‘Begin!’ ordered the manager.
Three judges came on stage in procession and took their places behind the table. Two soldiers, wearing armour and holding pikes, stood either side of the commission in order to signal its importance and to enforce its decisions.
‘Bring in the prisoner!’ called Parsons.
The gaoler dragged in the hapless Queen with a rope. Philip Robinson did his best to suggest wounded dignity. He stood before his accusers without flinching. The charges were read out, then one of the judges addressed the prisoner.
judge: What have you to say?
queen: The charges against me are false.
judge: That is for us to decide.
queen: You have no power over me, sir. I am a queen and answer to a higher authority than any you can muster here. I’ll not be subject to this mean court like any common malefactor. Do you dare to sit in judgement on God’s anointed? By what perverse and unnatural right do you presume to put the crown of England on trial here?
The speech was long and impassioned. Philip Robinson began slowly but soon hit his stride, delivering the prose with a clear voice that rang around the theatre. Nicholas was impressed. It was more than a mere recitation of the lines. The boy was a true actor. Of the apprentices with Westfield’s Men, only Richard Honeydew could have handled the trial speech with equal skill and righteous indignation.
Having cowed his accused with his majesty, the boy flung himself dramatically to the ground before the judicial bench and challenged them to strike off his royal head. Before the judges could reply, a voice roared out from the back of the theatre.
‘Philip! What on earth have they done to you?’
Ambrose Robinson stood in the open doorway looking with horror at his son. The sight of the dress and the wig ignited him to fever pitch. He went storming towards the stage with his hand stretched out.
‘Come away!’ he shouted. ‘Come with your father. I’m here to rescue you from this vile place. Come home!’
But the boy showed no inclination to return to Bankside. As his father bore down on him, Philip Robinson leapt to his feet and backed away. Snatching his wig off, he cried out in fear:
‘I am happy here, Father! Leave me be!’
‘Come with me!’
‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I will not!’
He fled into the tiring-house and Robinson tried to clamber upon the stage to pursue him. The manager moved in quickly to restrain the angry parent.
‘Stop, sir! There is no place for you here.’
‘I want my son.’
‘Philip is a lawful member of the Chapel Children. You may not touch him. I am Raphael Parsons and I manage this theatre. I must ask you to leave at—’
‘Parsons!’
Robinson turned on the man he saw as the author of his misery. He went berserk. Shrugging Parsons off, he pulled the cleaver from beneath his coat and struck at him with all his force, catching him on the shoulder and opening up a fearful wound that sent blood cascading all over him. The manager fell to the floor in agony and the butcher stood over him to hack him into pieces.
The young actors were too frightened to move, but Nicholas Bracewell was already sprinting down the auditorium. Before the cleaver could strike again, he dived into Robinson with such force that the butcher was knocked flying. As the two of them hit the wooden floor with a thud, the weapon jerked out of Robinson’s hand and spun crazily away. He now turned his manic anger upon Nicholas, rolling over to get a grip on his neck and trying to throttle the life out of him.
Rage lent the butcher extra power, but Nicholas was the more experienced fighter, twisting himself free to deliver a relay of punches to the contorted face, then grabbing the man by the hair to dash his head against the floor. As the two of them grappled once more, footsteps came running towards them and James Ingram hurled himself on top of Robinson to help Nicholas to subdue him. The assistance was not needed. The butcher stopped struggling.
Realising where he was and what he had done, Robinson seemed to come out of a trance. He began to wail piteously. The porter came panting into the hall with two constables.
‘I tried to stop him,’ he said, ‘but he pushed past me. I ran for help.’ He almost fainted at the sight of Parsons. ‘Dear God! What new horror is here!’
Nicholas got to his feet. With Ingram’s help, he pulled Robinson upright and handed him over to the constables. As they marched him out of the theatre, the butcher was still crying with remorse. Raphael Parsons lay on the floor in a widening pool of blood. Nicholas turned to the porter.
‘Fetch a surgeon!’ he ordered.
‘I’ll go,’ volunteered Ingram. ‘Faster legs than Geoffrey’s are needed for this errand.’
The actor went running off towards the staircase, but his journey would be in vain. Nicholas could see that Parsons was well beyond the reach of medicine. Groaning with pain, the manager lay on his back with half his shoulder severed from his body. Nicholas tried to stem the flow of blood but it was a hopeless task. Parsons revived briefly. He looked up through bleary eyes.
‘Who is it?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘I am fading. Beware, sir.’
‘Of what?’
‘The theatre. A dangerous profession. It killed Cyril Fulbeck and now it sends me after him.’ He clutched at Nicholas. ‘Will you do me a service?’
‘Willingly.’
‘Discreetly, too.’
‘I understand,’ said Nicholas. ‘Ireland Yard.’
‘Number fourteen. Commend me to the lady. Explain why I am kept away. Do it gently.’
‘I will, Master Parsons.’
The manager was suddenly convulsed with pain. Nicholas thought he had passed away, but then life flickered once more. Parsons’s lips moved but only the faintest sound emerged. Nicholas put his ear close to the man’s mouth.
‘One favour…deserves another,’ murmured Parsons.
‘Speak on.’
‘I did not…hang…Applegarth.’
‘I know that now,’ said Nicholas.
‘But I…tried to…tried to…’
‘Yes?’
‘Tried to…kill…’
His breathing stopped and his mouth fell slack. Raphael Parsons took leave of the world with confession on his lips. One mystery was solved. He was the man who threw the dagger at Jonas Applegarth’s unprotected back. The playwright had not been stalked that day by a discontented actor with a grudge against him but by a furious theatre manager with an injured pride.
Nicholas could never bring himself to like Raphael Parsons. The man was too malignant and devious. As he looked down at the corpse, however, he felt compassion for him. There was a crude symmetry about his death. Having attempted to commit murder, he had himself been cut down in the most brutal way. On the very day that he bade farewell to the Master of the Chapel, he was sent off in pursuit of him. While rehearsing a trial scene with a favoured son, he was arraigned by a father who appointed himself judge, jury and executioner.
By the time Ingram arrived with a surgeon, Nicholas had taken charge with cool efficiency. The dead body had been covered with a cloak, the weeping porter had been led away, and the actors had been taken to the tiring-house to be comforted. Nicholas did not forget his promise to call on a house in Ireland Yard, but sad tidings had first to be broken to someone else. He took Philip Robinson to a quiet corner backstage where they might speak alone.
‘You must be brave, Philip,’ he said.
‘Who are you, sir?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell. A friend of Mistress Hendrik.’
‘She was kind to me when my mother died.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it is about your father that I must now talk, I fear.’
‘What happened, sir
? I heard a fearful yell.’
‘He attacked Master Parsons with a meat-cleaver.’
The boy burst into tears and it took some time to soothe him. Nicholas gave him a brief account of what had taken place. He did not conceal the truth from him.
‘Your father will have to pay for his crime.’
‘I know, sir. I know.’
‘One death may be answered by another.’
‘And the two can be laid at my door!’
‘No, Philip.’
‘I killed them both! If I had not been here, Master Parsons would still be alive and my father would not soon be facing the public hangman.’
‘You were not to blame,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘You are the victim and not the cause of this crime.’ He held the boy until his sobbing gradually eased off. ‘You like it here in the theatre, do you not?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘You were happy out on that stage.’
‘Very happy.’
‘So you did not write to your father to say how much you hated Blackfriars?’
‘I did not write at all.’
‘Would you rather be in the Chapel Royal or at home?’
‘In the Chapel!’ affirmed the boy. ‘Anywhere but home.’
‘Why is that?’
The boy felt the pull of family loyalties. Unhappy with his father, he did not want to divulge the full details of that unhappiness. Ambrose Robinson would soon be tried for murder and removed for ever from his son’s life. The boy wanted to cling to a positive memory.
‘My father loved me, I am sure,’ he said.
‘No question of that.’
‘But it was not the same after my mother died. He told me I was all that he had. It made him watch me every moment of the day. That came to weigh down on me, sir.’
Nicholas understood. Philip Robinson was oppressed at home. The Chapel Royal had been his sanctuary. The boy looked around him in despair.
‘What will happen to me?’ he wondered.
‘You will remain where you are.’
‘But will they still want me after this, sir? I am the son of a murderer. They will expel me straight.’
‘I think not.’
‘Master Fulbeck was my friend. He looked after me. Who will do that now that he has gone?’ His face was pale and haunted. ‘What will happen to the theatre with Master Parsons dead? Chapel and theatre were my life.’
‘They may still be so again.’
‘It will never be the same.’
Philip Robinson was right. Cyril Fulbeck had been a father to him, and notwithstanding his strictness, Raphael Parsons had been an excellent tutor. Having lost both along with his own father, the boy was truly floundering.
‘Which did you prefer, Philip?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Prefer?’
‘Singing in the Chapel Royal or acting at Blackfriars?’
‘Acting, sir, without a doubt.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I may get better at that in time,’ he said. ‘In the Chapel, I can only sing. On the stage, I can sing, dance, declaim the finest verse ever written and move all who watch to tears or laughter. I long to be an actor. But how can I do that without a theatre?’
Nicholas thought of the broken voice of John Tallis.
‘Let me see if I can find you one,’ he said.
Chapter Twelve
The day of rest was the least restful day of the week for Margery Firethorn. Tolled out of bed by the sonorous bells of Shoreditch, she had to rouse the remainder of the household, see them washed and dressed, lead them off to Matins at the parish church of St Leonard’s, and smack them awake again when any of them dozed off during the service. Apart from the four apprentices and the two servants, she had three actors staying at the house until they could find a more suitable lodging. Thirteen mouths, including the ever-open ones of her children, had thus to be fed throughout the day. Since the servants tended to bungle some of the chores and burn all the food, Margery ended up doing more cleaning and cooking than was good for her temper.
When she got back from Evensong with her flock in tow, she was vexed by the irreligious thought that the Sabbath had been invented as a punishment for anyone foolish enough to embrace marriage and succumb to motherhood. Margery looked ahead grimly to an evening laden with even more tasks and groaned inwardly. It was not the most auspicious time to call on her. Edmund Hoode felt the full force of rumbling dissatisfaction.
‘Avaunt! Begone! Take your leprous visage away!’
‘I have come on an errand of mercy.’
‘Take mercy on me and go as fast as you may!’
‘This is no kind of welcome, Margery.’
‘It is the warmest you will get, sir,’ she said. ‘Have you so soon forgot your last visit here when you sewed such discord between man and wife that Lawrence and I have barely exchanged a civil word since?’
‘That is one reason I came.’
‘To part us asunder even more! Saints in Heaven! You will depopulate the city at this rate. Who can engage in the lawful business of procreation with you standing outside their bedchamber? What woman will submit to her husband’s pleasure if she sees your ghoulish face staring at her over his naked shoulder?’
‘I am here to beg your apology,’ he said.
‘Do so from a further distance, sir. Stand off a mile or more and I’ll let you grovel all you wish.’
She tried to close the front door but he stopped her.
‘Please do not turn me away!’
‘Be grateful I do not set the dogs on you!’
‘I am desperate, Margery.’
‘Shift your desperation to another place, for we’ll have none of it. Though it be the Sabbath, I’ll use some darker language to send you on your way, if you dare to linger.’
‘I must come in!’
‘Go ruin another marriage instead.’
‘I implore you!’
‘You do so in vain,’ she said. ‘Lawrence is not within. Since you made converse with his wife impossible, he has taken himself off with his fellows.’
‘But it is you I wish to see.’
‘Wait till I fetch a broom and you will see me at my best. For I can beat a man black and blue within a minute.’
Seizing his cue, Hoode flung himself to the ground in an attitude of contrition.
‘Beat me all you wish!’ he invited. ‘I deserve it, I need it, I invite it. Belabour me at will.’
Margery was taken aback. She looked at him properly for the first time and saw the haggard face and the hollow eyes. Hoode was suffering. She bent down to help him up from her doorstep.
‘What is wrong with you, man?’
‘Admit me and I’ll tell all.’
‘Have you stared at yourself in a mirror today?’
‘I dare not, Margery.’
‘Plague victims look healthier.’
‘Their symptoms are mild compared to mine.’
Concern pushed belligerence aside as Margery brought him into the house and closed the front door. He was shivering all over. She took him into the kitchen and sat him down.
‘What has happened, Edmund?’
‘Armageddon.’
‘Where?’
‘In a lady’s chamber.’
‘Did she reject you?’
‘Worse. She accepted me. Time and again.’
A series of uncontrollable grunts came from outside the door as if a frog with a sense of humour were eavesdropping. Margery darted out to find John Tallis bent double with mirth. She clipped his ear, kicked him on his way, then closed the door firmly behind her. Edmund Hoode’s anguish needed the balm of privacy. A sniggering apprentice would only intensify the playwright’s already u
nbearable pain.
She sat on the bench beside him and enfolded him in a maternal arm. This was no bold interloper, pounding on the door of her bedchamber. It was the old Edmund Hoode.
‘This tale is for your ears only,’ he insisted.
‘Then it must be worth the hearing.’
‘Lawrence would only mock me cruelly.’
‘He will learn nothing from me. Speak on.’
Hoode needed a minute to summon up his strength before he could embark on his narrative. He was honest. He held nothing back. Margery was attentive and sympathetic. She realised that instant help was needed.
‘When must you see the lady again?’ she asked.
‘This evening at the Unicorn.’
‘Do not go.’
‘That would be ungentlemanly,’ he said. ‘I must go. I owe her that. But I will not submit to another night of seductive exhaustion. My flesh and blood cannot stand it.’
‘Explain that to her.’
‘She would not listen. I know what she would say.’
‘What?’
‘Again!’ he moaned. ‘Again, Edmund, again, again! As if my manhood is a water-wheel that turns and turns with the flow of her passion. Save me, Margery! I drown!’
‘There is only one sure means of rescue, Edmund.’
‘What is that?’
She smiled benignly. ‘You will see.’
***
You have still not told me what took you to Blackfriars.
‘My own folly.’
‘Folly?’
‘Yes, Nick,’ said James Ingram. ‘I thought I knew best. I was convinced that Raphael Parsons was our Laughing Hangman and sought to spy on him. While you were watching the rehearsal, I was hiding up in the gallery.’
‘You sneaked back into the building?’
‘Geoffrey has grown careless. He did not see me.’
Nicholas Bracewell was relieved to learn that Ingram’s presence at Blackfriars had no darker significance. His doubts about his friend were groundless. While Nicholas had a personal reason for hunting the killer of Jonas Applegarth, the actor had a personal reason for catching the man who hanged Cyril Fulbeck. From differing motives, both were searching for the same man.
The Laughing Hangman Page 23
