The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

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 disturbed 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.’

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.’