The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  ‘Do not ask me to mourn him,’ he said. ‘I will not.’

  Chapter Nine

  Lawrence Firethorn was still bemused as his horse trotted in through the looming bulk of Bishopsgate that morning. A promised night of passion with an uninhibited lover had turned into an unseemly squabble with a disappointed wife. Thanks to the intercession of Edmund Hoode, the actor-manager spent the hours of darkness in a cold and cheerless bed. And yet he was not really angry with the playwright. Irritation was the most he could muster. Where he should have been thirsting for the man’s blood, he was instead stupefied by his boldness.

  Hoode entered the lion’s den to deliver his ultimatum. He had to be admired for that. Even in the face of extreme conjugal frustration, he did not flinch. Firethorn could usually stifle him at will and his wife could vanquish Hoode with a glance, yet their combined powers had no impact on him this time. He had lain between them like a naked sword and kept two urgent bodies agonisingly chaste.

  Who had changed a taciturn playwright into a brave knight? What had made him enter the lists so purposefully on behalf of his work? Why had he chosen to interrupt lawful copulation in a Shoreditch bedchamber at that particular moment? Only one explanation sufficed.

  ‘A pox on his pizzle!’ groaned Firethorn. ‘He’s in love.’

  It posed a real problem for Westfield’s Men. They could no longer take their resident playwright for granted. Hoode was forcing them to choose between his proven reliability and Jonas Applegarth’s potential wizardry. What should they stage at The Rose-The Faithful Shepherd or The Misfortunes of Marriage? Hoode’s romantic comedy would be an undoubted success, but it was Applegarth’s trenchant satire which would reverberate throughout London.

  Firethorn was in despair. To lose Hoode would cause him deep personal pain; to sacrifice Applegarth would be an act of professional folly. He was still weighing the two men in the balance as his horse picked its way through the crowd and turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head.

  Chaos awaited him. Bodies dashed hither and thither in wild confusion. Alexander Marwood charged around in everdecreasing circles, bewailing his lot to those who would listen and upbraiding those who would not. Thomas Skillen was shaking his head in disbelief, George Dart was pacing up and down in cold fear, and the four apprentices were weeping openly. Edmund Hoode sat on a barrel in a complete daze. Owen Elias strutted frenziedly around the edge of the yard with a sword in his hand.

  Firethorn saw a large coffin being unloaded from a cart by two men. He kicked his horse to take him across to Hoode.

  ‘Edmund!’ he said. ‘What means this commotion?’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth has been murdered!’

  ‘Here at the Queen’s Head?’

  ‘Hanged by the neck.’

  The news hit Firethorn like a body blow. He quivered in the saddle. The implications would be horrendous and far-reaching. One problem had been solved: Hoode would now stay with the company which Applegarth had deserted for ever. But a hundred other problems had just been created. On top of a night of enforced celibacy, it was too much to endure.

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell worked as quickly as he could in the limited time at his disposal. To prevent any unnecessary intrusion, he stationed James Ingram and Nathan Curtis, respectively, outside each of the two doors. Ingram’s reaction to the murder had been almost callous, but Nicholas could not spare a moment to reflect upon such an unexpected response from such a caring man. Jonas Applegarth pushed all else from the book holder’s mind. Before examining the dead body, he first removed the rope and noted how carefully the noose had been tied. The playwright had not been dispatched from the world with the aid of a crude knot. The Laughing Hangman knew his craft.

  Inspecting the body, Nicholas was surprised to find no sign of blood. Applegarth would not have gone willingly to the makeshift gallows. His killer would have had to disable him first or he would have fought and yelled. Nicholas eventually located the large swelling on the back of the victim’s head. He had been knocked unconscious from behind. A sturdy mallet lay on the floor. The carpenter had unwittingly provided the weapon just as Westfield’s Men had unwittingly provided the rope. The scene of the execution had been chosen with care.

  When he turned the body on its side, Nicholas was puzzled by the sight of sawdust sticking to the doublet and breeches. Curtis was a tidy carpenter. Though he used the room as his workshop, he always swept the floor clean. Nicholas went over to the roughhewn table in the corner. Pinches of sawdust still lay in the grooves and knot-holes of the carpenter’s workbench. How had it found its way onto the victim’s attire?

  Bending over the prostrate Applegarth once more, he searched the man’s pockets but found only one item that might be a clue. The brief note scribbled on a piece of paper went into Nicholas’s own pocket. Mute and unprotesting, Applegarth lay on his back with his eyes searching the ceiling. In his brief stay with Westfield’s Men, he had made a forceful impact and he would be missed. Nicholas offered up a silent prayer for him, then reached down with delicate fingers to close his eyelids.

  The sound of raised voices outside the door told him that he did not have much time left. He used it to search for parallels between this murder and that of Cyril Fulbeck. The similarities were too obvious to ignore. Both were rendered unconscious before the noose was fitted. Both were hanged by a man who celebrated his crime with mocking laughter. Both died in buildings from which the killer could make an easy escape. Nicholas was musing on the other common factors when there was a banging on the door.

  Constables had arrived and the official investigation began. Nicholas and Curtis gave statements, the scene of the crime was thoroughly searched and the body was scrutinised. Unable to get it into their coffin, the two men had to perch it on top and cover it with a black cloth. More tears were shed in the yard as the corpse of Jonas Applegarth was carried solemnly out to the cart and driven away to the morgue. Westfield’s Men were bereaved.

  When Nicholas finally emerged, Lawrence Firethorn was standing outside the door. He took the book holder by the arm and led him aside for a hissed interrogation.

  ‘Do you know what this will do to the company?’

  ‘My thoughts are with his poor wife.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ said Firethorn defensively. ‘Mine, too. The woman will be destroyed. But we suffer an act of destruction as well. Today’s performance has been hanged by the neck and Marwood is in such a state of superstitious panic that he is talking of renouncing our contract. What are we to do, Nick?’

  ‘Try to keep calm.’

  ‘When one of our number has been murdered?’

  ‘Reassure the rest of the company,’ advised Nicholas. ‘They need kindness and support at a time like this. I’ll speak with the landlord and smooth his ruffled feathers.’

  ‘Who did this, Nick?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘And why did he have to do it here?’

  ‘That question is easier to answer.’

  ‘Why not stab Jonas in some dark alleyway?’

  ‘Because the killer wanted to inflict the most damage on Westfield’s Men. You see the disarray it has caused.’

  ‘It was like Bedlam out in that yard,’ said Firethorn. ‘Marwood was prancing around like some lunatic at full moon. Why could not the hangman put his scrawny neck into a noose? If our landlord were swinging from the rafters, we’d have something to celebrate.’ He pulled Nicholas close. ‘Tell me what happened from the moment you arrived here.’

  Nicholas was succinct. Firethorn frowned.

  ‘What was Jonas doing here so early?’ he wondered.

  ‘Answering your summons.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘You were the only person who could get him to the Queen’s Head at the crack of dawn. The murderer knew that and set his trap accordingly.’

  ‘Trap?’

  ‘Here is the bait,’ said Nicholas.

  He handed over the letter which he had found in pock
et of the dead man. His companion read the scribbled words.

  If you would remain with Westfield’s Men, meet me at the Queen’s Head at dawn.…Lawrence Firethorn.

  ‘I never sent this!’ protested the actor-manager.

  ‘Jonas believed that you did.’

  ‘This is not my summons.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is a death warrant.’

  ***

  Anne Hendrik was at once saddened and relieved by her exchange with Ambrose Robinson on the previous evening. She was sorry to wound the feelings of someone who was already suffering a degree of emotional pain. A powerful man in a brutal profession, he was nevertheless remarkably sensitive and she had been touched that he felt able to reveal this side of his character to her. At the same time, however, she did not want her friendship to be misinterpreted. His unwelcome proposal had forced her to be more open with him about her own affections, and that brought a measure of relief. She may have hurt him but at least he would not pester her again.

  ‘What time is he coming?’

  ‘At noon, Preben.’

  ‘Do you wish me to be there?’

  ‘I shall insist,’ she said, pleasantly. ‘I would never dream of taking on a new apprentice without your full approval.’

  ‘Where does the boy’s family come from?’

  ‘Amsterdam.’

  ‘That is recommendation enough.’

  Preben van Loew was, as usual, first to arrive at work. Anne came in from her adjacent house to discuss plans for the day. She took a full and active part in the running of the business. The old Dutchman and his colleagues might make the hats, but it was Anne who often designed them and she was solely responsible for gathering all the orders and for ensuring delivery. When demand was especially pressing, she had even been known to take up needle and thread herself.

  By the time her other employees drifted in, the discussion with Preben van Loew had ended. Her first task was to buy some new material for the shop. She went back into her house and put on her own hat before she was ready to leave. A dull thud at her front door made her turn. A figure flitted past her window but far too quickly to be identified. She was mystified.

  Anne crossed to the door and opened it tentatively. There was nobody there. Something then brushed against her dress. It was a large bunch of flowers in a wicker basket. She picked it up to inhale their fragrance. The scent was quite enchanting. Anne was moved by the unexpected present and she wondered who could have bestowed it on her.

  The sender soon declared himself. Stepping around the corner of the street, Ambrose Robinson waved cheerily to her. His expression was apologetic and the flowers were clearly meant as some kind of peace offering. Accepting them as such, Anne replied with a grateful flick of her hand and a token smile. He grinned broadly before ducking out of sight again. She put the basket of flowers on a table without pausing to consider for a moment the real significance of the gift that she was taking into her house.

  ***

  That was nobly done, Nick. No man could have handled it better.’

  ‘I wanted to be the one to break the sad tidings.’

  ‘Thank heaven that you were!’

  ‘Your presence was a help, Owen.’

  ‘I said almost nothing.’

  ‘You were there. That was enough. Mistress Applegarth drew strength from your sympathy.’

  ‘It was your compassion which sustained her. You delivered the roughest news in the most gentle way. She will ever be grateful to you for that.’

  Owen Elias and Nicholas Bracewell had just left the home of Jonas Applegarth. It had fallen to the book holder to inform her that she was now a widow, and he had done so by suppressing all the gruesome details of her husband’s death. Neighbours had been brought in to sit with the woman until other members of the family could arrive to share the burden of the tragedy.

  ‘She is a brave woman,’ observed Owen. ‘She bore up well throughout that ordeal. It was almost as if she were expecting something like this to happen.’

  ‘I think she was. Jonas seemed to court destruction.’

  ‘Yes, Nick. The wonder is not that he is dead but that he lived for so long.’

  Nicholas looked back at the house with deep sadness. ‘Jonas Applegarth was a playwright of distinction-we have not seen a finer at the Queen’s Head-but his talent was marred by a perversity in his nature. His work won him friends, yet he thrived on making enemies.’

  ‘One, in particular!’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘Let’s after him straight,’ urged Elias. ‘Now that we have done our duty by his widow, we must seek revenge. We know who the murderer was.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Hugh Naismith. Late of Banbury’s Men.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘He has been stalking Jonas for days. You were there when Naismith hurled a dagger at him. And I dare swear that he followed us here last night.’

  ‘That does not make him our man, Owen.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he would not go to all the trouble of setting up a gallows at the Queen’s Head when he could dispatch his victim more easily with sword or dagger. You forget something.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Naismith was injured in his duel with Jonas. How could a man with his arm in a sling haul up so heavy a load over a beam? It is not possible.’

  ‘It is if he had a confederate.’

  ‘I heard one Laughing Hangman, Owen, not two.’

  ‘Naismith had cause and means to kill Jonas.’

  ‘Granted,’ said Nicholas. ‘But what cause and means did he have to murder Cyril Fulbeck at the Blackfriars Theatre?’

  ‘The cause is plain enough, Nick.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Fulbeck put those Chapel Children back on the stage to take the bread out of the mouths of honest actors. I am one with Hugh Naismith there. I’d happily wring the necks of those infant players myself and the man who put them there.’

  ‘You are wrong, Owen.’

  ‘It has to be Naismith.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Your reason?’

  ‘He was too obvious an enemy,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Jonas would be on his guard as soon as he saw the man. Naismith might have forged a letter to lure him to the Queen’s Head, but how did he entice him into our storeroom? The person who killed him was a man he did not fear. Remember the Master of the Chapel.’

  ‘Cyril Fulbeck?’

  ‘He also let someone get close enough to strike. A stranger would never have gained entry to Blackfriars.’

  ‘Then Naismith was not a stranger to him.’

  ‘He has no part in this, Owen.’

  ‘But he does,’ insisted the Welshman. ‘You saw a dagger aimed at Jonas’s back. Did that come out of thin air?’

  ‘No, it was thrown by an enemy. But not by our hangman.’

  ‘There are two villains here?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ said Nicholas, thinking it through. ‘One of them haunts the shadows and strikes from behind. The other is a more calculating killer. Why was Master Fulbeck hanged on his own stage? Why did Jonas have to be enticed to the Queen’s Head? There is method here, Owen. And it is way beyond anything that Hugh Naismith could devise.’

  Elias nodded reluctantly. ‘You begin to persuade me. Haply, he is not our man.’ His ire stirred again. ‘But that does not rule him out as the street assassin. Naismith trailed Jonas and hurled that dagger at him.’

  ‘That may yet be true.’

  ‘It is, Nick. Let’s track him down and beat a confession out of him. Attempted murder must not go unpunished.’

  ‘Nor shall it. But you must pursue Naismith alone.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I must to the Coroner to sign a sworn statement of how the body of Jonas Applegarth came to be discovered. Nathan Curtis waits for me there. Then I’ll to the playhouse.’

  ‘The Curtain? The Theatre? The Rose?’

 
‘Blackfriars,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is where this riddle first started and where it will finally be solved.’

  ***

  As the finger of guilt pointed at him once more, Edmund Hoode shut his eyes against its silent accusation. He only half-heard the argument that was raging nearby. Barnaby Gill and Lawrence Firethorn were sitting with him in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. Inflamed with drink, they locked horns.

  ‘Why was the performance canceled?’ demanded Gill.

  ‘Out of respect for the dead,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘I was not consulted.’

  ‘The decision was taken for us, Barnaby. Even you must see that. We could not stage a play in the yard while Jonas Applegarth was dangling from a beam in the storeroom.’

  ‘He was cut down and carted away hours ago.’

  ‘His memory remains.’

  ‘I believe that you did this out of spite, Lawrence.’

  ‘Spite?’

  ‘Yes!’ screamed Gill, working himself up into a full tantrum. ‘Cupid’s Folly should have been played today. A piece tailored to my genius. Audiences clamour for it time and again. You tore it off the stage to spite me.’

  ‘That is madness!’

  ‘You know how I rule the roost in Cupid’s Folly. They adore me. They love to see my performance as Rigormortis.’

  ‘Why, so do I!’ said Firethorn with sarcasm. ‘I would give anything to look upon your rigor mortis.’

  ‘Spite!’

  ‘Go rot!’

  ‘The play was cancelled out of spite.’

  ‘Is that why Jonas Applegarth got himself hanged? In order to spite you? “Pray, good sir, put that noose around my neck so that I may aggravate Barnaby Gill.” Think of someone else for a change, man. Sigh for the loss of a friend. That is what Edmund does.’ He nudged the playwright hard. ‘Do you not?’

  Hoode opened his eyes. ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘You are in mourning for Jonas, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, Lawrence. I mourn and I repent. As God is my witness, I must speak honestly. I writhe with guilt.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wished the poor fellow dead.’

  ‘So did I and so did every man,’ said Gill. ‘Why deny it? We hated him. Jonas Applegarth was an earthquake in our midst. See how we shake at his passing.’