The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

‘That was Christopher Dole. I hear he is dead – by his own hand.’

‘And I heard,’ said Nick, the blood thudding in his ears as he spoke, ‘that Mr Dole was visited before his death by a gentleman who bore a great resemblance to you. He even gave your name.’

Ashe didn’t reply straight away. He got up and refilled his glass, then came over to refill Nick’s. It was if they were two old friends chatting in comfort. When he sat down again, he said: ‘Yes, it’s true, I did call on Dole. I gave the name of Ashe because it amused me to do so. I heard the name bandied about in a tavern called The Ram.’

Nick barely suppressed a start of surprise at the mention of the place where he’d gone in search of George Bruton. Ashe noticed Nick’s reaction.

‘You are probably thinking that The Ram is rather a low place for someone more used to Nonesuch House. But I tell you, Mr Newman, all kinds of information can be garnered there. People are less careful what they say in such places. It is a regular resort of ours. And of yours, I believe. Your voice sounds familiar.’

Nick remembered the recent occasion when he’d seen Bruton in the tavern. He had given his name as Newman, had claimed to be from the Admirals’. He remembered too that there was a group of drinkers in another corner of The Ram. Was Ashe one of them? He must have been. Perhaps it was not de Worde that the group was after but himself, under the assumed name of Newman. Perhaps they had been tracking de Worde but only in the hope that he would lead them to more valuable prey.

The man from the Privy Council continued: ‘I went to visit Christopher Dole because I was looking into some… careless comments that had been written about our sovereign. When I left him, he was still alive.’

Nick said nothing. Ashe’s words agreed with what Hans de Worde had said. It looked as though Dole had not been murdered, after all.

‘It may be,’ said Ashe, ‘that something I said caused Mr Dole to reflect on the continued worth of his existence. He was not in good health, poor fellow. On the contrary he was thin and shaking and in a very low mood. Perhaps he feared further investigation. Not every conversation can take place in such pleasant surroundings as this, Mr Newman.’

Henry Ashe gestured at the room where they were sitting. His meaning was plain enough: we have other spaces to talk in, other means by which we might interest you in talking to us.

Ashe suddenly said: ‘What do you know about the Oseney text?’

Nick had heard of the Oseney text from Alan Dole, but it meant nothing to him. His look of confused ignorance must have been convincing to Ashe since, for the first time in their encounter, the other man appeared uncertain.

‘It is the reason we have been keeping an eye on various people – one of the reasons. The other is Mr Dole’s unwise mockery of the monarch. But it is the Oseney text we are after. It is the old manuscript of a play reputed to have unusual powers. Some phrases from the Oseney text were used in that play called The English Brothers . The phrases were recognised by… those who are knowledgeable in such things. It followed that whoever penned The English Brothers must also be in possession of the Oseney text or know its whereabouts.’

‘What do you mean by “unusual powers”?’ said Nick, genuinely curious.

‘The Oseney text is reputed to be cursed.’

As a theatre man, Nick was familiar with stories about those dangerous phrases and spells that ought not to be uttered on stage. Hadn’t an extra demon, one not accounted for in the list of players, appeared from nowhere during a performance of Doctor Faustus ? And the thought of the devil suddenly explained why Secretary Cecil’s man was concerned about a text with a curse on it.

‘This is all on account of the King, isn’t it?’ said Nick. ‘Everyone knows of his interest in witchcraft and devilry. He collects books on the subject. Why, he even wrote a book on demonology many years ago.’

‘It may be so,’ said Henry Ashe.

The man’s guarded answer indicated to Nick that he was right. The order to lay hold of this dangerous manuscript – the Oseney text – must have come directly from Secretary Cecil, who in turn would have been given instructions by King James. Perhaps the King wanted it for his book collection. Perhaps he wanted it for some darker purpose.

‘Are you telling me all you know?’ asked Ashe.

‘I know nothing.’

‘You see, Christopher Dole assured me that he too knew nothing about it. I might have questioned him again but now he is dead. Yet you are still here, Mr Newman.’

Nick felt sweat break out on his forehead. It was not because of the warmth of the room or the wine, which suddenly tasted bitter on his tongue. He was aware of the rumble of the river below, although he had not noticed it for many minutes.

‘Prince Henry’s or the Admiral’s Men, you said?’ said Ashe. ‘And to confirm it, you provided me with a string of names, a little too eagerly, perhaps. Suppose I summon a member of the company now to confirm that you are who you say you are, Mr Newman.’

Nick shrugged. Do as you please, the gesture said. He was thinking, the Admiral’s are based in the Fortune theatre just outside the city walls. It will take a little time to lay hands on someone from the company and to bring them to Nonesuch House. A lot could happen in a little time. He might still be able to talk his way out of this.

‘As it happens,’ said Henry Ashe, ‘I believe that Philip Henslowe is dining at another of the houses on the Bridge tonight. I’m sure he won’t object to being interrupted at his table and coming along here to identify you. Not if he knows that he will be assisting the Council. I can see the idea makes you uncomfortable, Mr Newman, so I don’t think I should leave you in here while I fetch Henslowe. Let us see if you can be lodged somewhere more secure.’

The sweat started to run down Nick’s face. His beard itched. Henslowe was not a player but someone much more important: a builder of playhouses and a shareholder in the Bear Garden. He was closely associated with the Admiral’s Men, now Prince Henry’s. He would be familiar with every player on their books. He would not recognise the name of Richard Newman. More to the point, he would probably recognise Nick as one of the King’s Men, despite the dye on his face and the lamb’s-wool beard.

Henry Ashe got up, indicating that Nick should rise too. He stood aside to let the player go first through the door. It crossed Nick’s mind to make a run for it. But immediately outside stood two of the caped men from the original group. Ashe, who seemed to employ gestures rather than words when giving orders to his underlings, nodded towards a second and smaller door to one side of the chamber they had just exited.

Once again Nick was grasped by the upper arms and, with more force this time, guided towards the second door. It was opened and he was shoved inside. On the threshold he stumbled and fell to the floor. Behind him the door was closed, a key turned. He heard footsteps striding away, squeaking on that well-polished floor. Henry Ashe, no doubt, off in search of Philip Henslowe. There was some talk from the other side of the door, inaudible because of the background sound of the river, but it meant that the two men were remaining outside as guards.

Nick sat up. After the dazzle of the large chamber it took some moments for his eyes to adapt to what was an unlit, narrow area made more confined by piles of boxes and heaped-up sacks and bags as well as barrels.

He pushed himself to his feet. More by touch than sight he made his way around some obstruction in the centre of the room and across to a window. This was no more than an aperture giving a view onto a narrow slice of river and sky, though it was too dark to see the point where one became the other. The window was glazed but it seemed to have no catch, no means of being opened. Its function could only be to allow a little light into this side room.