The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘The name was given me by George Bruton, the printer in Bride Lane. And then I was told that a gentleman called Ashe visited Christopher Dole before he died.’

‘Poor Dole,’ said WS. ‘For sure, he is the author of The English Brothers . Henry Ashe was just a blind. I always thought it was Dole. It was he whose play I mocked. It was called The Matricide .’

Nick studied him carefully. Once again, they were sitting in the small Globe office but this time it was the early afternoon, and shortly before the day’s play was about to begin. Nick did not make his first entrance until the third act so he could delay going along to the tiring-room to put on his costume. In fact, his attention wasn’t really on that afternoon’s production, which was a drama of bloody revenge, but on the reaction of the man sitting across the table from him.

‘Was your mockery of his play the only reason for his… dislike of you?’

‘There were other causes. He thought I’d taken the idea for my Romeo and Juliet from him.’

‘And did you?’

‘No, Nicholas, I did not,’ said Shakespeare, in a deliberate sort of way as if he were talking to someone whose understanding was slow. ‘I took it from another and older source – several of them, perhaps. But not from Dole. Not poor Christopher Dole. He may have had the notion at the same time, of course. We all drink from the same well but some of us drink deeper than others.’

Shakespeare’s sorrow for Dole was not profound, but Nick thought it was genuine. In fact, WS was showing more grief for the death of the one-time player than his own brother had. When Nick had called on Alan Dole in his St Paul’s bookshop, as he’d promised Mrs Atkins he would, Alan had merely pulled a face as though he expected nothing better or more ambitious from his brother than to go off and die. Then the bookseller had started to complain about the funeral expenses. Then he’d asked whether Nick had seen the Oseney text in Christopher’s room. Then it was Nick’s turn to shrug. The Oseney text? He supposed this was the item that Christopher was meant to be returning to his brother.

By contrast to the brother’s, Shakespeare’s grief looked like the real thing. Shakespeare was an actor, of course, even if he played few parts these days. But he did not put on airs or false attitudes away from the stage. When he saw the marks on Nick’s face and heard how he’d come by them in Mrs Atkins’ lodging house, WS was so full of gratitude and apology that all Nick’s suspicions began to fall away. Nick stuck to the story that Dole had done away with himself.

He said nothing of the scrap of paper that had fluttered to the floor. Guilielmus Shakespeare hoc fecit . William Shakespeare did this. No, it did not mean anything.

Richard Burbage, the principal shareholder and king of the players, now poked his head round the door of the tiny office and his presence brought to Nick’s mind the name he had briefly assumed – Dick Newman. Much use it had been.

Richard Burbage evidently wanted to speak to WS but, seeing Nick, he said: ‘You’ve been in a fight?’

‘On my behalf,’ said WS quickly.

Burbage raised his eyebrows and said, ‘It’s as well you’re playing a villain and not the hero this afternoon. Bruises suit your part, Nicholas.’

‘I could have painted them on with greater ease and less pain,’ said Nick.

WS said: ‘Richard, have you ever heard of a London playwright called Henry Ashe?’

Burbage put his hand to his neatly tapered beard. He didn’t seem so inclined to dismiss the name as WS had done. ‘I do not believe so. But there are always new people coming into this town. I’ll make enquiries.’

They went ahead with the performance that afternoon, with the pipe-smoke and the breath of the audience curling up into the freezing December air. Nick Revill threw himself into the part of the villain, forgetting his aches and bruises as he slashed and stabbed his way to his own inevitable doom. But he did not remember much about the play. What happened afterwards was much more significant.

Nick was leaving the Globe with a couple of his companions from the King’s Men. He had changed into his day clothes in the tire house but had not bothered to wash off the dye that made his complexion more swarthy, nor to remove the false beard that he wore as the villain. Normally clean-shaven, Nick took pleasure in the fact that his neat, tapered beard was reminiscent of Richard Burbage’s. It was made of lamb’s wool and, quite apart from the fact that ungumming it from his face would take a little time, the soft fleece provided a little extra warmth in this cold period.

Evening was come. No fresh snow had fallen but the old stuff still lodged in street corners and on rooftops. The three players made their way down a street that ran past the Globe, known as Brend’s Rents. They passed the entrance to the playhouse. Standing there was little limping Sam, a doorman who’d been with the company since the early days when they played north of the river. An individual was next to him.

‘There he is,’ the old man said to the person beside him. ‘I told you he would be coming.’ Then to Nick: ‘Nicholas Revill, here is someone eager for a word.’

For some reason, Nick suddenly thought he was about to see Henry Ashe and the hairs rose on the back of his neck at the idea. But the person beside Sam was wearing not a wide-brimmed hat but a cap. Also, to judge by his clothes, this was no gentleman but a craftsman. The light from the entrance lobby fell on the face of the stranger and Nick was surprised to recognise the journeyman from George Bruton’s printing works. He was not wearing his spectacles but he had that distinctive inky mole on the tip of his nose. It was Hans de Worde. As the printer came forward, Sam closed the door of the playhouse to signal that the day’s business was concluded.

Nick’s companions went on their way with scarcely a backward glance. It wasn’t so unusual for a player to be waylaid after a performance by someone wishing to give his opinion about the acting and how it might be better done, or wanting an introduction to one of the shareholders. But Hans wasn’t interested in any of that.

‘Can I speak to you, Mr Revill ?’ said Hans, stressing the last word. Nick wondered why for a moment before recalling that he’d announced himself as Dick Newman, of the Admiral’s Men, in Bruton’s printing-house.

‘I tracked you here,’ said Hans. ‘I do not visit these places myself but John, our apprentice, is a keen attender at the playhouse and other disreputable locations on this side of the Thames, even though he should be occupying himself with better things. I have told him so often enough. John thought he recognised you when you came to Bride Lane. He told me afterwards that you weren’t with the Admiral’s but with the King’s Men. He has seen you act.’

Nick ought to have been pleased to be recognised but the accusation in Hans’s tone put him on the back foot. Yes, he had misrepresented himself at the printing-house. To be more precise, he had told a lie.

‘You want to talk with me now?’ he said.

‘Yes. It is important. But not here. We are too isolated.’

Hans looked about him as though he expected a gang of knaves and cut-throats to emerge from the shadows. In the district of Southwark it was not so unlikely. Nick felt a touch of the other man’s fear. Now that the theatre was shut up, and with the players and the playgoers all departed, it was cold and silent in Brend’s Rents.

‘We’ll go to a tavern,’ he said.

‘I – I do not like to frequent taverns. I have rarely been across the Bridge before. I am not familiar with this side of the river even though my brother Antony lives over here. He is a ferryman.’