The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  Speculation was not enough. It was time to support it with evidence, and he was in the correct place to begin the search. The audience was fast dispersing and Ireland Yard was all but empty when he reached it. Starting at the first house on the left, he knocked hard and waited for the servant to open the door.

  ‘Is Master Parsons at home?’ he asked politely.

  ‘There is no Master Parsons here, sir.’

  ‘Does Raphael Parsons not live at this address?’

  ‘I have never heard the name.’

  It was a painstaking process, but Nicholas stuck to his task until he had been to every house. Several of the residents did not even know him. Of those who did, a number were resentful of the fact that he ran a theatre in the precinct and thus disturbed their peace. Nicholas found no close friends of Raphael Parsons. Where, then, had the man been at the time when Cyril Fulbeck was killed?

  He was deep in meditation when a figure came around the corner towards him. He threw the woman a half-glance and let her go past before he realised that he knew her.

  ‘Mistress Hay!’ he called.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, turning around. ‘Good-day, sir.’

  He could see from her expression that she did not recognise him, largely because she was too shy to look at his face properly. He walked over to her.

  ‘I am Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I called at your house to speak to your husband.’

  She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘Have you been to the play at the theatre?’

  ‘God forbid, sir!’

  ‘Then what are you doing in Blackfriars?’ he asked.

  ‘Visiting old friends. I was born and brought up here.’

  ‘In the precinct?’

  ‘Around the corner,’ she explained, pointing a hand. ‘My father was a bookseller. That is how Caleb and I…how my dear husband and I first met. He came into the shop to buy books and prints.’ A timid enthusiasm flickered. ‘He is such a learned man. Nobody in London knows as much about the history of the city as my husband. I am married to a genius. How many women can say that, sir?’

  ‘Very few, Mistress Hay. Your husband has been kind and helpful to me. I am grateful.’

  Anxiety pinched her. ‘I must return home now. He will be expecting me back. I must be there for him.’

  ‘Your father was a bookseller, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Mompesson. Andrew Mompesson. I must go.’

  ‘Adieu!’

  Nicholas waved her off and watched her shuffle along with her shoulders hunched and her head down. Joan Hay was a woman whose whole purpose in life was to obey her husband’s bidding. A bookseller’s daughter was an ideal helpmeet for him.

  ‘Mompesson,’ repeated Nicholas. ‘Andrew Mompesson.’

  He had a vague feeling that he knew the name.

  ***

  Hugh Naismith used his free arm to lift the tankard and drain the last of his ale. It was good to be back in the Elephant again and to share in the banter with his old friends from Banbury’s Men, even though he was no longer a member of the company. His wounded arm would heal in time and he would be fit for employment again. Meanwhile, he could cadge a few drinks from Ned Meares and his other fellows.

  When he got to his feet, he swayed slightly and bade his farewells. Meares and the others sent him on his way with shouts and laughs. It was early evening when Naismith came reeling out of the inn, adjusting the sling around his neck. His lodging was only a few streets away but he did not get much closer to it.

  As soon he passed the lane beside the Elephant, a strong hand reached out to grab him by his jerkin and swing him hard against a wall. All the breath was taken out of him and his wounded arm was jarred. The point of a dagger pricked his throat and made him jerk back his head in terror.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ he begged. ‘I have no money!’

  ‘That’s not what I want,’ growled a voice.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend of Jonas Applegarth’s.’

  ‘That rogue!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias. ‘That rogue.’

  He let the blade of his weapon caress the man’s neck.

  ‘Tell me why you tried to kill him.’

  Chapter Ten

  An air of gloom hung over the Queen’s Head like a pall. The murder of Jonas Applegarth changed a haven of conviviality into a murmuring tomb. There was desultory movement in the yard with few guests seeking a bed for the night once they heard about the crime on the premises. The atmosphere in the taproom was funereal. Westfield’s Men sat over their ale with a sense of foreboding. Superstitious by nature, they were convinced that a curse had descended on their company and that a violent death presaged an even worse catastrophe.

  Alexander Marwood was in his element. A man whose whole life was agitated by imaginary disasters now had a real one to make him truly despondent. Revelling in his misery, he circled his premises like a lost soul, chanting a monologue of black despair and pausing each time outside the storeroom where the horror had occurred to wonder if it should be exorcised, boarded up or torn down completely. Partnership with a theatre company had visited many tribulations upon his undeserving head but this, he felt, was easily the worst. The ghost of Jonas Applegarth would haunt him for ever.

  When Nicholas returned from Blackfriars, the landlord was still perambulating the yard with enthusiastic grief. He swooped on the book holder at once, bony fingers sinking into his arm like the talons of a bird of prey.

  ‘Why have you done this to me?’ he groaned.

  ‘It was not deliberate.’

  ‘My trade blighted, my womenfolk prostrated, my happiness snatched away! Ruination, sir!’

  ‘A cruel twist of Fate,’ said Nicholas. ‘Westfield’s Men cannot be blamed. You must see that.’

  ‘Who brought that heretic to the Queen’s Head? Who staged his blasphemy in my yard? Who permitted him to fetch the wrath of the Lord down on my inn?’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth was a brilliant playwright.’

  ‘His brilliance has destroyed me!’

  ‘It cost him his own life, certainly,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘Had he not written The Misfortunes of Marriage, he would still be with us. It was too powerful a piece for its own good. Someone was deeply offended by it.’

  ‘Yes!’ howled Marwood. ‘God Almighty!’

  ‘Jonas was killed by a human hand. I can vouch for that.’

  Another torrent of self-pity gushed from the landlord but it washed harmlessly over the book holder. He was diverted by the sight of the woman who had just come hurrying in through the archway of the yard. Detaching himself from Marwood, he ran to greet Anne Hendrik. There was a spontaneous embrace. She hugged him with relief.

  ‘I am so glad to see you safe, Nick!’

  ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘The grim tidings,’ she explained. ‘I met with Nathan Curtis as he was returning home to Bankside. He told me of the murder here this morning and I had to come. I feared for you.’

  ‘But I am in no danger, Anne.’

  ‘If you pursue a killer, you must be. He has two victims already. Do not become the third, I beg you. Nathan told me how determined you were to avenge this death. Why put yourself in such peril?’

  Nicholas soothed her as best he could, then led her across to the tiring-house, unlocking it with his key to give them some privacy. As they stepped into the room, Nicholas felt a pang of remorse. Jonas Applegarth had been hanged in the adjoining chamber and his unquiet spirit hovered over the whole building.

  ‘Nathan was still trembling at what he saw.’

  ‘It was a grisly sight indeed. The mere thought of it has thrown the company into chaos. Jonas Applegarth was one of us.’

  ‘Why was he murdered?’

  ‘To silence his voice.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘He was a man of strong opinions, who used his art to express
them and his wit to belabour his enemies. Jonas was killed for something that he wrote.’

  ‘But what of Cyril Fulbeck?’ she asked. ‘Did you not tell Nathan that he was killed by the same fell hand? The Master of the Chapel was a gentle man with quiet opinions. He made no enemies. Why was his voice silenced?’

  ‘I will find out in time,’ he said confidently. ‘But you are wrong about him. Meek as he was, Cyril Fulbeck did make enemies. You introduced me to one of them in this very inn.’

  She gave a sigh. ‘Ambrose Robinson.’

  ‘He would cheerfully have practised his butchery on the Master of the Chapel.’

  ‘That is not so.’

  ‘Your friend has too much anger swilling inside him.’

  ‘He has a temper but is learning to govern it.’

  ‘The wonder is that he has not descended on Blackfriars in a fit of rage and seized his son by force. How have you prevented him from doing so?’

  ‘I urged him to proceed by legal means. That is why I brought him to you, Nick. I hoped that you could help.’

  ‘I have tried, Anne.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  Nicholas hesitated. Delighted to see her and touched by her concern for him, he was anxious not to provoke another quarrel. He took her hand and led her to a bench against the wall. They sat down together.

  ‘We parted unhappily the last time we met,’ he said.

  ‘That was as much my fault as ours.’

  ‘I was unmannerly with you, Anne.’

  ‘You could never be that.’

  ‘Too bold in my enquiries, then.’

  ‘They carried the weight of accusation,’ she explained. ‘That was what distressed me. Your tone was possessive.’

  ‘I can only beg forgiveness.’

  ‘You harassed me, Nick. I am not bounden to you. In my own house, I am entitled to make my own decisions.’

  ‘I accept that.’

  ‘To choose my own friends without first seeking your approval. Is that so unreasonable a demand?’

  ‘No, Anne,’ he conceded. ‘I am justly rebuked.’

  ‘I deserve some censure myself for being so harsh.’

  ‘The fault is mended.’

  ‘You were only drawn into this business because of me. I should have borne that in mind. You did not choose this situation. I did, Nick, and I was wrong to foist another man’s domestic problem on to you.’

  ‘I embrace it willingly if it makes us friends again.’

  She smiled and kissed him softly on the cheek.

  ‘This you must know,’ she said quietly, ‘and then we may put it aside so that it does not come between us again. Ambrose Robinson is a kind and generous man. Thefts and damage to my property left me in difficulty. Many offered sympathy but he alone offered me the money I needed at that time. It saved me, Nick. It let me rebuild. I cannot forget that.’

  ‘Nor should you.’

  ‘It brought us close. When his son was taken into the Chapel Royal, he was distraught. I could not deny him my help. That brought us even closer. And yes, you were informed correctly, I have been to church with Ambrose-but only to pray beside him on my knees and not for any deeper reason.’

  Nicholas took both comfort and regret from her words.

  ‘Why did you not confide your troubles in me, Anne?’

  ‘You were not there.’

  ‘And he was.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He lowered his head in dismay. The thought that she had been in dire financial straits was upsetting, all the more so because he was unaware of her predicament. It was a disturbing reminder of how far apart they had drifted. If the butcher had come to her aid, the man deserved gratitude. Nicholas felt slightly ashamed. He squeezed her hand in apology.

  ‘My debt has been fully repaid,’ she continued. ‘I owe Ambrose nothing now. What I do for him, I do out of simple friendship for I would see him reunited with his son.’

  ‘That may prove difficult.’

  ‘You have looked further into it?’

  ‘The deed of impressment has the might of the law behind it. Philip Robinson belongs to the Chapel Royal.’

  ‘Can he not be released by any means?’

  ‘It seems not.’

  ‘Have you spoken again to Raphael Parsons?’

  ‘He is not the stumbling block,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor was he responsible for having the boy impressed. That was Cyril Fulbeck’s doing. He is now dead and the lad is answerable to the Assistant Master of the Chapel.’

  ‘But Master Parsons is the real tyrant here.’

  ‘Not so.’

  ‘He is the one who makes Philip’s life such an ordeal. He shouts at the boy, beats him and forces him to act upon the stage. He makes the whole company work from dawn till dusk without respite. It is cruel. Complain to him. Exert pressure there. Raphael Parsons is the problem.’

  ‘One problem, perhaps. But there is a bigger one.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Philip Robinson himself.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He enjoys being one of the Chapel Children.’

  ‘There is nothing he loathes more.’

  ‘I have seen the boy, Anne,’ Nick argued. ‘I watched him play in Alexander the Great this afternoon. He was a delight to behold. He acted well and sang beautifully, all with true zest. I tell you this. I would make Philip Robinson an apprentice with Westfield’s Men without a qualm. We will need a replacement for John Tallis now his voice has deepened into manhood. If he were not already ensconced at Blackfriars, the lad would be ideal.’

  ‘I find this hard to believe. Philip enjoys it?’

  ‘He has found his true profession.’

  ‘Then why are his letters so full of misery? Why does he rail at Raphael Parsons so? Why does Philip beg his father to come and rescue him from his imprisonment?’

  ‘He does none of these things, Anne.’

  ‘He does. I read his tales of woe and so did you.’

  ‘What we read were letters given to us by the father,’ said Nicholas. ‘We only have his word that they were written by his son. Ambrose Robinson has been a good neighbour to you and I respect him for that, but I beg leave to doubt his honesty. I believe that we have been misled.’

  ***

  It was an unsatisfactory confessional box. The lane beside the Elephant in Shoreditch was too public for Owen Elias’s liking. Revellers kept arriving at the inn or tumbling out of it. Grabbing his quarry by the neck, therefore, Elias marched him through a maze of back streets until they found a small house which had collapsed in upon itself. The Welshman kicked Hugh Naismith into the ruins and made him sit on a pile of rubble.

  ‘Peace at last!’ said Elias. ‘Now-talk!’

  ‘I’ve done nothing to you,’ bleated Naismith.

  ‘You offend my sight. Apart from that, you have the stink of Banbury’s Men about you and that’s even more revolting. Tell me about Jonas Applegarth.’

  A slow smile spread. ‘He’s dead. That’s why I went to the Elephant. To drink to his departure.’

  ‘Take care I do not drink to yours!’ warned Elias, still brandishing his dagger. ‘Jonas was a friend. Remember that if you wish to stay alive.’

  ‘He was no friend of mine.’

  ‘So I hear. You fought a duel. He bested you.’

  ‘Only by chance.’

  ‘He should have run you through like the dog you are.’

  ‘He gave me this,’ said Naismith, holding up the sling. ‘Banbury’s Men had no work for an actor with only one arm.’

  ‘Is that why you sought to kill Jonas?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Is that why you threw a dagger at his back?’

  ‘I never did that!’

  ‘Do not lie to me or I’ll cut your mangy carcass to pieces and feed it to the crows. You stalked him, did you not?’

  ‘That I do admit,’ grunted Naismith.

  ‘You followed him home last night and ran away when I sa
w you. Do you admit that as well?’

  ‘Yes. It was me.’

  ‘Hoping for a chance to throw another dagger.’

  ‘No! That would have been too merciful a death. Jonas Applegarth deserved to be roasted slowly over a hot fire with an apple in his mouth like any other pig.’

  ‘Enough!’

  Elias slapped him hard across the face and the man keeled over onto the ground. The Welshman knelt beside him.

  ‘Insult his memory again and you will join him.’

  ‘Stay, sir!’ pleased Naismith.

  ‘Then tell me the truth.’

  ‘I have done so. I despised Jonas Applegarth. I wanted him dead but lacked the opportunity to kill him.’

  ‘You mean, you hurled a dagger and it missed.’

  ‘How could I?’

  Naismith help up his free hand. The bandage was now removed but the hand was still badly swollen and a livid gash ran from the wrist to the back of the forefinger.

  ‘I can hardly lift a tankard,’ he said bitterly. ‘How could I hope to throw a dagger? It was not me!’

  Elias saw the truth of his denial. Naismith was not their would-be assassin. He had been watching Applegarth in order to feed his hatred of the man, waiting until his wounds healed enough for him strike back at his enemy.

  ‘Why did you fight the duel?’ asked Elias.

  ‘He challenged me.’

  ‘Something you said?’

  ‘And something I did not say,’ explained Naismith. ‘We played Friar Francis at The Curtain. It was a clever comedy but full of such sourness and savagery that it was not fit for the stage. I said as much and he took me to task. I hated the play. It bubbled like a witch’s brew. He cursed the whole world in it. Then came the performance itself.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were all at odds with Applegarth by then. He made Friar Francis a descent into Hell for us. Everyone swore to hit back at him but I alone had the courage.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I changed his lines.’

  ‘Jonas would not have liked that.’

  ‘Why speak such slander against mankind when it stuck so in my throat? I wrote my own speeches instead. They had less wit but far more sweetness.’

  ‘No wonder he wanted to cut your heart out!’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth put words in my mouth I simply could not say. What else could I do?’