‘Do you wish me to be there?’
‘I shall insist,’ she said, pleasantly. ‘I would never dream of taking on a new apprentice without your full approval.’
‘Where does the boy’s family come from?’
‘Amsterdam.’
‘That is recommendation enough.’
Preben van Loew was, as usual, first to arrive at work. Anne came in from her adjacent house to discuss plans for the day. She took a full and active part in the running of the business. The old Dutchman and his colleagues might make the hats, but it was Anne who often designed them and she was solely responsible for gathering all the orders and for ensuring delivery. When demand was especially pressing, she had even been known to take up needle and thread herself.
By the time her other employees drifted in, the discussion with Preben van Loew had ended. Her first task was to buy some new material for the shop. She went back into her house and put on her own hat before she was ready to leave. A dull thud at her front door made her turn. A figure flitted past her window but far too quickly to be identified. She was mystified.
Anne crossed to the door and opened it tentatively. There was nobody there. Something then brushed against her dress. It was a large bunch of flowers in a wicker basket. She picked it up to inhale their fragrance. The scent was quite enchanting. Anne was moved by the unexpected present and she wondered who could have bestowed it on her.
The sender soon declared himself. Stepping around the corner of the street, Ambrose Robinson waved cheerily to her. His expression was apologetic and the flowers were clearly meant as some kind of peace offering. Accepting them as such, Anne replied with a grateful flick of her hand and a token smile. He grinned broadly before ducking out of sight again. She put the basket of flowers on a table without pausing to consider for a moment the real significance of the gift that she was taking into her house.
***
That was nobly done, Nick. No man could have handled it better.’
‘I wanted to be the one to break the sad tidings.’
‘Thank heaven that you were!’
‘Your presence was a help, Owen.’
‘I said almost nothing.’
‘You were there. That was enough. Mistress Applegarth drew strength from your sympathy.’
‘It was your compassion which sustained her. You delivered the roughest news in the most gentle way. She will ever be grateful to you for that.’
Owen Elias and Nicholas Bracewell had just left the home of Jonas Applegarth. It had fallen to the book holder to inform her that she was now a widow, and he had done so by suppressing all the gruesome details of her husband’s death. Neighbours had been brought in to sit with the woman until other members of the family could arrive to share the burden of the tragedy.
‘She is a brave woman,’ observed Owen. ‘She bore up well throughout that ordeal. It was almost as if she were expecting something like this to happen.’
‘I think she was. Jonas seemed to court destruction.’
‘Yes, Nick. The wonder is not that he is dead but that he lived for so long.’
Nicholas looked back at the house with deep sadness. ‘Jonas Applegarth was a playwright of distinction—we have not seen a finer at the Queen’s Head—but his talent was marred by a perversity in his nature. His work won him friends, yet he thrived on making enemies.’
‘One, in particular!’
‘I fear so.’
‘Let’s after him straight,’ urged Elias. ‘Now that we have done our duty by his widow, we must seek revenge. We know who the murderer was.’
‘Do we?’
‘Hugh Naismith. Late of Banbury’s Men.’
‘I think not.’
‘He has been stalking Jonas for days. You were there when Naismith hurled a dagger at him. And I dare swear that he followed us here last night.’
‘That does not make him our man, Owen.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he would not go to all the trouble of setting up a gallows at the Queen’s Head when he could dispatch his victim more easily with sword or dagger. You forget something.’
‘What is that?’
‘Naismith was injured in his duel with Jonas. How could a man with his arm in a sling haul up so heavy a load over a beam? It is not possible.’
‘It is if he had a confederate.’
‘I heard one Laughing Hangman, Owen, not two.’
‘Naismith had cause and means to kill Jonas.’
‘Granted,’ said Nicholas. ‘But what cause and means did he have to murder Cyril Fulbeck at the Blackfriars Theatre?’
‘The cause is plain enough, Nick.’
‘Is it?’
‘Fulbeck put those Chapel Children back on the stage to take the bread out of the mouths of honest actors. I am one with Hugh Naismith there. I’d happily wring the necks of those infant players myself and the man who put them there.’
‘You are wrong, Owen.’
‘It has to be Naismith.’
‘Never!’
‘Your reason?’
‘He was too obvious an enemy,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Jonas would be on his guard as soon as he saw the man. Naismith might have forged a letter to lure him to the Queen’s Head, but how did he entice him into our storeroom? The person who killed him was a man he did not fear. Remember the Master of the Chapel.’
‘Cyril Fulbeck?’
‘He also let someone get close enough to strike. A stranger would never have gained entry to Blackfriars.’
‘Then Naismith was not a stranger to him.’
‘He has no part in this, Owen.’
‘But he does,’ insisted the Welshman. ‘You saw a dagger aimed at Jonas’s back. Did that come out of thin air?’
‘No, it was thrown by an enemy. But not by our hangman.’
‘There are two villains here?’
‘Most certainly,’ said Nicholas, thinking it through. ‘One of them haunts the shadows and strikes from behind. The other is a more calculating killer. Why was Master Fulbeck hanged on his own stage? Why did Jonas have to be enticed to the Queen’s Head? There is method here, Owen. And it is way beyond anything that Hugh Naismith could devise.’
Elias nodded reluctantly. ‘You begin to persuade me. Haply, he is not our man.’ His ire stirred again. ‘But that does not rule him out as the street assassin. Naismith trailed Jonas and hurled that dagger at him.’
‘That may yet be true.’
‘It is, Nick. Let’s track him down and beat a confession out of him. Attempted murder must not go unpunished.’
‘Nor shall it. But you must pursue Naismith alone.’
‘And you?’
‘I must to the Coroner to sign a sworn statement of how the body of Jonas Applegarth came to be discovered. Nathan Curtis waits for me there. Then I’ll to the playhouse.’
‘The Curtain? The Theatre? The Rose?’
‘Blackfriars,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is where this riddle first started and where it will finally be solved.’
***
As the finger of guilt pointed at him once more, Edmund Hoode shut his eyes against its silent accusation. He only half-heard the argument that was raging nearby. Barnaby Gill and Lawrence Firethorn were sitting with him in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. Inflamed with drink, they locked horns.
‘Why was the performance canceled?’ demanded Gill.
‘Out of respect for the dead,’ said Firethorn.
‘I was not consulted.’
‘The decision was taken for us, Barnaby. Even you must see that. We could not stage a play in the yard while Jonas Applegarth was dangling from a beam in the storeroom.’
‘He was cut down and carted away hours ago.’
‘His mem
ory remains.’
‘I believe that you did this out of spite, Lawrence.’
‘Spite?’
‘Yes!’ screamed Gill, working himself up into a full tantrum. ‘Cupid’s Folly should have been played today. A piece tailored to my genius. Audiences clamour for it time and again. You tore it off the stage to spite me.’
‘That is madness!’
‘You know how I rule the roost in Cupid’s Folly. They adore me. They love to see my performance as Rigormortis.’
‘Why, so do I!’ said Firethorn with sarcasm. ‘I would give anything to look upon your rigor mortis.’
‘Spite!’
‘Go rot!’
‘The play was cancelled out of spite.’
‘Is that why Jonas Applegarth got himself hanged? In order to spite you? “Pray, good sir, put that noose around my neck so that I may aggravate Barnaby Gill.” Think of someone else for a change, man. Sigh for the loss of a friend. That is what Edmund does.’ He nudged the playwright hard. ‘Do you not?’
Hoode opened his eyes. ‘What’s that you say?’
‘You are in mourning for Jonas, are you not?’
‘Yes, Lawrence. I mourn and I repent. As God is my witness, I must speak honestly. I writhe with guilt.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wished the poor fellow dead.’
‘So did I and so did every man,’ said Gill. ‘Why deny it? We hated him. Jonas Applegarth was an earthquake in our midst. See how we shake at his passing.’
‘I would rather remember how the audience shook at his play,’ said Firethorn proudly. ‘They trembled with amazement at the sorcery of his imagination and shook with laughter at the sharpness of his wit. What use is theatre if it be not a two-hour earthquake? Why do the spectators come if not to feel the ground move beneath their feet?’
‘Lawrence is right,’ admitted Hoode. ‘Jonas Applegarth had the power to move mountains.’
‘Yes,’ snapped Gill. ‘He did that every time he opened his bowels. His buttocks were mountains indeed.’
‘Do not speak ill of the dead!’ chided Firethorn.
‘It is unjust,’ said Hoode. ‘In a moment of envy, I may have wished for his death, but I regret his passing now. He brought much to Westfield’s Men. Mark it well. A great value has gone out of our lives.’
‘He had whispers of genius,’ said Gill grudgingly. ‘I give him that. But he might have chosen another day to die. Cupid’s Folly is an appalling loss. I have seventeen magical moments in the play and he has robbed me of every one of them!’ He rose to his feet. ‘“Cruel death hath stolen my Rigormortis from me.”’
Quoting his lines from the play, he flounced off. Hoode poured them both more wine from the jug. Alexander Marwood came buzzing around them with his woes.
‘What am I to do? Where am I to go?’
‘As far out of my sight as you can,’ said Firethorn.
‘Murder was committed on my premises. Guests have fled. Spectators have stayed away. My serving-men and ostlers are too frightened to do their offices. My wife is distraught. My daughter had taken to her bed. I am dead, sirs.’
‘We’ll sing lustily at your funeral.’
‘I blame you, Master Firethorn.’
‘For what?’
‘Bringing that heathen among us,’ said the landlord. ‘His play all but caused an affray in my yard. Jonas Applegarth dared to mock God and the Almighty has given His reply. You should not have let that heathen befoul my yard with his irreverence!’
‘Let him rest in peace,’ said Hoode. ‘He is gone.’
‘And taken my livelihood with it!’
Marwood’s twitch suddenly broke out around his mouth and both lips trembled so dramatically that they looked like a pair of fluttering wings. His words were distorted into grunts and whines. It rescued them from further persecution and the landlord stole away, holding his mouth in both hands lest it take flight.
‘Which is worse?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Marwood with his twitch or Barnaby with his rigor mortis?’ He lifted his cup of wine. ‘Let’s drink to Jonas!’
‘I’ll say Amen to that!’ added Hoode.
‘We have lost a playwright but his play lives on. The Misfortunes of Marriage must be staged again in tribute.’
‘But not at The Rose next week.’
‘Are we to have that argument all over again?’
‘No, Lawrence,’ said Hoode, becoming more assertive. ‘The matter is settled. My new play will grace The Rose, as you promised. Choose another time for the tribute to Jonas Applegarth. I’ll not forfeit my right.’
There was a glint in his eye which forbade any further debate. Hoode was reaffirming his position in the company. Firethorn gave a nod of agreement, then leaned in close.
‘What is her name, Edmund?’
‘Whose name?’
‘This fairy princess who has waved a wand over you.’
‘I know of no fairies or wands.’
‘Come, sir. You talk to a master of the sport. I am a denizen of dark bedchambers. I know how a woman can make your blood race. Love has put this vigour into you. Some enchantress has stroked your manhood upright at last.’ He slipped an arm around Hoode. ‘Who is she?’
‘An invention of your mind.’
‘Am I never to meet this goddess?’
‘What goddess?’
‘Share her wonder with me.’
‘How can I?’ said Hoode, coolly. ‘She does not exist.’
‘Someone has put this new spirit into you.’
But Edmund Hoode would not be drawn. Cecily Gilbourne was a secret he would share with no-one. She had enlarged his mind and captured his soul. With her in his life, he felt, he could achieve anything. He recalled the one omission in her catalogue of his work.
‘When do we play Pompey again?’ he asked.
‘It has fallen out of our repertoire.’
‘Insert it back in, Lawrence.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I tell you. I, too, can make the earth quake on occasion, nowhere more so than in my tale of Pompey. See him put upon the stage once more. Those who remember him will welcome him back and he is sure to win fresh hearts.’
He thought of Cecily Gilbourne and smiled serenely.
***
Blackfriars Theatre brought a steady flow of spectators into the precinct. The reputation of the Chapel Children grew with each performance and the murder of their Master seemed to encourage interest rather than to deter it. Some came out of love for Cyril Fulbeck and others out of morbid curiosity, but the result was that the whole precinct was soon swarming with playgoers. Where the Dominican Order once held sway, Alexander the Great would now march in triumph.
Nicholas Bracewell arrived well before the performance was due to begin and loitered in the Great Yard to study the composition of the milling crowd. The audience differed markedly from that normally seen at the Queen’s Head. Westfield’s Men played to patrons drawn from every rank of society. Aristocrats, artisans and apprentices would share the same space as lawyers, landowners and local politicians. Merchants and mathematicians sat in the balcony while punks and pickpockets mingled with the standees in the pit.
Blackfriars had a more exclusive clientele. It was less a heterogeneous mix than a parade of sumptuary legislation. The laws designed to regulate the dress of men and women were strictly applied. Flashes of gold, silver and purple told Nicholas how many members of the hereditary peerage were present. Velvet denoted a large number of gentlemen and their ladies. Satin, damask, taffeta and grosgain spoke of the eldest sons of knights and all above that rank, or of an income of at least one hundred pounds per annum. And so it went on.
Since costume was such an important element of theatre and accuracy of detail vital, Nichola
s had a close acquaintance with the regulations, and he took wry amusement from the fact that gifts of old clothing to actors were one of the few permitted exceptions to the rules. A deeper irony often impressed itself upon him. Actors who struggled to make ten pounds a year would appear on stage in apparel worth far more than that. Popes and princes at the Queen’s Head were hired men who rubbed shoulders with poverty when they left it.
A face came out of the crowd to startle him. Nicholas had not expected to see James Ingram there. He was about to hail his colleague when he recalled the latter’s strange behavior beside the corpse of Jonas Applegarth. It had seemed so mean-spirited. What, in any case, was Ingram doing at the Queen’s Head so early? Was his sudden appearance in the storeroom coincidental? Nicholas stepped back out of sight as the actor went past, wondering if past loyalty had brought him to Blackfriars or if a more sinister motive was at work. Ingram would repay watching.
Waiting until the majority of the spectators had taken their places, he paid sixpence for a seat at the rear. Ingram was three rows in front of him but on a diagonal which allowed Nicholas a clear view of his profile. He did not dwell on it for long. His attention was captured by the splendour of the private playhouse. Shutters had been closed to block out the afternoon sun but the stage was ablaze with light. Candles burned in branched candelabra, many of them hanging and operated by pulleys. The auditorium itself was illumined by numerous small flames as well but full radiance was concentrated on the stage.
Musicians kept the audience entertained while they awaited the performance and Nicholas once again noted a stark contrast. Peter Digby and his consort inhabited a narrow balcony above the stage at the Queen’s Head, a cramped and windswept arena in which to practice their art. Their music had to complete with the jostling hubbub of the innyard, the strident yells of vendors selling refreshment and the relentless uproar of the adjacent Gracechurch Street.
Blackfriars was more benevolent to its musicians. Seated in complete comfort, they were given an attentive audience in a building that was designed to catch and amplify the beauty of their work. No raucous yells disturbed the concert, no violent quarrels broke out between onlookers. Music was able to create the perfect mood for the presentation of Alexander the Great.
The Laughing Hangman Page 17
