His eye then travelled across to Bankside and the demons returned to plague his mind. The Thames did not just snake through London on its way to the sea. Its broad back kept Anne Hendrik and him far apart. They would need more than a bridge to join themselves together again.
Nicholas was still brooding by the quayside when the river was teeming with boats and flanked by scores of people about their daily work. Kneeling down low, he cupped his hands to scoop up some water and let it run over his face. As he began the noisy walk to the Queen’s Head, he felt refreshed and ready to begin his own day.
Blackfriars displaced Anne Hendrik from his thoughts. The second visit to the theatre had yielded much. Aided by Caleb Hay’s sketch, he had been able to take his bearings with more accuracy and James Ingram had pointed out aspects of the precinct which had gone unremarked before. A most fashionable quarter of London had baulked at the notion of a public playhouse in their midst, yet the most successful private theatre in England stood in its place. He wondered how many of the residents who had signed the earlier petition were keen spectators at Blackfriars.
Raphael Parsons now came into the reckoning as a murder suspect. Their first meeting, Nicholas believed, had been deliberately engineered to throw suspicion off the victim’s business partner. Pretending to investigate the crime on his own account, Parsons sought to put himself beyond any investigation. No stage management had been possible before their second encounter. He was taken unawares. His truculent manner, his wild threats and his refusal to account for his precise whereabouts at the time of the murder combined to make him a potential killer.
Nicholas was convinced that the man’s vicious rows with his partner were as much over money as over the treatment of the young actors. Long service with Westfield’s Men had given the book holder an insight into the perilous finances of a theatre company. Blackfriars might not be at the mercy of the elements in the same way as the Queen’s Head, but there was still rent to pay, costumes to buy, scenery and properties to provide, expensive stage equipment to be installed, and the theatre itself to be cleaned and maintained.
When Nicholas added the fees for commissioning new plays with unceasing regularity, he could see how high the running costs must be. The Blackfriars audience might pay higher prices to view the entertainment, but it was much smaller in size than the public playhouses and the gatherers would take less at a performance even than at the Queen’s Head. Raphael Parsons had to drive his actors hard to make a profit. He would not thank the soft-hearted Cyril Fulbeck for standing in his way.
Consideration of the theatre manager inevitably brought him around to the case of Philip Robinson and that let Anne Hendrik back into his mind. He brooded afresh on her until a voice hailed him. Nicholas looked up to see Nathan Curtis emerging from the crowd to join him as he turned into Gracechurch Street.
‘Early again, Nathan. You put the rest to shame.’
‘There are two benches to repair, a coffin to strengthen and a wooden leg to make.’
‘A carpenter is always in request.’
‘Until you go on tour. My trade falls asleep then.’
‘Theatre is a cruel master.’
They were still chatting as they turned in through the archway of the Queen’s Head and made for the rooms which they rented as storage areas. Costumes, properties and scenic devices were expensive items, kept under lock and key at all times. Nicholas was alarmed, therefore, when he tried the first door and found it already unlocked.
‘Someone is here before us?’ said Curtis.
‘Not from the company. Only I have the key.’
‘Who, then, can it be?’
Nicholas drew a cautionary dagger before opening the door. With Curtis behind him, he stepped into the room used as their wardrobe. Nothing seemed to be missing, but he was certain that someone had been in there. A creaking sound took his attention to the room beyond. It was the place where they stored their properties and scenery, and where the carpenter stowed his tools overnight. Nicholas crept over to the door and lifted the latch gently. The door was unlocked but it would only open a matter of inches before it met an obstruction.
Putting his shoulder to the timber, he applied more pressure and there was a scraping noise as a heavy object was pushed across the floorboards. The creaking sound continued throughout and the two of them froze in their tracks when they saw what was causing it.
Jonas Applegarth was hanging from the central beam by a thick rope. As he swayed to and fro, the stout timber creaked under his weight. His face was bloated, his eyes staring, his body twisted into an unnatural shape. His shoes were dangling only inches above the floor, but that short distance was enough to separate him from life. A man of enormous vitality and power had been reduced to an inert hulk.
The object which had impeded them was an open coffin jammed against the door. Reeling from the shock, Curtis bent over his handiwork and spewed uncontrollably into it. Nicholas recovered more quickly. He saw that the rope went over the beam and was tied off on a wooden cleat fixed to the wall. After unwinding it carefully, he took the full strain and lowered Applegarth’s body to the ground with as much consideration as he could.
Nathan Curtis turned to help him but their examination of the body was cut short by another noise. It was a weird and maniacal cackle, which seemed to come from an adjoining room and which rose in volume and intensity until it filled the whole place. The carpenter was terrified by the sound but Nicholas had heard it once before. The Laughing Hangman had returned.
Diving to the other door in the room, Nicholas tried to open it but found it locked. He fumbled for his key and inserted into quickly into the lock. The adjoining chamber was the company’s tiring-house. By the time that Nicholas burst into it, the laughter had stopped and the place was empty. He went through the door that led to the yard but could see no sign of a fleeing figure. Guests were departing, ostlers were going about their business, a servant wielded a broom. When he dashed back into the tiring-house, he tried a third door in the chamber. It opened on to the passageway that led all the way down to the taproom.
Nicholas raced along it, searching each room and alcove that he passed. When he reached the taproom, the door opened before him and he came face to face with Alexander Marwood.
‘What’s amiss?’ demanded the landlord.
‘Did anyone come through this door a moment ago?’
‘I saw nobody.’
‘Are you certain, sir?’
‘My eyesight is sound.’
‘Where, then, did he go?’
Nicholas went back along the passageway to see if he had missed anything. Scenting trouble, the landlord trotted at his heels with face aghast and hands clutching the air.
‘What new calamity has befallen me?’ he wailed.
‘Send for the law, Master Marwood.’
‘Thieves have got in? Property has been stolen?’
‘It is a more serious crime than that.’
‘Fire has been started on my premises?’
‘Summon the constables.’
‘Dear God!’ howled Marwood, fearing that the worst had finally happened. ‘My daughter, Rose, has been ravished by one of your goatish actors!’
Nicholas took him by the shoulders to calm him.
‘Be still, sir,’ he soothed. ‘No theft, no arson and no assault upon your daughter. A greater affliction has struck us. There has been murder at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Murder!’
The word sent the landlord into a fresh paroxysm of apprehension. His body shuddered, his hands slapped his balding head and three nervous twitches united together to turn his eyebrows into a pair of mating caterpillars. Nicholas propelled him back towards the taproom.
‘Fetch assistance!’ he ordered. ‘Raise the alarm!’
Marwood scuttled off like a chicken pursued by an axe.
> ‘Murder! What, ho! Help!’
Abandoning the search, Nicholas made his way swiftly back to the room where Applegarth lay. It was important to look for clues and to guard the body from the invasion of ghoulish interest which the landlord’s cries were bound to excite. Other members of the company would soon be arriving. They had to be shielded from the horror of viewing the corpse. Death would deprive them of the day’s audience. There could be no performance that afternoon.
When Nicholas entered the room, the body lay in the exact position where he had left it. Nathan Curtis was still there but he had been joined by someone else. Nicholas was jolted. While the carpenter gazed down reverentially at Jonas Applegarth, his companion stared at the murder victim with a smile of quiet satisfaction.
James Ingram turned away to look across at Nicholas.
‘Do not ask me to mourn him,’ he said. ‘I will not.’
Chapter Nine
Lawrence Firethorn was still bemused as his horse trotted in through the looming bulk of Bishopsgate that morning. A promised night of passion with an uninhibited lover had turned into an unseemly squabble with a disappointed wife. Thanks to the intercession of Edmund Hoode, the actor-manager spent the hours of darkness in a cold and cheerless bed. And yet he was not really angry with the playwright. Irritation was the most he could muster. Where he should have been thirsting for the man’s blood, he was instead stupefied by his boldness.
Hoode entered the lion’s den to deliver his ultimatum. He had to be admired for that. Even in the face of extreme conjugal frustration, he did not flinch. Firethorn could usually stifle him at will and his wife could vanquish Hoode with a glance, yet their combined powers had no impact on him this time. He had lain between them like a naked sword and kept two urgent bodies agonisingly chaste.
Who had changed a taciturn playwright into a brave knight? What had made him enter the lists so purposefully on behalf of his work? Why had he chosen to interrupt lawful copulation in a Shoreditch bedchamber at that particular moment? Only one explanation sufficed.
‘A pox on his pizzle!’ groaned Firethorn. ‘He’s in love.’
It posed a real problem for Westfield’s Men. They could no longer take their resident playwright for granted. Hoode was forcing them to choose between his proven reliability and Jonas Applegarth’s potential wizardry. What should they stage at The Rose—The Faithful Shepherd or The Misfortunes of Marriage? Hoode’s romantic comedy would be an undoubted success, but it was Applegarth’s trenchant satire which would reverberate throughout London.
Firethorn was in despair. To lose Hoode would cause him deep personal pain; to sacrifice Applegarth would be an act of professional folly. He was still weighing the two men in the balance as his horse picked its way through the crowd and turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head.
Chaos awaited him. Bodies dashed hither and thither in wild confusion. Alexander Marwood charged around in everdecreasing circles, bewailing his lot to those who would listen and upbraiding those who would not. Thomas Skillen was shaking his head in disbelief, George Dart was pacing up and down in cold fear, and the four apprentices were weeping openly. Edmund Hoode sat on a barrel in a complete daze. Owen Elias strutted frenziedly around the edge of the yard with a sword in his hand.
Firethorn saw a large coffin being unloaded from a cart by two men. He kicked his horse to take him across to Hoode.
‘Edmund!’ he said. ‘What means this commotion?’
‘Jonas Applegarth has been murdered!’
‘Here at the Queen’s Head?’
‘Hanged by the neck.’
The news hit Firethorn like a body blow. He quivered in the saddle. The implications would be horrendous and far-reaching. One problem had been solved: Hoode would now stay with the company which Applegarth had deserted for ever. But a hundred other problems had just been created. On top of a night of enforced celibacy, it was too much to endure.
***
Nicholas Bracewell worked as quickly as he could in the limited time at his disposal. To prevent any unnecessary intrusion, he stationed James Ingram and Nathan Curtis, respectively, outside each of the two doors. Ingram’s reaction to the murder had been almost callous, but Nicholas could not spare a moment to reflect upon such an unexpected response from such a caring man. Jonas Applegarth pushed all else from the book holder’s mind. Before examining the dead body, he first removed the rope and noted how carefully the noose had been tied. The playwright had not been dispatched from the world with the aid of a crude knot. The Laughing Hangman knew his craft.
Inspecting the body, Nicholas was surprised to find no sign of blood. Applegarth would not have gone willingly to the makeshift gallows. His killer would have had to disable him first or he would have fought and yelled. Nicholas eventually located the large swelling on the back of the victim’s head. He had been knocked unconscious from behind. A sturdy mallet lay on the floor. The carpenter had unwittingly provided the weapon just as Westfield’s Men had unwittingly provided the rope. The scene of the execution had been chosen with care.
When he turned the body on its side, Nicholas was puzzled by the sight of sawdust sticking to the doublet and breeches. Curtis was a tidy carpenter. Though he used the room as his workshop, he always swept the floor clean. Nicholas went over to the roughhewn table in the corner. Pinches of sawdust still lay in the grooves and knot-holes of the carpenter’s workbench. How had it found its way onto the victim’s attire?
Bending over the prostrate Applegarth once more, he searched the man’s pockets but found only one item that might be a clue. The brief note scribbled on a piece of paper went into Nicholas’s own pocket. Mute and unprotesting, Applegarth lay on his back with his eyes searching the ceiling. In his brief stay with Westfield’s Men, he had made a forceful impact and he would be missed. Nicholas offered up a silent prayer for him, then reached down with delicate fingers to close his eyelids.
The sound of raised voices outside the door told him that he did not have much time left. He used it to search for parallels between this murder and that of Cyril Fulbeck. The similarities were too obvious to ignore. Both were rendered unconscious before the noose was fitted. Both were hanged by a man who celebrated his crime with mocking laughter. Both died in buildings from which the killer could make an easy escape. Nicholas was musing on the other common factors when there was a banging on the door.
Constables had arrived and the official investigation began. Nicholas and Curtis gave statements, the scene of the crime was thoroughly searched and the body was scrutinised. Unable to get it into their coffin, the two men had to perch it on top and cover it with a black cloth. More tears were shed in the yard as the corpse of Jonas Applegarth was carried solemnly out to the cart and driven away to the morgue. Westfield’s Men were bereaved.
When Nicholas finally emerged, Lawrence Firethorn was standing outside the door. He took the book holder by the arm and led him aside for a hissed interrogation.
‘Do you know what this will do to the company?’
‘My thoughts are with his poor wife.’
‘Mine, too,’ said Firethorn defensively. ‘Mine, too. The woman will be destroyed. But we suffer an act of destruction as well. Today’s performance has been hanged by the neck and Marwood is in such a state of superstitious panic that he is talking of renouncing our contract. What are we to do, Nick?’
‘Try to keep calm.’
‘When one of our number has been murdered?’
‘Reassure the rest of the company,’ advised Nicholas. ‘They need kindness and support at a time like this. I’ll speak with the landlord and smooth his ruffled feathers.’
‘Who did this, Nick?’
‘I do not know.’
‘And why did he have to do it here?’
‘That question is easier to answer.’
‘Why not stab Jonas in some d
ark alleyway?’
‘Because the killer wanted to inflict the most damage on Westfield’s Men. You see the disarray it has caused.’
‘It was like Bedlam out in that yard,’ said Firethorn. ‘Marwood was prancing around like some lunatic at full moon. Why could not the hangman put his scrawny neck into a noose? If our landlord were swinging from the rafters, we’d have something to celebrate.’ He pulled Nicholas close. ‘Tell me what happened from the moment you arrived here.’
Nicholas was succinct. Firethorn frowned.
‘What was Jonas doing here so early?’ he wondered.
‘Answering your summons.’
‘My what?’
‘You were the only person who could get him to the Queen’s Head at the crack of dawn. The murderer knew that and set his trap accordingly.’
‘Trap?’
‘Here is the bait,’ said Nicholas.
He handed over the letter which he had found in pocket of the dead man. His companion read the scribbled words.
If you would remain with Westfield’s Men, meet me at the Queen’s Head at dawn.…Lawrence Firethorn.
‘I never sent this!’ protested the actor-manager.
‘Jonas believed that you did.’
‘This is not my summons.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is a death warrant.’
***
Anne Hendrik was at once saddened and relieved by her exchange with Ambrose Robinson on the previous evening. She was sorry to wound the feelings of someone who was already suffering a degree of emotional pain. A powerful man in a brutal profession, he was nevertheless remarkably sensitive and she had been touched that he felt able to reveal this side of his character to her. At the same time, however, she did not want her friendship to be misinterpreted. His unwelcome proposal had forced her to be more open with him about her own affections, and that brought a measure of relief. She may have hurt him but at least he would not pester her again.
‘What time is he coming?’
‘At noon, Preben.’
The Laughing Hangman Page 16
