The Laughing Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘How long will that last?’

  ‘Until he produces a new one to shame me even more.’

  ‘No!’ yelled Elias.

  ‘He has robbed me of my future.’

  ‘Look to the past instead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there you will read the true story of Jonas Applegarth,’ said the Welshman persuasively. ‘A huge talent fills those huge breeches of his, it is true, but Westfield’s Men are not the first to perceive this. Jonas has been taken up and thrown back by every other troupe in London. He was too choleric for their taste.’

  ‘What are you telling me, Owen?’

  ‘He will not stay with us for long. His blaze of glory will be no more than that. A mere blaze that light up the heavens before fading away entire. We must profit from his brilliance while we may. Jonas will not survive.’ Owen patted his friend of the cheek. ‘You will, Edmund.’

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell was almost invariably the first member of the company to arrive at the Queen’s Head at the start of the day. On the next morning, however, the thud of a hammer told him that one of his colleagues had risen even earlier than he. Nathan Curtis, the master carpenter, was repairing a table for use in the performance that afternoon. Busy at his trade, he did not see the book holder striding across the innyard towards him.

  ‘Good-morrow, Nathan!’ greeted Nicholas.

  ‘Ah!’ He looked up. ‘Well met!’

  ‘I wish that everyone was as diligent in their duties as you. You will have finished that table before some of our fellows have even dragged themselves out of bed.’

  ‘There is much to do. When I have restored this, I must make some new scenic devices. And you spoke, I believe, about some properties that are in request.’

  ‘One rock, one cage, one crozier’s staff.’

  ‘I’ll need precise instructions.’

  Nicholas passed them on at once and the carpenter nodded obediently. Curtis was a rough-looking man in working apparel, but his voice was soft and his manner almost diffident. His craftsmanship helped to put flesh on the bones of a play. Nicholas had another reason to be grateful of a moment alone with him. Curtis lived in Bankside. When the book holder lodged in Anne Hendrik’s house, he and the carpenter were neighbours. The latter might well know one of the other denizens of the area.

  ‘Are you acquainted with an Ambrose Robinson, by any chance?’

  ‘Robinson the Butcher?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I know him as well as I wish to, Nick.’

  ‘You do not like the man, I think.’

  ‘I do not trust him,’ admitted the other. ‘He sells good meat and is polite enough in his shop, but he hides his true feelings from you. I never know where I am with the fellow. His mouth may smile but his eyes are cold and watchful. My wife cannot abide him.’

  ‘He is not an appealing man,’ agreed Nicholas.

  ‘How came you to meet him?’

  ‘Through a mutual friend.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ said Curtis. ‘I should have linked their names.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘We talk of Mistress Hendrik, do we not?’

  ‘We do, Nathan.’

  ‘Then she will have introduced him to you. The butcher is fast becoming a close companion of hers.’

  Nicholas bridled slightly. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘My wife has often seen him visiting her house and both of us have taken note of them on Sundays.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because we worship at the same altar, Nick. It has been going on for a month or more now.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘Mistress Hendrik and Ambrose Robinson. I was surprised at first, my wife even more so. We both have the highest respect for Mistress Hendrik. Her late husband was as decent a neighbour as we could choose. Not so this butcher. He is not worthy of her. But there is no gainsaying what we saw.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘They come to church together.’

  The information was deeply unsettling, and Nicholas took time to assimilate it. If Anne Hendrik was allowing Robinson to accompany her to her devotions, their relationship must be on a more serious footing than Nicholas realised. Before he could speak again, an ancient voice interrupted them. Thomas Skillen, the venerable stagekeeper, was talking to a stranger on the other side of the yard and pointing a bony finger at the book holder. The visitor thanked him and bore down on Nicholas, giving the latter only a second or two to appraise him.

  He was a man of moderate height and square build, wearing a black doublet and hose which was offset by a lawn ruff and by the ostrich feather in his black soft-crowned hat. His black Spanish cape had a red lining. Neat, compact and dignified, he was in his late thirties. His voice was remarkably deep and had a slight Northern tang to it.

  ‘May I have a word alone?’ the visitor said, giving his request the force of a command. ‘It is needful.’

  ‘Let’s stand aside.’

  Nicholas moved him a few yards away so that Nathan Curtis could resume his work. The carpenter’s hammer was deafening and the stink of fresh horse dung was pungent. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, the visitor waved a dismissive arm.

  ‘I’ll not stay here in the middle of the yard like some idle ostler complaining about the price of hay. I desire some private conference.’

  Nicholas stood his ground. ‘What is your business with me?’

  ‘The deadliest kind.’

  ‘Who are you, sir?’

  ‘Raphael Parsons.’

  Nicholas was at once surprised and curious. The name explained the histrionic air about the man. Parsons moved with grace and spoke in almost declamatory fashion. His black beard and moustache were well trimmed and there was a studied arrogance in his expression. He was accustomed to being obeyed.

  ‘Come with me,’ suggested Nicholas.

  ‘This is indoor work.’

  ‘We have a chamber at hand.’

  The book holder led him to the room which was used as the wardrobe by Westfield’s Men. Raphael Parsons ran an expert eye over the racks of costumes, feeling some of the material between his fingers and grunting his approval. Nicholas closed the door behind him.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.

  ‘James Ingram advised me to call here.’

  ‘You have spoken with James, then?’

  ‘Briefly. Geoffrey, our porter, put me in touch with him. I wanted to see if your account confirms, in every particular, what Ingram alleges.’

  ‘My account?’

  ‘Of what you found at the Blackfriars Theatre. My dear friend and partner, Cyril Fulbeck, hanged by the neck.’ Parsons relaxed slightly and even managed a thin smile. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I have long wanted an opportunity to meet Nicholas Bracewell. Your fame runs before you, sir.’

  ‘Fame?’

  ‘You have a reputation, sir.’

  ‘I am merely a book holder, Master Parsons.’

  ‘Your modesty is a credit to your character but it betrays your true worth. You talk to a man of the theatre. I know that a book holder must hold a whole company together and nobody does that better than you. I have sat in your galleries a dozen times and marvelled at your work.’ His face hardened. ‘Though it is perhaps as well that I was not at the Queen’s Head when Applegarth’s latest piece of vomit was spewed out on your stage.’

  ‘The Misfortunes of Marriage is a fine play.’

  ‘It swinged us soundly, I hear.’

  ‘There was some gentle mockery of boy actors.’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth could not be gentle if he tried,’ said Parsons vehemently. ‘He tore our work to shreds and questioned our right to exist. Boy actors w
ere innocent lambs beneath his slashing knife. It was unforgivable. Applegarth will pay dearly for his attack.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You will see, sir. You will see.’

  ‘Do you make threats against our author?’

  ‘Let him watch his back, that is all I say.’

  ‘Take care,’ warned Nicholas, looking him hard in the eye. ‘Touch any member of this company and you will have to deal with me.’

  ‘Proof positive!’ said Parsons with a disarming smile. ‘You are no mere book holder. You are the true guardian of Westfield’s Men. Its very essence, some say.’

  ‘I stand by my friends.’

  ‘Why, so do I, sir. And that is why I came here this morning. Away with that mound of offal known as Jonas Applegarth! Let’s talk of a sweeter gentleman, and one whose death cries out for retribution. Cyril Fulbeck.’

  ‘Ask what you will, Master Parsons.’

  ‘Describe the scene in your own terms. When you and James Ingram entered the theatre, what exactly did you see?’

  ‘I will tell you.…’

  Nicholas reconstructed the events with care, as much for his own benefit as for that of his visitor. He wanted to sift every detail in the hope that it might contain a clue that had so far eluded him. Raphael Parsons was a patient audience. When he had heard the full tale, he stroked his beard pensively. There was a long pause.

  ‘Well?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Your version accords with that given by Ingram.’

  ‘And so it should.’

  ‘There is a difference, however,’ noted Parsons. ‘Your account is longer and more accurate. You are the more reliable witness, but that was to be expected.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you never met Cyril Fulbeck until that grim moment. What you saw was an old man dangling from a rope. James Ingram, we must remember, was looking at someone he revered, and was thus too shocked to observe all the detail which you just listed.’

  ‘That is understandable.’

  ‘Also,’ said Parsons drily, ‘you are older and wiser than Ingram, and far more closely acquainted with the horrors that man can afflict on man. You have looked on violent death before.’

  ‘All too often, alas.’

  ‘It has sharpened your judgement.’ Parsons stroked his beard as he ruminated afresh. When he spoke again, his tone was pleasant. ‘You have answered my enquiries willingly and honestly. I am most grateful to you for that. Allow me to return the compliment. I am sure that you have questions you wish to put to me.’

  Astonished by the offer, Nicholas was nevertheless quick to take advantage of it. His interrogation was direct.

  ‘Where were you at the time of the murder?’ he said.

  ‘At the house of a friend in Ireland Yard.’

  ‘Close by the theatre, then?’

  ‘Within a stone’s throw.’

  ‘When did you last see your partner?’

  ‘An hour or so before his death, it seems,’ said Parsons with a sad shake of his head. ‘Had I known that Cyril was in such danger, I would never have stirred from his side. I blame myself for leaving him so defenceless.’ He bit his lip. ‘And the manner of my departure only serves to increase my guilt.’

  ‘Your departure?’

  ‘We had an argument. Strong words were exchanged.’

  ‘On what subject?’

  ‘What else but the Blackfriars Theatre? Cyril admired the plays I put upon the stage but criticised the means by which they got there. He thought I was too strict with my young charges.’

  ‘How did you reply?’

  ‘Roundly, I fear.’

  ‘Was he upset by the altercation?’

  ‘I did not stay to ask. I marched out of the building.’ He clicked his tongue in self-reproach. ‘Can you see what a weight on my conscience it now is? We parted in anger before but we soon became friends again. Not this time. A length of rope strangled any hope of reconciliation between us. Cyril went to his death with our quarrel unresolved. That cuts me to the quick.’

  Nicholas was impressed by the readiness of his answers and by his apparent candour. Parsons seemed genuinely hurt by the demise of his friend and business partner. Here was a new and more compassionate side to the man. Others had spoken of a bully and a disciplinarian, and Nicholas had seen the odd glint of belligerence, but he had also discerned a sensitive streak. When Raphael Parsons offered his hand, he shook it without reservation.

  ‘I must take my leave,’ said the visitor.

  ‘Let me teach you another way out.’

  Nicholas took him through a second door and down a long passageway so that his visitor could step out into Gracechurch Street without having to go back through the yard. The book holder stopped him in the open doorway.

  ‘There is another matter I would like to raise.’

  ‘Be brief. I, too, have a rehearsal to attend.’

  ‘One of your actors is a boy called Philip Robinson.’

  ‘A gifted child in every way.’

  ‘He was impressed against his will into the Chapel.’

  ‘Who told you so?’

  ‘The boy’s father. He petitions for his son’s return.’

  ‘Then he does so in vain.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Philip is happy with us,’ said Parsons bluntly. ‘Extremely happy. Farewell, sir.’

  With a brusque nod, he swept out into the street.

  Chapter Six

  For the rest of the morning, Nicholas Bracewell was so bound up in his duties that he had no time to reflect upon the unexpected visit of Raphael Parsons or to indulge in any speculation about the true feelings of Philip Robinson towards the Children of the Chapel Royal. Preparation for the afternoon’s performance was his abiding concern, and The Maids of Honour gave him much to prepare. His first task was to prevent the stagekeeper from assaulting his smallest and lowliest assistant.

  ‘No, no, no, George! You are an idiot!’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so because I know so!’ shouted the irate Thomas Skillen. ‘You have set out the wrong scenery and the wrong properties for the wrong play.’

  ‘Have I?’ George Dart scratched his head in disbelief. ‘I thought The Maids of Honour called for a bench, a tree, a rock, a tomb, a well and three buckets.’

  ‘You are thinking of The Two Maids of Milchester.’

  ‘Am I?’ he said, blushing with embarrassment. ‘Why, so I am! We need no bench and buckets here. Our play demands a wooden canopy, a large bed, a stool, Mercury’s wings and a rainbow. Tell me I am right.’

  ‘You are even more wrong,’ hissed the other, taking a first wild swipe at him. ‘Dolt! Dunce! Imbecile! Mercury’s wings and the rainbow belong in Made to Marry. Have I taught you nothing?’

  Four decades in the theatre had made Thomas Skillen an essentially practical man. Actors might covet a striking role and authors might thrill to the music of their own verse, but the stagekeeper summarised character and language in terms of a few key items.

  ‘Table, throne and executioner’s block.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ gabbled Dart.

  ‘We play The Maids of Honour.’

  ‘Table, throne and executioner’s block. I’ll fetch them straight.’ He scampered off but came to a sudden halt. His face was puckered with concentration. ‘The Maids of Honour? There is no executioner’s block in the piece. Why do you send for it?’

  ‘So that I may strike off your useless head!’

  The old stagekeeper lunged at his hapless assistant, but Nicholas stepped good-humouredly between them. Dart cowered gratefully behind his sturdy frame.

  ‘Let me at the rogue!’ shouted Skillen.

  ‘Leave him be,’ soothed Ni
cholas. ‘George confused his maids of honour with his maids of Milchester. A natural mistake for anyone to make. It is not a criminal offence.’

  ‘It is to me!’

  ‘Does it really merit execution?’

  ‘Yes, Nick. Perfection is everything.’

  ‘Then are we all due for the headsman’s axe, Thomas, for each one of us falls short of perfection in some way. George is willing and well intentioned. Build on these virtues and educate him out of his vices.’

  Skillen’s anger abated and he chortled happily.

  ‘I frighted him thoroughly. He will not misjudge The Maids of Honour again.’ He gave a toothless grin. ‘Will you, George?’

  ‘Never. Table and throne. I’ll find them presently.’

  ‘No need,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the makeshift stage. ‘The table stands ready. Nathan Curtis was here at first light to repair it. And he is even now putting some blocks of wood beneath the throne to heighten its eminence.’

  ‘What shall I do, then, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Fetch the rest of the properties.’

  Skillen took his cue. ‘Act One. First scene, table and four chairs. Second scene, a box-tree. Third scene, curtains and a truckle-bed within. Fourth scene, the aforesaid throne. Fifth scene…’

  The rapid litany covered all seventeen scenes of the play and left Dart’s head spinning. He raced off to gather what he could remember and to stay out of reach of the old man’s temper. Nicholas looked fondly after him.

  ‘You are too hard on the lad, Thomas.’

  ‘Stern schoolmasters get the best results.’

  ‘George has too much to learn in too short a time.’

  ‘That is because of his stupidity and laziness.’

  ‘No, it is not,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘We overload him, that is all. This season, Westfield’s Men will stage all of thirty-six different plays, seventeen of them, like Jonas Applegarth’s, entirely new. Asking George Dart to remember the plots and properties of thirty-six plays is to put an impossible strain on the lad.’

  ‘I know what each play requires,’ said Skillen proudly.

  ‘You are a master of your craft, Thomas. He is not.’

  The old man was mollified. He loved to feel that his age and experience were priceless assets to the company. After discussing the play at greater length with him, Nicholas went off to tackle the multifarious chores that awaited him before the rehearsal could begin. He could spare only a wave of greeting to each new member of the company who drifted into the yard.