‘I will find out in time,’ he said confidently. ‘But you are wrong about him. Meek as he was, Cyril Fulbeck did make enemies. You introduced me to one of them in this very inn.’
She gave a sigh. ‘Ambrose Robinson.’
‘He would cheerfully have practised his butchery on the Master of the Chapel.’
‘That is not so.’
‘Your friend has too much anger swilling inside him.’
‘He has a temper but is learning to govern it.’
‘The wonder is that he has not descended on Blackfriars in a fit of rage and seized his son by force. How have you prevented him from doing so?’
‘I urged him to proceed by legal means. That is why I brought him to you, Nick. I hoped that you could help.’
‘I have tried, Anne.’
‘What have you found?’
Nicholas hesitated. Delighted to see her and touched by her concern for him, he was anxious not to provoke another quarrel. He took her hand and led her to a bench against the wall. They sat down together.
‘We parted unhappily the last time we met,’ he said.
‘That was as much my fault as ours.’
‘I was unmannerly with you, Anne.’
‘You could never be that.’
‘Too bold in my enquiries, then.’
‘They carried the weight of accusation,’ she explained. ‘That was what distressed me. Your tone was possessive.’
‘I can only beg forgiveness.’
‘You harassed me, Nick. I am not bounden to you. In my own house, I am entitled to make my own decisions.’
‘I accept that.’
‘To choose my own friends without first seeking your approval. Is that so unreasonable a demand?’
‘No, Anne,’ he conceded. ‘I am justly rebuked.’
‘I deserve some censure myself for being so harsh.’
‘The fault is mended.’
‘You were only drawn into this business because of me. I should have borne that in mind. You did not choose this situation. I did, Nick, and I was wrong to foist another man’s domestic problem on to you.’
‘I embrace it willingly if it makes us friends again.’
She smiled and kissed him softly on the cheek.
‘This you must know,’ she said quietly, ‘and then we may put it aside so that it does not come between us again. Ambrose Robinson is a kind and generous man. Thefts and damage to my property left me in difficulty. Many offered sympathy but he alone offered me the money I needed at that time. It saved me, Nick. It let me rebuild. I cannot forget that.’
‘Nor should you.’
‘It brought us close. When his son was taken into the Chapel Royal, he was distraught. I could not deny him my help. That brought us even closer. And yes, you were informed correctly, I have been to church with Ambrose—but only to pray beside him on my knees and not for any deeper reason.’
Nicholas took both comfort and regret from her words.
‘Why did you not confide your troubles in me, Anne?’
‘You were not there.’
‘And he was.’
‘Yes.’
He lowered his head in dismay. The thought that she had been in dire financial straits was upsetting, all the more so because he was unaware of her predicament. It was a disturbing reminder of how far apart they had drifted. If the butcher had come to her aid, the man deserved gratitude. Nicholas felt slightly ashamed. He squeezed her hand in apology.
‘My debt has been fully repaid,’ she continued. ‘I owe Ambrose nothing now. What I do for him, I do out of simple friendship for I would see him reunited with his son.’
‘That may prove difficult.’
‘You have looked further into it?’
‘The deed of impressment has the might of the law behind it. Philip Robinson belongs to the Chapel Royal.’
‘Can he not be released by any means?’
‘It seems not.’
‘Have you spoken again to Raphael Parsons?’
‘He is not the stumbling block,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor was he responsible for having the boy impressed. That was Cyril Fulbeck’s doing. He is now dead and the lad is answerable to the Assistant Master of the Chapel.’
‘But Master Parsons is the real tyrant here.’
‘Not so.’
‘He is the one who makes Philip’s life such an ordeal. He shouts at the boy, beats him and forces him to act upon the stage. He makes the whole company work from dawn till dusk without respite. It is cruel. Complain to him. Exert pressure there. Raphael Parsons is the problem.’
‘One problem, perhaps. But there is a bigger one.’
‘What is that?’
‘Philip Robinson himself.’
‘In what way?’
‘He enjoys being one of the Chapel Children.’
‘There is nothing he loathes more.’
‘I have seen the boy, Anne,’ Nick argued. ‘I watched him play in Alexander the Great this afternoon. He was a delight to behold. He acted well and sang beautifully, all with true zest. I tell you this. I would make Philip Robinson an apprentice with Westfield’s Men without a qualm. We will need a replacement for John Tallis now his voice has deepened into manhood. If he were not already ensconced at Blackfriars, the lad would be ideal.’
‘I find this hard to believe. Philip enjoys it?’
‘He has found his true profession.’
‘Then why are his letters so full of misery? Why does he rail at Raphael Parsons so? Why does Philip beg his father to come and rescue him from his imprisonment?’
‘He does none of these things, Anne.’
‘He does. I read his tales of woe and so did you.’
‘What we read were letters given to us by the father,’ said Nicholas. ‘We only have his word that they were written by his son. Ambrose Robinson has been a good neighbour to you and I respect him for that, but I beg leave to doubt his honesty. I believe that we have been misled.’
***
It was an unsatisfactory confessional box. The lane beside the Elephant in Shoreditch was too public for Owen Elias’s liking. Revellers kept arriving at the inn or tumbling out of it. Grabbing his quarry by the neck, therefore, Elias marched him through a maze of back streets until they found a small house which had collapsed in upon itself. The Welshman kicked Hugh Naismith into the ruins and made him sit on a pile of rubble.
‘Peace at last!’ said Elias. ‘Now—talk!’
‘I’ve done nothing to you,’ bleated Naismith.
‘You offend my sight. Apart from that, you have the stink of Banbury’s Men about you and that’s even more revolting. Tell me about Jonas Applegarth.’
A slow smile spread. ‘He’s dead. That’s why I went to the Elephant. To drink to his departure.’
‘Take care I do not drink to yours!’ warned Elias, still brandishing his dagger. ‘Jonas was a friend. Remember that if you wish to stay alive.’
‘He was no friend of mine.’
‘So I hear. You fought a duel. He bested you.’
‘Only by chance.’
‘He should have run you through like the dog you are.’
‘He gave me this,’ said Naismith, holding up the sling. ‘Banbury’s Men had no work for an actor with only one arm.’
‘Is that why you sought to kill Jonas?’
‘No!’
‘Is that why you threw a dagger at his back?’
‘I never did that!’
‘Do not lie to me or I’ll cut your mangy carcass to pieces and feed it to the crows. You stalked him, did you not?’
‘That I do admit,’ grunted Naismith.
‘You followed him home last night and ran away when I saw you. Do you adm
it that as well?’
‘Yes. It was me.’
‘Hoping for a chance to throw another dagger.’
‘No! That would have been too merciful a death. Jonas Applegarth deserved to be roasted slowly over a hot fire with an apple in his mouth like any other pig.’
‘Enough!’
Elias slapped him hard across the face and the man keeled over onto the ground. The Welshman knelt beside him.
‘Insult his memory again and you will join him.’
‘Stay, sir!’ pleased Naismith.
‘Then tell me the truth.’
‘I have done so. I despised Jonas Applegarth. I wanted him dead but lacked the opportunity to kill him.’
‘You mean, you hurled a dagger and it missed.’
‘How could I?’
Naismith help up his free hand. The bandage was now removed but the hand was still badly swollen and a livid gash ran from the wrist to the back of the forefinger.
‘I can hardly lift a tankard,’ he said bitterly. ‘How could I hope to throw a dagger? It was not me!’
Elias saw the truth of his denial. Naismith was not their would-be assassin. He had been watching Applegarth in order to feed his hatred of the man, waiting until his wounds healed enough for him strike back at his enemy.
‘Why did you fight the duel?’ asked Elias.
‘He challenged me.’
‘Something you said?’
‘And something I did not say,’ explained Naismith. ‘We played Friar Francis at The Curtain. It was a clever comedy but full of such sourness and savagery that it was not fit for the stage. I said as much and he took me to task. I hated the play. It bubbled like a witch’s brew. He cursed the whole world in it. Then came the performance itself.’
‘What happened?’
‘We were all at odds with Applegarth by then. He made Friar Francis a descent into Hell for us. Everyone swore to hit back at him but I alone had the courage.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I changed his lines.’
‘Jonas would not have liked that.’
‘Why speak such slander against mankind when it stuck so in my throat? I wrote my own speeches instead. They had less wit but far more sweetness.’
‘No wonder he wanted to cut your heart out!’
‘Jonas Applegarth put words in my mouth I simply could not say. What else could I do?’
But Elias was not listening. Convinced that Naismith did not throw the dagger at his friend’s back, he was already asking himself a question.
Who did?
***
Edmund Hoode ascended the staircase at the Unicorn with far more alacrity this time. Summoned that evening by another sketch of the fabled beast, he responded immediately. A day of mourning might yet be redeemed. Bereavement was dragging him down with his fellows. He had sighed enough for Jonas Applegarth. Sighs of a different order were now in prospect.
Only when he reached the landing did he stop to consider how little he really knew of Cecily Gilbourne. Was she married? A lady of her age and beauty was unlikely to have remained single. Was she widowed? Divorced even? And where did she live? In London or beyond? Alone or with her family? He winced slightly. Did she have children?
‘My mistress is ready for you, sir.’
The maidservant was holding the door of the chamber open for him. All his doubts melted away. Cecily Gilbourne was sublime. Her age, her marital status, her place of abode and her familial situation were irrelevant. It mattered not if she had three husbands, four houses and five children. She was evidently a lady of wealth and social position. More to the point, she was a woman of keen discernment where drama was concerned. One feature set her above every other member of her sex. Cecily Gilbourne was his.
Hoode entered the room to take possession of his prize.
‘You came!’ she said with a measure of surprise.
‘Nothing would have kept me away.’
‘Not even the death of a friend? The performance at the Queen’s Head was cancelled because of him. We were turned away. I feared that you would stay there to grieve for him.’
‘I would rather celebrate with you.’
‘That is what I hoped.’
There was nothing enigmatic about her smile now. It was frank and inviting. Cecily Gilbourne was dressed in a subtle shade of green which matched the colour of her eyes. Perched on a chair near the window, she wore no hat and no gloves. He noted that a single gold band encircled the third finger of her left hand. Seeing his interest, she glanced down at the ring with a wan smile.
‘I was married at seventeen,’ she explained sadly. ‘My husband was a soldier and a statesman. He was killed in action at the Siege of Rouen. No children blessed our union. I have only this to keep his memory bright.’
‘I see.’
‘Have you been married, Edmund?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘It is something which should happen when you are very young, as I was, or very old, as I will be before I consider a second marriage. A husband should provide either excitement for your youth or companionship for your dotage.’
‘What may I provide for you, Cecily?’
‘You give me all that I need.’
Another candid smile surfaced and she beckoned him over to sit close to her. Hoode was enraptured. The hideous murder at the Queen’s Head that morning was not even a distant echo in his mind. The Laughing Hangman had been obliterated by the smiling inamorata.
‘I spoke with Lawrence Firethorn,’ he told her.
‘About me?’
‘Indirectly. I wanted to fill the one gap in your knowledge of me. You have not seen my Pompey and so I instructed him to put it back on the stage soon for your delectation. It is a work in which I take much pride. Pompey the Great has a true touch of greatness.’
‘Then my delight is assured. And your new play?’
‘The Faithful Shepherd will be seen at The Rose next week,’ he said, beaming. ‘I insisted that it was. With your permission, I will write a sonnet in praise of you, to be inserted cunningly in one of the longer speeches so that its true meaning may be disguised from the common herd.’
‘Can this be done without corrupting your tale?’
‘It will enhance it, Cecily. My play is partly set on the island of Sicily, allowing me to conjure endlessly with your magical name. I’ll move the action from midsummer’s night to St Cecilia’s Day to give my fancy even more scope and pen you fourteen lines of the purest poetry ever heard on a stage. Will this content you?’
‘Beyond measure.’
‘Look for pretty conceits and clever rhymes.’
‘I will savour the prettiness of the conceits but I do not look to find a rhyme that is half so clever as this before us.’
‘What rhyme is that?’
‘Why, Cecily and Edmund. Can two words fit more snugly together than that? Edmund and Cecily. They agree in every particular. Set them apart and neither can stand for much on its own. Put them together, seal them tight, lock them close in a loving embrace and they defy the laws of sound and language. Edmund and Cecily. Is that not the apotheosis of rhyme?’
‘They blend together most perfectly into one.’
‘Edmund!’
‘Cecily!’
No more words were needed.
***
Nicholas Bracewell escorted her back over London Bridge and on to Bankside. It was pleasant to have Anne Hendrik on his arm again and it rekindled memories for both of them. The long walk was far too short for them to exchange all the information they would have wished, but he now had a much clearer idea of the life she had been living since their separation, and she, for her part, filled in many blank pages of his own recent history.
Anne invited h
im into her home for some refreshment before he journeyed back. Over a glass of wine, they let nostalgia brush seductively against them.
‘Have you missed me?’ she asked.
‘Painfully.’
‘How did you cope with that pain?’
‘I worked, Anne. There is a dignity in that.’
‘That was also my escape.’
‘Westfield’s Men have kept me busier than ever. I was able to lose myself in my work and keep my mind from straying too often to you and to this house.’
‘Did you never think of straying here in person?’
‘Daily.’
She laughed lightly, then her face clouded over.
‘I worried deeply about you, Nick.’
‘Why?’
‘Westfield’s Men thrust too much upon you. The burden would break a lesser man. Yet still they ask for more from their book holder. It is unfair.’
‘I do not complain.’
‘That is your failing. They will overload you and you will not raise your voice in protest. You always put the company first.’
‘Westfield’s Men are my family. Without them, I would be an orphan. That is why I always seek to advance them. And why I rush to defend them, as I do in this instance.’
‘What instance?’
‘The murder of Jonas Applegarth,’ he said. ‘It was no random killing. Only one man died, but the whole company will suffer as a result. That was the intention. Victim and place were selected with deep guile.’ He made to leave. ‘Our Laughing Hangman wants to strangle Westfield’s Men as well.’
‘Why?’
‘He keeps his reason private.’
‘Take care,’ she said, moving close. ‘For my sake.’
‘I will.’
After a brief kiss, he forced himself to leave. The temptation to linger was almost overwhelming, but Nicholas resisted it. A year’s absence could not be repaired in a single evening. Anne’s feelings towards him had changed slightly and he could no longer trust his own promptings. They needed time to find more common ground.
Other commitments took priority over Anne Hendrik. Only when two murders had been solved and the fate of a chorister had been decided could he feel free to renew his friendship with her, properly and at leisure.
The Laughing Hangman Page 19
