over the next few weeks as well as to pay off his debts. If he should live so long.

He entered Alan’s shop, grateful to get out of the cold. It was situated in Paul’s Yard, where many bookshops and stalls clung to the skirts of the great church. There was no one inside, apart from Alan, who was sitting at a desk near the back of his store and making entries in a ledger. Christopher was glad to find his brother by himself. They were never friends but they had never descended to Cain-and-Abel-like levels of enmity either. Yet Alan greeted him with the same hostility as had George Bruton. Seeing his brother, he grabbed at a book and leaped up. Now he too began waving a copy of The English Brothers , presumably one of the two that Christopher had abandoned there so recently.