The Laughing Hangman

by Edward Marston

  Additional light flooded the acting area as fresh candelabra were brought in and set in position. All eyes were trained on the stage without distraction. Martial music played and the Prologue entered to a burst of applause. The attack began after only half a dozen lines:

  Monstrous body with the Head of a Queen,

  A maggot-filled apple, so sour and so green,

  A running sewer of repulsive jest

  Besmearing grass in the field to the west.

  Nicholas was stung by the jibe at Westfield’s Men, but it was the sustained assault on the character and work of Jonas Applegarth which really offended him. Tasteless enough while the playwright was alive, it was disgusting when aimed at a victim of murder. Nicholas told himself that those who laughed at the vicious abuse were unaware of the fate of the man at whom it was aimed, but that did not ease his mind.

  His acerbic mockery of child actors had set Applegarth up for a counter-blast. Nicholas accepted that. But while his had been a general satire on despised rivals, the playwright was now suffering a vindictive onslaught of the most personal kind. Every aspect of his appearance, his plays, his opinions and his alleged atheism was held up to ridicule. Nicholas could almost see the man, dangling from a rope in the middle of the stage while he was pelted with rotting fruit and sharp stones.

  Alexander the Great stormed onto the stage with his entourage and the tale of heroism began. Military prowess and stirring poetry wiped out the Prologue for everyone else, but it wriggled like a tiny worm in Nicholas’s brain. The play itself was a skilful drama, yet it lacked any of the sheer power which had made the work of Jonas Applegarth so compelling and controversial.

  Ideal for Blackfriars, the piece would not have survived on the stage at the Queen’s Head. Its language was too high-flown, its action too stylised and its moral judgements too oblique. Much of its political commentary would have been incomprehensible to the standees and there was none of the earthy humour with which even the most serious plays in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men was liberally salted. The greatness of Alexander did not extend to a sense of humour.

  At the same time, it was an instructive experience. As a member of one theatre troupe, Nicholas rarely had the opportunity to view the work of the others. Adult companies were scathing in their dismissal of juvenile actors, but he now saw how unfair that attitude was. The Chapel Children deserved to be taken seriously. They were worthy rivals to Westfield’s Men and had one supreme advantage over them. While a typical season at the Queen’s Head would last at most for five months, the Blackfriars company could perform for twelve. In the interests of commercial gain, and regardless of the pressure on his actors, Raphael Parsons would keep the theatre open for the whole year.

  Alexander the Great showed the strengths and exposed the weaknesses of the Chapel Children. They spoke the verse well, they sang superbly and they moved with the grace of dancers. What they lacked was physical presence and this was a failing in a play about recurring warfare. Battles were described in soaring language by children who did not look strong enough to carry spears, let alone to wear full armour. Older members of the company bore the principal roles with honour but there were occasional sniggers as the mighty Alexander entered with an army of boy soldiers.

  Two things impressed Nicholas above all else. The first was the clear evidence of the manager’s rich abilities. Whatever the defects of his character, Raphael Parsons had a flair for theatrical presentation. His cast was well drilled, his use of scenic devices was masterly and he brought off some stunning dramatic effects. Control of light was a feature of the performance. Candles were whisked on in profusion to create the sun-baked deserts of Persia, then removed in a flash to leave Alexander’s tent in virtual darkness for a dream sequence. As the play moved faultlessly on, one book holder admired the work of his counterpart behind the scenes.

  The other striking feature was the performance given by Philip Robinson. Dressed as a Greek goddess, he wafted in and out of the action with ethereal charm. Three songs were allotted to him, each sung in the most sweet and affecting voice. Enjoyment shone out of the boy. Nicholas wondered if this Greek goddess really did wish to return to family life with a heavy-handed butcher in Bankside.

  The final scene was the best. Having used all the stage equipment with consummate skill, Parsons saved the most arresting moment until the end. As life slowly ebbed away from the dying Alexander, a silver cloud descended from above with the goddess reclining in front of it. High above the stage, Philip Robinson declaimed a valedictory tribute to the great commander. Light slowly faded on his epic career.

  While the audience was profoundly moved, Nicholas was shocked. The winch used to lower Philip Robinson was the one which had hauled Cyril Fulbeck up to his death.

  An ovation greeted the cast as they came out to take their bows and several spectators rose to their feet in salute. When they began to file out of the theatre, nothing but praise was heard on every side. Nicholas waited until he reached the Great Yard before he accosted James Ingram.

  ‘Nick!’ Ingram said. ‘I did not look to find you here.’

  ‘It was a temptation too big to resist.’

  ‘They acquitted themselves well, I feel, though they would fare better with a better play. Boys make wonderful goddesses but sorry soldiers.’

  ‘Why did you come?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Out of interest.’

  ‘Interest or envy?’

  ‘Both, Nick.’

  ‘There is certainly much to interest.’

  ‘But even more to envy. Just think what we could do with that winding-gear at the Queen’s Head. And that scenery! Jonas was so wrong in his attack on the children’s companies. So wrong and so vilely unfair.’

  ‘What did you think of the reply?’

  ‘In the Prologue?’

  ‘Was not that vilely unfair?’

  ‘No,’ said Ingram evenly. ‘Jonas deserved it.’

  Before Nicholas could discuss it further, the actor wheeled away and was soon lost in the crowd. It was abrupt behavior for a man who was unfailingly polite as a rule. The book holder was not left alone for long.

  ‘I see that we have a spy in our midst.’

  ‘Merely another spectator.’

  ‘Our spectators do not come to sneer.’

  ‘Nor more did I. There was much to admire.’

  ‘I cannot say the same of Westfield’s Men.’

  Raphael Parsons was circling the Great Yard to garner praise and eavesdrop on opinion. He gazed around with a proprietary air and spoke to Nicholas over his shoulder.

  ‘I wonder that you could spare the time, sir.’

  ‘You advised me to come.’

  ‘Not with any expectation of a response,’ said Parsons. ‘Should you not have been at the Queen’s Head this afternoon to prop up that rabble of actors?’

  ‘I should have been there, it is true.’

  ‘Then why did you choose Blackfriars instead? And why did you not bring Jonas Applegarth with you so that we could throw his insults back in his teeth?’

  ‘Jonas, I fear, is dead.’

  Parsons turned to him in surprise. It quickly shaded into a pleasure that was fringed with disappointment.

  ‘Then the rogue has escaped me, has he?’

  ‘Not by design,’ said Nicholas. ‘Jonas was murdered at the Queen’s Head early this morning. Hanged from a beam.’

  ‘Hanged? Was there a rope strong enough?’

  ‘A rope strong enough and a killer determined enough. We have seen his handiwork here at Blackfriars.’

  Parsons blinked. ‘You believe it to be the same man?’

  ‘I am convinced of it.’

  ‘Then he is enemy and friend in one.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I hate him for what he did to Cyril Fu
lbeck but I love him for the way he dealt with Jonas Applegarth.’

  ‘You dealt cruelly enough with him yourself.’

  ‘He invited it.’

  ‘The dead invite respect.’

  ‘True,’ said Parsons. ‘But when I commissioned that Prologue to Alexander the Great, I thought he would be alive to hear of it. How was I to know that he would be dead?’

  ‘And if you had known?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you had been made aware of his death,’ said Nicholas, ‘would you have removed that offensive attack in your Prologue?’

  Parsons grinned. ‘By no means. I’d have called for a few more couplets to celebrate the happy event.’

  Nicholas struggled to control a powerful urge to strike him. The manager stood his ground, almost inciting some form of violence so that he could bring an action for assault against the book holder. A former lawyer would assuredly win any legal battle and penalise him severely. Nicholas held back. Delight danced in the other man’s eyes. He was taking such pleasure in the death of Jonas Applegarth that Nicholas began to wonder if he might not have been directly involved in it. The egregious manager certainly hated the playwright enough to kill him. Had the surprise he expressed at the news been real or feigned?

  Still grinning broadly, Parsons moved away to collect more congratulations from members of the audience. There was a blend of arrogance and obsequiousness about him which was unpleasant to watch. He was alternately boasting and bowing with mock humility. When a generous compliment was paid to him by a lady, Parsons let out a high laugh of gratitude. It made Nicholas prick up his ears. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have heard that sound before.

  Speculation was not enough. It was time to support it with evidence, and he was in the correct place to begin the search. The audience was fast dispersing and Ireland Yard was all but empty when he reached it. Starting at the first house on the left, he knocked hard and waited for the servant to open the door.

  ‘Is Master Parsons at home?’ he asked politely.

  ‘There is no Master Parsons here, sir.’

  ‘Does Raphael Parsons not live at this address?’

  ‘I have never heard the name.’

  It was a painstaking process, but Nicholas stuck to his task until he had been to every house. Several of the residents did not even know him. Of those who did, a number were resentful of the fact that he ran a theatre in the precinct and thus disturbed their peace. Nicholas found no close friends of Raphael Parsons. Where, then, had the man been at the time when Cyril Fulbeck was killed?

  He was deep in meditation when a figure came around the corner towards him. He threw the woman a half-glance and let her go past before he realised that he knew her.

  ‘Mistress Hay!’ he called.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, turning around. ‘Good-day, sir.’

  He could see from her expression that she did not recognise him, largely because she was too shy to look at his face properly. He walked over to her.

  ‘I am Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I called at your house to speak to your husband.’

  She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘Have you been to the play at the theatre?’

  ‘God forbid, sir!’

  ‘Then what are you doing in Blackfriars?’ he asked.

  ‘Visiting old friends. I was born and brought up here.’

  ‘In the precinct?’

  ‘Around the corner,’ she explained, pointing a hand. ‘My father was a bookseller. That is how Caleb and I…how my dear husband and I first met. He came into the shop to buy books and prints.’ A timid enthusiasm flickered. ‘He is such a learned man. Nobody in London knows as much about the history of the city as my husband. I am married to a genius. How many women can say that, sir?’

  ‘Very few, Mistress Hay. Your husband has been kind and helpful to me. I am grateful.’

  Anxiety pinched her. ‘I must return home now. He will be expecting me back. I must be there for him.’

  ‘Your father was a bookseller, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Mompesson. Andrew Mompesson. I must go.’

  ‘Adieu!’

  Nicholas waved her off and watched her shuffle along with her shoulders hunched and her head down. Joan Hay was a woman whose whole purpose in life was to obey her husband’s bidding. A bookseller’s daughter was an ideal helpmeet for him.

  ‘Mompesson,’ repeated Nicholas. ‘Andrew Mompesson.’

  He had a vague feeling that he knew the name.

  ***

  Hugh Naismith used his free arm to lift the tankard and drain the last of his ale. It was good to be back in the Elephant again and to share in the banter with his old friends from Banbury’s Men, even though he was no longer a member of the company. His wounded arm would heal in time and he would be fit for employment again. Meanwhile, he could cadge a few drinks from Ned Meares and his other fellows.

  When he got to his feet, he swayed slightly and bade his farewells. Meares and the others sent him on his way with shouts and laughs. It was early evening when Naismith came reeling out of the inn, adjusting the sling around his neck. His lodging was only a few streets away but he did not get much closer to it.

  As soon he passed the lane beside the Elephant, a strong hand reached out to grab him by his jerkin and swing him hard against a wall. All the breath was taken out of him and his wounded arm was jarred. The point of a dagger pricked his throat and made him jerk back his head in terror.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ he begged. ‘I have no money!’

  ‘That’s not what I want,’ growled a voice.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend of Jonas Applegarth’s.’

  ‘That rogue!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias. ‘That rogue.’

  He let the blade of his weapon caress the man’s neck.

  ‘Tell me why you tried to kill him.’

  Chapter Ten

  An air of gloom hung over the Queen’s Head like a pall. The murder of Jonas Applegarth changed a haven of conviviality into a murmuring tomb. There was desultory movement in the yard with few guests seeking a bed for the night once they heard about the crime on the premises. The atmosphere in the taproom was funereal. Westfield’s Men sat over their ale with a sense of foreboding. Superstitious by nature, they were convinced that a curse had descended on their company and that a violent death presaged an even worse catastrophe.

  Alexander Marwood was in his element. A man whose whole life was agitated by imaginary disasters now had a real one to make him truly despondent. Revelling in his misery, he circled his premises like a lost soul, chanting a monologue of black despair and pausing each time outside the storeroom where the horror had occurred to wonder if it should be exorcised, boarded up or torn down completely. Partnership with a theatre company had visited many tribulations upon his undeserving head but this, he felt, was easily the worst. The ghost of Jonas Applegarth would haunt him for ever.

  When Nicholas returned from Blackfriars, the landlord was still perambulating the yard with enthusiastic grief. He swooped on the book holder at once, bony fingers sinking into his arm like the talons of a bird of prey.

  ‘Why have you done this to me?’ he groaned.

  ‘It was not deliberate.’

  ‘My trade blighted, my womenfolk prostrated, my happiness snatched away! Ruination, sir!’

  ‘A cruel twist of Fate,’ said Nicholas. ‘Westfield’s Men cannot be blamed. You must see that.’

  ‘Who brought that heretic to the Queen’s Head? Who staged his blasphemy in my yard? Who permitted him to fetch the wrath of the Lord down on my inn?’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth was a brilliant playwright.’r />
  ‘His brilliance has destroyed me!’

  ‘It cost him his own life, certainly,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘Had he not written The Misfortunes of Marriage, he would still be with us. It was too powerful a piece for its own good. Someone was deeply offended by it.’

  ‘Yes!’ howled Marwood. ‘God Almighty!’

  ‘Jonas was killed by a human hand. I can vouch for that.’

  Another torrent of self-pity gushed from the landlord but it washed harmlessly over the book holder. He was diverted by the sight of the woman who had just come hurrying in through the archway of the yard. Detaching himself from Marwood, he ran to greet Anne Hendrik. There was a spontaneous embrace. She hugged him with relief.

  ‘I am so glad to see you safe, Nick!’

  ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘The grim tidings,’ she explained. ‘I met with Nathan Curtis as he was returning home to Bankside. He told me of the murder here this morning and I had to come. I feared for you.’

  ‘But I am in no danger, Anne.’

  ‘If you pursue a killer, you must be. He has two victims already. Do not become the third, I beg you. Nathan told me how determined you were to avenge this death. Why put yourself in such peril?’

  Nicholas soothed her as best he could, then led her across to the tiring-house, unlocking it with his key to give them some privacy. As they stepped into the room, Nicholas felt a pang of remorse. Jonas Applegarth had been hanged in the adjoining chamber and his unquiet spirit hovered over the whole building.

  ‘Nathan was still trembling at what he saw.’

  ‘It was a grisly sight indeed. The mere thought of it has thrown the company into chaos. Jonas Applegarth was one of us.’

  ‘Why was he murdered?’

  ‘To silence his voice.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘He was a man of strong opinions, who used his art to express them and his wit to belabour his enemies. Jonas was killed for something that he wrote.’

  ‘But what of Cyril Fulbeck?’ she asked. ‘Did you not tell Nathan that he was killed by the same fell hand? The Master of the Chapel was a gentle man with quiet opinions. He made no enemies. Why was his voice silenced?’