The Laughing Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘The Faithful Shepherd stands first in line.’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth leaps over it.’

  ‘That is unjust.’

  ‘Theatre mixes pain with its plaudits.’

  ‘This is cruel in the extreme.’

  ‘Is it not a greater cruelty to deny our patrons what they demand? We serve a fickle public, Edmund. Soon, they may cast The Misfortunes of Marriage away as worthless trash. At this moment, however, it is the talk of London. Lord Westfield himself was so entranced with the piece, he’ll not rest until everyone at Court has been told about it. He insists that it take pride of place at The Rose.’

  ‘Lord Westfield insists?’

  ‘That was my understanding,’ lied Firethorn, using the one argument that Hoode could not defeat. ‘Who am I to flout the express wishes of our generous patron?’

  Hoode sagged. ‘Then am I truly lost.’

  ‘Your day will come again.’

  ‘Will I live to enjoy it, though?’

  Firethorn chuckled. ‘I knew that you would accept this unwonted check with fortitude. Be not afraid of Jonas Applegarth. He has not come to displace you in any way. Edmund Hoode is what he has always been to Westfield’s Men. Our faithful shepherd.’

  ‘Then why let a wolf into the fold?’

  ‘We keep him well muzzled.’

  ‘Look to your lambs. His claws can still kill.’

  ‘It is decided.’

  Lawrence Firethorn tossed his cloak over his shoulder and strode off towards the tiring-house, leaving Hoode speechless with indignation. A play over which he had laboured devotedly for months had been pushed contemptuously aside. It was an honour to have any work staged at a fine playhouse like The Rose, and The Faithful Shepherd was written specifically for that theatre. Jonas Applegarth had robbed him of that honour. Hoode had one more reason to resent the obese interloper.

  He was distraught. He felt completely estranged from Westfield’s Men. It was as if members of his own family had turned him out of the house in favour of a newcomer. Hoode contemplated suicide. Had he been standing on London Bridge, he would certainly have jumped off it, howling the name of Applegarth with defiance before hitting the cold water and drowning with alacrity.

  While he was at the very nadir of his career, Fate stepped in to save him. It came in the shape of Rose Marwood, the landlord’s daughter, a vivacious young woman with long dark hair and a readiness to please. How two parents as physically repellent as Alexander and Sybil Marwood could produce such an attractive creature between them he did not know, but it often exercised his mind. It was rather as if two gargoyles had copulated in order to produce a statute of a Madonna.

  Hoode had once conceived a foolish passion for her that led only to humiliation, and so he tended to keep clear of the landlord’s daughter. Rose’s shining face was now an embarrassment to him.

  ‘I have a message for you, Master Hoode,’ she said.

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Put it into his hands, I was told.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The lady who gave it to me.’

  ‘Lady? What lady?’

  ‘She would not tell me her name, sir.’

  Rose handed over the missive and gave a little curtsey.

  ‘Can you describe this lady to me?’ he said.

  ‘I saw her for only a moment, sir. She said that I was to give the letter to you in person. It is a gift.’

  ‘Gift?’

  ‘From her mistress.’

  Rose giggled, showed two exquisite dimples in her cheeks, and bounded off towards the taproom. Hoode was intrigued. He broke the seal on the letter and opened it to find a red rose pressed inside. Only three words had been written in an elegant hand, but they clutched at his very soul.

  “To my love…”

  ***

  Jonas Applegarth scratched his head as he quaffed his beer. The empty tankard was slammed back down on the table by way of a signal and it was soon filled by a serving-man.

  ‘Who could wish to kill Cyril Fulbeck?’ he wondered.

  ‘That is what we must find out,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I’d happily have hanged his partner, Raphael Parsons. If ever a man invited a noose, it is that rogue. But not that shuffling Master of the Chapel. He was a harmless fellow.’

  ‘Everyone speaks well of him.’

  ‘He was a dear man and a gifted teacher,’ said James Ingram. ‘Cyril Fulbeck was the epitome of goodness.’

  ‘Then why ally himself to such a villain as Parsons?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Nor I,’ added Nicholas, ‘but the talk is that the two men did not agree. Geoffrey, the porter, often heard arguments between them.’

  ‘There is your murderer, then,’ decided Applegarth. ‘Look no further than Raphael Parsons. He stands to gain most from Fulbeck’s death.’

  ‘He must be suspect, assuredly,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I would not accuse him without further evidence. Indeed, one clue suggests he may be innocent of the crime.’

  ‘What is that, Nick?’ asked Ingram.

  ‘The key to the back door of Blackfriars Theatre.’

  ‘But Master Parsons has such a key. He, and only he, had the means to gain entrance privily. Unless you believe that old Geoffrey was involved in some way. His key fits that same lock.’

  ‘We may exclude him straight,’ said Nicholas. ‘You saw the way he cried when he beheld the dead man. He was as shocked as we. The porter has no part in this.’

  ‘You spoke of Parsons’s innocence,’ noted Applegarth.

  ‘A suggestion of innocence,’ corrected the book holder. ‘If Raphael Parsons had a key that admitted him to the back door of the theatre, why did he steal Master Fulbeck’s keys in order to get out again?’

  ‘To prevent us from following him,’ said Ingram.

  ‘But we were unexpected visitors, and the keys had been stolen from the dead man’s belt before we arrived.’

  ‘I have it,’ announced Applegarth. ‘This Parsons is too devious and cowardly a man to do the deed himself. He hired a confederate, let him into the building and locked the door after him before quitting the scene. The killer stole the other keys to effect his escape.’

  ‘This was no confederate,’ affirmed Nicholas.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Ingram.

  ‘You heard that man, James. He was no assassin, paid to kill a complete stranger. He knew Cyril Fulbeck and gloried in his death. The Laughing Hangman would never have delegated to another a task which gave him so much pleasure. He was connected in some way to the Master of the Chapel.’

  ‘As his business partner,’ asserted Applegarth.

  ‘Master Parsons may be only one of many possibilities.’

  ‘I’ll help you to draw up a list,’ offered Ingram.

  ‘Thank you, James.’

  It was early evening and they had moved to the taproom of the Queen’s Head after the performance of The History of King John. The play had been a moderate success but seemed flat by comparison with The Misfortunes of Marriage. Jonas Applegarth had snored through the last two acts. Exhilarated at the thought that his own play would now be seen at The Rose, he was already working on refinements to the text. Considering himself now part of the troupe, he was ready to sit through their other work out of loyalty even if it bored him into slumber.

  Nicholas emptied his tankard and rose from the table.

  ‘I bid you farewell, my friends.’

  ‘Hold,’ said Applegarth, struggling to his feet. ‘I’ll walk part of the way with you. My house is close to Thames Street and there is something I would discuss as we walk.’

  ‘Your company is most welcome.’

  ‘What of Blackfriars?’ said Ingram.

&
nbsp; ‘We’ll go again tomorrow, James. Meanwhile, gather what intelligence you can. You must have other old friends from the Chapel Children, choristers who stayed on when you left? Perhaps they can shed some light on this tragedy. I am certain that we look for someone who is, or once was, within Master Fulbeck’s circle.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Nick. I’ll about it straight.’

  They traded farewells, then Nicholas and Applegarth headed for the door, passing, as they did, Edmund Hoode. His feeling of betrayal had faded and a beatific smile now played around his lips. The rose from Rose Marwood had transformed him from a discarded playwright into a hopeful lover. Recognising the look on his friend’s face, Nicholas glided past without comment and simply waved.

  The book holder led Applegarth out into the fresh air.

  ‘I have an idea for my play,’ said the latter.

  ‘It is already crammed full with ideas.’

  ‘A scenic device. Something that we could lower from above with the winding-gear they have at The Rose.’

  ‘They have it at Blackfriars, too,’ observed Nicholas as he recalled the hanging man. ‘What do you wish to lower onto the stage?’

  The question remained unanswered because Jonas Applegarth stumbled over the uneven surface of Gracechurch Street and pitched forward. Clumsiness saved his life. Something whistled through the air with vicious speed and sank with a thud into the door of the house directly behind them.

  The dagger missed Applegarth by a matter of inches.

  Chapter Five

  The suddenness of the attack took them both by surprise. By the time that Nicholas Bracewell swung round, there was no sign of the assailant. Several other people were walking peacefully along Gracechurch Street, and he called out to those nearest, but none of them had seen anyone throw a dagger. Fear of danger made them scurry quickly away. Nicholas went swiftly up and down the street in search of the assassin, but to no avail. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he was chasing shadows.

  He went back to help Jonas Applegarth up from the ground. The latter was more concerned about the state of his apparel than about the ambush.

  ‘Mud on my new breeches!’ he complained bitterly. ‘And a tear in my sleeve.’

  ‘Someone just tried to kill you, Jonas.’

  ‘Look at the state of my shoes.’

  ‘Does it not concern you?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Mightily. My wife will take me to task for it.’

  ‘I speak of the attack.’

  ‘A mild annoyance, no more,’ said Applegarth, dusting himself off. ‘Why should I fear such a lame assassin? If he cannot hit a target as large as me, he must be blind. Besides, who says that I was his target? Perhaps the dagger was meant for you, Nick. Have you considered that?’

  Nicholas had and dismissed the possibility. The weapon had been thrown directly at Applegarth and only the man’s fall had helped him to evade it. Plucking the dagger from its resting place, Nicholas tried to work out from where it must have been thrown. A lane on the opposite side of the street turned out to be the vantage point. It would give the assailant good cover and an excellent view of anyone leaving the Queen’s Head. He could have fled unseen while the dagger itself was still in flight.

  After inspecting the weapon, Nicholas offered it to his companion. Applegarth showed scant interest.

  ‘Do you recognise this?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘It is a dagger like any other.’

  ‘Other daggers are not thrown at you, Jonas.’

  ‘One or two have been in the past,’ said the playwright with a grim chuckle. ‘This one was as wayward as they were. No, Nick, I do not recognize it. A mean weapon, that is clear. Toss it away and forget all about it.’

  ‘But it may lead us to your attacker.’

  ‘Leave him to me.’

  ‘You know who he is?’

  ‘I have many enemies.’

  ‘Match this dagger to one man and you have him.’

  ‘Do not trouble yourself so. This is my battle.’

  ‘And mine,’ said Nicholas, slipping the dagger into his own belt. ‘You are the property of Westfield’s Men now. It is my duty to protect you as I would protect any other part of our property.’

  Applegarth stiffened. ‘I need no bodyguard.’

  ‘You are in danger, Jonas.’

  ‘I will live with that fear.’

  They resumed their walk and the playwright returned to the subject of The Rose. His work would be seen by a larger and more perceptive audience at the Bankside theatre. He was anxious to improve the play in any way that he could. Applegarth was still explaining his ideas when they turned into Thames Street. The smell of the river invaded his nostrils and they could hear it lapping against the wharves down to their left.

  Applegarth paused on the corner of the next street.

  ‘Let me see it again, Nick,’ he said.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The dagger. Haply, I do recognise it.’

  ‘Here,’ said Nicholas, passing it to him. ‘There are some marks upon the hilt that may be initials.’

  ‘Ah yes. I see.’

  After pretending to study the weapon, Jonas Applegarth turned round and pulled back his arm to propel the dagger with full force. It spun crazily through the air and landed with a loud splash in the river. Nicholas was bewildered by his friend’s action, but the latter chortled happily.

  ‘There. ’Tis all past now. Think no more about it.’

  ‘But that dagger was to have been a murder weapon.’

  ‘I have blocked it out of my mind.’

  ‘You have thrown away the one clue that we had.’

  ‘There will be other nights, other daggers.’

  ‘Next time, you may not have such good fortune.’

  ‘Next time,’ said Applegarth, ‘I will not be taken unawares. This was a useful warning, but there’s an end to it. I’ll not lose sleep over the matter.’

  Nicholas was convinced that the playwright knew the name of his attacker, but it could not be prised out of him. Jonas Applegarth lapsed into a kind of jocular bravado that was proof against all questioning. Even though it took him out of his way, Nicholas insisted on walking back to his friend’s house to make sure that he got home safely. The journey passed without further incident.

  Applegarth beamed hospitably at his colleague.

  ‘Will you step in to continue our debate?’

  ‘Not tonight, Jonas.’

  ‘But I have much more to say about my play.’

  ‘We will find time tomorrow,’ said Nicholas. ‘Stay alert and keep your doors locked. Your attacker may return during the night.’

  Applegarth shrugged. ‘What attacker?’

  Nicholas could not understand his apparent unconcern. An attempt had been made on the man’s life, yet he was choosing to ignore it. The book holder foresaw further trouble ahead and his anxiety was for the company as well as for its newest recruit. Westfield’s Men might yet live to regret their association with the brilliant talent of Jonas Applegarth.

  ‘Are you sure that you will not stay, Nick?’

  ‘Unhappily, I may not.’

  ‘There is plentiful wine within.’

  ‘Thank you. But I have another call to make.’

  ***

  The study was on the first floor of the house in Thames Street. Around all four walls were oak shelves heavily laden with books, documents, maps and manuscripts. Two long tables occupied most of the space and they were covered with more books and rolls of parchment. Quill pens lay sharpened in a little wooden box. Ink stood ready in a large well. The whole room smelled of musty scholarship.

  Caleb Hay sat beneath the sagging beams and pored over a medieval document with intense concentration. He used a magnifyi
ng glass to help him translate the minuscule Latin script. His eyes sparkled with fascination as he took a privileged walk through the past of his beloved London. So absorbed was he in his research that he did not hear the respectful tap on the door of his study. His wife had to bang more loudly before she caught his attention.

  Bristling with annoyance, he glared at the door.

  ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

  ‘Can you spare a minute, Caleb?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘No!’

  ‘He said that it was important.’

  ‘I’ve told you a hundred times, Joan. My work must not be interrupted. For any reason.’

  ‘But you have a visitor.’

  ‘Send him on his way.’

  ‘He is too persistent, husband.’

  ‘I’ll see nobody.’

  ‘He claims to be a friend of yours.’

  ‘Friends know better than to disturb my studies. They only come to my house by invitation, and that rarely. Persistent, you say? Who is this rogue?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘Give him a dusty answer and bid him farewell,’ Caleb said abruptly. ‘No, tarry a while,’ he added, as curiosity began to grapple with irritation. ‘Nicholas Bracewell, is it? What does he want with me? Did he state his business?’

  ‘No, Caleb.’

  ‘But he told you that it was important?’

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘He is a most polite and courteous gentleman, but resolved on talking to you.’

  Caleb Hay glanced down at his work. Pursing his lips, he shook his head in mild anger before finally relenting.

  ‘Ask him to stay. I’ll come down anon.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  Waiting in the parlour below, Nicholas Bracewell heard the relief in her voice. Joan Hay was a submissive wife, eager to avoid her husband’s displeasure. The mild-mannered historian whom Nicholas knew was evidently a more despotic creature within his own home.

  She came clattering down the stairs to rejoin the visitor. A short, slim, timorous woman in a plain dress, she gave him a nervous smile of apology and relayed the message before bowing out again. Nicholas listened to the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back in the study. A key turned in a stout lock and the door creaked open. It was immediately closed and locked. Feet padded down the wooden steps.