The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

George Bruton agreed because he did not have much pride remaining in what his workshop produced and because he needed the money. There were dozens of printers in London – more than the city required – and he knew now that he would never achieve the reputation of a Day or a Barker, those names he’d mentioned to Christopher. Besides, there was always the insistent beat of little feet overhead, reminding him of the many mouths gaping to be fed. Although Bruton preserved what money he could to spend on himself in The Ram, sitting snug and alone in his corner-place, he was still a responsible family man. As regularly as the turning of the seasons, Martha produced another little mouth to add to those responsibilities. So when someone like Dole was willing to pay more than the going rate for printing an odd piece of work, Bruton wasn’t going to protest or look too closely at it.

  As for Christopher Dole, he wasn’t concerned about the money which he was paying out. It amounted to everything he had, but since he did not think he was much longer for this world, he reasoned he would not have any further need of money. He had no wife to think of, nor any children. Death was on its way. He’d dreamed recently of a figure lying flat out on a bed, with a couple of others standing round in attitudes of mourning. Squeezing past them to see who was lying there, he’d been astounded to see that it was himself. When he’d turned round to identify the onlookers, they had disappeared. He had woken chilled and sweaty at the same time.

  It was more than a matter of simple dreams and premonitions. The thinness and pallor that George Bruton had commented on during their meeting in the tavern were not only the result of a sleepless night or two. For several months Christopher had observed himself growing more scrawny. His appetite was diminished. He was subject to inexplicable pains everywhere, and bouts of nausea and dizziness.

  His last resources would be spent on seeing The English Brothers into the world. He would not be like Master Shakespeare, buying properties in Stratford and playing the part of a gentleman, and dying when his time came, in a four-poster bed with priests and lawyers at his beck and call. No, Christopher Dole would make his exit like those true men of theatre, Robert Greene or Will Kemp. He might be neglected and poor but he still had integrity.

  II

  William Shakespeare and Nicholas Revill were talking in a little room behind the stage of the Globe playhouse in Southwark. It was the end of a December afternoon. The play for the day was finished and everyone – players and the paying public – was glad to get back indoors because of the cold. Snow was falling, not steadily but in occasional flurries.

  WS and Nick were sitting on stools on either side of a small table whose surface was occupied with neat stacks of documents. This room was set aside for the business of the partners who owned the Globe, of whom Shakespeare was one. The principal shareholders were the Burbage brothers. Cuthbert Burbage attended to the account books and other business matters while Richard Burbage was their chief actor, known for his skill in playing tragedy parts. Nick Revill had been with the King’s Men for a good few years now. Although not a senior in the company, nor one of those whose name alone was sufficient to draw in the public, he had built up a reputation as an adept and reliable player, with a particular skill in the darker parts (lust-maddened dukes, vengeful brothers).

  At that moment Nick was about to look at a book that WS passed across to him. It was already dark outside and Nick drew closer one of the pair of candlesticks on the table. He cast his eyes across the pages, crudely sewn together. He read a few fragments and would have read more had he not been interrupted.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ said WS. He sounded impatient, unusually for him. ‘Start at the beginning.’

  ‘It is a play entitled The English Brothers. No author is given, of course, but it is printed by George Bruton—’

  ‘Of Bride Lane near Fleet Bridge.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘And there’s also a little heraldic image here of a bird on top of a shield.’

  ‘And the contents?’

  ‘It’s about some knights, isn’t it, and there seems to be a rivalry between them?

  ‘The knights are brothers,’ said Shakespeare, ticking off the points on his fingers. ‘They should be fighting together under the king against the hordes from Norway and Denmark. Instead they fall in love at the same instant with the same woman, after glimpsing her in a garden. Then the two of them fall out – quarrelling over who saw her first and so on – and the jest is that she isn’t even aware of their existence.’

  ‘Sounds like a good subject,’ said Nick.

  ‘It is a good subject,’ said Shakespeare. ‘Not new, of course. The best subjects never are. The knightly brothers are caught fighting each other by the English king, they’re banished, they go wandering off, they come back together in time to vanquish the horde of Norsemen, they are reconciled, one dies in battle, the other gets the woman.’

  ‘I might pay to see that.’

  ‘So might I,’ said WS, ‘but this piece is put together in a very slapdash style. At one point there is a portion of an old play about Cain and Abel, supposedly seen by one of the knights on his travels. The other knight finds himself in Scotland for some reason. It is absurd enough. And there are opportunities that have been missed in telling the story, obvious opportunities.’

  Nick wondered why Shakespeare was bothering to ask for his views since he’d obviously examined the drama for himself and come to his own conclusions. He also wondered whether Shakespeare was irritated because he hadn’t come up with the idea for the play himself. But it turned out that WS was concerned because it might be believed that he was the author of The English Brothers.

  ‘The image at the front is a crude version of my own family’s coat of arms,’ he said. He spoke in a matter-of-fact way but Nick sensed a touch of pride as the playwright continued: ‘Our coat of arms depicts a falcon, his wings displayed argent, supporting a spear of gold . . . I don’t suppose you want to hear these heraldic details, do you?’

  Nick was aware of Shakespeare’s gentlemanly standing. By the candlelight, he took a closer look at the shield on the title page of The English Brothers. He noticed the bird was holding a lance or spear with a drooping tip. Not exactly an image of potent authority. And the bird appeared to be a crow whose tail feathers had been savaged by a cat. He recalled the story that Shakespeare had been described as an ‘upstart crow’ when he began making a name for himself in London. He looked at the balding man on the other side of the table. The angle of the light turned Shakespeare’s eyes into sockets. Their usual benign brown gaze was obscured.

  ‘Can’t you laugh it off?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, probably. Even if the word is spreading around town that I wrote this thing, and people are repeating it out of ignorance or malice, I could laugh it off.’

  ‘Anybody who truly knows you, Will, must know that you would not pen something like this. And this shield on the title page is a plain mockery.’

  ‘There is more and there is worse,’ said WS, taking back the book and flicking through the pages. He found the passage he wanted and showed it to Nick, who read a couple of the lines aloud.

  ‘“The Pictish king who rides his car to glories, Will be the theme for many future stories . . .” And there is more in similar style. I agree it’s poor stuff but—’

  ‘It’s poor stuff, all right, only good to light a fire. But the Pictish king isn’t some Scottish monarch from olden times. He could easily be construed as our own King James—’

  Light was dawning for Nick and he interrupted, ‘While “car” might be a chariot, but could also be a reference to Robert Carr, James’s favourite.’

  ‘His favourite companion, his pet courtier, yes. “The Pictish king who rides his car to glories . . .” We can imagine what kind of “riding” is intended here. These lines have been deliberately composed to cause trouble. I hear that the Privy Council is paying attention.’

  Nick Revill suddenly felt chill, even though it was stuffy in the little back room of the playhouse. No on
e wanted to catch the attention of the Council. Nick might have said that William Shakespeare was protected. After all, he was one of the shareholders of the King’s Men, enjoying the patronage of the monarch. Yet Nick was aware, as WS must be, of the various playwrights who’d been hauled before the Council after something unwise had been detected in their writings. The risks were severe. The offender might receive a whipping. He might lose his ears, or worse . . . It didn’t matter that you had a patron or that you might have been a favourite.

  ‘You don’t know who wrote this?’ said Nick.

  ‘I have a notion.’

  ‘Someone with a grudge against you?’

  ‘If it’s the person I’m thinking of, yes, he has a grudge against me.’

  Nick was surprised. Considering that William Shakespeare was a successful author and – by players’ standards – a prosperous individual, he seemed to be liked as well as admired by almost everyone.

  ‘This is why I want to speak with you, Nick. In the years since you’ve been with our company I’ve come to trust your good sense and your . . . enterprise. Your friendship.’

  Nick knew WS was referring to the occasional errand or ‘mission’ with which he’d been entrusted. He should have learned caution by now but somehow the gratitude of the man sitting across the table always won him round. As it did now. The mention of friendship gave him a glow.

  WS must have sensed Revill’s willingness for he said: ‘I know the printer of this piece, not well but slightly. George Bruton of Bride Lane. A man with a large family and an appetite for drink. I can only imagine that he was unaware of what was coming out of his press. Or perhaps he doesn’t care.’

  ‘But he will know who the author is?’

  ‘He must do. Unless the real author used a go-between. At any rate, Bruton will have information.’

  ‘The Privy Council may be looking at him as well.’

  ‘In which case he will certainly disclose the author, probably under duress. I would rather go about it in a more roundabout way. And I do not wish to visit Bruton myself. He knows me. But not you, Nick. You may ask some questions. I have a further request. Do not say that you are from the King’s Men but another company. Which company would you choose if you were not with us?’

  Nick thought for a moment. ‘The Admiral’s.’

  The Admiral’s Men had recently acquired a new patron and become Prince Henry’s Men but almost everyone continued to refer to them under their old name.

  ‘And, as well as saying you are with the Admiral’s, why not take an assumed name for yourself?’

  ‘An assumed name?’

  ‘To cover your tracks. It’s an idea that should appeal to you as a player. It’s what I would do in your place.’

  There was a glint in WS’s eye now. Nick thought again. Taking a different name was an appealing idea, for some reason. Why not do it?

  ‘Then I shall reverse my initials and become Rick Newman – better still, Dick Newman.’

  All WS’s characteristic good humour was restored. ‘Very good, now you are a new man,’ he said. Nick smiled as though he had intended the pun (though in fact Newman was his mother’s family name). Shakespeare continued: ‘When our Richard Burbage wants to be taken seriously he remains a Richard, but when he requires a bit of swagger he turns into a Dick. So go to see Bruton as Dick Newman. Don’t threaten him or hint at trouble from the Council. You might go so far as to say that the Admiral’s are thinking of putting on this play, The English Brothers. Between ourselves, we might even stage it here at the Globe.’

  ‘Surely not?’

  ‘It has possibilities,’ said WS. ‘Besides, if this play is by the individual who I think wrote it, then I owe him amends.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I made some remark to do with another play of his, and the remark got about, as I perhaps intended it to.’

  Shakespeare paused as if reluctant to say more. Nick kept silent.

  ‘I described the experience of sitting through that play as “the happiest, most comical two hours I have spent in the playhouse”.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘The piece was a tragedy.’

  III

  It was early in December and Christopher Dole was at the beginning of his last day on earth. By chance, it was the same day on which Shakespeare requested Nicholas Revill to look into the authorship of the play, now out in the world under the title of The English Brothers. As far as Dole was concerned, the piece was meant to draw down mischief on Shakespeare but it seemed to be causing more trouble for himself than anyone else. Under his direction, George Bruton printed about a hundred copies and Christopher caused them to be distributed round various shops and stalls, as well as simply dropping them in locations like the Inns of Court where they might be picked up by the curious or discerning reader. He spread the word among casual acquaintances that WS had penned a new piece.

  It reached his ears that the word had not only been heard by WS but had come to the attention of the Privy Council. The Council was interested on account of some scurrilous remarks concerning King James. This was just as Christopher planned. But he had not planned carefully enough. Any investigation from the Council should initially be directed at WS but was then likely to turn towards the printer. Under pressure, George Bruton would name Christopher as the individual who’d brought him the play in the first place. It might not even be necessary to apply pressure. So Christopher needed to go back to the printing-house in Bride Lane and remind Bruton that, if questioned, he should refer to Christopher Dole only as an intermediary. The real author was Henry Ashe. That might waste a bit of time, with the Council looking for the mythical Mr Ashe.

  The truth was that Christopher Dole had not really expected to be alive at this moment, approaching Christmas. Convinced of his imminent demise, he gave little thought to the penalties the Privy Council might inflict on him. What could the Council do if he was in his grave? Nothing. Now the question was, what would they do if he was out of it? An ingenious revenge plot was threatening to turn on its creator.

  Dole still owed money to George Bruton, and he decided to return to Bride Lane with a promise of the final payment. He’d also take the opportunity to remind George that it was not he, Christopher, who was the creator of The English Brothers. Definitely not.

  As soon as Dole entered the ground-floor press in Bride Lane, he was attacked by Bruton. Attacked with words rather than blows, but the corpulent printer looked as though he might be ready to resort to those too. Perhaps it was only the presence of Hans de Worde and John the apprentice that restrained him. The two were on the far side of the room, getting on with their work, but they kept casting covert glances towards their master.

  ‘You assured me there was nothing dangerous in this,’ said Bruton, holding up a copy of the ill-fated drama. ‘Nothing seditious, you said. But there are lines that are easily construed as mockery of the King.’

  ‘Not so easily construed, George. You did not spot them when the play was being set up in type.’

  ‘So you admit it?’

  ‘Sedition is in the eye of the beholder.’

  ‘That is a very foolish answer pretending to be a clever one, Christopher Dole. You had better tell that friend of yours, Henry Ashe, to watch out. He will have some questions to answer himself.’

  Christopher was surprised, even amazed, to hear that Bruton still believed in the existence of Mr Ashe. He played along.

  ‘Yes, yes. If the authorities want to know anything, you should direct them to Henry Ashe.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  Christopher thought fast, though not so fast as when he had plucked Ashe’s name out the air. He named a street at a little distance from his own. This seemed to satisfy the printer, for Bruton then moved on to the more pressing matter of money. Dole promised to pay him the final instalment.

  ‘And how will you do that?’ said Bruton, scornfully.

  ‘I’ll call on my brother,’ said Dole.<
br />
  ‘Much good that’ll do you. I saw Alan very recently. He did not have a good word for you. He was still asking me about that Oseney text. Are you sure you don’t have it?’

  There was a crash from the other side of the press room. It was Hans de Worde. He had dropped a container full of type. Looking apologetic, he scrabbled around on hands and knees to pick it up.

  Leaving Bride Lane, Christopher Dole had a thought. He had not seen his brother for some time, despite surreptitiously depositing a couple of copies of The English Brothers in Alan’s shop. He’d mentioned his brother to Bruton as a way of warding off the printer’s questions. Despite previous refusals, his prosperous sibling might advance him the money, enough to carry him over the next few weeks as well as to pay off his debts. If he should live so long.

  He entered Alan’s shop, grateful to get out of the cold. It was situated in Paul’s Yard, where many bookshops and stalls clung to the skirts of the great church. There was no one inside, apart from Alan, who was sitting at a desk near the back of his store and making entries in a ledger. Christopher was glad to find his brother by himself. They were never friends but they had never descended to Cain-and-Abel-like levels of enmity either. Yet Alan greeted him with the same hostility as had George Bruton. Seeing his brother, he grabbed at a book and leaped up. Now he too began waving a copy of The English Brothers, presumably one of the two that Christopher had abandoned there so recently.

  Alan Dole was, like his brother, a spare individual. But where Christopher’s thinness seemed to be the result of some undisclosed sickness, Alan’s lank frame was a reflection of his vigour. He was rarely still. He constantly looked for ways to expand his business. He possessed an intense stare. At the moment he was fastening that stare on Christopher. They were standing face to face. Alan Dole started speaking without any welcome or preamble.

  ‘The word about town is that this was written by Shakespeare.’

  ‘What is it, Alan?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know, Christopher. It is a play. It is called The English Brothers. It appeared among my stock and I have no idea how it got here.’