‘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?’