The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

There was a bustle in the lobby outside. It was constable Daggett departing. Mrs Atkins went out to see him off. Nick stayed sitting by the warmth of the parlour fire.

Gazing into the coals, he asked himself: who would want to kill a poor, out-of-fashion playwright?

Then Nick recalled that Christopher Dole had managed to incur the hatred or anger of several persons: the printer, George Bruton, who called Dole a bastard and said he owed him money; his own brother, who claimed that Christopher had committed ‘foolish crimes’, and who had uttered some threatening words against him. True, these individuals talked about Dole as if he were still alive, when it was evident he had died earlier. But this could just be clever talk, meant to hide their own guilt.

And then, to add to the list, there was William Shakespeare. As well as WS, there were probably others unknown to Nick with reason to dislike Dole. For an impoverished and neglected playwright, he certainly seemed to have a talent for making enemies.

Nick retrieved the fragment of paper he’d picked up from Dole’s floor. By the better light of the parlour, he was able to read the words. They were not English, but Latin. There were only four of them, and they were easy to understand. What he read caused a chill to come over him, for all the heat from the fire.

The door to the parlour opened. Nick turned his gaze from the slumbering fire but his expectation of seeing Sara Atkins again was disappointed when Stephen entered the room alone. The landlady’s son glanced briefly at Nick before pouring himself a good measure of the aqua vitae, which he swallowed in a single gulp. It crossed Nick’s mind that he too might be a suspect for Dole’s killing. Without saying a word, Stephen made to go out the door.

‘A moment… Stephen,’ said Nick. ‘Where is the body now?’

‘Cut down and laid out upstairs.’

‘I have a couple of questions for you, and I think you owe me some answers, after…’ He indicated the bruises on his face.

Stephen shrugged and leaned his lanky frame against the panel-work by the door.

‘You told me that two other people came to see Christopher Dole recently.’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘There was a gentleman who called yesterday afternoon. I knew Mr Dole was absent but I directed the visitor to go upstairs to Dole’s room since the day was turning nasty, and he was insistent on seeing our lodger. From his voice and manner, he was obviously an individual of refinement, not someone to be turned away into the cold.’

‘So this gentleman waited for Christopher to return?’

‘I encountered Dole when I was on my way out, and told him he had a caller, so they must have met upstairs.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I cannot tell you. His clothes were good but he was wearing a hat with a wide brim and it threw most of his face into shadow.’

‘He didn’t give his name, I suppose?’

‘You suppose wrong. He did give his name.’

Nick waited and said nothing. He let the silence stretch out. He looked at the fire. Eventually the landlady’s son gave way: ‘He said he was called Henry Ashe.’

Nick couldn’t help starting in surprise. So Henry Ashe, the imagined author of The English Brothers , was real after all. To cover his reaction he said, ‘You keep a close eye on the comings and goings in this house, don’t you, Stephen?’

‘I’m not sure what business it is of yours but, yes, I do. My mother is somewhat casual about callers.’

‘And there was another caller, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before or after the well-dressed man? Mr Ashe?’

‘After.’

‘What did this one look like? Was he wearing a broad-brimmed hat as well?’

Stephen shrugged. ‘I did not see him, but I heard him. I heard someone going upstairs, not one of our lodgers, since I recognise them all by their treads. I was aware of steps mounting to the very top floor, therefore I assumed this person was on his way to visit Christopher Dole.’

‘But you did not see who it was, even though you like to know who’s coming and going here?’

‘What I don’t know is why I have to account to you, Mr… er, for what I do or do not do. You have no authority.’

No, I have no authority, thought Nick. No more than you have authority to rain down blows on me and then pretend to forget my name. But he could not think what else to ask. In his grudging way, Stephen had provided quite a lot of information. Nick was curiously relieved that Stephen had not been able to describe the second visitor to the house.

Mrs Atkins returned. She was carrying Nick’s doublet and cloak, which he had left in her bedchamber. Nick was pleased to see her, quite apart from getting relief from her son’s company. Stephen slipped out of the room. Nick promised again to inform Alan Dole of his brother’s death. He didn’t go over his suspicions that Christopher might not have killed himself. He was no longer so sure that he wished to pursue them anyway. Mrs Atkins told him he might return to her house, if he wished, to have more salves and ointments applied to his hurts. Was she saying this because her son had done the damage or because she wanted another visit from him?

Sara helped him on with the rest of his clothing. She was gentle, and she grasped him lightly but slightly longer than was needed. Nick felt warmer, from the fire, from the aqua vitae, from her attentions.

As he trudged back through the streets, which gave off a cold glow on account of the freshly fallen snow, Nick tried to sum up what he’d learned.

Henry Ashe really existed. Therefore Christopher Dole was his agent, presenting The English Brothers to the printer. Had Ashe fallen out with him and killed him? Or was it the second visitor, the one Stephen Atkins claimed he’d heard creeping up the stairs? No, he hadn’t said ‘creeping’, had he? Nick was thoroughly confused. Perhaps it was the result of the blows he’d received to the head.

The real source of the confusion, though, was the four words scrawled on the scrap of paper from Dole’s room.

Those words were: ‘ Guilielmus Shakespeare hoc fecit .’ ‘William Shakespeare made this.’

Or as one might say instead: ‘William Shakespeare did this.’

It was a claim of authorship. So WS was the author of The English Brothers , after all? No, that was Henry Ashe, the man who’d called on Dole the previous afternoon. But if the message on the scrap of paper wasn’t a claim of authorship, then perhaps it was the finger of blame. William Shakespeare did this.

Killed Christopher Dole.

The thought crept into Nick’s battered head that maybe WS had called on Dole in the person of Ashe, keeping his face hidden under the hat brim. Shakespeare was a gentleman, he possessed gentlemanly clothes. But you couldn’t claim he spoke in a refined way. He still retained traces of Warwickshire in his voice and he lacked the kind of courtly London tone that would impress a silly young man like Stephen Atkins.

Was WS the second visitor, though, the unseen one?

Nick was reluctant to think of WS in this harsh light but he had to. He could not remember seeing Shakespeare so angry as he was when displaying a copy of the play in the little office behind the Globe stage. Was it just that he was indignant over the feeble imitation of his coat of arms on the title page? Or was he frightened that the Privy Council were going to come calling, on the hunt for seditious satire against King James? Frightened enough to take action against anyone he thought responsible for causing him trouble?

‘No, I am not familiar with Henry Ashe,’ said Shakespeare. ‘There is no playwright in London with that name. You are sure of it?’