Lawrence Firethorn was at his supreme best as the luckless husband, bemoaning his fate with a range of comic gestures and facial expressions that kept the audience in a state of almost continual mirth.
Why, what is marriage if not a licence for a man to take his wife at will? To occupy her body with his largest proof of love and pluck the choicest fruit from out her orchard. To spurn a husband is to geld a stallion in his prime. Do Araminta’s Popish thighs not feel the prick of high desire? Is Rome an icy region down below the waist? How, then, will this old religion last if it go forth not and multiply? And how reap a harvest of Jesuitical progeny except by the downright way of creation? Man above a woman is God’s law. Man inside a woman is husband’s right. Give me the due reward of marriage. Cover this Coldbed with the hottest sheets. Let me wallow in my wife’s concupiscence. Throw off your holy garments, Araminta. Be naked in my arms. Be my slave, my mistress, my whore. Be the everlasting bride to my eternal lust. Oh, sweetest Araminta, hear my prayer. Be mine!
As the grotesque Doctor Epididymis, Barnaby Gill was equally brilliant, trotting comically around the stage after his restless client and plying him with all kinds of bogus remedies. When all else fails, the crafty doctor tells Sir Marcus that the only way he will lie beside his wife is to disguise himself as a Cardinal and tell her that it is her solemn duty to serve the Church. The trick succeeds and Araminta submits with grace. In his eagerness, Sir Marcus throws off his disguise in order to ravish her and is left clutching the pillow as she flees in panic.
Abandoning all hope of carnal delight and unable to divorce his first wife, Sir Marcus secretly marries—at the suggestion of Doctor Epididymis—a second beauty, hoping to find a bigamous outlet for his lascivious appetite. Arabella, the new Lady Coldbed, is quite unaware of the existence of his first bride, and all kinds of stratagems are needed to keep the two wives from meeting each other. What Sir Marcus does not realise until his second wedding night approaches is that Arabella is a devout Puritan and will not even share the same bedchamber with him, let alone the same bed.
Sir Marcus spends the rest of the play trying to seduce the second wife while keeping her presence hidden from the first, professing Puritan values to Arabella while promising to convert to Roman Catholicism if Araminta will relent and embrace his manhood. The similarity in their names leads to all kinds of comic confusion. When the bigamy is finally exposed, the two wives join forces to wreak a revenge on their joint husband that deprives him of all wish to lie near a woman ever again.
The Misfortunes of Marriage was an uproarious success and the ovation which greeted it lasted several minutes. Lawrence Firethorn led out the troupe to receive the applause. He and Barnaby Gill had been the outstanding performers, playing off each other with dazzling brilliance, but there had been excellent support from Edmund Hoode as the moon-faced Father Monfredo, from Owen Elias as the drunken hedge-priest who was bribed to perform the second marriage, from James Ingram as Arabella’s true love, from Martin Yeo as Arabella herself, and from Richard Honeydew as the Roman Catholic spouse.
Jonas Applegarth was suffused with delight. Potentially the sternest critic of the performance, he was completely won over by it, and ignored the minor errors and examples of mistiming which inevitably crept in when such a complex piece was played at such breakneck speed. So thrilled was he with the outrageous Doctor Epididymis that he forgot all his earlier strictures of Barnaby Gill and resolved to make amends by showering him with acclaim. As he clapped his huge hands together, Applegarth was not just applauding his own play. He was expressing his profound gratitude to Westfield’s Men. A playwright ousted by every other theatre company in London had finally found a home.
Approbation was still not universal. One spectator had detested every minute of what he saw. The spectre at the feast was in the upper gallery. Hugh Naismith had chosen a vantage point that allowed him to watch the dramatist rather than the drama. It was a painful afternoon for him. His wounded arm and bandaged wrist were constantly jostled by the excited spectators either side of him, but it was his pride which suffered the real agony. A man he loathed was being fêted, a company he despised was being celebrated.
Hugh Naismith was an actor whose occupation had been stolen from him by the sharp sword of Jonas Applegarth. Dismissed from Banbury’s Men because of his injuries, he would not rest until he had avenged himself on his enemy. Applegarth had to die.
***
I have never known such a day as this,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Nor I,’ agreed James Ingram.
‘This morning, we were like to have our play drowned by rain. This afternoon, it sailed on a tide of triumph. Truly, we serve a profession of extremes.’
‘Yes, Nick. Feast or famine, with nothing in between.’
‘Today, we had a royal banquet.’
Joyful celebrations at the Queen’s Head would go on all evening, but Nicholas and Ingram had only shared in them for an hour before slipping quietly away. It was a long walk to Blackfriars from Gracechurch Street and Nicholas needed a clear head for what he anticipated as a difficult confrontation. Ingram, too, had supped only a moderate amount of ale before quitting the taproom with his friend.
‘There is one small consolation,’ he said.
‘What is that, James?’
‘Neither of them will have seen The Misfortunes of Marriage today. Cyril Fulbeck is too unwell and Raphael Parsons is too involved in staging his own plays to pay close attention to the work of his rivals.’
‘How is that a consolation?’ wondered Nicholas.
‘They will not have taken offence at the Induction. It pilloried the Chapel Children in particular. Word of the attack will surely reach them soon and my own welcome at Blackfriars will no longer be so cordial. Transact your business with them swiftly, Nick, before they realise that you were party to a scurrilous assault on their work.’
‘Jonas merely turned his wit upon them.’
‘He traduced them most shamefully.’
‘You are bound to feel defensive to the Chapel, but do not overstate the case that Jonas Applegarth made against them. Mockery there was, certainly, but I hope it will not sour your own name at Blackfriars.’
‘They’ll hear about that callous Induction soon enough and find a means to answer it in kind.’
They were walking parallel with the river along Thames Street, retracing the steps that Nicholas himself took every night on his way back to his lodging. Even at that time of the evening, it was a busy thoroughfare with the sounds as noisy and the smells as pungent as ever. James Ingram was too fair-minded to let his reservations about the play obscure its finer points.
‘Induction apart,’ he said, ‘it is a remarkable achievement. Only when I saw it performed did I realise how remarkable. How many of those who clapped its antics had any understanding of its true intent?’
‘I cannot guess at that, James, but this I do know. The Master of the Revels was blind to its full import. He insisted on but few changes before he granted us a licence. Jonas Applegarth disguised his satire well on the page.’
‘But not on the stage.’
‘Indeed not. That is where any play is revealed in its true light. Those of discernment must have seen that Sir Marcus Coldbed was kin to our own dear Queen’s father, King Henry. Sir Marcus changed the religion of his whole household in order to bed a woman, albeit with no success. Nor was King Henry happy with his change of wives.’
They discussed the deeper meaning of the play all the way along Thames Street. The spiritual upheaval of the reign of Henry VIII had been cunningly transposed into a sexual crisis in the life of a rich landowner. Nicholas was still trying to decide whether the indictment of Roman Catholicism was more searing than that of Puritanism when their destination came in sight.
Blackfriars Monastery had been built over three centuries earlier as the first L
ondon home of the Dominican Order. Occupying a prime location near the river, it swiftly grew in size, wealth and influence until it reached the point where major affairs of state were occasionally decided within its walls. The monastery was dissolved and largely demolished in 1538 but it retained its privilege of sanctuary. Its vestigial remains included the Porter’s Lodge, the Old Buttery and the Upper Frater, where the monks had taken their meals. Joined together, the resultant building contained the Blackfriars Theatre.
Nicholas had been past the edifice a hundred times but never across its threshold. He was curious to take full stock of the changes to the theatre and irritated that he was there on business which might preclude that. What he was going to say on behalf of Philip Robinson he did not know, but he could at least establish more facts about the boy’s alleged ill-treatment. Ingram had warned him that a writ of impressment was rarely revoked and that Nicholas might well leave empty-handed, but he would at least have discharged his promise to Anne Hendrik, and that was paramount. James Ingram took him across the Great Yard.
‘Good-even, Geoffrey.’
‘What? Who might you be, young sir?’
‘Have you so soon forgot your favourite chorister?’
‘By the Lord!’ Tis never Master Ingram.’
‘The same.’
‘Welcome, good sir. My old eyes delight to see you.’
The ancient porter was dozing when they rang the bell at his door. He clearly had a great affection for James Ingram, and Nicholas had to wait some minutes while the two men exchanged reminiscences.
‘But what brings you here?’ croaked Geoffrey.
‘We have come to see Master Parsons about one of the choristers and hope to speak to the lad himself.’
‘Then your journey has been wasted. Master Parsons is not here and the choir sing in a special service at the Chapel Royal.’ He saw their disappointment and tried to lessen it. ‘Master Fulbeck may still be here.’
Ingram was surprised. ‘Not conducting the choir?’
‘No, alas. Too old and too infirm, like me.’
‘You seem as well as ever, Geoffrey.’
‘I shall not look on seventy again, master.’
After more pleasantries between porter and former chorister, the visitors set off in search of the Master of the Chapel. They went up the stairs and into the playhouse. Nicholas paused to stare with admiration. It was an inspiring little auditorium with features that made the Queen’s Head seem primitive. James Ingram was also struck by the major improvements made to the theatre he had known, but neither man was allowed to take a full inventory.
As soon as their eyes moved to the stage itself, they abandoned their appraisal of the building immediately for they were looking at the most dramatic event ever to take place upon its boards. Cyril Fulbeck was indeed there, but he was in no position to talk to either of them. Hanged by the neck, he was swaying slowly to and fro, his spindly legs some five feet above the stage.
The stunned silence was broken by the sound of eerie laughter that seemed to come from somewhere in the tiring-house. The Master of the Chapel was dead and someone was enjoying his demise to the full. Rising in volume, the laughter echoed around the theatre and took on a note of savage celebration.
Chapter Four
Nicholas Bracewell reacted with speed. Running to the edge of the chest-high stage, he put a hand on it and vaulted up in one easy movement. His first concern was for the victim and he checked to see if the man were still alive, but Cyril Fulbeck was palpably beyond help. James Ingram joined him to look up at the swollen tongue, the contorted expression on the face and the slack body. The last remaining ounces of life had been wrung out of the old man’s emaciated frame. Having served his Maker with gentleness and dedication, he had gone to meet Him in the most excruciating way.
The weird laughter stopped, a door banged in the tiring-house and a key could be heard turning in a lock. Nicholas dashed through one of the exits at the rear of the stage and found himself in the tiring-house, which was divided into three main bays. Costumes were hanging from racks and an array of properties was piled up on a low table. A quick search of the whole area revealed a door in one corner, but when Nicholas tried to open it, he found it locked. There seemed to be no other rear exit from the tiring-house.
Leaping off the stage, he sprinted back down the auditorium and descended the winding staircase to the Porter’s Lodge. Geoffrey had dozed off to sleep again but he came awake as the book holder went haring past him and out into the Great Yard. Nicholas dashed up to the southern end of the building and scoured it carefully, but he could see nobody. When he tried the door in the room immediately below the tiring-house, it was also locked, as were the doors on the side of the building which gave access to the parlour and the lower hall.
Nicholas called off the search. To reach the exterior of the tiring-house, he had run well over a hundred yards, giving his quarry far too much time to escape. He returned quickly to the theatre itself via the Porter’s Lodge. Curious to know what was happening, Geoffrey had staggered up the stairs and gone into the auditorium. The hideous sight halted him in his tracks. Nicholas was just in time to catch him as the porter’s legs buckled beneath him. Ingram, who had been peering through one of the arched windows that looked out on Water Lane, hurried across to help him. They carried the porter to a bench and lowered him onto it, taking care to stand between him and the stage in order to block out the sight of the hanged man.
Geoffrey was wheezing heavily and trembling all over. One hand clutched at his breast. Tears flowed freely. It was minutes before he was able to utter a word.
‘Not Master Fulbeck!’ he groaned.
‘That is how we found him,’ said Ingram softly.
‘He was my dear friend.’
‘Mine, too, Geoffrey.’
The porter tried to rise. ‘Let me cut him down!’
‘Rest,’ said Nicholas, easing him back onto the bench.
‘Cut him down!’ insisted the old man. ‘I’ll not leave Master Fulbeck up there like that.’
‘I’ll do it straight,’ agreed the book holder.
While Ingram remained to soothe the porter, Nicholas clambered back up onto the stage. The rope from which the Master of the Chapel was dangling went up through a trap-door in the ceiling. Nicholas could see the elaborate winding-gear above that enabled scenic devices and even actors themselves to be lowered onto the stage during the performance of a play. A facility of which Cyril Fulbeck would have been very proud had been used to engineer his death.
Nicholas ran into the tiring-house, went up the ladder to the storey above and found the windlass that controlled the apparatus. Slowly and with reverence, he lowered the dead body to the stage, then returned swiftly in order to examine it. Cyril Fulbeck’s bulbous eyes seemed to be on the point of popping out of their sockets. His skin was a ghastly white, his neck encircled by an ugly red weal. But it was the trickle of blood on his shoulder which interested Nicholas. When he rolled the corpse gently onto its side, he saw an open wound in the man’s scalp.
As he lay the man on his back again, Nicholas observed that the hem of his cassock was torn, that his black stockings were badly wrinkled and that one of his shoes had come off. He released the noose and lifted the rope clear of its victim. Slipping back into the tiring-house, he chose a large cloak from among the costumes and used it to cover the entire body.
‘Let me see him!’ sobbed Geoffrey. ‘Let me see him!’
‘Stay here, old friend,’ advised Ingram, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘You have seen enough.’
‘He was driven to it, Master Ingram.’
‘Driven?’
‘To take his own life. ’Tis shameful!’
‘Suicide?’ asked Nicholas, joining them again. ‘Who or what might have driven him to that?’
‘It is
not my place to say, sir,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but this I can tell you. Master Fulbeck was very unhappy. It broke his heart, some of the things that went on here. He told me once that his spirits were so low that he was even thinking of putting an end to his misery.’ He pointed to the prostrate figure on the stage. ‘And now he has!’
‘Calm down, calm down!’ said Ingram, patting him on the back. ‘Master Fulbeck may not have died by his own hand.’
‘He did not,’ confirmed Nicholas.
The porter flinched from this new intelligence.
‘Murdered!’ he gasped. ‘Never! Who would lay a finger on Master Fulbeck? He was the gentlest soul alive.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘Gentle but weak. Unable to defend himself against attack. Who else has been in the building today?’
‘None but Master Parsons and the choristers. The boys all left this afternoon.’
‘And Raphael Parsons?’ said Nicholas.
‘He stayed for a while with Master Fulbeck, then left.’
‘You saw him go?’
‘Not with my own eyes. He left by the other exit.’
‘Through the door in the tiring-house?’
‘He always comes and goes that way.’
‘How, then, can you be certain that he quit the building? That door is a long way from the Porter’s Lodge.’
‘I spoke with Master Fulbeck not an hour since,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘He came to the Lodge to draw some water for refreshment. ’Twas he told me that Master Parsons had gone. I think that words had passed between them again. Master Fulbeck was very upset.’
The Laughing Hangman Page 5
