The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  ‘I’ll not stay here in the middle of the yard like some idle ostler complaining about the price of hay. I desire some private conference.’

  Nicholas stood his ground. ‘What is your business with me?’

  ‘The deadliest kind.’

  ‘Who are you, sir?’

  ‘Raphael Parsons.’

  Nicholas was at once surprised and curious. The name explained the histrionic air about the man. Parsons moved with grace and spoke in almost declamatory fashion. His black beard and moustache were well trimmed and there was a studied arrogance in his expression. He was accustomed to being obeyed.

  ‘Come with me,’ suggested Nicholas.

  ‘This is indoor work.’

  ‘We have a chamber at hand.’

  The book holder led him to the room which was used as the wardrobe by Westfield’s Men. Raphael Parsons ran an expert eye over the racks of costumes, feeling some of the material between his fingers and grunting his approval. Nicholas closed the door behind him.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.

  ‘James Ingram advised me to call here.’

  ‘You have spoken with James, then?’

  ‘Briefly. Geoffrey, our porter, put me in touch with him. I wanted to see if your account confirms, in every particular, what Ingram alleges.’

  ‘My account?’

  ‘Of what you found at the Blackfriars Theatre. My dear friend and partner, Cyril Fulbeck, hanged by the neck.’ Parsons relaxed slightly and even managed a thin smile. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I have long wanted an opportunity to meet Nicholas Bracewell. Your fame runs before you, sir.’

  ‘Fame?’

  ‘You have a reputation, sir.’

  ‘I am merely a book holder, Master Parsons.’

  ‘Your modesty is a credit to your character but it betrays your true worth. You talk to a man of the theatre. I know that a book holder must hold a whole company together and nobody does that better than you. I have sat in your galleries a dozen times and marvelled at your work.’ His face hardened. ‘Though it is perhaps as well that I was not at the Queen’s Head when Applegarth’s latest piece of vomit was spewed out on your stage.’

  ‘The Misfortunes of Marriage is a fine play.’

  ‘It swinged us soundly, I hear.’

  ‘There was some gentle mockery of boy actors.’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth could not be gentle if he tried,’ said Parsons vehemently. ‘He tore our work to shreds and questioned our right to exist. Boy actors were innocent lambs beneath his slashing knife. It was unforgivable. Applegarth will pay dearly for his attack.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You will see, sir. You will see.’

  ‘Do you make threats against our author?’

  ‘Let him watch his back, that is all I say.’

  ‘Take care,’ warned Nicholas, looking him hard in the eye. ‘Touch any member of this company and you will have to deal with me.’

  ‘Proof positive!’ said Parsons with a disarming smile. ‘You are no mere book holder. You are the true guardian of Westfield’s Men. Its very essence, some say.’

  ‘I stand by my friends.’

  ‘Why, so do I, sir. And that is why I came here this morning. Away with that mound of offal known as Jonas Applegarth! Let’s talk of a sweeter gentleman, and one whose death cries out for retribution. Cyril Fulbeck.’

  ‘Ask what you will, Master Parsons.’

  ‘Describe the scene in your own terms. When you and James Ingram entered the theatre, what exactly did you see?’

  ‘I will tell you.…’

  Nicholas reconstructed the events with care, as much for his own benefit as for that of his visitor. He wanted to sift every detail in the hope that it might contain a clue that had so far eluded him. Raphael Parsons was a patient audience. When he had heard the full tale, he stroked his beard pensively. There was a long pause.

  ‘Well?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Your version accords with that given by Ingram.’

  ‘And so it should.’

  ‘There is a difference, however,’ noted Parsons. ‘Your account is longer and more accurate. You are the more reliable witness, but that was to be expected.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you never met Cyril Fulbeck until that grim moment. What you saw was an old man dangling from a rope. James Ingram, we must remember, was looking at someone he revered, and was thus too shocked to observe all the detail which you just listed.’

  ‘That is understandable.’

  ‘Also,’ said Parsons drily, ‘you are older and wiser than Ingram, and far more closely acquainted with the horrors that man can afflict on man. You have looked on violent death before.’

  ‘All too often, alas.’

  ‘It has sharpened your judgement.’ Parsons stroked his beard as he ruminated afresh. When he spoke again, his tone was pleasant. ‘You have answered my enquiries willingly and honestly. I am most grateful to you for that. Allow me to return the compliment. I am sure that you have questions you wish to put to me.’

  Astonished by the offer, Nicholas was nevertheless quick to take advantage of it. His interrogation was direct.

  ‘Where were you at the time of the murder?’ he said.

  ‘At the house of a friend in Ireland Yard.’

  ‘Close by the theatre, then?’

  ‘Within a stone’s throw.’

  ‘When did you last see your partner?’

  ‘An hour or so before his death, it seems,’ said Parsons with a sad shake of his head. ‘Had I known that Cyril was in such danger, I would never have stirred from his side. I blame myself for leaving him so defenceless.’ He bit his lip. ‘And the manner of my departure only serves to increase my guilt.’

  ‘Your departure?’

  ‘We had an argument. Strong words were exchanged.’

  ‘On what subject?’

  ‘What else but the Blackfriars Theatre? Cyril admired the plays I put upon the stage but criticised the means by which they got there. He thought I was too strict with my young charges.’

  ‘How did you reply?’

  ‘Roundly, I fear.’

  ‘Was he upset by the altercation?’

  ‘I did not stay to ask. I marched out of the building.’ He clicked his tongue in self-reproach. ‘Can you see what a weight on my conscience it now is? We parted in anger before but we soon became friends again. Not this time. A length of rope strangled any hope of reconciliation between us. Cyril went to his death with our quarrel unresolved. That cuts me to the quick.’

  Nicholas was impressed by the readiness of his answers and by his apparent candour. Parsons seemed genuinely hurt by the demise of his friend and business partner. Here was a new and more compassionate side to the man. Others had spoken of a bully and a disciplinarian, and Nicholas had seen the odd glint of belligerence, but he had also discerned a sensitive streak. When Raphael Parsons offered his hand, he shook it without reservation.

  ‘I must take my leave,’ said the visitor.

  ‘Let me teach you another way out.’

  Nicholas took him through a second door and down a long passageway so that his visitor could step out into Gracechurch Street without having to go back through the yard. The book holder stopped him in the open doorway.

  ‘There is another matter I would like to raise.’

  ‘Be brief. I, too, have a rehearsal to attend.’

  ‘One of your actors is a boy called Philip Robinson.’

  ‘A gifted child in every way.’

  ‘He was impressed against his will into the Chapel.’

  ‘Who told you so?’

  ‘The boy’s father. He petitions for his son’s return.’

  ‘Then he does so in vain.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Philip is happy with us,’ said Parsons bluntly. ‘Extremely happy. Farewell, sir.’

  With a brusque nod, he swept out into the street.

  Chapter Six


  For the rest of the morning, Nicholas Bracewell was so bound up in his duties that he had no time to reflect upon the unexpected visit of Raphael Parsons or to indulge in any speculation about the true feelings of Philip Robinson towards the Children of the Chapel Royal. Preparation for the afternoon’s performance was his abiding concern, and The Maids of Honour gave him much to prepare. His first task was to prevent the stagekeeper from assaulting his smallest and lowliest assistant.

  ‘No, no, no, George! You are an idiot!’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so because I know so!’ shouted the irate Thomas Skillen. ‘You have set out the wrong scenery and the wrong properties for the wrong play.’

  ‘Have I?’ George Dart scratched his head in disbelief. ‘I thought The Maids of Honour called for a bench, a tree, a rock, a tomb, a well and three buckets.’

  ‘You are thinking of The Two Maids of Milchester.’

  ‘Am I?’ he said, blushing with embarrassment. ‘Why, so I am! We need no bench and buckets here. Our play demands a wooden canopy, a large bed, a stool, Mercury’s wings and a rainbow. Tell me I am right.’

  ‘You are even more wrong,’ hissed the other, taking a first wild swipe at him. ‘Dolt! Dunce! Imbecile! Mercury’s wings and the rainbow belong in Made to Marry. Have I taught you nothing?’

  Four decades in the theatre had made Thomas Skillen an essentially practical man. Actors might covet a striking role and authors might thrill to the music of their own verse, but the stagekeeper summarised character and language in terms of a few key items.

  ‘Table, throne and executioner’s block.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ gabbled Dart.

  ‘We play The Maids of Honour.’

  ‘Table, throne and executioner’s block. I’ll fetch them straight.’ He scampered off but came to a sudden halt. His face was puckered with concentration. ‘The Maids of Honour? There is no executioner’s block in the piece. Why do you send for it?’

  ‘So that I may strike off your useless head!’

  The old stagekeeper lunged at his hapless assistant, but Nicholas stepped good-humouredly between them. Dart cowered gratefully behind his sturdy frame.

  ‘Let me at the rogue!’ shouted Skillen.

  ‘Leave him be,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘George confused his maids of honour with his maids of Milchester. A natural mistake for anyone to make. It is not a criminal offence.’

  ‘It is to me!’

  ‘Does it really merit execution?’

  ‘Yes, Nick. Perfection is everything.’

  ‘Then are we all due for the headsman’s axe, Thomas, for each one of us falls short of perfection in some way. George is willing and well intentioned. Build on these virtues and educate him out of his vices.’

  Skillen’s anger abated and he chortled happily.

  ‘I frighted him thoroughly. He will not misjudge The Maids of Honour again.’ He gave a toothless grin. ‘Will you, George?’

  ‘Never. Table and throne. I’ll find them presently.’

  ‘No need,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the makeshift stage. ‘The table stands ready. Nathan Curtis was here at first light to repair it. And he is even now putting some blocks of wood beneath the throne to heighten its eminence.’

  ‘What shall I do, then, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Fetch the rest of the properties.’

  Skillen took his cue. ‘Act One. First scene, table and four chairs. Second scene, a box-tree. Third scene, curtains and a truckle-bed within. Fourth scene, the aforesaid throne. Fifth scene…’

  The rapid litany covered all seventeen scenes of the play and left Dart’s head spinning. He raced off to gather what he could remember and to stay out of reach of the old man’s temper. Nicholas looked fondly after him.

  ‘You are too hard on the lad, Thomas.’

  ‘Stern schoolmasters get the best results.’

  ‘George has too much to learn in too short a time.’

  ‘That is because of his stupidity and laziness.’

  ‘No, it is not,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘We overload him, that is all. This season, Westfield’s Men will stage all of thirty-six different plays, seventeen of them, like Jonas Applegarth’s, entirely new. Asking George Dart to remember the plots and properties of thirty-six plays is to put an impossible strain on the lad.’

  ‘I know what each play requires,’ said Skillen proudly.

  ‘You are a master of your craft, Thomas. He is not.’

  The old man was mollified. He loved to feel that his age and experience were priceless assets to the company. After discussing the play at greater length with him, Nicholas went off to tackle the multifarious chores that awaited him before the rehearsal could begin. He could spare only a wave of greeting to each new member of the company who drifted into the yard.

  Edmund Hoode came first, buoyed up by the thought that his admirer might send him another token of her love or perhaps even reveal her identity. Barnaby Gill shared his mood of elation, though for a more professional reason. The Maids of Honour was one of his favourite plays because it gave him an excellent role as a court jester, with no less than four songs and three comic jigs. Owen Elias and James Ingram arrived together, deep in animated conversation. Three of the boy apprentices came into the yard abreast, giggling at a coarse jest. The fourth, Richard Honeydew, strolled in with Peter Digby, the director of the musicians.

  Lawrence Firethorn, predictably, timed his entrance for maximum effect, clattering into the yard on his horse when everyone else was assembled there and raising his hat in salutation. From the broad grin on his face, his colleagues rightly surmised that he had tasted connubial delight that morning with his wife, the passionate Margery, a fact which was corroborated by the sniggers of the apprentices, who lived under the same roof as the actor-manager and who had heard every sigh of ecstasy and every creak of the bed. Silent pleasure was a denial of nature in the Firethorn household.

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’ he said, dismounting beside the book holder. ‘Is all ready here?’

  ‘Now that you have come, it is.’

  ‘Then let us waste no more of a wonderful day.’

  He tossed the reins to a waiting ostler, then strode off towards the tiring-house. Nicholas called the rest of the company to order and had the stage set for the first scene.

  The Maids of Honour was a staple part of their repertoire, played for its reliability rather than for any intrinsic merits. A sprightly comedy with a political thrust, it was set in the French Court at some unspecified period in the past. The King of France is deeply troubled by rumours of a planned assassination. The Queen dismisses his fears until an attempt is made on his life but thwarted by the brave intercession of the Prince of Navarre, a guest at the Court.

  Convinced that someone inside the palace is helping his enemies, the King lets his suspicions fall on the three maids of honour who attend the Queen. She is outraged by the suggestion that her most cherished friends could plot the overthrow of her husband, but the King follows his own intuition. Disguising himself as an Italian nobleman, he tests each maid of honour in turn to see if she can be corrupted by the promise of money. Two of them welcome his advances, proving that they have neither honour nor maidenhead; but the third, Marie, the plain girl matched with two Court beauties, vehemently rejects his blandishments.

  The King removes his disguise and returns to his Queen. Presenting his evidence, he expects her to accept his word, but she flies into a rage and accuses him of trying to seduce her maids of honour. She flounces out of the Court and locks herself in her chamber. The Court Jester, acting as a mocking chorus throughout, takes especial pleasure in the marital discord. In his despair, the King confides in the handsome Prince.

  Two of the maids of honour conspire with the exiled Duke of Brabant to overthrow the King. A second assassination attempt is planned, but it is foiled by Marie, who raises the alarm. The King is only wounded and the conspirators are captured by the Prince of Navarre. A contrite Queen
tends her husband’s wounds and promises that she will never misjudge him so cruelly again. As a reward for her loyalty, Marie, blossoming in victory, becomes the bride of the Prince. The play ends on a note of celebration with honour satisfied in every way.

  The rehearsal was halting but free from major mishap. A large audience filled the yard of the Queen’s Head for the performance itself. Jonas Applegarth sat in the upper gallery, paying for one seat but taking up almost three. Hugh Naismith sat where he could keep his mortal enemy in view. Lord Westfield and his cronies emerged from a private room behind the lower gallery to occupy their customary station and to whet their appetites for the play with brittle badinage over cups of Canary wine. Alexander Marwood circled his yard like a carrion crow.

  Your pleasure and indulgence, dearest friends,

  Is all we seek and to these worthy ends

  We take you to the glittering court of France,

  Where gorgeous costume, music, song and dance,

  Affairs of state and matters of the heart,

  Mirthful jests, a Barnabian art,

  With pomp and ceremonial display

  Enhance the scene for our most honourable play

  About three Maids of Honour.…

  Dressed in a black cloak, Owen Elias delivered the Prologue before bowing to applause and stealing away as a fanfare signalled the entry of the French Court. Lawrence Firethorn and Richard Honeydew made a magnificent entrance as King and Queen, respectively, in full regalia, and took their places at the head of a table set for a banquet. The solemnity of the occasion was soon shattered by the appearance of the Court Jester, who came somersaulting onto the stage to snatch a bowl or fruit and set it on his head like a crown. The Barnabian art of Barnaby Gill was in full flow and the spectators were enthralled.

  Firethorn led the company with characteristic brio. James Ingram was a dashing Prince of Navarre, Owen Elias a truly villainous Duke of Brabant, and Edmund Hoode, in a flame-coloured gown, was a resplendent Constable of France. What The Maids of Honour also did was to furnish the four apprentices with an opportunity to do more than simply decorate a scene in female attire. Richard Honeydew showed regal fury as the Queen while Martin Yeo and Stephen Judd were suitably devious and guileful as the two dishonourable maids.