The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

This was an odd piece of information which Nick digested as he led Hans in the direction of London Bridge, only a few hundred yards from the playhouse. It was better lit and more crowded there. In any case, he had to go in that direction to return to his own lodgings.

Hans said nothing until they had reached the area at the top of the main thoroughfare known as Long Southwark People and vehicles emerged from below the great stone gate of the Bridge. Most of the traffic was southbound at this time of the evening. Almost drowning out the sound of cart wheels and the passers-by was the roar of the river as it forced its way through the many arches of the Bridge.

Nick and Hans stood to one side of the entrance to the street going towards Bermondsey and called Short Southwark to distinguish it from Long Southwark, from which it ran at a right angle.

‘Why did you come to the Globe?’ said Nick.

‘I thought you could be found there, Mr Revill. But I had to see you and your fellows on stage before I was able to identify you for certain. The drama was full of blood and fury. Too much of it. It was not real, like that beard which you are wearing.’

Nick realised he was referring to the revenge play of this afternoon. Too much blood and fury? And not real? Oh, these things are real, thought Nick. Look around you. On the battlements of the gate-tower of the Bridge near where they stood were poles displaying the severed heads of traitors, including those executed after the powder treason of 1605. If no Londoner noticed them, even by daylight, it was only because the sight was so usual.

‘It is cold, Mr de Worde, and I am tired and hungry after my day’s work. Why did you want to see me?’

‘I have something on my conscience.’

‘I am not a priest.’

‘There is something I should have told you when you came to the printing-shop yesterday. I knew more than I said.’

Even as he spoke, low and urgently, Hans’s gaze was darting here and there. He was plainly frightened.

‘I visited Mr Dole. I removed an item from his room. I should not have done so.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Nick. ‘What item do you mean? Was Christopher Dole there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he allow you to remove this “item”, whatever it was?’

‘No. He could not have allowed me to do anything for he was dead.’

‘Hanged?’

‘It was a dreadful sight. He had killed himself.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Yes. There was a stool tumbled beneath his feet. He must have stood on it to reach to the ceiling and fix the cord up there. I replaced the stool by the wall and was going to take down his body so that his mortal remains should be displayed more decorously, but my nerve failed me at the last moment… and… and instead I found the item which I’d come for and ran down the stairs… ’

Nick supposed that de Worde was the second visitor to the lodging-house, the one whose arrival Stephen Atkins had heard. Hans’s description tended to confirm that Dole’s death was not a murder after all.

‘Did you see anyone else at the house?’ he said.

‘No. But there were men who came to the printing-house this morning. They spoke to Mr Bruton. They were-’

Hans’s darting gaze suddenly became fixed on a point over Nick’s shoulder. He stopped whatever he was about to say. Automatically, Nick turned round. Coming up Long Southwark was a group of four men, wrapped up in capes, their faces muffled. They moved steadily across the slushy ground and with a gait that was almost military. Despite the poor light, Nick observed that one of the men, slightly in front of the others, was wearing a hat with a great brim. The group was heading straight for Nick and Hans.

He felt a touch on his arm and spun back. It was Hans de Worde. The touch was nothing more than a feeble parting gesture, for de Worde now took to his heels down Short Southwark. That was in the direction of Nick’s own lodging, but the impulse to run away from the approaching band of four took the player not into the unreliable darkness of Short Southwark but towards the crowds and regular lights of London Bridge. Safety in numbers, Nick instinctively thought. The Bridge was always crowded from before sunrise until late into the night.

Not breaking into a run, although he wanted to, Nick walked rapidly towards the arch that pierced the Great Stone Gate. He glanced back. It looked as if the four men were not to be distracted by de Worde’s flight down the side road. They were moving at a brisk pace after Nick. Why not go after Hans de Worde? he asked himself. This affair was nothing to do with him.

Nick felt his heart beating more quickly. He grew breathless, even though he was not yet moving very fast. There were watchmen on duty by the Great Gate but it was no use appealing for help to such timid, indolent men. These representatives of the law could scarcely bestir themselves to stop a fight on the Bridge, and they would certainly not interfere with a determined group like the foursome on Nick’s trail. Besides, whoever his pursuers were, Nick believed they were not robbers but something quite different…

He squeezed past a couple of closed carriages, the horses shifting uneasily in the narrow pathway. Inside the carriages would be well-to-do young men from north London on their way to the gaming houses and brothels on the Southwark shore. On either side of him were houses and shops, most of them shuttered at this time of the evening. Parts of the Bridge were more like a tunnel than an open lane since many of the houses jutted out so far on their upper levels that the occupants could have shaken hands across the divide. There were even places where complete floors extended right over the roadway between the sides.

Nick might have succeeded in losing himself among the people and the conveyances if it had not been for a fellow tucked into the shadow of a doorway. Drunk or exhausted, he was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin. As Nick glanced momentarily over his shoulder to see where his pursuers were he stumbled across the other’s feet. In an instant he found himself winded and flat on his face. Behind him there was a slurred curse from the figure in the doorway. Nick started to push himself up again and was surprised when helping hands raised him on each side. This was very un-London-like behaviour, and he was turning to mumble his thanks when he saw that his helpers were the caped men. They had been moving more rapidly than he realised.

Two of the men were hemming him in, on the pretence of helping him up. The one with the wide hat was already ahead and now Nick felt a blow in the small of his back from the man to the rear. These four persons were so muffled that almost nothing of their faces was visible apart from the eyes. Nick was more surprised than fearful. Fear would come later. No use appealing to any constable or watchman, even had one been within sight. His captors had an authority that suggested they were above the law.

He was hustled forward, his feet scrabbling at the ground. If they had been going any distance Nick might just have had the chance to break away. But they were not. The group moved under a wooden arch framed by columns and entered a passage that ran straight through the newest and finest edifice on the Bridge. This was Nonesuch House, which had replaced a gatehouse and drawbridge that had stood a third of the way across from the south bank. The drawbridge had been an old defence for the city but one no longer needed in these more peaceful times. So the gatehouse had been torn down and Nonesuch put up in its place. Only the rich could afford to take lodgings there.

Nick had often gazed up at Nonesuch House while he was walking across the Bridge from the Southwark side. The glittering windows and the ornamental woodwork made for a more agreeable prospect than the severed heads of traitors. Nonesuch, with its corner towers topped with onion-shaped domes, was grand enough to make most Londoners wonder what it would be like to set foot over the threshold. Nick Revill was about to find out.