The Laughing Hangman

by Edward Marston

  Instead of crossing the bridge, he walked down to the river to hail a boat. It felt good to be back on the water again and he let a hand trail over the stern like a rudder. His boatman rowed hard. Thames Street drifted slowly towards them. When he landed, Nicholas went straight to the house of a friend.

  ‘I will not take much of your time.’

  ‘Come in, come in, sir,’ said Caleb Hay.

  ‘I feel guilty at dragging you away from your history.’

  ‘It will wait, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘How many hours a day do you spend working on it?’

  ‘Not enough, not enough.’

  Caleb Hay looked weary. He rubbed his eyes to dispel some of the fatigue and conducted Nicholas into his parlour. His wife had answered the door, but he had come down from his study when he heard the name of the visitor. Joan Hay crept nervously away to leave the two men alone.

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Hay. ‘How may I help this time?’

  ‘In a number of ways. You were, I believe, a scrivener.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘How did you discover your aptitude for history?’

  ‘In the course of my work. A scrivener spends much of his time copying documents of various kinds. I was fortunate enough to be commissioned to make fair copies of ancient records in the Tower of London. It was an inspiration. From that moment on, I knew what my life’s work would be.’

  ‘Were you ever called upon to write letters?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘Of what kind?’

  ‘All kinds. Most of London is illiterate. If people need to send an important letter, they will often dictate it to a scrivener. We are like parish priests. We hear a man’s most intimate thoughts.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Letters of love were my special joy. You have no idea how many times I ravished beautiful women with my quill. I must have seduced a hundred or more on paper. I knew the tricks and the turn of phrase.’

  ‘Could you always tell the hand of a scrivener?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By the neatness of his calligraphy,’ he said. ‘And by a dozen other smaller signs. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I read some letters from a boy to his father on a matter of some consequence. I took them at face value and the father is eager for me to do so. But I now suspect that the lad did not write them at all.’

  ‘Bring one to me and I’ll tell you for sure.’

  ‘If I can contrive it, I will.’

  ‘How old is the boy?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Then we have a certain guide,’ said Hay blithely. ‘I’ve taught many lads of that age to hold a pen. I know what an eleven-year-old hand can do.’ He cocked his head to one side to peer at Nicholas. ‘But is this not a trivial affair for so serious as man as yourself? When my wife told me you were here, I thought you’d come for more advice to help you catch the man who murdered Cyril Fulbeck.’

  ‘There is a connection.’

  ‘I fail to see it.’

  ‘The boy is a chorister in the Chapel Royal. Against the express wishes of his father, he was taken there by deed of impressment at the behest of Master Fulbeck.’

  ‘I begin to understand.’

  ‘What distresses him most is that his son spends much of his time at Blackfriars as a child actor. The father is demanding his release, but to no avail.’

  Hay’s face darkened. ‘Then we have one suspect before us. What father would not feel ready to commit a murder in such a case? Might not this same parent be the fellow who killed Cyril Fulbeck?’

  ‘He might well be,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but I think that it is unlikely. And I am certain that he is not guilty of the other hanging.’

  ‘There has been a second?’ gasped the old man.

  ‘This morning. At the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘What poor wretch has died this time?’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth.’

  ‘Ah!’ His tone became neutral. ‘The playwright. I will not speak harshly of any man on his way to the grave. But I cannot pity him so readily as I do the Master of the Chapel. And this Applegarth was hanged, you say?’

  ‘In the same manner. By the same hand.’

  ‘But why? What is the link between them?’

  ‘It is there somewhere.’

  ‘One was a saint, the other a sinner.’

  ‘Our hangman treated them with equal savagery.’

  ‘The animal must be caught!’

  Hay moved away and rested a hand against the wall while he stared into the empty fireplace. He was lost in contemplation for a few minutes. Nicholas waited. His host eventually looked over at him.

  ‘I am sorry, I am sorry. My mind wandered.’

  ‘It is gruesome news. Anyone would be jolted.’

  ‘How else may I help you, sir?’

  ‘Does your history of London touch on its inns?’

  ‘In full detail,’ said Hay, brightening. ‘They are one of the splendours of the city and I give them their due.’

  ‘Will the Queen’s Head be mentioned?’

  ‘It would be a crime to omit it. The history of that inn would fill a book on its own. Such a landmark in Gracechurch Street. Do you know when it was first built?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I would love to hear.’

  Caleb Hay launched himself into another impromptu lecture, taking his guest on a tour through almost two hundred years. His account faltered when he reached the point where Westfield’s Men entered the action, and Nicholas cut him short.

  ‘That was astonishing,’ he complimented. ‘I have worked at the Queen’s Head for years but you have revealed aspects of it which I have never even noticed.’

  ‘The scholar’s eye.’

  ‘You certainly have that. It showed in your sketch of Blackfriars. That has been a godsend to me.’ Nicholas walked to the door and threw a casual remark over his shoulder. ‘It is strange that you did not mention your personal interest in the precinct.’

  ‘Personal interest?’

  ‘Your wife grew up there, I believe.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Hay with a chuckle, ‘that is true but hardly germane. Her father was a bookseller there, but he died years ago. How did you come by this intelligence?’

  ‘From your wife herself. We met in Ireland Yard.’

  ‘She was visiting old friends.’

  ‘So she informed me.’

  Caleb Hay opened the door to usher him out. He gave Nicholas an encouraging pat on his arm.

  ‘Work hard to catch Cyril Fulbeck’s killer.’

  ‘He also murdered Jonas Applegarth.’

  ‘You must sing the Requiem Mass for him. I will not. The Master of the Chapel is the loss I suffer. He was a dear friend. Do you know why?’ He gave another chuckle. ‘Here is something else that slipped my old mind. Cyril Fulbeck not only assisted my researches in Blackfriars. He rendered me a more important service than that.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hay, easing him out into the street. ‘He once had me released from prison.’

  Nicholas found the door closed politely in his face.

  ***

  Anne Hendrik went through into the adjoining premises to check that all doors were securely locked. The shop was kept in meticulous condition because Preben van Loew believed that cleanliness was next to godliness and that an ordered workplace was a Christian virtue. He would certainly have closed the shutters and bolted the doors before leaving, but Anne still felt the need to see for herself. In the wake of the thefts from her property, she had become more conscious of the need to protect both house and shop.

  When she went back through into her parlour, she saw that her servant had admitted a vis
itor. Ambrose Robinson was in his best apparel. His hands had been thoroughly scrubbed to rid of them of the smell of his trade. His expression was apologetic, his manner docile.

  Anne was not pleased to see him but she suppressed her feelings behind a smile of welcome. She indicated the basket of flowers standing on a table.

  ‘Thank you, Ambrose. A kind thought.’

  ‘It was the least I could do.’

  ‘Their fragrance fills the room.’

  ‘And so does yours!’ he said with heavy-handed gallantry. ‘You are a flower among women.’

  Anne shuddered inwardly. She hoped that she had heard the last of his clumsy compliments but he was back again with more. Robinson inclined his head penitentially.

  ‘I have come from church,’ he said.

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘I went to pray for forgiveness. On my knees, I can think more clearly. I saw the error of my deeds. After the way I left this house, I have no right to be allowed back into it. You should bar the door against me.’

  ‘Let us forget what happened,’ she suggested.

  ‘I cannot do that, Anne. My disgrace is too heavy to be shrugged off so easily. I sought forgiveness in church but I also appealed for guidance. My ignorance is profound. I blunder through life. I revile myself for the way that I hurt those I cherish most. When my intentions are good, why are my actions often so bad?’

  He sounded quite sincere but she remained on her guard.

  ‘You will find me a changed man,’ he promised.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I will be a true friend and not an angry suitor. I offer you my humblest apologies, Anne. Please accept them.’

  ‘I do.’ There was a pause. ‘With thanks.’

  ‘And I will say the same to Nick Bracewell.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For mistrusting him. For abusing the man behind his back when I should be overcome with gratitude. What does Ambrose Robinson mean to him? Nothing! Why should he care about my dear son, Philip? No reason! Yet he has undertaken to help me with a free heart. That is kindness indeed.’

  ‘Nick responded to my entreaty.’

  ‘There is my chiefest source of shame,’ he said, lifting his eyes to look at her. ‘You, Anne. You took me to him. You engaged Nick Bracewell on my behalf. You did all this, then had to suffer my foul abuse of your friend.’

  ‘It was uncalled for, Ambrose.’

  ‘You are right to chide me.’

  ‘I will not tolerate another outburst like that,’ she warned him. ‘Master your anger or my door will be barred to you. Wild accusation has no part in friendship.’

  ‘I know, I know. My rudeness is only exceeded by my gross stupidity. I love my son and would move Heaven and Earth to get him back. Yet what do I do? Carp and cavil. Malign the one man who may help me.’

  ‘The one man?’

  ‘Let us be frank,’ he said with rancour. ‘The law fails me. Were Philip the son of a gentleman, the case could go to court with some chance of success. Since he is only the child of a butcher, he is beyond salvation. That deed of impressment is a set of chains.’ He took a step towards her. ‘That is why we must work by other means. We must trust Nick Bracewell to insinuate himself into Blackfriars and use persuasion to set Philip free. Why did I dare to censure him? Nick is our only hope.’

  Anne was in a quandary. She wanted Philip Robinson released from the Chapel Royal, partly because she believed that father and son should be together and partly because she felt that the boy’s return would liberate her from the now irksome attentions of the butcher. A new factor had come into her calculations. Should she remain silent or should she confront Ambrose Robinson with it?

  His earnest enquiry forced her to make a decision.

  ‘Has there been further word from Nick?’ he asked.

  ‘I spoke with him at length.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He visited Blackfriars this afternoon,’ she said, ‘and watched a play there. Philip was in the cast.’

  ‘Dressed up as a woman, no doubt! Wearing a wig and daubing his face with powder! Strutting around the stage like a Bankside harlot for any man to ogle!’ He scowled at her. ‘I want my son to grow into a man. They do him wrong to force him into female attire. Philip detests it.’

  ‘That was not Nick’s impression.’

  ‘He despises every moment of it.’

  ‘Yet he gave a fine performance, it seems.’

  ‘Under duress.’

  ‘Of his own volition.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Nick loves the theatre. He spends every waking moment in the company of actors. When he admires a performance, he knows what lies behind it. I trust his judgement.’ She inhaled deeply before confronting him. ‘Your son enjoys working in the theatre. Nick says he has decided flair.’

  ‘Blackfriars is a torture chamber for Philip.’

  ‘That may not be so.’

  ‘It is so. I know my son.’

  ‘Nick has seen him on the stage—you have not.’

  ‘The shame would be too much for me!’

  ‘Philip was a most willing actor this afternoon.’

  ‘Then why does he beg me to rescue him!’ said Robinson with mounting rage. ‘Why does he plead so in every letter that he sends me? You saw his pain, Anne, you saw his misery. Were those the letters of a boy who is happy?’

  ‘No, Ambrose.’

  ‘Then why did he write them? Let Nick answer that.’

  ‘He has,’ she said levelly. ‘He does not believe that Philip sent those letters at all. They were written by someone else. Is that not so?’

  Ambrose Robinson fell silent. He looked deeply hurt and betrayed. His fists bunched, his body tensed, and he began to breathe stertorously through his nose. Eyes narrowing, he glared at her with a mixture of animosity and wounded affection. Anne took a step backwards. She was suddenly afraid of him.

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell returned to the Queen’s Head once more. As he turned into the yard, he heard the familiar voice of Owen Elias.

  ‘So I told Barnaby that I’d translate Cupid’s Folly into Welsh for him so that he could take it on a tour of the Principality and play to an audience of sheep!’

  Appreciative guffaws came from the knot of actors around the speaker. When Nicholas came up, he saw with a shock that it was not Elias at all. James Ingram had been diverting his fellows with an impersonation of their Welsh colleague. It was the accuracy of his mimicry which had produced the laughter.

  The mirth faded when they saw Nicholas. Actors who should have been mourning the death of Jonas Applegarth looked a little shamefaced at being caught at their most raucous. They slunk quietly away, leaving Ingram alone to talk with the book holder.

  ‘You are a cunning mimic,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Harmless fun, Nick. Nothing more.’

  ‘Does Owen know that he has a twin brother?’

  ‘He’d slaughter me if he did,’ said Ingram. ‘It was an affectionate portrait of him, but Owen would not thank the artist.’ He became remorseful. ‘But I am glad that we meet again. I was brusque and unmannerly at Blackfriars. You deserved better from me. I have no excuse.’

  ‘Let it pass, James.’

  ‘It will not happen again.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Nicholas. ‘But you have still not told me what brought you to the Queen’s Head so early this morning.’

  ‘Eagerness. Nothing more.’

  ‘It does not often get you here ahead of your fellows.’

  ‘It did today.’

  ‘Why did you come into the storeroom?’

  ‘The door of the tiring-house was open. I wondered who was here. Nathan Curtis was in the storeroom with the body
. I got there only seconds before you returned.’

  Ingram spoke with his usual open-faced honesty and Nicholas had no reason to doubt him. The tension between the two of them had gone completely. The book holder was glad. Fond of the actor, he did not want a rift between them.

  ‘Let’s into the taproom,’ he suggested.

  ‘Not me, Nick,’ said the other pleasantly. ‘It is too full of reminiscence about Jonas Applegarth for me. You know my feelings there. I would be out of place.’

  They exchanged farewells and Ingram left the innyard.

  The atmosphere in the taproom had lightened considerably. Members of the company sat in a corner and traded maudlin memories of the dead man, but most of the customers were only there to drink and gamble. Laughter echoed around the room once more and the serving-men were kept busy. Alexander Marwood could never be expected to smile, but his despair was noticeably less fervent than before.

  Nicholas joined the table at which Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias sat. Both had been drinking steadily. They called for an extra tankard and poured the newcomer some ale from their jug.

  ‘Thank heaven you’ve come, Nick!’ said Elias.

  ‘Yes,’ added Firethorn. ‘We are in such a morass of self-pity that we need you to pull us out. Marwood still swears we have performed our last play in his yard.’

  ‘He has done that often before,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we always return to confound his prediction. Tomorrow is Sunday and our stage would in any case stand empty. That will make our landlord think again. Two days without a penny taken in his yard! His purse will speak up for Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Firethorn. ‘The last twenty-four hours have been a nightmare. One author turns my marital couch into a bed of nails, another gets himself hanged and my occupation rests on the whim of an imbecile landlord! I might as well become a holy anchorite and live on herbs. There’s no future for me here.’

  He drank deep. Elias saw the chance to impart his news.

  ‘I found Naismith,’ he said. ‘The dog admitted that he had been shadowing Jonas through the streets.’

  ‘Did he throw that dagger?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Unhappily, no. I’d have welcomed the excuse to carve him up and send him back to Banbury’s Men in a meat-pie. Hugh Naismith is too weak to throw anything, Nick. He is not our man.’