The First Murder

I

The events that led to the death of Christopher Dole, playwright and player, began one autumn evening when he put down his pen with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes and, by the light of the guttering candle, looked again at the last word he had written. Finis. The End. The conclusion of two days and nights of frantic scribbling. He had scarcely stopped to eat or drink. He had taken no more than a mouthful of bread and cheese or a gulp of small beer. If there were moments when he slept, he did not remember them.

Christopher shuffled the loose, folio-sized pages into order on his desk-top. He noted, almost with indifference, the way his handwriting grew worse as side after side of the ruled sheets was filled. The first few pages were neat enough but after that came the blotches, the crossings-out and inserted words. ‘Foul papers’ was the name for this, the first draft of a play. Well, these were very foul papers indeed.

Usually, the draft would be passed to a professional scrivener to make a fair copy. Then it would be transcribed once more into separate rolls containing the parts for the various players. But this play by Christopher Dole would never be seen and heard by an audience. A pity, thought Christopher, blinking and looking through the casement window, which was so small that, if he wished to read or write, he required a candle even on midsummer’s day. Yes, it was a pity this play he’d just completed would never be staged. There were some good things in it. Good things beginning with the title, which was The English Brothers. It contained a scattering of neat verses. A few good jokes. But there were also some dangerous items in The English Brothers. Items meant to bring down trouble on the head of the playwright. Not Christopher Dole but Mr William Shakespeare.

As Christopher thought of Shakespeare, his hands clenched and he felt the familiar knot in his stomach. The rest of the world considered the man from Stratford to be one of nature’s gentlemen, a generous and mild-mannered individual. But Christopher had particular reasons to hate the more successful playwright. One of them was to do with Shakespeare’s opportunism. Years before, Christopher had devised a play based on an old poem entitled The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet. Perhaps he was unwise enough to speak about his intentions, and word got back to WS. Or perhaps the Stratford man stumbled, by coincidence, across the same source. Certainly he worked much more quickly than Christopher. And, as Dole was bound to acknowledge when he finally saw Shakespeare’s love tragedy, WS had done a better job than he, Christopher, would have been capable of. A much better job.

This was the beginning of their rivalry, even if it was a rivalry mostly apparent on Dole’s side. Now he was determined to revenge himself on the individual who’d wronged him, using the playwright’s own medium of words. It was his last chance for revenge since Christopher Dole did not think he would be alive for much longer.

So he cobbled together, during forty-eight hours of frantic scribbling, a piece guaranteed to cause WS a few problems. And it was all his – Christopher Dole’s – own work. Or very nearly all. Lying on the desk-top was an ancient vellum manuscript, some of which Christopher had put to use in The English Brothers. This was an old drama known as The Play of Adam. To bulk out his own play, Christopher had copied a couple of pages from this piece, ones telling of the rivalry between Cain and Abel and the first murder, and presented them as a play-within-a-play. The manuscript was worn and, in places, the writing so faded that Christopher was forced to peer closely in order to copy it out. The play-within-a-play was a fashionable device. Shakespeare himself had done the very same thing in Hamlet.

A few months earlier Christopher had discovered the vellum manuscript in a chest in a neglected corner of the shop belonging to his brother, Alan, a bookseller. Alan had just turned down Christopher’s request for a loan and disappeared upstairs, above the shop. Christopher, feeling aggrieved at his brother’s refusal, had poked around among Alan’s stock of books. He’d unfastened the chest in the corner and, straight away, his curiosity was sparked by a wax seal securing one of several rolls bundled inside. The elaborate seal suggested the contents might be valuable.

Unthinkingly, Christopher broke the disc of wax. Casting his eyes over the text inside, he soon saw that it was from the earliest days of drama, a period when plays were scarcely to be distinguished from religious celebrations and festivals. He secreted the scroll inside his doublet, believing it might come in useful. And so it proved when he had transcribed a few dozen lines from the old text into his own hastily composed piece. Since Christopher Dole did not get on with his brother, he liked the fact that the section he’d copied out was to do with Cain and Abel. It had given him the idea of titling his work The English Brothers.

The material for the play itself he had discovered in a collection of antique tales. It was a narrative about the rivalry between a pair of English siblings who should have been fighting the Norse invaders but were instead more interested in fighting each other over the same noble lady. Christopher versified this story and dashed it down any old how, hardly caring how it came out.

The English Brothers was never going to be performed.

It would be printed, however. Printed without the approval of the authorities and without a licence. And it would bear Shakespeare’s name on the title page or, if not his name in full, then a hint of it. Let the man from Stratford explain himself to the Privy Council. They would definitely be interested in some of the coded comments in The English Brothers.

It was a late afternoon in autumn and growing dark. Christopher Dole might have slept now his work was complete but he was seized with the desire for action. He took the old vellum manuscript and hid it away inside his own chest, which contained nothing more than his shirts and other faded garments. Then he folded up the foul papers and tucked them inside his doublet. He snuffed out the dying candle and made his way out of the little top-floor room and down the rickety stairs of his lodgings.

In the small dark lobby he almost collided with a figure who was leaning against the jamb of the front door and blocking the exit.

‘Ah,’ said the figure, ‘it’s Christopher, isn’t it?’

‘You are in my way.’

‘I knew it was you. I can identify every member of this household by their tread, even when they’re hurrying, as you are.’

‘I am going out.’

The figure pushed itself away from the door-jamb and moved slightly to one side so that Dole was forced to brush past him. He smelled meat and liquor on the other’s breath. It reminded him that he had not eaten properly for at least forty-eight hours.

The lounger in the lobby was Stephen. He was the landlady’s son. Stephen did not seem to do anything in his mother’s house other than pad softly around, like a cat, and push his nose into other people’s business, like a dog.

‘You are surely on your way somewhere important, Christopher,’ he said in his usual familiar style. ‘Judging by the way you came downstairs almost running – for a man of your age, that is.’

‘Shog off, Stephen,’ said Christopher, opening the door and stepping into the street. He heard the other say, ‘My pleasure’, as the door closed behind him.

It was damp and cold in the streets outside but no damper or colder than it was in Dole’s garret room. The playwright walked briskly so as to keep out the weather and because he was eager to reach his destination, a tavern called The Ram. The tavern was in Moor Street in Clerkenwell. Dole knew that he would find the man he wanted there. Old George preferred The Ram to his home. It was quieter in The Ram. It was too distant for any member of his household to come hunting for him. Ensconced in the tavern, he would not be bothered by wife and children.

Sure enough, George Bruton was sitting in front of a pint pot in a corner. The interior of the tavern was smoky and no better lit than Dole’s own quarters. But George always sat on the same bench in the same corner, and a blind man might have found him. There was a knot of men in another corner of the room. Christopher could see nothing of them except the flash of an arm, the turn of a jaw.

George Bruton observed Christopher coming in his direction. Before the playwright could reach him he pinged his fingers against the side of his pot, and Dole took the hint to order two more pints from the passing drawer. Then he sat down next to Bruton. He waited until the drinks arrived and his companion had taken several gulps, almost draining the pot. Bruton was a large man who occupied more than his share of the bench. Dole remembered the days when he’d been slender. Their association was through Christopher’s brother, Alan, the bookseller and publisher. George Bruton was a printer who sometimes worked for Alan.

‘A damp evening, George,’ said Christopher.

George humphed. He was not a great one for talk. Neither was Christopher Dole, for all that his business was to do with words. So Dole decided to get straight to the point.

‘You recall that commission, a private one, that I mentioned to you a few days ago?’

‘My memory is not so good these days,’ said the printer. ‘It will take another one of these to stir it into life.’

Christopher had hardly drunk anything from his own pint but he snapped his fingers for the drawer, a pimply lad, and placed a fresh order. There was a bark of laughter from the shadowed group in the opposite corner. The very sound of the laughter, and a disjointed sentence or two, was enough to tell Christopher that these were gentlemen. The Ram was rather a down-at-heel place but perhaps the group liked it for that reason. He turned his attention back to George Bruton.

‘I require something to be printed – printed privately.’

For the first time George swivelled his block-like head to stare at Christopher.

‘Printed in small quantities – and then distributed discreetly.’

‘Some filth, is it?’

‘Not filth, not exactly.’

‘A pity.’

‘It is a play.’

‘One of your plays, Christopher?’

The boy returned with Bruton’s fresh pint. Christopher took advantage to delay replying to Bruton’s question. Then he said: ‘No, not mine. I am merely an intermediary, acting for someone who wishes to see it published.’

‘That’s strange,’ said Bruton, ‘because from your silence I’d been assuming it was one of your things. Like your tragedy about the Emperor Nero? What was that called? The Mother Killer? The Matricide? It was put on by Lord Faulkes’s company for a single performance, wasn’t it?’

Christopher Dole might have replied that plenty of plays were only put on for a single performance but he said nothing. There was another bark of laughter from the shadowy group of gents in the other corner and, if Dole had not been so fixed on what he was saying to Bruton, his sensitive spirit might have interpreted the sound as a judgement on that disastrous play about Nero and his mother.

George Bruton took another great swig from his pint before saying, ‘But then I am forgetting that The Matricide is something you’d rather not talk about, my friend. I told you my memory is not so good.’

‘Then let us agree not to speak another word of that play, Mr Bruton. I have in my possession the foul version of a drama entitled The English Brothers. Who the author is doesn’t matter. It has not been performed. In fact, I do not think it will ever be staged anywhere. But I want it printed… no, he, the author, wants it printed on the quiet.’

‘Without a licence?’

‘Yes, without a licence,’ said Christopher. ‘Come on, George, don’t act surprised. We both know that books are issued from time to time that are not licensed or registered with the Stationers’ Company, whether by oversight or intention.’

‘Are you well, Christopher?’

‘Yes,’ said Dole, wondering whether Bruton meant well in his head or his body. ‘Why, don’t I look well?’

‘As a matter of fact, you do not. Even in this light, you appear white and thin, and there are bags under your eyes like sacks of coal.’

‘I’ve been too busy to sleep.’

‘Ah, yes. You say you’ve got the play with you. Let’s see it.’

Christopher Dole dug inside his doublet, retrieved the script that he had so recently finished in his little room, and gave it to George Bruton. For all that the light was poor in The Ram tavern, Bruton riffled through the pages, stopping every now and then as if he was actually able to read the thing. Perhaps he could. Christopher knew from his dealings with printers and publishers that they had an instinctive feel for a handwritten script. It was almost as if they were capable of reading with their fingertips.

‘It’s messy,’ said George.

‘It must have been composed at speed.’

‘Your author friend was obviously inspired. Even so, it would be easier to work from a fair copy.’

‘He doesn’t want it to be seen by more eyes than necessary. I can be on hand in your printing-house to help… interpret it.’

‘Your friend is prepared to pay well for this to be printed, Christopher Dole? Even to pay over the odds, seeing it has to be done on the quiet.’

‘Yes.’

‘Quarto size?’

‘Quarto size, and not bound in vellum either, but merely sewn together.’

‘We call it “stabbed” in the trade. But I gather your friend wants to keep the cost down.’

‘He is not concerned with appearances.’

‘I was concerned with appearances, once,’ said Bruton, handing back the sheaf of papers containing The English Brothers and staring mournfully into his newly empty pot. ‘Once I had ambitions to follow in the steps of John Day… of Christopher Barker… ’

These were the names of well-known printers, distinguished and successful ones. Christopher Dole cut across what threatened to turn into a bout of self-pity from Bruton. He said, ‘You’ll do it then, you’ll print the play?’

Bruton paused. There was a further outbreak of laughter from the men in the opposite corner. The printer said, ‘On one condition. Tell me now the author of The English Brothers. If you do not, I shall be forced to the conclusion that it must be you after all.’

William Shakespeare was the supposed author, of course, but Christopher did not name him. Even George Bruton, however negligent, would never have accepted that this bundle of untidy, blotched papers was by the man from Stratford. So he invented an imaginary author.

‘It is by a gentleman called Henry Ashe. He is a friend of mine. He has asked me to be his agent in this matter.’

Christopher Dole spoke so promptly and confidently that he almost believed himself. Henry Ashe? Where had that name come from? It seemed to have dropped out of the dark, smoky air of the tavern. Yet Bruton must have been convinced for he nodded and went on: ‘This play by Henry Ashe, which you say is not for performance, contains nothing seditious or blasphemous?’

‘I guarantee it,’ said the playwright. ‘One more thing. I don’t want my brother, Alan, knowing anything about this.’

‘As it happens,’ said Bruton, ‘I saw your brother the other day. Or rather he saw me. Demanded to know if I knew the whereabouts of a scroll called the Oseney text. Apparently it’s disappeared from his shop.’

‘I’ve no idea what he was on about,’ said Christopher Dole, but guessing that this might be a reference to the manuscript he’d uncovered at Alan’s place. Quickly, he changed the subject.

‘Time for another?’

‘Always time for another, in my opinion,’ said Bruton, clinking his plump fingers against the pot.

So Christopher Dole summoned the drawer again and bought George Bruton yet another drink. His own was scarcely touched. They shook hands on the arrangement. The English Brothers would be printed and published.

George Bruton’s printing establishment was in Bride Lane on the city side of the Fleet Bridge. Downstairs was where the work was carried on. Upstairs was where the family – Martha Bruton and her many children – lived. Bruton employed two men. One was Hans de Worde, a long-time apprentice and then assistant to Bruton. Hans was second-generation Dutch, one of two brothers, and the respectable one. The other brother, Antony, had somehow shouldered his way into the rough but closed world of the ferrymen and he transported passengers across the Thames for a living. As for Hans de Worde, the joke was that George Bruton had taken him on originally because of his surname. Hans wore spectacles and had a nose on whose very tip was a large black mole as though he had dipped it in a pot of ink.

George Bruton’s apprentice was called John. He was a wiry figure, and adaptable, which was just as well since he slept in a space hardly bigger than a cupboard in the press room. Hans de Worde, as befitted his higher standing in the household, occupied a little room at the top of the house.

These young men had not met Christopher Dole before but the playwright became a familiar figure at Bride Lane when he called in from time to time to check on the progress of The English Brothers and to help clarify the blotches and crossings-out in the foul papers. If it occurred to Hans or John that it was odd to be printing a play that had never been performed, they did not mention it. Probably they were not even aware of the fact. Hans was a serious individual and a devout attender at Austinfriars, the Dutch church in the city. His spare time was spent poring over religious pamphlets and tracts in his top-floor eyrie, undisturbed by the racket of the family coming up from the floor below. John was supposed to be bound by the terms of his apprenticeship and to avoid taverns, playhouses, brothels and the like, but George Bruton tended to turn a blind eye so it’s likely that he went to at least one or two of those places.

During one of the playwright’s visits, George Bruton had a question for Christopher Dole. Using the same gesture as when he signalled for another pint pot in The Ram, the printer tapped with his fingernails at a bit of verse on the page in front of him. They were standing to one side of the press room. From overhead came the thump of children running around. Christopher wasn’t sure how many there were up there. Perhaps Bruton himself did not know.

‘Where did this come from?’ said Bruton. ‘This Cain and Abel stuff. “Oh, go and kiss the Devil’s arse! It is your fault it burns the worse.” Or “With this jawbone, as I thrive, I’ll let you no more stay alive!”’

‘I believe that Henry Ashe copied it from an old manuscript that he found… somewhere,’ said Christopher, suddenly remembering that Bruton had heard of the Oseney text from his brother.

‘It is cleverly worked in,’ said Bruton. ‘There is a troupe of mummers performing a fragment of an old play that reflects the action of the main piece. Ingenious.’

‘I’ll tell Mr Ashe,’ said Dole.

‘You haven’t said yet what you want on the title page. No author’s name, I assume?’

‘No, no. Not even initials.’

Bruton did not look surprised. It was usual for plays to be printed anonymously.

‘But I am asking you to include this device,’ said Dole, taking a scrap of paper from his pocket. On it was a simple drawing of a shield with a bird perched on the top. It appeared to be a coat of arms but when one looked closely it was more of a mockery than anything else since the bird was a ragged black thing and clutching a drooping lance in one of its claws.

‘I’m not so sure about this,’ said George Bruton. ‘It is a serious matter, the right to bear arms. I don’t want to find myself in trouble with the law. Your own name may not be appearing on the title page, Mr Dole, but mine will be as printer.’

‘It is not anybody’s coat of arms, I promise you. I’ll pay you extra for this. Mr Ashe is very insistent on it.’

‘Very well.’

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 one 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.

‘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.’

‘You have many books in your shop.’

‘And I know the provenance and price of each of them,’ said Alan. ‘I know all their shapes and smells – except this one… which smells fishy.’

‘Written by Shakespeare?’ said his brother.

‘That’s the rumour. But we are all aware of the hostility you feel towards Shakespeare.’

‘I wouldn’t know anything about this play.’

‘That is most surprising of all,’ said Alan, ‘because when I look through it, I find your handprint. I mean, the style of Christopher Dole, his tricks and turns of phrase.’

‘Perhaps I have imitators.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. More conclusive is that within these pages are fragments of an older play, to do with Cain and Abel.’

Christopher grew uneasy. Instinctively, his eyes flicked to the chest, barricaded behind piles of books, from which he had filched the manuscript of The Play of Adam. Alan noticed.

‘Ah-ha. I thought so. Where is the manuscript now?’

Never much good at standing up to his more forceful sibling, Christopher gave a partial version of the truth.

‘I might have borrowed it to have a look at it, just to see how they did things in the old days. Perhaps William Shakespeare also obtained a copy and included portions in that play you’re clutching.’

‘There is only one manuscript,’ said Alan. ‘And I have it. Or rather, I had it. It disappeared some time ago but I never suspected you, Christopher. You bloody fool.’

This seemed an excessive response and the playwright, realising that argument was futile, made to go. Outside flakes of snow were starting to dribble from a low-hanging sky. He wouldn’t get any money from Alan now. He’d be more likely to obtain cash from the falling snow.

‘Just a minute, brother. You do not realise the ill reputation of that old play.’

‘No doubt you’re about to tell me.’

‘There was a seal on it, wasn’t there? An unbroken seal?’

‘Possibly,’ said Christopher.

‘It should not have been broken.’

Christopher was struck by Alan’s tone. In it there was not just anger or indignation but something that sounded close to fear. Alan continued: ‘If you’d examined the outside of the scroll before breaking the seal, you’d have seen a warning.’

‘A warning?’

‘Yes, you parrot, a warning. Written by a prior. If memory serves, it went like this: “In that this scroll contains Holy Writ, you shall not suffer it to be destroyed. Yet neither shall you break the seal upon it, lest fools and knaves make of it swords to slay the innocent and infect man’s reason with the worm of madness.”’

As he was reciting, Alan closed his eyes. Christopher was impressed that his brother recalled the words so exactly. Moreover, he began to feel the first tremors of alarm.

‘The story goes that it was composed for a priory in Oseney near Oxford and that a murder took place before it could ever be performed. There are other tales of murder – in Wales, in Ely – all linked to presentations of “The Story of Cain and Abel”, which you have been so foolish as to include in this – what’s it called? – The English Brothers.’

‘I never thought you were superstitious, Alan.’

Christopher Dole tried to keep his voice calm and even amused, but the fact was that, like most people who make their living in the theatre, he was the superstitious one. If he’d known of this warning beforehand, he’d never have picked up the manuscript, let alone copied out parts of it. But he’d been too eager to break the seal, to unroll the manuscript and then snatch gobbets of it for his own use. Eager to fill up the pages of his own play as fast as possible, with most of his attention being on those satirical jabs directed at King James and his favourites, and intended to bring down trouble on the bald pate of the man from Stratford.

‘I am not one for old wives’ tales,’ said his bookseller brother, ‘but these bad-luck stories don’t spring from nowhere. I tell you, this old piece can bring misfortune or worse. You were foolish enough to write a play in the hope of somehow damaging Shakespeare, but you were downright foolhardy to include a cursed text in it.’

‘Well, The English Brothers will never be performed on stage,’ said Christopher. By now, he’d given up any pretence that the play was not by him.

‘Performance on a stage does not matter. Printing and publishing is a kind of performance, isn’t it? A sort of utterance. You still have the manuscript?’

Christopher nodded. He wondered whether he should destroy it, since the thing apparently brought such dangers with it. But it seemed that Alan was able to read his thoughts for he said: ‘If you have the manuscript in that little upper room of yours, then go now and return here with it. Don’t attempt to get rid of it. Worse luck will follow if you do. You know how the thought of destroying a book is abhorrent to me.’

More likely, thought Christopher, his brother was calculating what he might get for the original manuscript of The Play of Adam. He said nothing further. He nodded, turned on his heel and quit the shop. Although still early in the afternoon, dusk seemed already to be drawing in. The snow was falling sporadically. The upper reaches of St Paul’s were hidden in the murk.

The chill struck Christopher to the bone. He pulled his thin coat tighter about him and trudged his way through the city and back to his lodgings. There was nowhere else to go. Head down, approaching the front door, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Stephen, the disagreeable son of his landlady.

‘Why, Christopher, this is well met. I am on my way out.’

Not for the first time, Dole noticed how close-set were the young man’s eyes. Even in the gloom they had a bird’s glitter to them, a kind of malice. He shrugged Stephen’s hand from his shoulder and did not reply.

‘You have a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘How should I know? I do not pry into other people’s business.’

Christopher made to move past the insolent, lying youngster and get into his lodgings. Stephen said: ‘I invited him in, seeing as the day is turning nasty. I directed him to your room and told him to make himself at ease up there. He has the appearance of a proper gentleman.’

Christopher hadn’t imagined he could be any colder than he was but a fresh chill broke out along his body. He paid no attention to Stephen’s parting words – ‘Aren’t you going to thank me for being nice to your visitor?’ – and entered the lobby. He paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs before starting up them. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Laboriously, he climbed to the top floor. There he hesitated again. A glimmer of light was showing under the lintel of his door. All at once, Christopher’s apprehensions fell away to be replaced by anger. The unknown stranger must have lit a candle, one of his meagre supply.

The playwright did not have the advantage of surprise since the stranger would have heard his steps, but he turned the handle of his own door and pushed it open with as much force as he could muster. The first thing he saw was that the occupant had lit not one but two candles. The second was that his visitor was indeed a proper gentleman, or at least a prosperous one. He was sitting on Christopher’s stool, which he had positioned against the wall so that he might rest his back against it. His arms were folded and his legs were fully extended and crossed at the ankles.

Christopher Dole saw the stranger’s cloak, with its points, or lace, gleaming a dull gold, and he saw the rich red lining where an edge of the cloak was casually folded back. He observed the gentleman’s leather boots reaching almost to the knee, and it flashed through his mind that such well-made footwear must provide a good defence against the filth and cold of the streets.

What he could not see was his visitor’s face, for the intruder was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow over the upper part of his body. He kept his head down, resting his chin on his chest. For an instant Christopher wondered whether he was asleep and, absurdly, felt guilty for having disturbed him. Next, he felt almost ashamed of the little space where he lived, with its simple bed, its desk, chest and stool. Then his eyes flickered back to the two – two! – candles burning on the desk and he moved a couple of paces further into the room.

So small was his chamber that this brought him almost to the outstretched feet of the stranger. If the gentleman had been asleep he was not asleep now, for the fingers of his gloved right hand, half concealed by the cloak, flexed and stretched. He looked up. Yet all Christopher could see under the shadow of his hat was a square, clean-shaven chin. Nevertheless Christopher had the feeling that he’d seen this individual before.

‘Mr Dole?’ This hardly amounted to a question for the stranger went on without a pause: ‘Forgive me, but as it was growing dark I took the liberty of lighting your candles while awaiting your return.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Don’t you recognise me, Christopher? You should recognise me. I am Henry Ashe.’

IV

Nicholas Revill made tortuous progress in his search for the author of The English Brothers. Carrying Shakespeare’s copy of the play with him, he began the quest at the printer’s in Bride Lane, saying he was Dick Newman, and that he came from the Admiral’s Men. George Bruton was absent but his journeyman, an individual who introduced himself as Hans, reluctantly answered questions. He spoke with such precision that Nick would have known him for a foreigner even without being given his name. Dutch or German, he assumed.

Yes, it was in this workshop that they printed the play that was in the visitor’s hand. The author? Hans fiddled with his spectacles and peered at the title page, which Nick held open for his benefit, even though the printer must have been aware already it didn’t contain the information. Eventually he said, ‘I am not sure but I believe that the author is an individual called Henry Ashe.’

Nick thought he knew the names of all, or almost all, the playwrights in London but he’d never come across anyone called Henry Ashe. Of course, Ashe might be a newcomer or a false name, rather like Dick Newman.

Hans did not seem to have any more information, and Nick asked whether he might talk to George Bruton if he was in the house. He cast his eyes up at the ceiling – there was the thumping of feet overhead – but Hans shook his head. No, Bruton was not available. Do you know where your master is then? The journeyman looked uncomfortable.

At that point the apprentice, who was hanging back in a corner of the room but attending to every word that passed between Nick and Hans, piped up: ‘Are you really a player?’

‘Yes,’ said Nick.

‘You’ll find Master Bruton in The Ram, sir. That’s where he is when he isn’t here.’

Hans spun round so fast his glasses almost fell off his nose. He looked annoyed as though some family secret had been revealed. In this way Nick knew the information was reliable. He thanked the apprentice and left.

Nick was acquainted with The Ram although he had not stepped across its threshold for several years. He wondered why George Bruton habitually drank in a tavern that was quite a way from his work and his home, before it occurred to him that the distance was probably the reason.

He trudged through the slushy streets. The snow that had fallen the previous evening was lying in dirty, half-frozen pools in the road, and the white rooftops were now smudged all over with soot. Pulling his cloak about him and avoiding the other passers-by as they negotiated slippery corners, Nick thought about his ‘mission’. He wasn’t sure whether William Shakespeare was more worried because of the potentially treasonable lines in the play called The English Brothers or more outraged because someone – Henry Ashe? – was attempting to pass the piece off as his (WS’s) work. Nick decided it was outrage rather than worry.

By now he had reached The Ram. The place showed no improvement in the years since his last visit. Still very dingy and disreputable. Despite the dim light, he observed a man sitting by himself in the corner. He recognised Bruton from Shakespeare’s description: a man with a large belly pressed against the table before him and with the reddened nose of a drinker. Bruton looked up. When he saw that Nick was heading directly for him, he tapped with his fingers against his tankard. The gesture was clear. Since Nick needed him to co-operate he ordered two pints before sitting down opposite the printer.

And he waited until the drinks arrived before announcing that he’d come from the Admiral’s Men.

‘Oh, yes?’ said Bruton, taking a big swig from his mug.

‘We are interested in staging a play that you have recently published.’

‘Are you?’

‘It is called The English Brothers.’

Nick was gratified to see a change come over Bruton’s hitherto impassive face. Not a positive change, since he now looked both wary and irritated.

‘You are sure you are from the Admiral’s Men? You’re not from… the Council.’ Bruton lowered his voice as he said the last two words, and in such an artificial way that it would scarcely have been believed on stage. There was nobody nearby, although a knot of men was sitting and drinking in another corner. Bruton’s manner told Nick that WS’s fears about the Privy Council were justified. He assured Bruton that he really was a player and not a government agent.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Richard Newman,’ said Nick promptly. He was pleased not to have been caught out by the abrupt question. ‘You may call me Dick, if you prefer.’

‘I have no preference over what to call you. I’ve never even heard of you. You are sure the Admiral’s want the play?’

‘Absolutely sure,’ said Nick, then went on quickly before he could be asked any more questions. ‘But there is no author to go to, no one named on the title page.’

‘The author is Henry Ashe.’

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Nick. ‘Did he deliver the play to you himself?’

Bruton paused before replying. ‘No. Mr Ashe gave it to a friend – or an agent – I don’t know which.’

It took another two drinks before Nick was able to prise the name of this supposed agent out of the printer. He was called Christopher Dole. This was a name that was familiar, or half familiar, to Revill. Wasn’t Dole a bookseller?

‘That’s his brother, Alan,’ said Bruton. ‘Keeps a bookshop by St Paul’s.’

Nick knew the bookshop. He tried again. Was Dole an actor? Or a playwright?

Yes, said George Bruton, he’d been both. Dole was an actor with Lord Faulkes’s company for a time and he’d penned a few plays for them. Not very successfully. The last piece he wrote more or less finished him off. It was about the Roman emperor Nero and it was called The Matricide.

‘A tragedy?’ asked Nick.

‘Meant to be,’ said Bruton, ‘but it was received as a comedy. Dole was humiliated. He blamed everyone but himself. Turned his back on the drama, which is why I was surprised when he presented me with this new piece, The English Brothers, even if it is by someone else.’

Nick thought that the play was probably by Christopher Dole, and not the elusive Henry Ashe. It was Dole he should be calling on. But if the printer knew where he lived, he was not going to reveal it. This might have been connected to the fact that Nick refused to buy him another drink. However, he did add, as Nick was leaving The Ram, ‘And, if you catch up with him, tell that bastard – Christopher Dole, I mean – tell him that he owes me money.’

Nick thought that next he ought to visit Alan Dole. He would surely be familiar with his brother’s whereabouts. Reflecting that he was having to go a long way round the town to carry out this task on behalf of Shakespeare, and warmed only a little by the thought of WS’s friendship, Nick duly called at Dole’s bookshop. At first the bookseller was reluctant to talk about his brother, but then he suddenly grew angry and made mention of Christopher’s ‘foolish crimes’. When Alan Dole calmed down, he was able to identify the street and house where Christopher lodged.

‘The landlady is Mrs Atkins. Christopher occupies a meagre top-floor chamber and that is all he is entitled to,’ said Alan. ‘If you see him, ask him why he didn’t return yesterday with the… the thing he promised to bring. He’ll know what I’m talking about. And when he does return, I want a word with him, more than a word.’

So now, in the early afternoon and with the feel of snow in the air once again, Nick stood outside the house he’d been directed to. A young man opened the door to his knock. His close-set eyes scanned Nick without approval.

‘I am looking for Christopher Dole, I believe he lodges here.’

‘The world is beating a path to his door,’ said the young man. ‘You are the third visitor since this time yesterday.’

He stood aside to let the caller in, although in a grudging sort of way so that Nick had to squeeze past him. He pointed a finger upwards and said, ‘Go as far as you can go.’

Nick groped his way up a dark staircase, which narrowed and grew more rickety as he reached the top of the house. Once there, he paused and listened. The house was silent and any street sounds were muffled by the snow outside. Suddenly Nick was reluctant to proceed with this. Yet he had his mission. He tapped on what, since it was the only door on this floor, must be the entrance to Dole’s room.

No response. He rapped more loudly. Nothing. He reached out and twisted the handle, not expecting to get anywhere. But the room was not locked. His sense of unease grew stronger. Nick would have turned and gone back down the stairs but for the thought that he might find some evidence inside that Christopher Dole was the author of The English Brothers.

He pushed the door right open. It was a small room, even smaller than Revill’s own lodgings. In the gloom he could make out the shape of a bed, a desk beneath the small window, a stool against the wall and a chest in the corner immediately to his left. Perhaps Nick looked at these things to avoid looking at what was in front of his nose.

Directly before him, so close that it was almost touching the door, was a body. Swaying very slightly in the draught from the open door, it hung from a belt or girdle looped round a beam in the low ceiling. The head was almost crammed up against the beam, and the feet pointed downwards so that they dangled a few inches above the floor. Not much of a distance perhaps, but even those few inches had been enough to ensure Christopher Dole choked to death.

It appeared the playwright had taken his own life. It looked like that. Yet he had not, Nick thought. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason – he was too shaken, too confused at this moment – but Dole had not killed himself. This was a murder.

Nick took a couple of steps back from the body so that he was standing just outside the entrance to Dole’s room. He twisted round as he heard footsteps rapidly mounting the stairs. His first thought was that it was the murderer returning to see that the business was complete, or to retrieve something he’d left behind, or to take care of an inconvenient witness…

Nick fumbled in his clothing. He sometimes carried a small dagger, even though it was against the law for a man of his rank to do so. Yet today he had nothing with him, no means apart from his hands of defending himself. He could have retreated into Dole’s room, where the dead body, framed by the doorway, dangled from its makeshift noose. But he did not. Instead he shrank against the wall to one side of the tiny area between the top of the stairs and Dole’s door. He readied himself to lash out with his arms and feet.

A shape, the head and shoulders only, emerged at the top of the stairs. It paused for an instant as though to take in the scene before it. Nick couldn’t see who it was but he could hear breathing. Then the man made a kind of leap up the last couple of steps and whirled about as he reached the top. He was carrying something, a stick most likely. He struck out with it and, by chance, the blow caught Nick in the guts. He gasped in pain and doubled up on the floor.

He had no chance to defend himself properly. All he could do was to curl up and wrap his arms about his head for protection as the man rained down blows on him. From somewhere in the distance, among the blows and the attacker’s grunts and his own involuntary cries, he heard a voice, a woman’s voice. This seemed to go on for many minutes, although it was probably less than a single one. Then came the woman’s voice, nearer at hand, saying: ‘Stop, I tell you, stop!’

And, mercifully, the blows faltered and then ceased.

‘There now, Mr Revill,’ said the woman. ‘That should ease your discomfort.’

Nick Revill winced as she applied the tincture to his face and bare arms and shoulders, which had borne the brunt of the blows. Nick was sitting, dressed only in his hose, on the bed in the woman’s chamber. She was perched on a stool facing him, dabbing at the weals and bruises with a tincture which, she said, was a mixture of plantain and arnica. Sara Atkins was the landlady of the house where Christopher Dole had lived and died. She was the mother of Stephen, the young man with the close-set eyes. In the aftermath of the attack Nick had forgotten his false identity and announced that he was Nick Revill of the King’s Men. Sara Atkins was contrite, not because he was a player with a famous company but because she was a good-hearted woman. And perhaps because she felt guilt over her son’s behaviour.

For it was Stephen Atkins who had attacked Nick. His story was that, after directing Revill to Christopher Dole’s room on the top floor, he suddenly grew anxious that the visitor might be some sort of thief or ne’er-do-well. Without consulting his mother, and arming himself with a stave, he ran up the stairs, pausing at the top when he glimpsed the suspended body of the playwright through the open door. He could not see much more, since the only illumination came through the little window in Dole’s room. Stephen’s instinctive reaction was that the recent arrival at the house must have done this thing. At least that’s what he claimed. To protect himself he went on the attack, winding Nick with a lucky stroke and then continuing to rain down blows on the player until Mrs Atkins appeared and commanded him to stop. This was the explanation he gave to his mother even as Nick was being helped to his feet.

Sara Atkins was more clear-headed than her son. She asked Nick for his name. She asked what he was doing in her house. (‘Visiting Christopher Dole. I’m a player as he is – as he was.’) Then she turned to her son and questioned how long had elapsed between the visitor’s arrival and Stephen’s rush up the stairs. When she heard that it was no more than a couple of minutes, she said that there would hardly have been time for their visitor – ‘What is your name again, sir? Ah yes, Nicholas Revill’ – hardly time for him to have disposed of their unfortunate lodger. After making sure that Nick could stand unaided, she went towards the body, which was hanging in the deep gloom of the room and put out a gentle hand, almost stroking the dead man’s face. Then she pointed out that her lodger had grown cold, and so must have been gone for some time.

‘Poor Christopher. This is a dreadful thing,’ said Mrs Atkins, shaking her head and closing the door of the little upper room. She was quite composed, considering what had happened. Nick was ushered by her into her chamber on the floor below.

Stephen didn’t comment on the corpse or apologise for his actions but continued to look at Revill as though the player might still be a thief or even a murderer. Mrs Atkins told him to go and fetch the headborough to report Dole’s death. The snow was falling again and it was almost completely dark outside.

‘A dreadful thing,’ the landlady repeated after she’d finished with her application of ointments. She was referring to Christopher Dole, not Nick’s injuries. ‘A terrible crime.’

‘Why do you say crime, Mrs Atkins?’ said Nick, carefully drawing on his shirt again.

‘Self-slaughter is a crime,’ said the landlady. ‘A crime against God. What are you doing, Mr Revill? Stay here.’

Nick was pushing himself off the bed while Mrs Atkins attempted to keep him there with a hand on his shoulder. She was quite an attractive woman, small, with a firm jaw and wisps of black hair poking from under her cap. Attractive enough that Nick had been conscious of sitting facing her while dressed only in his hose. Attractive enough that he shrugged off his hurts in a manly way rather than making much of them.

‘I must look at the body again.’

‘Why?’

‘You say that Mr Dole killed himself and I admit it looks like that, but I will show you that it cannot be.’

Nick picked up one of the candlesticks that stood by the entrance to the bedchamber and clambered up the stairs once more, Sara Atkins behind him. The blows that Stephen administered were beginning to smart. Nick felt angry with the landlady’s son even if, on the face of things, his suspicions might have been partly justified. At the top, he again opened the door of Christopher’s room. By the light of the candle, he had his first clear sight of the playwright’s swollen face, his head canted to one side against the beam, his tongue protruding from his mouth as the home-made noose bit into his neck. It occurred to Nick that he had not seen Christopher Dole alive. Now he would never have the chance to ask him whether he really was the author of The English Brothers.

Aware of Mrs Atkins close behind him, he raised the candle and glanced rapidly about the room to see if he’d missed anything on his first look round. But every surface was bare, apart from the top of the desk where stood the stubs of two burned-out candles and a pile of half a dozen books. He took the top one. A scrap of paper tucked inside it fluttered to the floor. Nick bent and picked up the paper. There was a scrawled line of writing on it. He couldn’t read the words in the poor light but they didn’t appear to be in English. Hurriedly, he stuffed the paper inside his shirt.

Then he examined the book. It was a copy of The English Brothers, identical to the one Nick was carrying. Not proof exactly, but a sign that Dole was the author. Nick remembered that the dead man’s brother, Alan, was expecting some item to be returned to him. What was it? It couldn’t be the disputed play, since the bookseller already had a copy. He opened the dead man’s chest but there appeared to be nothing inside apart from a heap of undershirts. There was no sign of anything of value in the room.

‘How long did he lodge with you?’ asked Nick. The landlady was at his shoulder.

‘He was with me several years. He was no trouble.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Yesterday. Or perhaps it was the day before. I cannot recall. He kept irregular hours and he kept to himself.’

‘Did he have many visitors?’

‘I do not believe so.’

‘Your son said that I was the third person to call on him in the space of a day.’

‘Did he?’

‘Mr Dole did not kill himself, Mrs Atkins. Look. To raise himself even those few inches above the floor in order to put his head in the noose he would have to be standing on something.’

‘Yes,’ she said doubtfully.

‘The only way he could have hanged himself was to stand on a piece of furniture and then kick it away as he hung from the ceiling, but he did not do that. See.’

Nick spoke urgently. Once again, he raised the candle and shifted it from side to side so that its beams filled every quarter of the tiny chamber. Mrs Atkins was an intelligent woman. Surely she could see the situation for herself. Each of the few items in the room was several feet away from the hanging man, and each was neatly placed against a wall. Even the stool, which would normally have been by the desk, was against the wall facing the door. There was no way in which the man on the rope, who would have been struggling involuntarily for his breath even if he had chosen to do away with himself, could have ensured that whatever he balanced on (stool, chest) was tidied away after use.

‘Perhaps he stood on the bed and somehow swung himself across,’ said Mrs Atkins, who was reluctant to give up the idea that her lodger was responsible for his own death.

Christopher Dole had slept on a simple truckle bed, the sort without posts or a canopy, but equipped with wheels so that it might be pushed into some corner for a servant’s temporary use. It was a melancholy sight, a reminder of Dole’s lowly position in the world. Yes, it was possible he might have somehow used the bed as a makeshift scaffold. But there were no marks or indentations on the threadbare blanket, which was stretched tight across the thin mattress. No one could have stood on it without leaving a trace of his feet, as Nick showed with another sweep of the candlelight.

There were only two possibilities.

Either Christopher Dole, using the chest or stool to position himself under the ceiling beam, had taken his own life and then someone had come in to put the furniture back afterwards…

… or he had been murdered.

Any further conversation with Sara Atkins was prevented by the return of her son in the company of the local head-borough or constable. Both men tramped up the stairs with flakes of snow melting on their hats and capes. The constable, whose name was Daggett, and Stephen came crowding into the top-floor room, which was not large enough to hold five (including the dead man). Daggett seemed not to be as slow-witted as many London constables, or at least the ones that Nick had previously encountered. He greeted Mrs Atkins by name. He didn’t ask Nick who he was. Perhaps he assumed that the player was a lodger in the house. He gestured that the others should leave the room while he examined the body.

After a brief time, and tugging at an ear-lobe as if to signify thought, Daggett came out onto the equally crammed space at the top of the stairs.

‘This is a clear case of self-slaughter,’ he said, echoing Mrs Atkins’ words.

Nick saw that the general opinion was against him. There was no point in airing his suspicions of murder. Now the constable observed the fresh bruises on his face. His gaze flickered between Nick and the body hanging in the room behind him.

‘I fell in the snow,’ said Nick. ‘Fell flat on my face.’

Everyone appeared satisfied with this explanation. Leaving Stephen and Daggett to take down the body, Nick and Mrs Atkins returned downstairs, this time to a ground-floor parlour, where a fire was burning. The landlady seemed relieved, perhaps because the story of Dole’s killing himself was becoming the accepted version – so much more convenient than a murder – or perhaps because Nick explained away the harms her son had caused him.

She gave Nick some aqua vitae, saying that her husband had always used it as a restorative. From the wistful way she said it, Nick guessed she must be a widow. She took a nip herself, and then another one. The fiery liquid warmed Nick and took away some of the hurt from his injuries. Mrs Atkins talked about Christopher Dole, for whom she seemed to have a bit of a soft spot. Nick found himself agreeing to tell Alan Dole of his brother’s death. Then he found himself thinking that perhaps Christopher had somehow brought about his own demise. After all, if that was the conclusion everyone else was coming to…

There was a bustle in the lobby outside. It was constable Daggett departing. Mrs Atkins went out to see him off. Nick stayed sitting by the warmth of the parlour fire.

Gazing into the coals, he asked himself: who would want to kill a poor, out-of-fashion playwright?

Then Nick recalled that Christopher Dole had managed to incur the hatred or anger of several persons: the printer, George Bruton, who called Dole a bastard and said he owed him money; his own brother, who claimed that Christopher had committed ‘foolish crimes’, and who had uttered some threatening words against him. True, these individuals talked about Dole as if he were still alive, when it was evident he had died earlier. But this could just be clever talk, meant to hide their own guilt.

And then, to add to the list, there was William Shakespeare. As well as WS, there were probably others unknown to Nick with reason to dislike Dole. For an impoverished and neglected playwright, he certainly seemed to have a talent for making enemies.

Nick retrieved the fragment of paper he’d picked up from Dole’s floor. By the better light of the parlour, he was able to read the words. They were not English, but Latin. There were only four of them, and they were easy to understand. What he read caused a chill to come over him, for all the heat from the fire.

The door to the parlour opened. Nick turned his gaze from the slumbering fire but his expectation of seeing Sara Atkins again was disappointed when Stephen entered the room alone. The landlady’s son glanced briefly at Nick before pouring himself a good measure of the aqua vitae, which he swallowed in a single gulp. It crossed Nick’s mind that he too might be a suspect for Dole’s killing. Without saying a word, Stephen made to go out the door.

‘A moment… Stephen,’ said Nick. ‘Where is the body now?’

‘Cut down and laid out upstairs.’

‘I have a couple of questions for you, and I think you owe me some answers, after…’ He indicated the bruises on his face.

Stephen shrugged and leaned his lanky frame against the panel-work by the door.

‘You told me that two other people came to see Christopher Dole recently.’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘There was a gentleman who called yesterday afternoon. I knew Mr Dole was absent but I directed the visitor to go upstairs to Dole’s room since the day was turning nasty, and he was insistent on seeing our lodger. From his voice and manner, he was obviously an individual of refinement, not someone to be turned away into the cold.’

‘So this gentleman waited for Christopher to return?’

‘I encountered Dole when I was on my way out, and told him he had a caller, so they must have met upstairs.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I cannot tell you. His clothes were good but he was wearing a hat with a wide brim and it threw most of his face into shadow.’

‘He didn’t give his name, I suppose?’

‘You suppose wrong. He did give his name.’

Nick waited and said nothing. He let the silence stretch out. He looked at the fire. Eventually the landlady’s son gave way: ‘He said he was called Henry Ashe.’

Nick couldn’t help starting in surprise. So Henry Ashe, the imagined author of The English Brothers, was real after all. To cover his reaction he said, ‘You keep a close eye on the comings and goings in this house, don’t you, Stephen?’

‘I’m not sure what business it is of yours but, yes, I do. My mother is somewhat casual about callers.’

‘And there was another caller, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before or after the well-dressed man? Mr Ashe?’

‘After.’

‘What did this one look like? Was he wearing a broad-brimmed hat as well?’

Stephen shrugged. ‘I did not see him, but I heard him. I heard someone going upstairs, not one of our lodgers, since I recognise them all by their treads. I was aware of steps mounting to the very top floor, therefore I assumed this person was on his way to visit Christopher Dole.’

‘But you did not see who it was, even though you like to know who’s coming and going here?’

‘What I don’t know is why I have to account to you, Mr… er, for what I do or do not do. You have no authority.’

No, I have no authority, thought Nick. No more than you have authority to rain down blows on me and then pretend to forget my name. But he could not think what else to ask. In his grudging way, Stephen had provided quite a lot of information. Nick was curiously relieved that Stephen had not been able to describe the second visitor to the house.

Mrs Atkins returned. She was carrying Nick’s doublet and cloak, which he had left in her bedchamber. Nick was pleased to see her, quite apart from getting relief from her son’s company. Stephen slipped out of the room. Nick promised again to inform Alan Dole of his brother’s death. He didn’t go over his suspicions that Christopher might not have killed himself. He was no longer so sure that he wished to pursue them anyway. Mrs Atkins told him he might return to her house, if he wished, to have more salves and ointments applied to his hurts. Was she saying this because her son had done the damage or because she wanted another visit from him?

Sara helped him on with the rest of his clothing. She was gentle, and she grasped him lightly but slightly longer than was needed. Nick felt warmer, from the fire, from the aqua vitae, from her attentions.

As he trudged back through the streets, which gave off a cold glow on account of the freshly fallen snow, Nick tried to sum up what he’d learned.

Henry Ashe really existed. Therefore Christopher Dole was his agent, presenting The English Brothers to the printer. Had Ashe fallen out with him and killed him? Or was it the second visitor, the one Stephen Atkins claimed he’d heard creeping up the stairs? No, he hadn’t said ‘creeping’, had he? Nick was thoroughly confused. Perhaps it was the result of the blows he’d received to the head.

The real source of the confusion, though, was the four words scrawled on the scrap of paper from Dole’s room.

Those words were: ‘Guilielmus Shakespeare hoc fecit.’ ‘William Shakespeare made this.’

Or as one might say instead: ‘William Shakespeare did this.’

It was a claim of authorship. So WS was the author of The English Brothers, after all? No, that was Henry Ashe, the man who’d called on Dole the previous afternoon. But if the message on the scrap of paper wasn’t a claim of authorship, then perhaps it was the finger of blame. William Shakespeare did this.

Killed Christopher Dole.

The thought crept into Nick’s battered head that maybe WS had called on Dole in the person of Ashe, keeping his face hidden under the hat brim. Shakespeare was a gentleman, he possessed gentlemanly clothes. But you couldn’t claim he spoke in a refined way. He still retained traces of Warwickshire in his voice and he lacked the kind of courtly London tone that would impress a silly young man like Stephen Atkins.

Was WS the second visitor, though, the unseen one?

Nick was reluctant to think of WS in this harsh light but he had to. He could not remember seeing Shakespeare so angry as he was when displaying a copy of the play in the little office behind the Globe stage. Was it just that he was indignant over the feeble imitation of his coat of arms on the title page? Or was he frightened that the Privy Council were going to come calling, on the hunt for seditious satire against King James? Frightened enough to take action against anyone he thought responsible for causing him trouble?

V

‘No, I am not familiar with Henry Ashe,’ said Shakespeare. ‘There is no playwright in London with that name. You are sure of it?’

‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘The name was given me by George Bruton, the printer in Bride Lane. And then I was told that a gentleman called Ashe visited Christopher Dole before he died.’

‘Poor Dole,’ said WS. ‘For sure, he is the author of The English Brothers. Henry Ashe was just a blind. I always thought it was Dole. It was he whose play I mocked. It was called The Matricide.’

Nick studied him carefully. Once again, they were sitting in the small Globe office but this time it was the early afternoon, and shortly before the day’s play was about to begin. Nick did not make his first entrance until the third act so he could delay going along to the tiring-room to put on his costume. In fact, his attention wasn’t really on that afternoon’s production, which was a drama of bloody revenge, but on the reaction of the man sitting across the table from him.

‘Was your mockery of his play the only reason for his… dislike of you?’

‘There were other causes. He thought I’d taken the idea for my Romeo and Juliet from him.’

‘And did you?’

‘No, Nicholas, I did not,’ said Shakespeare, in a deliberate sort of way as if he were talking to someone whose understanding was slow. ‘I took it from another and older source – several of them, perhaps. But not from Dole. Not poor Christopher Dole. He may have had the notion at the same time, of course. We all drink from the same well but some of us drink deeper than others.’

Shakespeare’s sorrow for Dole was not profound, but Nick thought it was genuine. In fact, WS was showing more grief for the death of the one-time player than his own brother had. When Nick had called on Alan Dole in his St Paul’s bookshop, as he’d promised Mrs Atkins he would, Alan had merely pulled a face as though he expected nothing better or more ambitious from his brother than to go off and die. Then the bookseller had started to complain about the funeral expenses. Then he’d asked whether Nick had seen the Oseney text in Christopher’s room. Then it was Nick’s turn to shrug. The Oseney text? He supposed this was the item that Christopher was meant to be returning to his brother.

By contrast to the brother’s, Shakespeare’s grief looked like the real thing. Shakespeare was an actor, of course, even if he played few parts these days. But he did not put on airs or false attitudes away from the stage. When he saw the marks on Nick’s face and heard how he’d come by them in Mrs Atkins’ lodging house, WS was so full of gratitude and apology that all Nick’s suspicions began to fall away. Nick stuck to the story that Dole had done away with himself.

He said nothing of the scrap of paper that had fluttered to the floor. Guilielmus Shakespeare hoc fecit. William Shakespeare did this. No, it did not mean anything.

Richard Burbage, the principal shareholder and king of the players, now poked his head round the door of the tiny office and his presence brought to Nick’s mind the name he had briefly assumed – Dick Newman. Much use it had been.

Richard Burbage evidently wanted to speak to WS but, seeing Nick, he said: ‘You’ve been in a fight?’

‘On my behalf,’ said WS quickly.

Burbage raised his eyebrows and said, ‘It’s as well you’re playing a villain and not the hero this afternoon. Bruises suit your part, Nicholas.’

‘I could have painted them on with greater ease and less pain,’ said Nick.

WS said: ‘Richard, have you ever heard of a London playwright called Henry Ashe?’

Burbage put his hand to his neatly tapered beard. He didn’t seem so inclined to dismiss the name as WS had done. ‘I do not believe so. But there are always new people coming into this town. I’ll make enquiries.’

They went ahead with the performance that afternoon, with the pipe-smoke and the breath of the audience curling up into the freezing December air. Nick Revill threw himself into the part of the villain, forgetting his aches and bruises as he slashed and stabbed his way to his own inevitable doom. But he did not remember much about the play. What happened afterwards was much more significant.

Nick was leaving the Globe with a couple of his companions from the King’s Men. He had changed into his day clothes in the tire house but had not bothered to wash off the dye that made his complexion more swarthy, nor to remove the false beard that he wore as the villain. Normally clean-shaven, Nick took pleasure in the fact that his neat, tapered beard was reminiscent of Richard Burbage’s. It was made of lamb’s wool and, quite apart from the fact that ungumming it from his face would take a little time, the soft fleece provided a little extra warmth in this cold period.

Evening was come. No fresh snow had fallen but the old stuff still lodged in street corners and on rooftops. The three players made their way down a street that ran past the Globe, known as Brend’s Rents. They passed the entrance to the playhouse. Standing there was little limping Sam, a doorman who’d been with the company since the early days when they played north of the river. An individual was next to him.

‘There he is,’ the old man said to the person beside him. ‘I told you he would be coming.’ Then to Nick: ‘Nicholas Revill, here is someone eager for a word.’

For some reason, Nick suddenly thought he was about to see Henry Ashe and the hairs rose on the back of his neck at the idea. But the person beside Sam was wearing not a wide-brimmed hat but a cap. Also, to judge by his clothes, this was no gentleman but a craftsman. The light from the entrance lobby fell on the face of the stranger and Nick was surprised to recognise the journeyman from George Bruton’s printing works. He was not wearing his spectacles but he had that distinctive inky mole on the tip of his nose. It was Hans de Worde. As the printer came forward, Sam closed the door of the playhouse to signal that the day’s business was concluded.

Nick’s companions went on their way with scarcely a backward glance. It wasn’t so unusual for a player to be waylaid after a performance by someone wishing to give his opinion about the acting and how it might be better done, or wanting an introduction to one of the shareholders. But Hans wasn’t interested in any of that.

‘Can I speak to you, Mr Revill?’ said Hans, stressing the last word. Nick wondered why for a moment before recalling that he’d announced himself as Dick Newman, of the Admiral’s Men, in Bruton’s printing-house.

‘I tracked you here,’ said Hans. ‘I do not visit these places myself but John, our apprentice, is a keen attender at the playhouse and other disreputable locations on this side of the Thames, even though he should be occupying himself with better things. I have told him so often enough. John thought he recognised you when you came to Bride Lane. He told me afterwards that you weren’t with the Admiral’s but with the King’s Men. He has seen you act.’

Nick ought to have been pleased to be recognised but the accusation in Hans’s tone put him on the back foot. Yes, he had misrepresented himself at the printing-house. To be more precise, he had told a lie.

‘You want to talk with me now?’ he said.

‘Yes. It is important. But not here. We are too isolated.’

Hans looked about him as though he expected a gang of knaves and cut-throats to emerge from the shadows. In the district of Southwark it was not so unlikely. Nick felt a touch of the other man’s fear. Now that the theatre was shut up, and with the players and the playgoers all departed, it was cold and silent in Brend’s Rents.

‘We’ll go to a tavern,’ he said.

‘I – I do not like to frequent taverns. I have rarely been across the Bridge before. I am not familiar with this side of the river even though my brother Antony lives over here. He is a ferryman.’

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.

There were lanterns hanging above the doors within the tunnel-like walkway, through which people and vehicles passed like shadows. The leader of the group rapped at a door to the left. It was promptly opened and Nick was half ushered, half pushed down a couple of steps and into a lobby. A maidservant was waiting on the other side of the door. She lowered her head as the group came in. A mark of deference or fear? The individual with the wide hat said nothing but gestured with a gloved hand and the two men on either side of Nick, who had not relinquished their grip since hoisting him up from the roadway, now escorted him down a wide panelled passageway. The floor was so polished that their boots squeaked across it. At the end, one of them reached out, opened a door and nudged Nick as a sign for him to enter the room. The door closed behind him.

He had expected to see someone inside but the chamber was empty. It was lavishly furnished, with desks, small tables and upholstered chairs scattered about. The wall-hangings rippled slightly in the draughts of air penetrating even such a finely constructed dwelling as this. Candles burned in sconces on the wall and a fire flickered in an elaborate chimney-piece. Facing Nick as he stood by the door was an oriel window with a quilted bench beneath. He walked across and, leaning against the bench and shielding his eyes from the light in the room, he squinted through the thick leaded panes.

The view was to the west and upstream, with Southwark to his left and the city to his right. Extending away in front of him was the black river. There were glimmers of light from the little ferries still at work as well as from the buildings on either shore, but these feeble sparks served only to intensify the cold and dark beyond the wooden walls of Nonesuch House. From beneath Nick’s feet came the unceasing rumble of the water. On this spot he was standing directly above it since the sides of Nonesuch House projected out from the piers of the Bridge. It occurred to Nick that, if it were daytime and the tide in full flow around the piers, it would be like standing on the prow of a ship. Then it occurred to him that he ought to feel afraid, taken against his will from the public street and confined in the grandeur of Nonesuch House.

Continuing to gaze at the dark river, although without really seeing it, Nick considered his predicament. He had a fair idea now of who was responsible for it. Hans de Worde, also, must have recognised the people striding towards him in Long Southwark. Recognised them not as individuals, perhaps, but for what they represented. They were surely the same ones who had called at George Bruton’s printing-house. They were…

The door opened. A shadow cut across the candlelight reflected in the windowpanes. Nick turned slowly. It was the leader of the group. He was still wearing his broad-brimmed hat and Nick could not be sure whether this was for disguise or as an affectation. Nick saw only that he was clean-shaven. Behind him came the servant who had opened the front door. She was carrying a tray on which was a pitcher and two glasses, already filled.

The man indicated that Nick should sit and, when he did, the woman offered him a glass. He took it and sipped, wondering what fate he was being softened up for. The wine was spiced and warm. By this time, the man had sat down on a chair opposite and taken the other glass. The woman placed the tray and pitcher on a nearby table. Then she exited the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Only when the man had swallowed some of the contents of his glass did he finally remove his hat. He did it with a flourish that would have done him credit on the stage. Nick had been expecting someone sinister or threatening but here was a man of about his own age, with a full head of straw-coloured hair and an open gaze. The man took another swallow from his glass.

‘This is very welcome on a cold night, eh, Mr Newman?’

These were the first words he had spoken. His voice, like his manner, was easy, confident. Nick examined his glass, as if to savour the mere sight of the warmed wine. But his mind was elsewhere, working furiously. The man had addressed him as Newman, hadn’t he? Not as Revill. Which meant that he was unaware of his real identity. As if to confirm the mistake, the man now added in a tone that was more of a statement than a question: ‘You are Richard Newman of Prince Henry’s Men.’

‘That’s right, although we still refer to ourselves as the Admiral’s Men,’ said Nicholas Revill in a tone that he hoped would convey slight surprise at how well-informed the speaker was. For an instant, it occurred to him to put the man right, to give his real name and to declare he was a member of the King’s Men. But some instinct told him to stick with the assumed name. And, even as he decided this, he struggled to remember the limited number of people who knew him as Richard Newman.

Meanwhile, it seemed that the man wanted to test Nick’s claims for he now said: ‘So, if you are with Prince Henry’s or the Admiral’s, you must be acquainted with Thomas Downton and Richard Jones of that company?’

‘Of course I know them, and I also know…’ And here Nick reeled off half a dozen names of players with the Admiral’s Men. He did know some of them personally, while the rest he had heard of. It was unlikely the man would detect the pretence, or at least it would take him a bit of time to do so. The big names in any group of players were familiar but there was quite a bit of coming-and-going between the London companies and no outsider would be able to keep track of all the latest arrivals and departures. For once, Nick was glad of his relatively junior status in Shakespeare’s company. He decided to take the initiative.

‘Since you know who I am, you ought to return the courtesy,’ he said, pleased at the steadiness in his voice.

‘You can call me Henry Ashe,’ said the man, staring at Nick as if daring him to dispute the name. Nick’s hold on his glass tightened. When he next spoke, it was harder to keep his voice even.

‘Henry Ashe, the author of The English Brothers?’

‘That’s a seditious and satirical piece, so it is not likely that I would be the author.’

‘Why is it unlikely you’d be the author, Mr Ashe? Who are you? Why am I here?’

Nick did not meant to ask so many questions but they came tumbling out. Be careful, he told himself.

‘I said that you can call me Henry Ashe, Mr Newman. Let’s be satisfied with that, as I am satisfied for the moment that you are who you say you are. As for the reason I keep sedition at arm’s length – why, that is what any true-born Englishman should do. But, more precisely, it is because I work for… because I am a Messenger of the Chamber.’ This title was uttered with a little flourish, like the hat-removing.

Nick nodded. It confirmed his fears. The harmless sounding ‘Messenger of the Chamber’ was a title sometimes used by agents of the Privy Council. From the number and efficiency of the group that had apprehended him on the Bridge, as well as the opulence of the chamber in Nonesuch House, Nick already knew he could be at the mercy of only one particular arm of the state. This was the Council, operating under the direct control of its secretary, Robert Cecil. Diminutive Cecil, now the Earl of Salisbury. Cecil, the man with the crooked back, who had his finger in more pies than you could count and who ran a network of spies and informants in the name of national security. Nick had encountered Robert Cecil once at the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. It was not a happy memory.

Nick’s only weapon was that, for the time being, the man calling himself Henry Ashe thought he was someone else.

‘If you are what you say you are,’ he said to Ashe, ‘then of course you cannot be the author of The English Brothers.’

‘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.

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.

He started to move more quickly, much more quickly. And the rope started to sway because of his jerky movements and because he was emerging from the shelter provided by the bulk of the Bridge overhead. The swaying became more violent and Nick found himself twisting helplessly in the air so that one moment he was facing the stonework of the pier and the next confronting the open river. The end of the rope lashed around beneath him like a monstrous tail. At the conclusion of one swing his back struck the stone flank of the pier and the jarring force of the blow almost caused him to release his hold. He willed himself to be still, to keep gripping tight with hands and feet, and to wait until the worst of the swaying, sickening motions of the rope had diminished.

Only now did he look down and, this time, was surprised to see that he had less than twenty feet to go, as far as he could judge. By good fortune the rope would take him through that distance. But those twenty feet would also deliver him straight into the foamy water, whose smell filled his nostrils and whose roaring filled his ears. To one side was the edge of the foundation of the pier holding up Nonesuch House. At this instant, just when he needed to swing himself across to reach the foundation, he hung quivering, almost without motion. His arms and shoulders burned with labour, his bare hands were slick with sweat or blood or both.

One final effort. He jerked his body until he managed to gain some momentum and the rope was swaying now out above the current, now over the boat-shaped projection below the pier. At the same time he shifted himself lower. And then it seemed to Nick as though the rope began to slide down of its own accord before making an abrupt descent of some dozen feet. It jolted to a stop. The knot around the hoist in the storeroom was giving way. Or someone up there was attempting to loosen it. Without thought, and as the arc of his swing brought him back once again over the pier foundation, Nick let go his hold and, though his feet struck the top of the wooden piles, he tumbled onto solid ground. At the same moment, the rope sprang free and snaked down behind him into the water.

For some time Nick lay where he’d fallen. The noise of the river was thunderous. He scarcely dared to move for fear that he would not be able to move at all. He tested his limbs with slight flexing movements. There were some pains but nothing beyond bearing. He scrabbled in the loose stone and gravel and got to his feet. He looked up. Nonesuch House hung above his head like a Jonah’s whale brought to land. He could not see the trapdoor hole through which he had descended. There were no lights up there. Perhaps his escape was not yet detected after all.

He huddled against the elmwood stakes that surrounded the pier-foundation. He wondered what to do next. He had escaped from one predicament into another. There was no way off this place except by boat and, although there were still lights showing a little traffic on the river, no means of attracting anyone’s attention in the cold and dark. He could not even climb back into Nonesuch House since the rope that had delivered him had disappeared, presumably to join all the other rubbish in the river.

He didn’t know how long he huddled there. It was bitterly cold and his hurts were beginning to trouble him. He might even have slept for a few moments. He was afraid that the winter’s night might do for him. He staggered to his feet. Keep moving, keep warm, keep alive. He stumbled over one of the stone blocks beneath his feet. He cried out in pain and anger and crashed to the ground. He lay there, wondering if this was his last night on earth. Then he saw two figures clambering over the piles.

One of them said: ‘Mr Revill? Are you there? Please answer.’

VI

All was explained by Hans de Worde. He was very apologetic for having deserted Nick when the Privy Council agents strode into view in Long Southwark. It was pure fear. But after a moment or two his better and braver nature prevailed. Overcome by guilt, he turned back to follow the band of four as they took up Nick and ushered him into the ground-floor of Nonesuch House. There by the entrance he had hung about, in an anguish of indecision, watching the comings and goings, and unnoticed himself in all the busyness of the Bridge. After about an hour there was a great stir, with men rushing out of Nonesuch and word spreading like fire along the Bridge that someone had toppled into the river from the very wing of the house where Nick had disappeared. Convinced it must be Nicholas, and consumed twice over by guilt, Hans went to find his brother, the ferryman, so that they might go in search of Nick’s- Here Hans stopped himself from saying ‘body’ although that was surely the most likely outcome of the search.

Nick and Hans were in the Southwark lodgings of Antony de Worde, ferryman and brother to the printer’s journeyman. Antony was a rough-hewn version of the fastidious Hans. No attender at the Dutch church, he was, like other inhabitants of Southwark, and especially those engaged in the ferry-trade, almost indifferent to the law. He was not taken by his brother’s suggestion. Not until Hans offered the ferryman enough money to take his boat out onto the river by night in this futile quest.

By chance, a miraculous chance, the brothers were about to give up and were navigating their way back to the dock by St Mary Overie’s and so passing the region of the Bridge near Nonesuch House when they heard, above the roar of the river, a cry of pain coming from one of the foundations. Nick owed his life to the fact that he had fallen and shouted out in rage, in pain, in fear.

Once in the warmth and comfort of Antony de Worde’s lodging – so much better than anything that Nonesuch could offer – Nick was revived with warm spirits. Salves were put on his scraped and bleeding hands. Finally, Nick removed his lamb’s-wool beard, thinking that it had provided a useful disguise both on and off stage.

Words tumbled out of Hans de Worde’s mouth as he described how glad he was to see Mr Revill alive and well, or at least fairly well. How he could not forgive himself for bringing down trouble on the player’s head. How he could not wait to hand over the Oseney text, which he had retrieved from Christopher Dole’s room, from its hiding place in the dead man’s chest. He thought he recognised the text as he was setting it up in type for The English Brothers and the source was confirmed by a chance remark of George Bruton’s, when Dole visited his printing-house the day he died. Hans was familiar with the stories about The Play of Adam. He did not believe that such a dangerous script should be allowed to roam free in the world. It was against religion.

More quick-witted than his employer, George Bruton, Hans had already worked out that Dole (and not the imaginary Ashe) was the author of The English Brothers. Believing that Dole must have the text of the old play as well, he went to his lodgings. Shaken to discover the hanging body – and wondering whether this was not another malign effect of The Play of Adam – he nevertheless persisted in his search and rapidly unearthed the scroll from among the few shirts and other items in Christopher’s chest.

Hans now reached into his doublet and brought out an antique roll of vellum. He handed over the manuscript known as the Oseney text, saying, ‘I don’t want it any more. I should never have taken it. It is a play and you, sir, are a player. Do with it what you will, Mr Revill. There are words of warning on the outside of the scroll. Read them and ponder.’

The scroll was unexpectedly weighty, as though made of more than mere vellum. Hans tapped at some words on the outside, to indicate it was the warning he’d just mentioned. Nick thought, this is the very item for which Henry Ashe is searching, on behalf of the King. His first impulse was to hobble out of the Southwark lodging of Antony de Worde, to return to Nonesuch House, find the man calling himself Ashe and deliver the manuscript with some pithy comment. But a moment’s further thought told him that that would be foolish. He’d be walking back into the lions’ den all over again. No, he’d return the scroll to Alan Dole, who owned it.

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.