The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

Another small mystery was solved while he was being restored at Antony de Worde’s. Hans produced a scrap of paper which, he said, had fallen from Nick’s pocket. It was the piece Nick picked up in Dole’s room, the one bearing the words ‘ Guilielmus Shakespeare hoc fecit ’ or ‘William Shakespeare did this’. Hans identified the writing as Dole’s. It was the same writing as on the original foul papers brought to the printing-house. Christopher Dole was determined that Shakespeare should be taken as the author of this dangerous work. Not only had he spread rumours round town to that effect and provided a mocking version of Shakespeare’s coat of arms on the title page, he had left a slip of paper claiming the false authorship inside a copy of the book. There was something pitiful in that little scrap of paper.

‘So we are going to perform The English Brothers ?’ said Nick Revill.

‘Yes,’ said Shakespeare. ‘It’s a good story. It has rivalry between noble knights, the threat of battle and the drumbeat of patriotism, it has love unrequited and devotion rewarded. And we think it would be a fitting tribute to Christopher Dole.’

‘As well as being likely to draw in an audience,’ said Richard Burbage. ‘In fact, the circumstances of Dole’s death give off a whiff of tragedy and pathos so that alone will probably attract a few people. We’ll put it about that The English Brothers was his final masterpiece.’

Nick was astounded to hear these things. They were sitting, the three of them, in the small, snug office behind the Globe stage. A fire was burning while the weather beyond the walls of the building was bitter. If it continued like this the river would freeze over. Every sight or thought of the river reminded Nick of Nonesuch House and his encounter with the Privy Council agent. Looking back, it seemed more like a dream, a bad dream, than reality.

Nick had not gained anything from his adventure on London Bridge, except a renewed respect for the power of the river. But nor had he lost anything of significance, such as his life or liberty. There had been no serious consequences. That is, no hue and cry after an individual by the name of Richard Newman. By now, Ashe must have discovered that no such person existed, at least not as a player with the Admiral’s Men. And, presumably, Ashe would have concluded that Newman – whoever he was – had perished after making an ill-judged attempt to escape from Nonesuch House. It was not the kind of failure Ashe would be keen to enlarge on to his superiors, like Secretary Cecil. Nick had some anxiety that he could have been identified by anyone coming to see him at the Globe, but it helped that when Ashe questioned him he was wearing the false beard of lamb’s wool; it also helped that his face was dyed a darker colour than natural. And, although Ashe had undoubtedly glimpsed him in The Ram, as well as hearing him give the false identity to George Bruton, the illumination in the tavern was little better than in the street outside.

So Richard Newman vanished as if he’d never come into being. It was fitting, really, since Henry Ashe had not existed either.

But now Nick could not understand why the shareholders of the King’s Men were looking to stir up more trouble by staging a performance of The English Brothers .

Nick had already got rid of the original Play of Adam . He’d returned it to Alan Dole, only hinting at the trouble it had caused him. He did not say that it was possible that King James himself was interested in the Oseney text. That was none of his business. Dole was glad to have the manuscript back but only in the way that one might be glad to see a dangerous animal put back in its cage. What he said about the dubious provenance of the play, and its connection with murders in Ely and elsewhere, showed why he was wary of it.

Nick said a little more about his adventures to William Shakespeare, and was gratified at the look of horror that passed across WS’s face and then the mixture of contrition and concern that followed it. But now, some time afterwards, they were talking about performing Dole’s play, despite its connection with The Play of Adam .

‘What about the warning?’ asked Nick. ‘The prior’s words on the scroll about being infected with the worm of madness?’

‘You are superstitious?’ said WS.

‘Well, you can hardly say that this Play of Adam has brought luck to those involved with it: not only the fate of Christopher Dole but those earlier stories of misfortune from Oseney and Ely.’

‘The dangerous lines to do with Cain and Abel shall be removed,’ said WS.

‘While any references that nasty minds might think refer satirically to King James will also be cut,’ added Burbage. ‘There is no sense in offending our royal patron.’

‘Or falling foul of the Council,’ said Nick.

‘I am adding a scene or two of my own,’ said WS, ‘as well as smoothing out some of Dole’s.’

‘I thought you believed him to be an inferior writer,’ said Nick. ‘Besides, it looks as if he wrote The English Brothers mostly as an act of revenge.’

A pained look seemed to pass across Shakespeare’s face. He said: ‘Christopher is dead and de mortuis nihil nisi bonum , you know. Let us speak only good things of the dead, in the hope that others will treat us in a similar style after we have departed. Now that I look more closely at the piece, I think better of it. I am even prepared to overlook the mocking coat of arms on the title page. Perhaps I was too harsh on Dole when he was alive. If so, I shall make up for it now.’

William Shakespeare did make up for it. He tinkered with The English Brothers , and a handful of other dramatists threw in some extra scenes and lines until the play became a strange, mingled affair, the work of several hands but growing out of Christopher Dole’s original conception and advertised as being by the late dramatist.

Burbage’s commercial instinct was correct. Whatever the reason, whether it was the stirring quality of the story, or the melancholy tale of Dole’s end and the hint that he’d left behind him a great work, The English Brothers became a palpable hit for the King’s Men. It was performed several times and revived the following year. It was even published, in the revised form, and sold by Alan Dole, among other booksellers. From beyond the grave, Christopher Dole achieved his dream of being acclaimed – although all he had been seeking was revenge.

Alan Dole treated the returned manuscript of The Play of Adam with great care.

Unlike his brother, he did not study its contents carefully, let alone make use of them. But he did read several times over the warning penned by Alan of Walsingham, the Prior of Ely, wondering how Christopher could have neglected it. The bookseller was sufficiently alarmed to contemplate sealing the document up again. But the broken seal seemed like a broken egg, something that could not be restored to its former state. Nor could he bring himself to destroy the document, however dangerous it might be. He had too much reverence for the word, whether hand-written or printed, sacred or profane. Instead, he caused The Play of Adam to be bound into a book and put away, for good.

It is not quite true to say that Nick Revill gained nothing from the business. He acquired a new friend when he returned to Mrs Atkins’ house, where the unfortunate Christopher Dole had lodged. There he found that Sara Atkins, who was indeed a widow, was happy to salve more than the wounds inflicted by her son. Stephen he could not persuade himself to like, but the attractions of his mother were sufficient to make Nick move north of the river. He did not live up in the garret but in a more spacious chamber close to Mrs Atkins’ own. Sara offered Nick bed and board. The board was at a mutually agreed rate. The bed was free.