The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

The function of the room itself was clear to Nick. He could smell spices. There was a faint odour of fish. One of the smaller bags contained what felt like nuts – filberts from their size. An upright and open-topped barrel gave off no tang apart from a faint whiff of the river: water therefore. This was a storage area and sited here on the ground floor of Nonesuch House so that goods might be drawn straight up from the river rather than being brought to the Bridge on a long roundabout journey by road. Indeed, for a couple of items – fish and water – the river was the nearest and most convenient source. You might even catch your fish directly by dangling a line straight down.

As Nick’s eyes grew more used to the gloom he could see that the obstruction in the centre of the room was some kind of hoist, a sturdy wooden frame complete with a ratchet-wheel and handle, together with cords and a wicker basket. He got down on his hands and knees and fumbled for the trapdoor, which had to be close to the hoist. It took him only a few seconds to locate a metal ring, cold to the touch, and then the square outlines of the trapdoor itself, which stood slightly proud of the floor where it was embedded. He estimated it was about three feet on each side. The hinges were opposite to the hoist which meant that the door opened upwards and in the direction of the slit-like window over the river.

Nick was about to take hold of the iron ring when he heard noises outside the door. The handle rattled. Surely it was not Ashe come back with Henslowe so soon? No, for the rattling ceased almost immediately and Nick guessed that it was one of the guards testing that the door was fast. He would have to beware of noise, although the rumble of the river provided some cover. Fortunately, it seemed to be getting louder. The tide must be turning. Nick reached out for the ring and pulled at it. No movement. Making sure his feet were clear of the trapdoor itself, he craned over it and, using all the strength in his shoulders, tugged hard. The trapdoor came free so suddenly that, had he not been grasping the iron ring, he would have fallen over backwards. Even so, he put out his arm for balance and struck a pile of boxes, which toppled over with a crash.

He froze, still crouching and holding on with one hand to the ring on the trapdoor. No response from outside. No door flung open. He waited for as long as he dared and then gradually eased the trapdoor all the way open until it lay flat with its edge against the outer wall. There was an uprush of cold air and the noise of the river grew more insistent. Nick kneeled down and, with fingers curled round the planking at the edge of the square hole, he peered below. What took his breath away was not the chill night air but the fall to the river. From this angle, it seemed an impossible, dizzying distance through the dark.

Nonesuch House, although built almost entirely of wood, was too heavy to rest on a span of the Bridge and so was set firmly on one of the great piers that thrust up from the boat-shaped foundations. The storeroom where Nick was imprisoned was on the north-west corner of the building and therefore half over a foundation, half over the water. Nick couldn’t see them but he knew that there would be mooring rings on the wooden piles that held in the stone and gravel of the foundation-blocks. Here suppliers could tie up their boats while provisions were winched up to Nonesuch House. He glimpsed white flecks where the water broke against the pier. That, and the deep roar, showed the tide was ebbing. This was when the river was at its most turbulent since all of its upstream expanse was squeezed between the many arches of the Bridge, causing a dangerous, tumbling drop down to the far side.

For Nick, making a descent from the house on the Bridge was a frightening enough prospect. But a yet more frightening one was to stay and wait for the man calling himself Henry Ashe to return with Philip Henslowe. All too soon the Privy Council agent would discover that his prisoner wasn’t Dick Newman, as he’d claimed to be. He would start to wonder what else Nick was concealing. The whereabouts of that item known as the Oseney text, for example. Ashe had already threatened Nick with a less comfortable conversation in a less agreeable place. That meant real imprisonment, and probably worse. The Council could authorise torture. Nick would have given up the secret of the Oseney text as easily and willingly as dropping a feather. They wouldn’t even have to resort to torture. The trouble was that he had no idea what Ashe was talking about.

So, if it was a choice between the dangers of a sheer drop and the freezing river, and a dank cell courtesy of the Privy Council, he’d choose the drop and the river every time.

Even as these thoughts and fears were racing through his head, Nick had been testing the ropes that were heaped and coiled in the area of the wooden hoist. He was trying to select the longest by running stretches through his hands and extending his arms to either side. That amounted to between five and six feet, didn’t it? But the ropes got tangled and Nick began to lose count. Besides, he had only a vague notion of how far it was down to the water and the pier foundation. The distance from the top of an arch in the centre of the Bridge might have been as much as thirty feet at low tide. But this corner-room jutted out below the level of the nearest arch. Then it occurred to him that, since these various ropes must be used for hauling goods up from below, they would all be of about the same length.

He could not afford to waste any more precious moments in choosing precisely the right rope. He untangled one that seemed a little more sturdy than the others, looped it around the frame of the hoist and tied a primitive knot. The very thickness and bulk of the cord made this awkward. He could not see clearly what he was doing and was forced to work mostly by touch. Once he thought it was secure, he pulled at it. Pulled hard because his life depended on that knot. Tugged twice more and then tossed the rope out so that it slithered through the gaping aperture in the floor. Even then he might have hesitated before launching himself into the air but, fearing he heard renewed noises outside the door of the storeroom, he grasped the rope in both hands. Lying on his front, he edged himself feet first over the lip of the hole.

Too soon he reached the point where more of his weight was outside than in. Almost convinced that the rope would not bear his weight or the knot would fail, Nick nevertheless started to clamber down. At first his legs swung free until, instinctively, he wrapped his feet about the rope. Nick was not fearful of heights. But he was very afraid of falling. Death was certain if he did, whether he struck the loose stone blocks and wooden piles of the pier-foundation or whether he plunged into the water.

For an instant, when he completely cleared the trapdoor opening and was out in the open, feeling exposed and insignificant beside the massive bulk of the Bridge, Nick found his bare hands refusing to unclasp themselves from the ridged rope. It was as if his fingers had a will of their own, locking themselves round the thin thread, which was all that prevented him from dropping down like a stone. With a great effort, he uncurled one hand, and swiftly placed it beneath the other on the rope. Then he prised that one away and positioned it beneath the first. And so on and on, until the action became almost automatic and his fear subsided slightly as, not daring to look down to see whether he was over ground or water, he concentrated on inching down the rope.

Careful hand over careful hand, feet and calves sliding down the coarse hemp strands, gusts of air plucking at his garments, Nick risked a look upwards and was disappointed to realise he had travelled hardly any distance. The trapdoor entrance showed as a darker square against the jutting floor of the store room. At any moment, Henry Ashe would be returning with Philip Henslowe and finding the room empty. They could haul him up again, using the rope. Worse, they could simply untie or sever the cord, and allow Nick to plunge to his death. He was an escaper, he was an imposter, an enemy to the Council, whatever name he might adopt.