The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  ‘For that compliment alone, they were worth writing.’

  ‘Double Deceit.’

  ‘Juvenilia. When I was young and green.’

  ‘Its humour bubbled like a mountain stream.’

  ‘Pompey the Great. That is Edmund Hoode at his finest.’

  ‘I regret that I have never seen it played.’

  ‘You must, you must, Mistress Gilbourne.’

  ‘Call me Cecily…if we are to be friends.’

  ‘Thank you, Cecily,’ he gushed. ‘And we will.’

  ‘Be friends?’

  ‘I earnestly hope so.’

  ‘No more than that?’

  She gave him an enigmatic smile. Hoode was not sure if she was enticing him or merely appraising him. It did not matter. He was ready to surrender unconditionally to her will. A rose. A promise. A tryst. Cecily Gilbourne was a kindred spirit, a true romantic, someone removed from the sordid lusts of the world, a woman of perception who loved the way that he wrote about love.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do I surprise you?’

  ‘Surprise me and delight me, Cecily.’

  ‘Am I as you imagined I might be?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘You are disappointed?’

  ‘Overjoyed. The reality far exceeds my imaginings.’

  She laughed softly. ‘I knew that I had chosen well.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes, Edmund. Your plays let me look into your heart.’

  ‘What did you find there?’

  The enigmatic smile played around her lips again.

  ‘I found you.’

  The words caressed his ears and he almost swooned. He could not believe that it was happening to him. Years of rejection by the fairer sex had sapped his self-esteem. Romantic disaster was his natural habitat. Women like Cecily Gilbourne did not exist in his life except as phantoms. There had been no chase, no agonising period of courtship, no sequence of sonnets to express his desire in honeyed phrases. She had come to him. It was the most natural and painless relationship he had ever enjoyed with a beautiful woman, intensified as it was by an element of mystery, and given a deeper resonance by the fact that she adored his work as much as his person.

  ‘Will you come to me again, Edmund?’ she whispered.

  ‘Whenever you call.’

  ‘It will be very soon.’

  ‘I will be waiting.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She offered her hand and he placed the lightest of kisses upon it, his lips burning with pleasure as they touched her glove.

  ‘Farewell, my prince,’ she said.

  Cecily turned to stare out of the window, allowing him to see her in profile and to admire the marmoreal perfection of her neck and chin. Caught in the light, her skin was so white and silky that Hoode had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it with the tips of his fingers. Instead, he gave her the lowest bow yet, mumbled his farewell and backed towards the door with his mouth still agape.

  Their first meeting was over. He was ensnared.

  ***

  When they reached the precinct of Blackfriars, they explored the surrounding streets and the church before going into the theatre itself. Geoffrey, the old porter, gave them a subdued welcome and told them that Raphael Parsons was still in the building. Nicholas Bracewell went briskly up the staircase with James Ingram at his side.

  What met them in the theatre itself was a far less gruesome sight than the one which had greeted them on their earlier visit. Raphael Parsons was talking to a group of young actors, who were sitting on the edge of the stage in costume. Behind them was the setting for the final scene of Mariana’s Revels. His voice was loud but unthreatening. None of the Chapel Children evinced any fear of the man.

  Hearing their approach, Parsons swung round to face them.

  ‘You trespass on private property,’ he said crisply.

  ‘The theatre is open to the public,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘You performed here this very afternoon, it seems. Mariana’s Revels. Not that we come as spectators, Master Parsons. We would speak with you.’

  ‘The time is not convenient.’

  ‘Then we will wait.’

  Nicholas and his companion folded their arms and stood there patiently. They would not easily be dismissed. The manager clicked his tongue in exasperation before snapping his fingers to dismiss the actors. They scampered off into the tiring-house. Nicholas looked after them.

  ‘Was Philip Robinson in your cast?’ he asked.

  ‘He was,’ said Parsons. ‘He played Mariana herself.’

  ‘The boy can carry a leading role?’

  ‘Exceeding well. His plaintive songs moved all who heard him sing. But you did not come here to discuss the talents of my actors. I see that by your faces.’

  ‘We are here on Master Fulbeck’s behalf,’ said Ingram.

  ‘There is something you did not tell me?’

  ‘It is the other way around,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We have questions to put to you.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘The arrest and conviction of a killer. A Laughing Hangman, who turned your stage into a gallows. You and I and James here, each working on his own, would never track him down. But if we pool our knowledge, if we share opinion and conjecture, we may perchance succeed.’

  ‘I do not need your help,’ said Parsons sharply.

  ‘You know the murderer, then?’

  ‘Not yet, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘Then how do you propose to root him out?’

  ‘By cunning, sir. Alone and unaided.’

  ‘We came by Ireland Yard,’ said Ingram, pointedly.

  ‘So?’

  ‘That was where you claimed to be when Master Fulbeck was dangling from a noose in here.’

  ‘You doubt my word?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  ‘We would simply like to know which house you visited,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘Your host would confirm the time of your arrival and departure.’

  ‘Damn your impudence, sir!’

  ‘What number in Ireland Yard?’

  ‘I’ll not be harried like this,’ warned Parsons. ‘Where I went that day was and will remain my business. I am not under scrutiny here. Do you dare to suggest that I was implicated in the crime in some way? Cyril Fulbeck was my partner. I worshipped the man.’

  ‘Yet argued with him constantly.’

  ‘That was in the nature of things.’

  ‘Why did you open the theatre today?’ said Ingram.

  ‘Because a play had been advertised.’

  ‘The murder of Master Fulbeck notwithstanding?’

  ‘He would have sanctioned the performance.’

  ‘I beg leave to question that.’

  Parsons was blunt. ‘Our beloved Master of the Chapel may have died but life goes on.’

  ‘With no decent interval for mourning?’

  ‘This theatre itself is his memorial.’

  ‘And your source of income,’ observed Nicholas.

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘Therein lies the true reason for performance.’

  ‘I run this theatre the way that I choose!’

  ‘No,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘The way that you have to run it, Master Parsons. By cramming in every performance that you possibly can and by working your actors like oxen in the field. That is why you staged Mariana’s Revels today. Not by way of a memorial to Cyril Fulbeck. You wanted the money.’

  ‘The theatre has expenses.’

  ‘Is that why you wrangled with your partner?’

  ‘Leave off this, sir!’

  ‘Did you argue over profit?’

  ‘I’ll not account to you or anyone else for what I do within these four walls!’ yelled Parsons, waving his arms. ‘Blackfriars is my theatre. I live for this place.’

  ‘Master Fulbeck died for it.’

  Anger building, Parsons looked from one to the other. ‘Envy drives you both on,’ he sneered. ‘I see that now. Black
friars is without peer. We offer our patrons a real playhouse, not an innyard smelling of dung and stale beer. Here they sit in comfort to watch the best plays in London, protected from the rain and wind, marvelling at our skill and our invention. Westfield’s Men are vagabonds beside my Chapel Boys.’

  ‘We pay our actors,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do you pay yours?’

  ‘I’ll hear no more of this!’

  ‘Answer me but one thing.’

  ‘Away with you both or I’ll summon a constable!’

  ‘Master Fulbeck’s keys.’

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘Have they ever been found?’

  Raphael Parsons made them wait for a reply, his eyes flicking around the theatre before finally settling on Nicholas with a defiant glare.

  ‘They have not been found.’

  ‘So they are still in the possession of the murderer?’

  ‘We may presume as much.’

  ‘Beware, Master Parsons,’ said Nicholas. ‘He can gain access to this theatre again by means of those keys.’

  The manager was unperturbed. He walked to the door and opened it for them to leave. The visitors exchanged a nod. To remain any longer would be a waste of time. Nicholas felt that they had learned far more from the manner of his answers than from anything that Raphael Parsons had said. When he questioned the two friends earlier, the theatre manager had been calm and plausible. Cornered by surprise on his own territory, he was resentful and uncooperative.

  As they walked to the door, Parsons stopped them.

  ‘Come tomorrow and pay to gain entrance,’ he suggested.

  ‘Why?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Because you will not only see a fine play finely acted on a stage fit to bear it. You will witness our revenge.’

  ‘Against whom?’

  ‘Master Foulmouth himself. Jonas Applegarth.’

  ‘What do you play tomorrow?’

  ‘Alexander the Great. An old play on an old theme but with a Prologue newly minted to cut the monstrous Applegarth down to human size. Westfield’s Men are soundly whipped as well. They who attack Blackfriars will suffer reprisals.’ He wagged an admonitory finger. ‘Deliver that message to your lewd playwright. We’ll destroy his reputation entire. We’ll hang him from the roof-beam with a rope of rhyming couplets and strangle the life out of his disgusting carcass!’

  Easing them through the door, he closed it firmly behind them. They heard a key turning in the lock. As they descended the stairs, Ingram glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Master Parsons has grown testy,’ he said.

  ‘We came unannounced into his domain and caught him on the raw. He has a malignant streak, no question of that. I would not care to be one of his young actors.’

  ‘Nor I, Nick. It was never thus in my day.’

  ‘You were trained as well as any of our apprentices.’

  ‘And shown great kindness. Times have changed.’

  The porter was waiting at the foot of the staircase to detain Ingram in conversation. Nicholas drifted out of the building and retraced the steps he had taken when in pursuit of the murderer on the earlier visit. Pausing at the rear of the theatre, he looked at the various avenues of escape which the man could have taken. If he had run fast, he might have been clear of the precinct before Nicholas reached the spot where he was now standing. Or he might have gone to ground in any one of the nearby streets and alleyways.

  By way of experiment, Nicholas broke into a trot and dodged around a few corners. When he came to a halt, he saw that he was standing in Ireland Yard. He studied the houses with interest before he walked back towards the theatre. As he strolled past it, the rear door was unlocked and a dozen or more figures emerged. Wearing white surplices over black cassocks, they lined up in pairs and march away in step, the choirboys at the front and the vicars choral behind them.

  ‘Philip!’ called Nicholas.

  One of the boys turned in surprise to look at him. The resemblance to Ambrose Robinson was clear. His bright young face was puzzled by the salutation. The boy was pushed gently from behind by another chorister and the procession wended on its way. Nicholas was impressed by the sense of order and assurance about them. Philip Robinson was an integral part of the whole. He did not look like an unwilling prisoner. Nicholas watched him until the column vanished out of sight.

  ***

  The journey took an eternity. Owen Elias was soon regretting his offer to safeguard the drunken Jonas Applegarth. The playwright kept stopping in the street to accuse innocent by-standers of unspeakable crimes, to hurl verbal thunderbolts at every church they passed, to kick at the stray dogs which yapped at his heels and to relieve himself unceremoniously against any available wall. When Elias tried to remonstrate with him, Applegarth either turned his vituperation on the Welshman or embraced him tearfully while vowing undying friendship.

  Celtic patience finally snapped. Applegarth reviled him once too often and Elias expressed his displeasure in the most direct way. Grabbing the bigger man by the scruff of the neck, he dragged him towards a horse-trough and threw him in head-first. Applegarth hit the water with a fearsome splash. His face was submerged for a full minute as he emitted a hideous gurgling sound. Then he managed to haul himself out of the trough and fell to the ground.

  He lay there twitching violently like a giant cod on the deck of a fishing vessel. His clothes were sodden, his hair and beard dripping and his hat floating in a puddle beside him. After expelling a pint of water from his mouth, he let out a bellow of anger and tried to get up. Elias put a foot in the middle of his chest to hold him down. Applegarth replied with an even louder bellow but it soon gave way to rumbling laughter. Instead of lambasting his colleague, he turned his derision upon himself.

  ‘Look at me!’ he said, wobbling with mirth. ‘The most brilliant playwright in London, flat on his back in the mire! The greatest ale-drinker in England, spewing out rank water. The fattest belly in Christendom, staring up at the sky! Is this not a pretty sight, Owen?’

  ‘You deserved it.’

  ‘Indeed, I did.’

  ‘You went well beyond the bounds of fellowship.’

  ‘I am the first to acknowledge it.’

  ‘The horse-trough was the best place for you.’

  ‘No, my friend,’ said Applegarth, as remorse wiped the grin from his wet face. ‘It is too elevated a station for me. A swamp would be a fitter home. A ditch. A dunghill. Find me a hole big enough and I’ll crawl into it with the other vermin. Why do I do it, Owen?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in the morning when you’re sober.’

  Reaching down, he took the other in a firm grip and heaved backwards. Jonas Applegarth swung slowly upright. He looked down at the state of his apparel with revulsion.

  ‘My wife will assault me!’ he moaned.

  ‘There may be others keen to do that office for her.’

  ‘My doublet is stained, my breeches torn, my stockings past repair. I am an insult to her tailoring.’ He felt his head in a panic. ‘Where’s my hat? Where’s my hat?’

  ‘Here,’ said Elias, retrieving it from the puddle.

  ‘I dare not go home like this.’

  ‘You will and you must, Jonas.’

  ‘What will my wife say?’

  ‘That is her privilege. But I marvel that you rail against religion so when you must be married to a saint. Who else would put up with you?’

  ‘True, true, Owen,’ agreed the other. ‘She is a saint.’

  ‘A martyr to her husband.’

  Applegarth remained solemn and silent all the way home. He was a sorry sight as he was admitted to the house by a servant. Elias waited long enough to hear the first shriek of complaint from the resident saint before turning away. Movement in the shadows then alerted him. He was reminded why he had accompanied Applegarth in the first place.

  Pulling out his dagger, he ran diagonally across the street to the lane on the opposite side but he was too slow. All he caught was the merest glimpse of a man,
darting down the lane before disappearing into the rabbit warren of streets beyond it. Elias stabbed the air in his anger.

  They had been followed.

  ***

  Anne Hendrik counted out the coins and handed them over.

  ‘There, Ambrose,’ she said with relief. ‘’Tis done!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My debt is cleared at last.’

  ‘There was no hurry to repay me,’ he said, putting the coins into his purse. ‘And I am far more in your debt than you in mine. No amount of money can ever discharge that obligation.’

  ‘I have done nothing.’

  ‘Is saving a man’s life nothing? Is giving him fresh hope nothing? You did all that for me and more.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Every penny I have is yours for the asking.’

  ‘We can pay our own way again now.’

  ‘You must know how much you mean to me, Anne.’

  She turned away and resumed her seat in order to avoid what she sensed might be an embarrassing declaration. They were in the parlour of her house in Bankside. The butcher stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, peeved that the settlement of her debt had deprived him of an excuse to call on a regular basis and searching for a means to secure a more permanent mooring in her affections.

  ‘I acted out of simple friendship,’ she said.

  ‘Is that all that it will remain?’

  ‘For the moment, Ambrose.’

  ‘And in time?’

  ‘Who knows what the future will hold?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ he agreed, shaking his head ruefully. ‘A year ago, I was the most contented of men. I had a happy marriage, a son I adored and a business that was thriving. What else could anyone ask? Then, suddenly…’ He clapped his hands together. ‘I lost it all. My dear wife died, my son was taken from me by deed of impressment, and I had no pleasure from my occupation. What was the point in struggling on?’

  ‘There is always a point, Ambrose.’

  ‘You taught me that.’

  ‘I, too, lost my dearest partner.’

  ‘But not your child as well.’

  ‘No,’ she conceded sadly. ‘Not my child. The joys of motherhood were denied me and that is a grievous loss in itself.’ She brightened. ‘Besides, your son has not left you for ever. Philip is still alive and like to return to you before too long. Nick will see to that.’