The Laughing Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘Parsons will no longer bother us,’ said Ingram.

  ‘True.’

  ‘Nor will the Chapel Children.’

  ‘Do not be so sure, James.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘One manager may have died, but another will soon come to take his place. A private playhouse with a resident company which can stage its work for twelve months of the year. What temptation! It will not be long before a new Raphael Parsons is installed there.’

  ‘Competing for our audience.’

  ‘We must take our chances there,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have rivals enough without the children’s companies, but we cannot stop them. Westfield’s Men must find new and more cunning ways to outwit these young thespians.’

  They were walking briskly across London Bridge together. Having given sworn statements regarding the killing of Raphael Parsons, the two men were free to leave. They plunged into Bankside and picked their way through its labyrinthine streets. Nicholas stopped outside a house.

  ‘Whom do we visit here?’ asked Ingram.

  ‘You go on to another port of call.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes, James. The Clink.’

  ‘You are sending me to prison?’

  ‘Only to make an enquiry.’

  ‘The place is full of debtors and brothel-owners.’

  ‘Not entirely. The man in whom I am interested is neither. Do you have money about you?’

  ‘Sufficient. Why?’

  ‘You’ll need to bribe the prison serjeant.’

  After arranging to meet him back in Gracechurch Street, Nicholas gave Ingram his instructions, then sent him on his way. The book holder then tapped on door of the house. When the servant showed him into the parlour, Anne Hendrik got up from her chair with alacrity and embraced him.

  ‘I prayed that you might come, Nick!’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It has been such a trying time since we parted.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Ambrose Robinson has been here.’

  She took him through the events of the previous day and admitted how frightened she had been of the butcher. Nicholas was deeply upset that he had not been there to protect her.

  ‘Did he bother you at all today?’ he asked.

  ‘No. The only time I saw him was at Evensong, and that was not for long. Ambrose got up in the middle of the service and stalked out with his face aflame. It was as if he suddenly had an irresistible urge to go somewhere.’

  ‘He did, Anne.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Blackfriars. I was there when he arrived.’

  ‘At the theatre?’

  ‘He came looking for his son.’

  ‘I feared that might happen. Was there a tussle?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘but not with the boy. He ran away from his father. It was Raphael Parsons who tussled with your neighbour and who came off worst. The butcher had armed himself with a meat-cleaver.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Anne in horror. ‘Murder?’

  ‘One blow was all it took.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We overpowered him and constables led him away. Master Parsons did not survive for long.’

  ‘What of Philip? It must have been a terrible experience for him. Such humiliation! His own father!’

  ‘Fortunately, he did not witness the killing. I made a point of talking at length with him to explain precisely what had happened and to prepare him for what was to come.’

  ‘Poor child! He has lost everything!’

  ‘There are gains as well as losses here.’

  ‘Ambrose is like to be tried and hanged.’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Philip will have to bear that stain.’

  ‘He has already foreseen that.’

  ‘Will there be a place in the Chapel Royal for him after this?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Where will he go if they turn him out? This could blight his young life.’

  ‘There may be salvation yet for him,’ said Nicholas, touching her arm. ‘But I may not tarry. I came simply to give you the tidings before you heard them from a less well-informed source.’

  ‘I am deeply grateful, Nick. And relieved.’

  ‘Ambrose Robinson will never pester you again.’

  ‘Thank heaven!’ she said. ‘And yet, it did not seem like that at first. He helped me. I must not forget that.’ She glanced towards the adjoining premises. ‘Without his loan, I would have struggled to keep the business afloat. That was an act of friendship, whatever else he hoped to gain by it. Was he a good man with a streak of evil in him? Or an evil man with a vein of goodness?’ She shook her head. ‘Had his dear wife lived, we would not even be asking that question.’

  ‘Too true.’ He moved to the door. ‘But I must go.’

  ‘Nick…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now that you have remembered where I live, do not pass my house again without calling.’

  ‘We play at The Rose next week.’

  She smiled. ‘Then I will expect you.’

  ***

  Alexander Marwood surveyed the yard of the Queen’s Head with mixed feelings. Instinct told him to sever all connections with Westfield’s Men and thereby liberate himself from the recurring crises which beset the company and the ever present threat of assault upon his nubile daughter by one of the lustful actors. Commonsense whispered a different message in his hairy ear. The troupe paid him a rent and brought in custom. Westfield’s Men also gave his inn a status in the capital which was important to him, and, more decisively, to his wife. The Queen’s Head was recognised as the home of one of the most celebrated theatre companies in London.

  Commonsense was still wrestling with instinct when Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias sidled up to him. They beamed with delight at a man whom they found unrelievedly loathsome.

  ‘We need a decision from you,’ said Firethorn.

  Marwood grunted, ‘I am thinking, I am thinking.’

  ‘Is there any way we may aid your thought?’

  ‘By leaving me alone, Master Firethorn.’

  ‘You must not delay the verdict any longer. Too much rests on it. Do we play here tomorrow or not?’

  ‘I do not know, sir.’

  ‘The company is waiting to be told,’ said Elias. ‘We have lost one performance and would hate to lose another. That would empty your yard for two afternoons next week.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes,’ explained Firethorn. ‘We play at The Rose on Wednesday. There’ll be no crowds thirsting for your ale.’

  ‘And no ruffians pissing in my stables,’ said the landlord. ‘No lechers ogling my daughter.’

  They could see that he was weakening. Firethorn felt that he could handle the negotiations more easily on his own and nudged Elias accordingly. The Welshman moved away and was in time to welcome Nicholas Bracewell as the latter came in through the archway.

  ‘Nick!’ he called. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I’ll tell you anon,’ said Nicholas, looking across at Marwood. ‘Has our landlord relented yet?’

  ‘Lawrence is slowly bringing him round.’

  ‘He must not be rushed. That’s the trick of it.’

  ‘I tried to help but was shooed away.’

  ‘Then I’ll borrow you for a weightier purpose.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘I need to hang you, Owen.’

  ‘Hang me!’

  Nicholas laughed at his expression. ‘Come. You’ll find me a gentle executioner.’

  He led the way to the storeroom where the dead body had been discovered the previous morning. The noose had been taken away as evidence by
the constables, but Nicholas quickly fashioned another out of a length of rope. Elias watched his deft fingers at work.

  ‘You have done this before, I see.’

  ‘What you see is a sailor’s hands at work. If you spent as much time at sea as I have, you learn to tie knots of all kinds in a rope.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘Now, Owen. Lie there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To please my fancy.’

  ‘What is this all about?’ grumbled Elias, lowering himself to the floor. ‘Am I the dupe in this little game?’

  ‘It is no game,’ said Nicholas, placing the noose around his neck. ‘How heavy are you? Half the weight of Jonas?’

  ‘A third at least. I carried that man home and he was like a ton of iron. A triple Owen Elias.’

  ‘I’ll make allowances for that. Put your hands inside the rope to stop it cutting into your flesh.’ He flung one end of the rope over the central beam. ‘Are you ready!’

  ‘Iesu Mawr! He really means to hang me!’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Nicholas pulled on the rope until it tightened around the hands and neck of his friend. He applied what he judged to be the correct pressure but could not move the body from the floor. Even when he wound the rope around his waist to give himself a stronger purchase on it, he could not lift the supine Elias.

  ‘Thanks, Owen. You may get up now.’

  ‘Good,’ said the other, tugging at the noose.

  ‘No, leave that on,’ ordered Nicholas. ‘I want to find another way to kill you.’

  ‘You’ve tortured me long enough.’

  ‘One more minute. That’s all it will take.’

  ‘Be quick about it then.’

  ‘Stand there and do not move.’

  Owen Elias was in the middle of the room. Nicholas moved the workbench until it almost brushed his jerkin. Picking up the mallet from the floor, he mimed a blow to the back of the Welshman’s head, then grabbed him by the collar.

  ‘Fall gently back.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Go on. The table will catch you.’

  Elias did as he was told and Nicholas guided him so that his back was across the workbench. When he tested the other end of the rope this time, he got more response. By applying some real pressure, he lifted the body into a sitting position. Hands inside the noose, Owen Elias gave a dramatic gurgle and pretended to be choking. Nicholas tossed the rope back over the beam. He then brushed the grains of sawdust from his friend’s buff jerkin.

  ‘Am I dead?’ asked Elias, removing the noose.

  ‘Completely. And now I know how he did it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Laughing Hangman.’

  ‘Do you mind if we get out of here, Nick? I’m starting to feel like his next victim.’

  They returned to the yard and found Firethorn talking volubly to James Ingram. The actor-manager preened himself as the others approached.

  ‘I have done it, sirs! We play here tomorrow.’

  A concerted cheer went up from the others.

  ‘Marwood was like wax in my hands. Soft and smelly.’

  ‘But you moulded him into shape,’ said Owen.

  They congratulated him profusely. Firethorn wanted to take them all to the taproom to celebrate, but Nicholas was more interested to hear the news from Ingram.

  ‘Did you find out what I asked?’ he said.

  ‘I did, Nick. At a price.’

  ‘A prison sergeant will do nothing without garnish.’

  ‘I paid up, then came straight back here.’ He turned to Firethorn. ‘Please give my deepest apologies to your wife.’

  ‘You’ve been to a prison and seen my wife?’

  ‘No,’ said Ingram. ‘It was on my way back. I did not recognise her until it was too late. She must have thought it rude of me to ignore her. Explain that I was in such a rush to get back here.’

  Firethorn was perplexed. ‘Margery is in Shoreditch.’

  ‘Not this evening.’

  ‘Where else can she be?’

  ‘Five minutes away at another inn.’

  ‘An inn? Here in the city?’

  Elias cackled. ‘I spy merriment here.’

  ‘You must have been mistaken, James,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘When I passed as close to her as I am to you? It was her. I’d swear that on the Bible.’

  ‘I’m sure that there is a simple explanation,’ said Nicholas with easy tact. ‘Perhaps she is visiting a friend.’

  ‘What kind of friend?’ nudged Elias.

  ‘And why did she make no mention of this to me?’ added Firethorn as his suspicions grew. ‘Was she alone, James?’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘And how was she attired?’

  ‘In her finest apparel.’

  ‘What was the name of the inn?’

  ‘I did not mean to put you to choler in this way.’

  ‘What was the name?’

  ‘I assumed that you knew Margery was there.’

  ‘The name!’ demanded Firethorn.

  ‘It was the Unicorn.’

  ***

  Cecily Gilbourne did not waste much time on the formalities. Romantic dalliance was cast ruthlessly aside in favour of more tangible pleasure. As soon as Edmund Hoode was conducted in to her, she gave him a kiss on the cheek and took him through into the next chamber. He looked down at the bed on which they spent their torrid night together and he blenched. There was no resemblance to the Garden of Eden now. It reminded him of the gruesome rack which he had once beheld in the house of Richard Topcliffe, the master torturer. The bed was an instrument of pain.

  ‘Have you written that sonnet yet?’ she asked.

  ‘It is still forming in my mind, Cecily.’

  ‘But you promised to quote it to me.’

  ‘Did I?’ He saw a way to delay her ardour. ‘Step back into the next chamber and I’ll try a line or two for you.’

  ‘In here,’ she insisted. ‘You swore that you would stroke my body with your poetry.’

  ‘Did I?’ gulped Hoode.

  ‘Have you so soon forgotten?’

  She pushed him into a sitting position on the bed. He was terrified. Cecily Gilbourne’s appetite was too great for him to satisfy. Making love to her had turned into an ordeal. The thought that he would have to quote a sonnet to her in the middle of the exercise made it even more unappealing. Hoode looked around for escape but she was already unhooking his doublet.

  ‘Why make such haste?’ he said, panic-stricken.

  She forced him back. ‘Do you need to ask?’

  ‘Will you not take refreshment beforehand, Cecily?’

  ‘This is my refreshment!’

  She writhed about on top of him until she was panting, then she began to pluck at her clothing. He had no idea that a dress could be removed so easily. When Cecily switched her attentions to his hose, his panic gave way to hysteria.

  ‘I feel the first line of my sonnet coming!’

  ‘Hold still while I take these off.’

  ‘“O hot Sicilian Cecily…” Stay your hand. Please!’

  ‘I am in too hot and Sicilian a mood!’

  ‘Cecily!’ he protested.

  ‘Edmund!’ she purred. ‘My rhyming couplet!’

  And before he could move, she flung herself full upon him and fixed her lips ineluctably on his. Hoode felt the waters closing over his head. He was just about to abandon all hope and submit when he heard a thumping noise on the door. The maidservant called out the warning.

  ‘Mistress! Mistress! Beware!’

  ‘What is it?’ snarled Cecily in mid-rhyme.

  ‘Master Hoode’s wife is without.’

  ‘H
is wife!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘But he does not have a wife.’

  ‘I do, I do,’ said Hoode gratefully. ‘Can she be here?’

  ‘Asking to come in,’ said the maidservant.

  ‘Demanding!’ thundered a voice on the other side of the door. ‘Edmund! Are you there?’

  ‘No, my dear.’

  ‘Stand aside, girl,’ ordered the unexpected visitor.

  The maidservant gave a little scream, the door burst open and the redoubtable figure of Margery Firethorn came through it at speed. She bristled at the sight of betrayal. Cecily Gilbourne retreated to a corner of the room, snatching up a sheet to cover herself and trying to show what dignity she could muster. Hoode threshed about helplessly on the bed. Margery did not stand on ceremony. Bestowing a glare of contempt on Cecily, she grabbed Hoode by the arm, hauled him off the bed and dragged him behind her like a sack of grain.

  Hoode gladly withstood the discomfort of his departure. Bouncing down the stairs of the Unicorn was infinitely preferable to being eaten alive by a rampant lover with only one word in her sexual vocabulary—“Again!” Margery played her part to the hilt. It was only when she had brought him out into the street that she relaxed and permitted herself a chuckle. Hoode was so thankful that he threw his arms impulsively around her and gave her a resounding kiss.

  Lawrence Firethorn chose that moment to steal upon them.

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell knew where to find him. When the man was not at home, there was only one place he could be. It did not take the book holder long to walk to the precinct. He made his way across the Great Yard and into the theatre. Geoffrey Bless, the old watchdog, was slumped in his chair fast asleep, his eyes closed to shut out the fearful sight he had seen at Blackfriars that evening. The porter did not even stir when Nicholas took the key ring gently from his gnarled hand.

  Creeping quietly up the staircase, Nicholas came to the door of the theatre and searched for the key to unlock it. He stepped into the auditorium to find it in darkness, the shutters now firmly closed to block out the last of the day. The place seemed deserted but Nicholas was certain that he was not alone. As he felt his way along, one hand held his dagger at the ready. He halted close to the stage.

  ‘Come forth, sir,’ he said. ‘I know that you are here.’