The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  ‘I would rather remember how the audience shook at his play,’ said Firethorn proudly. ‘They trembled with amazement at the sorcery of his imagination and shook with laughter at the sharpness of his wit. What use is theatre if it be not a two-hour earthquake? Why do the spectators come if not to feel the ground move beneath their feet?’

  ‘Lawrence is right,’ admitted Hoode. ‘Jonas Applegarth had the power to move mountains.’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Gill. ‘He did that every time he opened his bowels. His buttocks were mountains indeed.’

  ‘Do not speak ill of the dead!’ chided Firethorn.

  ‘It is unjust,’ said Hoode. ‘In a moment of envy, I may have wished for his death, but I regret his passing now. He brought much to Westfield’s Men. Mark it well. A great value has gone out of our lives.’

  ‘He had whispers of genius,’ said Gill grudgingly. ‘I give him that. But he might have chosen another day to die. Cupid’s Folly is an appalling loss. I have seventeen magical moments in the play and he has robbed me of every one of them!’ He rose to his feet. ‘“Cruel death hath stolen my Rigormortis from me.”’

  Quoting his lines from the play, he flounced off. Hoode poured them both more wine from the jug. Alexander Marwood came buzzing around them with his woes.

  ‘What am I to do? Where am I to go?’

  ‘As far out of my sight as you can,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Murder was committed on my premises. Guests have fled. Spectators have stayed away. My serving-men and ostlers are too frightened to do their offices. My wife is distraught. My daughter had taken to her bed. I am dead, sirs.’

  ‘We’ll sing lustily at your funeral.’

  ‘I blame you, Master Firethorn.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Bringing that heathen among us,’ said the landlord. ‘His play all but caused an affray in my yard. Jonas Applegarth dared to mock God and the Almighty has given His reply. You should not have let that heathen befoul my yard with his irreverence!’

  ‘Let him rest in peace,’ said Hoode. ‘He is gone.’

  ‘And taken my livelihood with it!’

  Marwood’s twitch suddenly broke out around his mouth and both lips trembled so dramatically that they looked like a pair of fluttering wings. His words were distorted into grunts and whines. It rescued them from further persecution and the landlord stole away, holding his mouth in both hands lest it take flight.

  ‘Which is worse?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Marwood with his twitch or Barnaby with his rigor mortis?’ He lifted his cup of wine. ‘Let’s drink to Jonas!’

  ‘I’ll say Amen to that!’ added Hoode.

  ‘We have lost a playwright but his play lives on. The Misfortunes of Marriage must be staged again in tribute.’

  ‘But not at The Rose next week.’

  ‘Are we to have that argument all over again?’

  ‘No, Lawrence,’ said Hoode, becoming more assertive. ‘The matter is settled. My new play will grace The Rose, as you promised. Choose another time for the tribute to Jonas Applegarth. I’ll not forfeit my right.’

  There was a glint in his eye which forbade any further debate. Hoode was reaffirming his position in the company. Firethorn gave a nod of agreement, then leaned in close.

  ‘What is her name, Edmund?’

  ‘Whose name?’

  ‘This fairy princess who has waved a wand over you.’

  ‘I know of no fairies or wands.’

  ‘Come, sir. You talk to a master of the sport. I am a denizen of dark bedchambers. I know how a woman can make your blood race. Love has put this vigour into you. Some enchantress has stroked your manhood upright at last.’ He slipped an arm around Hoode. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘An invention of your mind.’

  ‘Am I never to meet this goddess?’

  ‘What goddess?’

  ‘Share her wonder with me.’

  ‘How can I?’ said Hoode, coolly. ‘She does not exist.’

  ‘Someone has put this new spirit into you.’

  But Edmund Hoode would not be drawn. Cecily Gilbourne was a secret he would share with no-one. She had enlarged his mind and captured his soul. With her in his life, he felt, he could achieve anything. He recalled the one omission in her catalogue of his work.

  ‘When do we play Pompey again?’ he asked.

  ‘It has fallen out of our repertoire.’

  ‘Insert it back in, Lawrence.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I tell you. I, too, can make the earth quake on occasion, nowhere more so than in my tale of Pompey. See him put upon the stage once more. Those who remember him will welcome him back and he is sure to win fresh hearts.’

  He thought of Cecily Gilbourne and smiled serenely.

  ***

  Blackfriars Theatre brought a steady flow of spectators into the precinct. The reputation of the Chapel Children grew with each performance and the murder of their Master seemed to encourage interest rather than to deter it. Some came out of love for Cyril Fulbeck and others out of morbid curiosity, but the result was that the whole precinct was soon swarming with playgoers. Where the Dominican Order once held sway, Alexander the Great would now march in triumph.

  Nicholas Bracewell arrived well before the performance was due to begin and loitered in the Great Yard to study the composition of the milling crowd. The audience differed markedly from that normally seen at the Queen’s Head. Westfield’s Men played to patrons drawn from every rank of society. Aristocrats, artisans and apprentices would share the same space as lawyers, landowners and local politicians. Merchants and mathematicians sat in the balcony while punks and pickpockets mingled with the standees in the pit.

  Blackfriars had a more exclusive clientele. It was less a heterogeneous mix than a parade of sumptuary legislation. The laws designed to regulate the dress of men and women were strictly applied. Flashes of gold, silver and purple told Nicholas how many members of the hereditary peerage were present. Velvet denoted a large number of gentlemen and their ladies. Satin, damask, taffeta and grosgain spoke of the eldest sons of knights and all above that rank, or of an income of at least one hundred pounds per annum. And so it went on.

  Since costume was such an important element of theatre and accuracy of detail vital, Nicholas had a close acquaintance with the regulations, and he took wry amusement from the fact that gifts of old clothing to actors were one of the few permitted exceptions to the rules. A deeper irony often impressed itself upon him. Actors who struggled to make ten pounds a year would appear on stage in apparel worth far more than that. Popes and princes at the Queen’s Head were hired men who rubbed shoulders with poverty when they left it.

  A face came out of the crowd to startle him. Nicholas had not expected to see James Ingram there. He was about to hail his colleague when he recalled the latter’s strange behavior beside the corpse of Jonas Applegarth. It had seemed so mean-spirited. What, in any case, was Ingram doing at the Queen’s Head so early? Was his sudden appearance in the storeroom coincidental? Nicholas stepped back out of sight as the actor went past, wondering if past loyalty had brought him to Blackfriars or if a more sinister motive was at work. Ingram would repay watching.

  Waiting until the majority of the spectators had taken their places, he paid sixpence for a seat at the rear. Ingram was three rows in front of him but on a diagonal which allowed Nicholas a clear view of his profile. He did not dwell on it for long. His attention was captured by the splendour of the private playhouse. Shutters had been closed to block out the afternoon sun but the stage was ablaze with light. Candles burned in branched candelabra, many of them hanging and operated by pulleys. The auditorium itself was illumined by numerous small flames as well but full radiance was concentrated on the stage.

  Musicians kept the audience entertained while they awaited the performance and Nicholas once again noted a stark contrast. Peter Digby and his consort inhabited a narrow balcony above the stage at the Queen’s Head, a cramped and windswept arena in which
to practice their art. Their music had to complete with the jostling hubbub of the innyard, the strident yells of vendors selling refreshment and the relentless uproar of the adjacent Gracechurch Street.

  Blackfriars was more benevolent to its musicians. Seated in complete comfort, they were given an attentive audience in a building that was designed to catch and amplify the beauty of their work. No raucous yells disturbed the concert, no violent quarrels broke out between onlookers. Music was able to create the perfect mood for the presentation of Alexander the Great.

  Additional light flooded the acting area as fresh candelabra were brought in and set in position. All eyes were trained on the stage without distraction. Martial music played and the Prologue entered to a burst of applause. The attack began after only half a dozen lines:

  Monstrous body with the Head of a Queen,

  A maggot-filled apple, so sour and so green,

  A running sewer of repulsive jest

  Besmearing grass in the field to the west.

  Nicholas was stung by the jibe at Westfield’s Men, but it was the sustained assault on the character and work of Jonas Applegarth which really offended him. Tasteless enough while the playwright was alive, it was disgusting when aimed at a victim of murder. Nicholas told himself that those who laughed at the vicious abuse were unaware of the fate of the man at whom it was aimed, but that did not ease his mind.

  His acerbic mockery of child actors had set Applegarth up for a counter-blast. Nicholas accepted that. But while his had been a general satire on despised rivals, the playwright was now suffering a vindictive onslaught of the most personal kind. Every aspect of his appearance, his plays, his opinions and his alleged atheism was held up to ridicule. Nicholas could almost see the man, dangling from a rope in the middle of the stage while he was pelted with rotting fruit and sharp stones.

  Alexander the Great stormed onto the stage with his entourage and the tale of heroism began. Military prowess and stirring poetry wiped out the Prologue for everyone else, but it wriggled like a tiny worm in Nicholas’s brain. The play itself was a skilful drama, yet it lacked any of the sheer power which had made the work of Jonas Applegarth so compelling and controversial.

  Ideal for Blackfriars, the piece would not have survived on the stage at the Queen’s Head. Its language was too high-flown, its action too stylised and its moral judgements too oblique. Much of its political commentary would have been incomprehensible to the standees and there was none of the earthy humour with which even the most serious plays in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men was liberally salted. The greatness of Alexander did not extend to a sense of humour.

  At the same time, it was an instructive experience. As a member of one theatre troupe, Nicholas rarely had the opportunity to view the work of the others. Adult companies were scathing in their dismissal of juvenile actors, but he now saw how unfair that attitude was. The Chapel Children deserved to be taken seriously. They were worthy rivals to Westfield’s Men and had one supreme advantage over them. While a typical season at the Queen’s Head would last at most for five months, the Blackfriars company could perform for twelve. In the interests of commercial gain, and regardless of the pressure on his actors, Raphael Parsons would keep the theatre open for the whole year.

  Alexander the Great showed the strengths and exposed the weaknesses of the Chapel Children. They spoke the verse well, they sang superbly and they moved with the grace of dancers. What they lacked was physical presence and this was a failing in a play about recurring warfare. Battles were described in soaring language by children who did not look strong enough to carry spears, let alone to wear full armour. Older members of the company bore the principal roles with honour but there were occasional sniggers as the mighty Alexander entered with an army of boy soldiers.

  Two things impressed Nicholas above all else. The first was the clear evidence of the manager’s rich abilities. Whatever the defects of his character, Raphael Parsons had a flair for theatrical presentation. His cast was well drilled, his use of scenic devices was masterly and he brought off some stunning dramatic effects. Control of light was a feature of the performance. Candles were whisked on in profusion to create the sun-baked deserts of Persia, then removed in a flash to leave Alexander’s tent in virtual darkness for a dream sequence. As the play moved faultlessly on, one book holder admired the work of his counterpart behind the scenes.

  The other striking feature was the performance given by Philip Robinson. Dressed as a Greek goddess, he wafted in and out of the action with ethereal charm. Three songs were allotted to him, each sung in the most sweet and affecting voice. Enjoyment shone out of the boy. Nicholas wondered if this Greek goddess really did wish to return to family life with a heavy-handed butcher in Bankside.

  The final scene was the best. Having used all the stage equipment with consummate skill, Parsons saved the most arresting moment until the end. As life slowly ebbed away from the dying Alexander, a silver cloud descended from above with the goddess reclining in front of it. High above the stage, Philip Robinson declaimed a valedictory tribute to the great commander. Light slowly faded on his epic career.

  While the audience was profoundly moved, Nicholas was shocked. The winch used to lower Philip Robinson was the one which had hauled Cyril Fulbeck up to his death.

  An ovation greeted the cast as they came out to take their bows and several spectators rose to their feet in salute. When they began to file out of the theatre, nothing but praise was heard on every side. Nicholas waited until he reached the Great Yard before he accosted James Ingram.

  ‘Nick!’ Ingram said. ‘I did not look to find you here.’

  ‘It was a temptation too big to resist.’

  ‘They acquitted themselves well, I feel, though they would fare better with a better play. Boys make wonderful goddesses but sorry soldiers.’

  ‘Why did you come?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Out of interest.’

  ‘Interest or envy?’

  ‘Both, Nick.’

  ‘There is certainly much to interest.’

  ‘But even more to envy. Just think what we could do with that winding-gear at the Queen’s Head. And that scenery! Jonas was so wrong in his attack on the children’s companies. So wrong and so vilely unfair.’

  ‘What did you think of the reply?’

  ‘In the Prologue?’

  ‘Was not that vilely unfair?’

  ‘No,’ said Ingram evenly. ‘Jonas deserved it.’

  Before Nicholas could discuss it further, the actor wheeled away and was soon lost in the crowd. It was abrupt behavior for a man who was unfailingly polite as a rule. The book holder was not left alone for long.

  ‘I see that we have a spy in our midst.’

  ‘Merely another spectator.’

  ‘Our spectators do not come to sneer.’

  ‘Nor more did I. There was much to admire.’

  ‘I cannot say the same of Westfield’s Men.’

  Raphael Parsons was circling the Great Yard to garner praise and eavesdrop on opinion. He gazed around with a proprietary air and spoke to Nicholas over his shoulder.

  ‘I wonder that you could spare the time, sir.’

  ‘You advised me to come.’

  ‘Not with any expectation of a response,’ said Parsons. ‘Should you not have been at the Queen’s Head this afternoon to prop up that rabble of actors?’

  ‘I should have been there, it is true.’

  ‘Then why did you choose Blackfriars instead? And why did you not bring Jonas Applegarth with you so that we could throw his insults back in his teeth?’

  ‘Jonas, I fear, is dead.’

  Parsons turned to him in surprise. It quickly shaded into a pleasure that was fringed with disappointment.

  ‘Then the rogue has escaped me, has he?’

  ‘Not by design,’ said Nicholas. ‘Jonas was murdered at the Queen’s Head early this morning. Hanged from a beam.’

  ‘Hanged? Was there a rope strong enough?’
r />   ‘A rope strong enough and a killer determined enough. We have seen his handiwork here at Blackfriars.’

  Parsons blinked. ‘You believe it to be the same man?’

  ‘I am convinced of it.’

  ‘Then he is enemy and friend in one.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I hate him for what he did to Cyril Fulbeck but I love him for the way he dealt with Jonas Applegarth.’

  ‘You dealt cruelly enough with him yourself.’

  ‘He invited it.’

  ‘The dead invite respect.’

  ‘True,’ said Parsons. ‘But when I commissioned that Prologue to Alexander the Great, I thought he would be alive to hear of it. How was I to know that he would be dead?’

  ‘And if you had known?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you had been made aware of his death,’ said Nicholas, ‘would you have removed that offensive attack in your Prologue?’

  Parsons grinned. ‘By no means. I’d have called for a few more couplets to celebrate the happy event.’

  Nicholas struggled to control a powerful urge to strike him. The manager stood his ground, almost inciting some form of violence so that he could bring an action for assault against the book holder. A former lawyer would assuredly win any legal battle and penalise him severely. Nicholas held back. Delight danced in the other man’s eyes. He was taking such pleasure in the death of Jonas Applegarth that Nicholas began to wonder if he might not have been directly involved in it. The egregious manager certainly hated the playwright enough to kill him. Had the surprise he expressed at the news been real or feigned?

  Still grinning broadly, Parsons moved away to collect more congratulations from members of the audience. There was a blend of arrogance and obsequiousness about him which was unpleasant to watch. He was alternately boasting and bowing with mock humility. When a generous compliment was paid to him by a lady, Parsons let out a high laugh of gratitude. It made Nicholas prick up his ears. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have heard that sound before.