The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  But Elias was not listening. Convinced that Naismith did not throw the dagger at his friend’s back, he was already asking himself a question.

  Who did?

  ***

  Edmund Hoode ascended the staircase at the Unicorn with far more alacrity this time. Summoned that evening by another sketch of the fabled beast, he responded immediately. A day of mourning might yet be redeemed. Bereavement was dragging him down with his fellows. He had sighed enough for Jonas Applegarth. Sighs of a different order were now in prospect.

  Only when he reached the landing did he stop to consider how little he really knew of Cecily Gilbourne. Was she married? A lady of her age and beauty was unlikely to have remained single. Was she widowed? Divorced even? And where did she live? In London or beyond? Alone or with her family? He winced slightly. Did she have children?

  ‘My mistress is ready for you, sir.’

  The maidservant was holding the door of the chamber open for him. All his doubts melted away. Cecily Gilbourne was sublime. Her age, her marital status, her place of abode and her familial situation were irrelevant. It mattered not if she had three husbands, four houses and five children. She was evidently a lady of wealth and social position. More to the point, she was a woman of keen discernment where drama was concerned. One feature set her above every other member of her sex. Cecily Gilbourne was his.

  Hoode entered the room to take possession of his prize.

  ‘You came!’ she said with a measure of surprise.

  ‘Nothing would have kept me away.’

  ‘Not even the death of a friend? The performance at the Queen’s Head was cancelled because of him. We were turned away. I feared that you would stay there to grieve for him.’

  ‘I would rather celebrate with you.’

  ‘That is what I hoped.’

  There was nothing enigmatic about her smile now. It was frank and inviting. Cecily Gilbourne was dressed in a subtle shade of green which matched the colour of her eyes. Perched on a chair near the window, she wore no hat and no gloves. He noted that a single gold band encircled the third finger of her left hand. Seeing his interest, she glanced down at the ring with a wan smile.

  ‘I was married at seventeen,’ she explained sadly. ‘My husband was a soldier and a statesman. He was killed in action at the Siege of Rouen. No children blessed our union. I have only this to keep his memory bright.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Have you been married, Edmund?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘It is something which should happen when you are very young, as I was, or very old, as I will be before I consider a second marriage. A husband should provide either excitement for your youth or companionship for your dotage.’

  ‘What may I provide for you, Cecily?’

  ‘You give me all that I need.’

  Another candid smile surfaced and she beckoned him over to sit close to her. Hoode was enraptured. The hideous murder at the Queen’s Head that morning was not even a distant echo in his mind. The Laughing Hangman had been obliterated by the smiling inamorata.

  ‘I spoke with Lawrence Firethorn,’ he told her.

  ‘About me?’

  ‘Indirectly. I wanted to fill the one gap in your knowledge of me. You have not seen my Pompey and so I instructed him to put it back on the stage soon for your delectation. It is a work in which I take much pride. Pompey the Great has a true touch of greatness.’

  ‘Then my delight is assured. And your new play?’

  ‘The Faithful Shepherd will be seen at The Rose next week,’ he said, beaming. ‘I insisted that it was. With your permission, I will write a sonnet in praise of you, to be inserted cunningly in one of the longer speeches so that its true meaning may be disguised from the common herd.’

  ‘Can this be done without corrupting your tale?’

  ‘It will enhance it, Cecily. My play is partly set on the island of Sicily, allowing me to conjure endlessly with your magical name. I’ll move the action from midsummer’s night to St Cecilia’s Day to give my fancy even more scope and pen you fourteen lines of the purest poetry ever heard on a stage. Will this content you?’

  ‘Beyond measure.’

  ‘Look for pretty conceits and clever rhymes.’

  ‘I will savour the prettiness of the conceits but I do not look to find a rhyme that is half so clever as this before us.’

  ‘What rhyme is that?’

  ‘Why, Cecily and Edmund. Can two words fit more snugly together than that? Edmund and Cecily. They agree in every particular. Set them apart and neither can stand for much on its own. Put them together, seal them tight, lock them close in a loving embrace and they defy the laws of sound and language. Edmund and Cecily. Is that not the apotheosis of rhyme?’

  ‘They blend together most perfectly into one.’

  ‘Edmund!’

  ‘Cecily!’

  No more words were needed.

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell escorted her back over London Bridge and on to Bankside. It was pleasant to have Anne Hendrik on his arm again and it rekindled memories for both of them. The long walk was far too short for them to exchange all the information they would have wished, but he now had a much clearer idea of the life she had been living since their separation, and she, for her part, filled in many blank pages of his own recent history.

  Anne invited him into her home for some refreshment before he journeyed back. Over a glass of wine, they let nostalgia brush seductively against them.

  ‘Have you missed me?’ she asked.

  ‘Painfully.’

  ‘How did you cope with that pain?’

  ‘I worked, Anne. There is a dignity in that.’

  ‘That was also my escape.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men have kept me busier than ever. I was able to lose myself in my work and keep my mind from straying too often to you and to this house.’

  ‘Did you never think of straying here in person?’

  ‘Daily.’

  She laughed lightly, then her face clouded over.

  ‘I worried deeply about you, Nick.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Westfield’s Men thrust too much upon you. The burden would break a lesser man. Yet still they ask for more from their book holder. It is unfair.’

  ‘I do not complain.’

  ‘That is your failing. They will overload you and you will not raise your voice in protest. You always put the company first.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men are my family. Without them, I would be an orphan. That is why I always seek to advance them. And why I rush to defend them, as I do in this instance.’

  ‘What instance?’

  ‘The murder of Jonas Applegarth,’ he said. ‘It was no random killing. Only one man died, but the whole company will suffer as a result. That was the intention. Victim and place were selected with deep guile.’ He made to leave. ‘Our Laughing Hangman wants to strangle Westfield’s Men as well.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He keeps his reason private.’

  ‘Take care,’ she said, moving close. ‘For my sake.’

  ‘I will.’

  After a brief kiss, he forced himself to leave. The temptation to linger was almost overwhelming, but Nicholas resisted it. A year’s absence could not be repaired in a single evening. Anne’s feelings towards him had changed slightly and he could no longer trust his own promptings. They needed time to find more common ground.

  Other commitments took priority over Anne Hendrik. Only when two murders had been solved and the fate of a chorister had been decided could he feel free to renew his friendship with her, properly and at leisure.

  Instead of crossing the bridge, he walked down to the river to hail a boat. It felt good to be back on the water again and he let a hand trail over the stern like a rudder. His boatman rowed hard. Thames Street drifted slowly towards them. When he landed, Nicholas went straight to the house of a friend.

  ‘I will not take much of your time.’

  �
��Come in, come in, sir,’ said Caleb Hay.

  ‘I feel guilty at dragging you away from your history.’

  ‘It will wait, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘How many hours a day do you spend working on it?’

  ‘Not enough, not enough.’

  Caleb Hay looked weary. He rubbed his eyes to dispel some of the fatigue and conducted Nicholas into his parlour. His wife had answered the door, but he had come down from his study when he heard the name of the visitor. Joan Hay crept nervously away to leave the two men alone.

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Hay. ‘How may I help this time?’

  ‘In a number of ways. You were, I believe, a scrivener.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘How did you discover your aptitude for history?’

  ‘In the course of my work. A scrivener spends much of his time copying documents of various kinds. I was fortunate enough to be commissioned to make fair copies of ancient records in the Tower of London. It was an inspiration. From that moment on, I knew what my life’s work would be.’

  ‘Were you ever called upon to write letters?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘Of what kind?’

  ‘All kinds. Most of London is illiterate. If people need to send an important letter, they will often dictate it to a scrivener. We are like parish priests. We hear a man’s most intimate thoughts.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Letters of love were my special joy. You have no idea how many times I ravished beautiful women with my quill. I must have seduced a hundred or more on paper. I knew the tricks and the turn of phrase.’

  ‘Could you always tell the hand of a scrivener?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By the neatness of his calligraphy,’ he said. ‘And by a dozen other smaller signs. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I read some letters from a boy to his father on a matter of some consequence. I took them at face value and the father is eager for me to do so. But I now suspect that the lad did not write them at all.’

  ‘Bring one to me and I’ll tell you for sure.’

  ‘If I can contrive it, I will.’

  ‘How old is the boy?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Then we have a certain guide,’ said Hay blithely. ‘I’ve taught many lads of that age to hold a pen. I know what an eleven-year-old hand can do.’ He cocked his head to one side to peer at Nicholas. ‘But is this not a trivial affair for so serious as man as yourself? When my wife told me you were here, I thought you’d come for more advice to help you catch the man who murdered Cyril Fulbeck.’

  ‘There is a connection.’

  ‘I fail to see it.’

  ‘The boy is a chorister in the Chapel Royal. Against the express wishes of his father, he was taken there by deed of impressment at the behest of Master Fulbeck.’

  ‘I begin to understand.’

  ‘What distresses him most is that his son spends much of his time at Blackfriars as a child actor. The father is demanding his release, but to no avail.’

  Hay’s face darkened. ‘Then we have one suspect before us. What father would not feel ready to commit a murder in such a case? Might not this same parent be the fellow who killed Cyril Fulbeck?’

  ‘He might well be,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but I think that it is unlikely. And I am certain that he is not guilty of the other hanging.’

  ‘There has been a second?’ gasped the old man.

  ‘This morning. At the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘What poor wretch has died this time?’

  ‘Jonas Applegarth.’

  ‘Ah!’ His tone became neutral. ‘The playwright. I will not speak harshly of any man on his way to the grave. But I cannot pity him so readily as I do the Master of the Chapel. And this Applegarth was hanged, you say?’

  ‘In the same manner. By the same hand.’

  ‘But why? What is the link between them?’

  ‘It is there somewhere.’

  ‘One was a saint, the other a sinner.’

  ‘Our hangman treated them with equal savagery.’

  ‘The animal must be caught!’

  Hay moved away and rested a hand against the wall while he stared into the empty fireplace. He was lost in contemplation for a few minutes. Nicholas waited. His host eventually looked over at him.

  ‘I am sorry, I am sorry. My mind wandered.’

  ‘It is gruesome news. Anyone would be jolted.’

  ‘How else may I help you, sir?’

  ‘Does your history of London touch on its inns?’

  ‘In full detail,’ said Hay, brightening. ‘They are one of the splendours of the city and I give them their due.’

  ‘Will the Queen’s Head be mentioned?’

  ‘It would be a crime to omit it. The history of that inn would fill a book on its own. Such a landmark in Gracechurch Street. Do you know when it was first built?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I would love to hear.’

  Caleb Hay launched himself into another impromptu lecture, taking his guest on a tour through almost two hundred years. His account faltered when he reached the point where Westfield’s Men entered the action, and Nicholas cut him short.

  ‘That was astonishing,’ he complimented. ‘I have worked at the Queen’s Head for years but you have revealed aspects of it which I have never even noticed.’

  ‘The scholar’s eye.’

  ‘You certainly have that. It showed in your sketch of Blackfriars. That has been a godsend to me.’ Nicholas walked to the door and threw a casual remark over his shoulder. ‘It is strange that you did not mention your personal interest in the precinct.’

  ‘Personal interest?’

  ‘Your wife grew up there, I believe.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Hay with a chuckle, ‘that is true but hardly germane. Her father was a bookseller there, but he died years ago. How did you come by this intelligence?’

  ‘From your wife herself. We met in Ireland Yard.’

  ‘She was visiting old friends.’

  ‘So she informed me.’

  Caleb Hay opened the door to usher him out. He gave Nicholas an encouraging pat on his arm.

  ‘Work hard to catch Cyril Fulbeck’s killer.’

  ‘He also murdered Jonas Applegarth.’

  ‘You must sing the Requiem Mass for him. I will not. The Master of the Chapel is the loss I suffer. He was a dear friend. Do you know why?’ He gave another chuckle. ‘Here is something else that slipped my old mind. Cyril Fulbeck not only assisted my researches in Blackfriars. He rendered me a more important service than that.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hay, easing him out into the street. ‘He once had me released from prison.’

  Nicholas found the door closed politely in his face.

  ***

  Anne Hendrik went through into the adjoining premises to check that all doors were securely locked. The shop was kept in meticulous condition because Preben van Loew believed that cleanliness was next to godliness and that an ordered workplace was a Christian virtue. He would certainly have closed the shutters and bolted the doors before leaving, but Anne still felt the need to see for herself. In the wake of the thefts from her property, she had become more conscious of the need to protect both house and shop.

  When she went back through into her parlour, she saw that her servant had admitted a visitor. Ambrose Robinson was in his best apparel. His hands had been thoroughly scrubbed to rid of them of the smell of his trade. His expression was apologetic, his manner docile.

  Anne was not pleased to see him but she suppressed her feelings behind a smile of welcome. She indicated the basket of flowers standing on a table.

  ‘Thank you, Ambrose. A kind thought.’

  ‘It was the least I could do.’

  ‘Their fragrance fills the room.’

  ‘And so does yours!’ he said with heavy-handed gallantry. ‘You are a flower among women.’

  Anne shuddered inwardly. She hoped that she had
heard the last of his clumsy compliments but he was back again with more. Robinson inclined his head penitentially.

  ‘I have come from church,’ he said.

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘I went to pray for forgiveness. On my knees, I can think more clearly. I saw the error of my deeds. After the way I left this house, I have no right to be allowed back into it. You should bar the door against me.’

  ‘Let us forget what happened,’ she suggested.

  ‘I cannot do that, Anne. My disgrace is too heavy to be shrugged off so easily. I sought forgiveness in church but I also appealed for guidance. My ignorance is profound. I blunder through life. I revile myself for the way that I hurt those I cherish most. When my intentions are good, why are my actions often so bad?’

  He sounded quite sincere but she remained on her guard.

  ‘You will find me a changed man,’ he promised.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I will be a true friend and not an angry suitor. I offer you my humblest apologies, Anne. Please accept them.’

  ‘I do.’ There was a pause. ‘With thanks.’

  ‘And I will say the same to Nick Bracewell.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For mistrusting him. For abusing the man behind his back when I should be overcome with gratitude. What does Ambrose Robinson mean to him? Nothing! Why should he care about my dear son, Philip? No reason! Yet he has undertaken to help me with a free heart. That is kindness indeed.’

  ‘Nick responded to my entreaty.’

  ‘There is my chiefest source of shame,’ he said, lifting his eyes to look at her. ‘You, Anne. You took me to him. You engaged Nick Bracewell on my behalf. You did all this, then had to suffer my foul abuse of your friend.’

  ‘It was uncalled for, Ambrose.’

  ‘You are right to chide me.’

  ‘I will not tolerate another outburst like that,’ she warned him. ‘Master your anger or my door will be barred to you. Wild accusation has no part in friendship.’

  ‘I know, I know. My rudeness is only exceeded by my gross stupidity. I love my son and would move Heaven and Earth to get him back. Yet what do I do? Carp and cavil. Malign the one man who may help me.’

  ‘The one man?’

  ‘Let us be frank,’ he said with rancour. ‘The law fails me. Were Philip the son of a gentleman, the case could go to court with some chance of success. Since he is only the child of a butcher, he is beyond salvation. That deed of impressment is a set of chains.’ He took a step towards her. ‘That is why we must work by other means. We must trust Nick Bracewell to insinuate himself into Blackfriars and use persuasion to set Philip free. Why did I dare to censure him? Nick is our only hope.’