Easing them through the door, he closed it firmly behind them. They heard a key turning in the lock. As they descended the stairs, Ingram glanced over his shoulder.
‘Master Parsons has grown testy,’ he said.
‘We came unannounced into his domain and caught him on the raw. He has a malignant streak, no question of that. I would not care to be one of his young actors.’
‘Nor I, Nick. It was never thus in my day.’
‘You were trained as well as any of our apprentices.’
‘And shown great kindness. Times have changed.’
The porter was waiting at the foot of the staircase to detain Ingram in conversation. Nicholas drifted out of the building and retraced the steps he had taken when in pursuit of the murderer on the earlier visit. Pausing at the rear of the theatre, he looked at the various avenues of escape which the man could have taken. If he had run fast, he might have been clear of the precinct before Nicholas reached the spot where he was now standing. Or he might have gone to ground in any one of the nearby streets and alleyways.
By way of experiment, Nicholas broke into a trot and dodged around a few corners. When he came to a halt, he saw that he was standing in Ireland Yard. He studied the houses with interest before he walked back towards the theatre. As he strolled past it, the rear door was unlocked and a dozen or more figures emerged. Wearing white surplices over black cassocks, they lined up in pairs and march away in step, the choirboys at the front and the vicars choral behind them.
‘Philip!’ called Nicholas.
One of the boys turned in surprise to look at him. The resemblance to Ambrose Robinson was clear. His bright young face was puzzled by the salutation. The boy was pushed gently from behind by another chorister and the procession wended on its way. Nicholas was impressed by the sense of order and assurance about them. Philip Robinson was an integral part of the whole. He did not look like an unwilling prisoner. Nicholas watched him until the column vanished out of sight.
***
The journey took an eternity. Owen Elias was soon regretting his offer to safeguard the drunken Jonas Applegarth. The playwright kept stopping in the street to accuse innocent by-standers of unspeakable crimes, to hurl verbal thunderbolts at every church they passed, to kick at the stray dogs which yapped at his heels and to relieve himself unceremoniously against any available wall. When Elias tried to remonstrate with him, Applegarth either turned his vituperation on the Welshman or embraced him tearfully while vowing undying friendship.
Celtic patience finally snapped. Applegarth reviled him once too often and Elias expressed his displeasure in the most direct way. Grabbing the bigger man by the scruff of the neck, he dragged him towards a horse-trough and threw him in head-first. Applegarth hit the water with a fearsome splash. His face was submerged for a full minute as he emitted a hideous gurgling sound. Then he managed to haul himself out of the trough and fell to the ground.
He lay there twitching violently like a giant cod on the deck of a fishing vessel. His clothes were sodden, his hair and beard dripping and his hat floating in a puddle beside him. After expelling a pint of water from his mouth, he let out a bellow of anger and tried to get up. Elias put a foot in the middle of his chest to hold him down. Applegarth replied with an even louder bellow but it soon gave way to rumbling laughter. Instead of lambasting his colleague, he turned his derision upon himself.
‘Look at me!’ he said, wobbling with mirth. ‘The most brilliant playwright in London, flat on his back in the mire! The greatest ale-drinker in England, spewing out rank water. The fattest belly in Christendom, staring up at the sky! Is this not a pretty sight, Owen?’
‘You deserved it.’
‘Indeed, I did.’
‘You went well beyond the bounds of fellowship.’
‘I am the first to acknowledge it.’
‘The horse-trough was the best place for you.’
‘No, my friend,’ said Applegarth, as remorse wiped the grin from his wet face. ‘It is too elevated a station for me. A swamp would be a fitter home. A ditch. A dunghill. Find me a hole big enough and I’ll crawl into it with the other vermin. Why do I do it, Owen?’
‘I’ll tell you in the morning when you’re sober.’
Reaching down, he took the other in a firm grip and heaved backwards. Jonas Applegarth swung slowly upright. He looked down at the state of his apparel with revulsion.
‘My wife will assault me!’ he moaned.
‘There may be others keen to do that office for her.’
‘My doublet is stained, my breeches torn, my stockings past repair. I am an insult to her tailoring.’ He felt his head in a panic. ‘Where’s my hat? Where’s my hat?’
‘Here,’ said Elias, retrieving it from the puddle.
‘I dare not go home like this.’
‘You will and you must, Jonas.’
‘What will my wife say?’
‘That is her privilege. But I marvel that you rail against religion so when you must be married to a saint. Who else would put up with you?’
‘True, true, Owen,’ agreed the other. ‘She is a saint.’
‘A martyr to her husband.’
Applegarth remained solemn and silent all the way home. He was a sorry sight as he was admitted to the house by a servant. Elias waited long enough to hear the first shriek of complaint from the resident saint before turning away. Movement in the shadows then alerted him. He was reminded why he had accompanied Applegarth in the first place.
Pulling out his dagger, he ran diagonally across the street to the lane on the opposite side but he was too slow. All he caught was the merest glimpse of a man, darting down the lane before disappearing into the rabbit warren of streets beyond it. Elias stabbed the air in his anger.
They had been followed.
***
Anne Hendrik counted out the coins and handed them over.
‘There, Ambrose,’ she said with relief. ‘’Tis done!’
‘Thank you.’
‘My debt is cleared at last.’
‘There was no hurry to repay me,’ he said, putting the coins into his purse. ‘And I am far more in your debt than you in mine. No amount of money can ever discharge that obligation.’
‘I have done nothing.’
‘Is saving a man’s life nothing? Is giving him fresh hope nothing? You did all that for me and more.’
‘I think not.’
‘Every penny I have is yours for the asking.’
‘We can pay our own way again now.’
‘You must know how much you mean to me, Anne.’
She turned away and resumed her seat in order to avoid what she sensed might be an embarrassing declaration. They were in the parlour of her house in Bankside. The butcher stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, peeved that the settlement of her debt had deprived him of an excuse to call on a regular basis and searching for a means to secure a more permanent mooring in her affections.
‘I acted out of simple friendship,’ she said.
‘Is that all that it will remain?’
‘For the moment, Ambrose.’
‘And in time?’
‘Who knows what the future will hold?’
‘Who indeed?’ he agreed, shaking his head ruefully. ‘A year ago, I was the most contented of men. I had a happy marriage, a son I adored and a business that was thriving. What else could anyone ask? Then, suddenly…’ He clapped his hands together. ‘I lost it all. My dear wife died, my son was taken from me by deed of impressment, and I had no pleasure from my occupation. What was the point in struggling on?’
‘There is always a point, Ambrose.’
‘You taught me that.’
‘I, too, lost my dearest partner.’
‘But not your child as well.’
/> ‘No,’ she conceded sadly. ‘Not my child. The joys of motherhood were denied me and that is a grievous loss in itself.’ She brightened. ‘Besides, your son has not left you for ever. Philip is still alive and like to return to you before too long. Nick will see to that.’
‘Will he?’
‘Put your trust in him.’
‘It is growing difficult to do so.’
‘Ambrose!’ she scolded.
‘You saw the way he rounded on me. He is supposed to be helping Philip, not accusing the boy’s father with such severity. I am sorry, Anne, but I begin to have serious doubts about Nick Bracewell.’
‘Then you do not know him as well as I.’
‘That is another cause of my discomfort.’
He moved away to hide the surly expression on his face. When he turned back to her, it was with a slow smile and a surge of ungainly affection.
‘I have written to Philip again today,’ he said.
‘Your letters will be a comfort to him.’
‘He is old enough to be told now. To understand.’
‘Understand?’
‘What an angel of mercy you have been. Without you to rescue me, I would have given in. Philip knows that. He always liked you, Anne. He always talked kindly of you. It will make such a difference to him. Philip was much closer to his mother than to me but that is only natural. It will make such a difference.’
‘I do not follow.’
‘A child needs a proper home, Anne.’
‘He has one.’
‘He has a house but something is missing from it.’
Anne realised what he was trying to say to her and steeled herself. In paying off her debt she had hoped to lighten the weight of his friendship, but she had merely given him the cue to translate it into a deeper relationship.
‘I know that I have little enough to offer,’ he began, planting himself before her. ‘Jacob Hendrik was a decent, God-fearing, conscientious man and I could never be the husband to you that he was. But I swear to you—’
‘That is enough,’ she interrupted. ‘I would prefer it if you said no more on that subject.’
Robinson was hurt. ‘Have I offended you?’
‘No, Ambrose.’
‘Do you find me so revolting, then?’
‘You are a good man with many qualities.’
‘But not good enough for you?’
‘That was not my meaning.’
‘Then why do you spurn me?’
‘I do not,’ she said, standing and crossing to the window. ‘I am just not ready to consider…what you wish to propose, that is all.’
‘Not ready now?’ he said, brightening. ‘But one day…’
‘I make no promises.’
‘One day…’
‘My life is happy enough as it is.’
‘A husband and a son will make it even happier.’
‘No,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘We are friends. I like to think that we are close friends. You helped me when others would not and I will always be grateful to you for that. It made me want to help you to bring Philip home.’
Robinson stared at her. A resentful note intruded.
‘It is him, is it not?’
‘Who?’
‘Your precious Nick Bracewell. He is the canker here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It has all changed,’ he said bitterly. ‘Until he came back into your world, you had time for me and interest in my affairs. We talked together, supped together, even walked to church together on a Sunday. All golden times for me. Then this friend, this Nick Bracewell, appears again and my chances go begging.’
‘That is not true.’
‘He changed everything.’
‘No, Ambrose.’
‘But for him, you would have been mine. I know it.’
‘Nick changed nothing!’
The force of her rejection was like a slap in the face. His body tensed and his eyes blazed but he made no comment. Swinging on his heel, he went out of the house and slammed the door behind him.
***
Lawrence Firethorn was just about to climb into bed when he heard the thunderous knocking on his front door. Margery was already lying among the pillows in her nightgown with a smile of lustful anticipation on her face. Vincentio’s Revenge had sent them early to their bedchamber and they knew that nobody in the house would dare to interrupt them.
When more knocking came, Firethorn stamped a bare foot on the floor to signal to the servant below.
‘Whoever that is, send them on their way!’ he yelled.
‘Ignore them, Lawrence,’ purred his wife.
‘When you lie before me like that, my sweet, I would ignore the Last Judgement. Was ever a man so blessed in his wife? Was ever lover so well matched with lover?’ He moved in to bestow a first tender kiss on her lips. ‘Was ever an actor given such a fine role as this that I play now?’
He embraced her with fiery passion and buried his head between her generous breasts. Digging her fingers into his hair, she pulled him close and urged him on with cries of delight, groaning with even more pleasure when his hands slipped under her nightgown to explore her warm thighs. The bed soon began to creak rhythmically but a louder noise rose above it. Somebody was actually pounding on their door.
Ecstasy froze on the instant. Firethorn could not believe it. At a time when he and his wife most wanted to be alone, they were being rudely disturbed. It was unforgivable. Leaping from the bed half-naked, he stalked across the room, determined to castigate the servant in the roundest of terms before hurling her out into the street. When he snatched open the door, he fully expected the girl to be cowering in terror. Instead, he was met by the improbable sight of Edmund Hoode, hands on hips, standing there with his legs set firmly apart.
‘I have come to speak with you, Lawrence,’ he asserted.
‘Now? Must it be now? Must it be here?’ Firethorn stepped outside the bedchamber and pulled the door shut after him. ‘Do you know what you have just interrupted?’
‘I care not.’
‘Margery is waiting for me within.’
‘I will not keep you from your sleep much longer.’
‘Sleep was the least of our concerns!’
‘I had to see you.’
‘Well, see me, you do. So turn tail and leave my house before I speed you on your way!’ His eyes glowed in the half-dark. ‘Come not between the dragon and his mate!’
‘Who is it?’ called Margery from within.
‘Edmund!’
‘At this hour?’
‘Begone, sir!’ snarled Firethorn. ‘You hold up destiny.’
‘That is why I am here,’ said Hoode calmly. ‘To discuss my own destiny. When I sensed danger in the person of a rival, my impulse was to shrink away and yield up my place. Not any more, Lawrence. I intend to fulfil my destiny. I am here to fight for my place in Westfield’s Men.’
Firethorn exploded. ‘If you tarry any longer, you will be fighting for your life! God’s tits, man! The most wonderful woman in the world is waiting for me in that bed.’
‘Not for ever,’ cautioned Margery. ‘I grow weary.’
‘Come back tomorrow, Edmund!’
Firethorn tried to push him away, but Hoode held his ground with a determination that was unprecedented in so reserved a man. Five minutes alone with Cicely Gilbourne had transformed him. He was loved. His plays were admired. His life had purpose after all. What thrilled him most was her appreciation of his work. It was this which had restored his confidence in himself and made him reflect on the shabby treatment he had been accorded by Westfield’s Men. With fire in his belly, he walked all the way to Shoreditch to beard Firethorn in his own den. Margery’s presence w
as a minor disadvantage.
‘Will you box his ear or will I?’ she shouted.
‘I will, my pretty one,’ cooed Firethorn before glowering at the intruder. ‘Leave now while your legs still carry you or I’ll not be answerable for my actions!’
‘If I leave now, Lawrence, I leave for good!’
‘That will content us.’
‘Who will pen your plays then, I wonder?’
‘Still there?’ wailed Margery. ‘Throttle the idiot!’
‘I talk of my place,’ continued Hoode, unruffled. ‘I talk of my destiny. Westfield’s Men are contracted to perform The Faithful Shepherd at The Rose yet I am thrust aside to make way for Jonas Applegarth.’
Firethorn gasped. ‘You have invaded my bedchamber in order to talk about a paltry play?’
‘That paltry play means much to me. Thus it stands. Perform it at The Rose and I remain in the company. Supplant me with another playwright and I will henceforth offer my talent to Banbury’s Men. Do you understand, Lawrence?’
The other was so stunned that all he could offer was a meek nod. Hoode’s fearless manner and dire threat robbed him of the organs of speech. Panting on the bed, Margery Firethorn was more concerned with other organs.
‘Lawrence!’ she bawled. ‘Get in here now! Your kettle is no longer boiling, sir. It needs more heat to make it sing. Light my fire again. Where are you, man?’
Hoode tapped politely on the door and inched it open.
‘We are done now, Margery,’ he said. ‘I’ll send him in.’
***
Unable to sleep for more than a few hours, Nicholas Bracewell rose before dawn and strolled down to the edge of the Thames. The river lapped noisily at the wharf and vessels bobbed in the gloom as they lay at anchor. Born and brought up in a seaport, Nicholas felt at home beside the dark water as it curled between its banks with lazy power. When the first specks of light began to dapple the river, he inhaled the keen air and was at peace with himself. Gulls cried, a winch squealed into life, the plash of oars could be heard in the distance.
The Laughing Hangman Page 15
