‘Will he?’
‘Put your trust in him.’
‘It is growing difficult to do so.’
‘Ambrose!’ she scolded.
‘You saw the way he rounded on me. He is supposed to be helping Philip, not accusing the boy’s father with such severity. I am sorry, Anne, but I begin to have serious doubts about Nick Bracewell.’
‘Then you do not know him as well as I.’
‘That is another cause of my discomfort.’
He moved away to hide the surly expression on his face. When he turned back to her, it was with a slow smile and a surge of ungainly affection.
‘I have written to Philip again today,’ he said.
‘Your letters will be a comfort to him.’
‘He is old enough to be told now. To understand.’
‘Understand?’
‘What an angel of mercy you have been. Without you to rescue me, I would have given in. Philip knows that. He always liked you, Anne. He always talked kindly of you. It will make such a difference to him. Philip was much closer to his mother than to me but that is only natural. It will make such a difference.’
‘I do not follow.’
‘A child needs a proper home, Anne.’
‘He has one.’
‘He has a house but something is missing from it.’
Anne realised what he was trying to say to her and steeled herself. In paying off her debt she had hoped to lighten the weight of his friendship, but she had merely given him the cue to translate it into a deeper relationship.
‘I know that I have little enough to offer,’ he began, planting himself before her. ‘Jacob Hendrik was a decent, God-fearing, conscientious man and I could never be the husband to you that he was. But I swear to you-’
‘That is enough,’ she interrupted. ‘I would prefer it if you said no more on that subject.’
Robinson was hurt. ‘Have I offended you?’
‘No, Ambrose.’
‘Do you find me so revolting, then?’
‘You are a good man with many qualities.’
‘But not good enough for you?’
‘That was not my meaning.’
‘Then why do you spurn me?’
‘I do not,’ she said, standing and crossing to the window. ‘I am just not ready to consider…what you wish to propose, that is all.’
‘Not ready now?’ he said, brightening. ‘But one day…’
‘I make no promises.’
‘One day…’
‘My life is happy enough as it is.’
‘A husband and a son will make it even happier.’
‘No,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘We are friends. I like to think that we are close friends. You helped me when others would not and I will always be grateful to you for that. It made me want to help you to bring Philip home.’
Robinson stared at her. A resentful note intruded.
‘It is him, is it not?’
‘Who?’
‘Your precious Nick Bracewell. He is the canker here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It has all changed,’ he said bitterly. ‘Until he came back into your world, you had time for me and interest in my affairs. We talked together, supped together, even walked to church together on a Sunday. All golden times for me. Then this friend, this Nick Bracewell, appears again and my chances go begging.’
‘That is not true.’
‘He changed everything.’
‘No, Ambrose.’
‘But for him, you would have been mine. I know it.’
‘Nick changed nothing!’
The force of her rejection was like a slap in the face. His body tensed and his eyes blazed but he made no comment. Swinging on his heel, he went out of the house and slammed the door behind him.
***
Lawrence Firethorn was just about to climb into bed when he heard the thunderous knocking on his front door. Margery was already lying among the pillows in her nightgown with a smile of lustful anticipation on her face. Vincentio’s Revenge had sent them early to their bedchamber and they knew that nobody in the house would dare to interrupt them.
When more knocking came, Firethorn stamped a bare foot on the floor to signal to the servant below.
‘Whoever that is, send them on their way!’ he yelled.
‘Ignore them, Lawrence,’ purred his wife.
‘When you lie before me like that, my sweet, I would ignore the Last Judgement. Was ever a man so blessed in his wife? Was ever lover so well matched with lover?’ He moved in to bestow a first tender kiss on her lips. ‘Was ever an actor given such a fine role as this that I play now?’
He embraced her with fiery passion and buried his head between her generous breasts. Digging her fingers into his hair, she pulled him close and urged him on with cries of delight, groaning with even more pleasure when his hands slipped under her nightgown to explore her warm thighs. The bed soon began to creak rhythmically but a louder noise rose above it. Somebody was actually pounding on their door.
Ecstasy froze on the instant. Firethorn could not believe it. At a time when he and his wife most wanted to be alone, they were being rudely disturbed. It was unforgivable. Leaping from the bed half-naked, he stalked across the room, determined to castigate the servant in the roundest of terms before hurling her out into the street. When he snatched open the door, he fully expected the girl to be cowering in terror. Instead, he was met by the improbable sight of Edmund Hoode, hands on hips, standing there with his legs set firmly apart.
‘I have come to speak with you, Lawrence,’ he asserted.
‘Now? Must it be now? Must it be here?’ Firethorn stepped outside the bedchamber and pulled the door shut after him. ‘Do you know what you have just interrupted?’
‘I care not.’
‘Margery is waiting for me within.’
‘I will not keep you from your sleep much longer.’
‘Sleep was the least of our concerns!’
‘I had to see you.’
‘Well, see me, you do. So turn tail and leave my house before I speed you on your way!’ His eyes glowed in the half-dark. ‘Come not between the dragon and his mate!’
‘Who is it?’ called Margery from within.
‘Edmund!’
‘At this hour?’
‘Begone, sir!’ snarled Firethorn. ‘You hold up destiny.’
‘That is why I am here,’ said Hoode calmly. ‘To discuss my own destiny. When I sensed danger in the person of a rival, my impulse was to shrink away and yield up my place. Not any more, Lawrence. I intend to fulfil my destiny. I am here to fight for my place in Westfield’s Men.’
Firethorn exploded. ‘If you tarry any longer, you will be fighting for your life! God’s tits, man! The most wonderful woman in the world is waiting for me in that bed.’
‘Not for ever,’ cautioned Margery. ‘I grow weary.’
‘Come back tomorrow, Edmund!’
Firethorn tried to push him away, but Hoode held his ground with a determination that was unprecedented in so reserved a man. Five minutes alone with Cicely Gilbourne had transformed him. He was loved. His plays were admired. His life had purpose after all. What thrilled him most was her appreciation of his work. It was this which had restored his confidence in himself and made him reflect on the shabby treatment he had been accorded by Westfield’s Men. With fire in his belly, he walked all the way to Shoreditch to beard Firethorn in his own den. Margery’s presence was a minor disadvantage.
‘Will you box his ear or will I?’ she shouted.
‘I will, my pretty one,’ cooed Firethorn before glowering at the intruder. ‘Leave now while your legs still carry you or I’ll not be answerable for my actions!’
‘If I leave now, Lawrence, I leave for good!’
‘That will content us.’
‘Who will pen your plays then, I wonder?’
‘Still there?’ wailed Margery. ‘Throttle the idiot!’
‘I talk of my
place,’ continued Hoode, unruffled. ‘I talk of my destiny. Westfield’s Men are contracted to perform The Faithful Shepherd at The Rose yet I am thrust aside to make way for Jonas Applegarth.’
Firethorn gasped. ‘You have invaded my bedchamber in order to talk about a paltry play?’
‘That paltry play means much to me. Thus it stands. Perform it at The Rose and I remain in the company. Supplant me with another playwright and I will henceforth offer my talent to Banbury’s Men. Do you understand, Lawrence?’
The other was so stunned that all he could offer was a meek nod. Hoode’s fearless manner and dire threat robbed him of the organs of speech. Panting on the bed, Margery Firethorn was more concerned with other organs.
‘Lawrence!’ she bawled. ‘Get in here now! Your kettle is no longer boiling, sir. It needs more heat to make it sing. Light my fire again. Where are you, man?’
Hoode tapped politely on the door and inched it open.
‘We are done now, Margery,’ he said. ‘I’ll send him in.’
***
Unable to sleep for more than a few hours, Nicholas Bracewell rose before dawn and strolled down to the edge of the Thames. The river lapped noisily at the wharf and vessels bobbed in the gloom as they lay at anchor. Born and brought up in a seaport, Nicholas felt at home beside the dark water as it curled between its banks with lazy power. When the first specks of light began to dapple the river, he inhaled the keen air and was at peace with himself. Gulls cried, a winch squealed into life, the plash of oars could be heard in the distance.
His eye then travelled across to Bankside and the demons returned to plague his mind. The Thames did not just snake through London on its way to the sea. Its broad back kept Anne Hendrik and him far apart. They would need more than a bridge to join themselves together again.
Nicholas was still brooding by the quayside when the river was teeming with boats and flanked by scores of people about their daily work. Kneeling down low, he cupped his hands to scoop up some water and let it run over his face. As he began the noisy walk to the Queen’s Head, he felt refreshed and ready to begin his own day.
Blackfriars displaced Anne Hendrik from his thoughts. The second visit to the theatre had yielded much. Aided by Caleb Hay’s sketch, he had been able to take his bearings with more accuracy and James Ingram had pointed out aspects of the precinct which had gone unremarked before. A most fashionable quarter of London had baulked at the notion of a public playhouse in their midst, yet the most successful private theatre in England stood in its place. He wondered how many of the residents who had signed the earlier petition were keen spectators at Blackfriars.
Raphael Parsons now came into the reckoning as a murder suspect. Their first meeting, Nicholas believed, had been deliberately engineered to throw suspicion off the victim’s business partner. Pretending to investigate the crime on his own account, Parsons sought to put himself beyond any investigation. No stage management had been possible before their second encounter. He was taken unawares. His truculent manner, his wild threats and his refusal to account for his precise whereabouts at the time of the murder combined to make him a potential killer.
Nicholas was convinced that the man’s vicious rows with his partner were as much over money as over the treatment of the young actors. Long service with Westfield’s Men had given the book holder an insight into the perilous finances of a theatre company. Blackfriars might not be at the mercy of the elements in the same way as the Queen’s Head, but there was still rent to pay, costumes to buy, scenery and properties to provide, expensive stage equipment to be installed, and the theatre itself to be cleaned and maintained.
When Nicholas added the fees for commissioning new plays with unceasing regularity, he could see how high the running costs must be. The Blackfriars audience might pay higher prices to view the entertainment, but it was much smaller in size than the public playhouses and the gatherers would take less at a performance even than at the Queen’s Head. Raphael Parsons had to drive his actors hard to make a profit. He would not thank the soft-hearted Cyril Fulbeck for standing in his way.
Consideration of the theatre manager inevitably brought him around to the case of Philip Robinson and that let Anne Hendrik back into his mind. He brooded afresh on her until a voice hailed him. Nicholas looked up to see Nathan Curtis emerging from the crowd to join him as he turned into Gracechurch Street.
‘Early again, Nathan. You put the rest to shame.’
‘There are two benches to repair, a coffin to strengthen and a wooden leg to make.’
‘A carpenter is always in request.’
‘Until you go on tour. My trade falls asleep then.’
‘Theatre is a cruel master.’
They were still chatting as they turned in through the archway of the Queen’s Head and made for the rooms which they rented as storage areas. Costumes, properties and scenic devices were expensive items, kept under lock and key at all times. Nicholas was alarmed, therefore, when he tried the first door and found it already unlocked.
‘Someone is here before us?’ said Curtis.
‘Not from the company. Only I have the key.’
‘Who, then, can it be?’
Nicholas drew a cautionary dagger before opening the door. With Curtis behind him, he stepped into the room used as their wardrobe. Nothing seemed to be missing, but he was certain that someone had been in there. A creaking sound took his attention to the room beyond. It was the place where they stored their properties and scenery, and where the carpenter stowed his tools overnight. Nicholas crept over to the door and lifted the latch gently. The door was unlocked but it would only open a matter of inches before it met an obstruction.
Putting his shoulder to the timber, he applied more pressure and there was a scraping noise as a heavy object was pushed across the floorboards. The creaking sound continued throughout and the two of them froze in their tracks when they saw what was causing it.
Jonas Applegarth was hanging from the central beam by a thick rope. As he swayed to and fro, the stout timber creaked under his weight. His face was bloated, his eyes staring, his body twisted into an unnatural shape. His shoes were dangling only inches above the floor, but that short distance was enough to separate him from life. A man of enormous vitality and power had been reduced to an inert hulk.
The object which had impeded them was an open coffin jammed against the door. Reeling from the shock, Curtis bent over his handiwork and spewed uncontrollably into it. Nicholas recovered more quickly. He saw that the rope went over the beam and was tied off on a wooden cleat fixed to the wall. After unwinding it carefully, he took the full strain and lowered Applegarth’s body to the ground with as much consideration as he could.
Nathan Curtis turned to help him but their examination of the body was cut short by another noise. It was a weird and maniacal cackle, which seemed to come from an adjoining room and which rose in volume and intensity until it filled the whole place. The carpenter was terrified by the sound but Nicholas had heard it once before. The Laughing Hangman had returned.
Diving to the other door in the room, Nicholas tried to open it but found it locked. He fumbled for his key and inserted into quickly into the lock. The adjoining chamber was the company’s tiring-house. By the time that Nicholas burst into it, the laughter had stopped and the place was empty. He went through the door that led to the yard but could see no sign of a fleeing figure. Guests were departing, ostlers were going about their business, a servant wielded a broom. When he dashed back into the tiring-house, he tried a third door in the chamber. It opened on to the passageway that led all the way down to the taproom.
Nicholas raced along it, searching each room and alcove that he passed. When he reached the taproom, the door opened before him and he came face to face with Alexander Marwood.
‘What’s amiss?’ demanded the landlord.
‘Did anyone come through this door a moment ago?’
‘I saw nobody.’
‘Are you certain, sir
?’
‘My eyesight is sound.’
‘Where, then, did he go?’
Nicholas went back along the passageway to see if he had missed anything. Scenting trouble, the landlord trotted at his heels with face aghast and hands clutching the air.
‘What new calamity has befallen me?’ he wailed.
‘Send for the law, Master Marwood.’
‘Thieves have got in? Property has been stolen?’
‘It is a more serious crime than that.’
‘Fire has been started on my premises?’
‘Summon the constables.’
‘Dear God!’ howled Marwood, fearing that the worst had finally happened. ‘My daughter, Rose, has been ravished by one of your goatish actors!’
Nicholas took him by the shoulders to calm him.
‘Be still, sir,’ he soothed. ‘No theft, no arson and no assault upon your daughter. A greater affliction has struck us. There has been murder at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Murder!’
The word sent the landlord into a fresh paroxysm of apprehension. His body shuddered, his hands slapped his balding head and three nervous twitches united together to turn his eyebrows into a pair of mating caterpillars. Nicholas propelled him back towards the taproom.
‘Fetch assistance!’ he ordered. ‘Raise the alarm!’
Marwood scuttled off like a chicken pursued by an axe.
‘Murder! What, ho! Help!’
Abandoning the search, Nicholas made his way swiftly back to the room where Applegarth lay. It was important to look for clues and to guard the body from the invasion of ghoulish interest which the landlord’s cries were bound to excite. Other members of the company would soon be arriving. They had to be shielded from the horror of viewing the corpse. Death would deprive them of the day’s audience. There could be no performance that afternoon.
When Nicholas entered the room, the body lay in the exact position where he had left it. Nathan Curtis was still there but he had been joined by someone else. Nicholas was jolted. While the carpenter gazed down reverentially at Jonas Applegarth, his companion stared at the murder victim with a smile of quiet satisfaction.
James Ingram turned away to look across at Nicholas.
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