‘I think that I must beg your pardon,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘For putting you in bad favour with your husband. I should not have told him that we met in Blackfriars. I fear he may have upbraided you for talking to me as you did.’
‘No, no,’ she lied.
‘Master Hay is a private man, I know that.’
‘He is a genius, sir. I am married to a genius.’
‘Why is he not with you this morning?’
‘He has gone ahead. I rush to catch up with him.’
‘Then I will ask one simple question before I let you get on your way.’
‘Please do not, sir. I know nothing.’
‘This is no secret I ask you to divulge. Your husband talked openly of it yesterday.’
‘Then speak with him again.’
‘I would rather hear it from you.’
When they reached a corner, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder to stop her. Joan Hay looked up into his face with frightened eyes. Timorous at the best of times, she was now in a mild panic.
‘Master Hay told me that he was once in prison.’
‘Only for one day,’ she said defensively.
‘There must have been some error, surely? Your husband is the most law-abiding man I have ever met.’
‘He is, he is.’
‘What possible charge could be brought against him?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You must have some idea.’
‘It was a mistake. He was soon released.’
‘Thanks to the help of the Master of the Chapel.’
‘Yes, I believe that he was involved.’
‘So why was your husband arrested?’ pressed Nicholas.
‘Truly, sir, I do not know.’
‘He could not have been taken without a warrant. Did they come to the house? Was he seized there?’
Joan Hay glanced nervously around, fearful of being late for church and anxious to shake off her interrogator. She was patently unaware of the full details of her husband’s temporary incarceration, but Nicholas still felt that he might winkle some clue out of her.
‘Let me go, sir,’ she said. ‘I implore you.’
‘When the officers came for your husband…’
‘Discuss the matter with him.’
‘Did they take anything away with them?’
‘Some documents, that is all.’
‘Documents?’
‘Do not ask me what they were for I know not.’
Nicholas stepped aside so that she could continue on her way. He felt guilty at harassing an already harassed woman but the conversation had yielded something of great interest. It gave him much to ponder as he headed for his own church in the neighbouring parish.
***
The jangling harmonies of London finally brought Edmund Hoode out of his protracted sleep. Expecting to wake up in the Garden of Eden, entwined in the arms of his beloved, he was disconcerted to find himself alone in a dishevelled bed at the Unicorn with a draught blowing in through an open window. As his brain slowly cleared, the full force of the bells hit his ears and he put his hands over them to block out the sound.
There was no trace of Cecily Gilbourne, not even the faintest whiff of the delicate perfume which had so intoxicated him the previous night. Had she fled in disappointment? Was their love shipwrecked on its maiden voyage? Hoode closed his eyes and tried to remember what had actually happened. Paradise had been recreated on the first floor of a London inn. He had been offered an apple from the Tree of Knowledge and had eaten it voraciously. It had been inexpressibly delicious.
The problem was that Eve had given him another apple. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth and possibly more. Before he collapsed in sheer exhaustion, he recalled looking around a Garden of Eden that was littered with apple cores. Eve, meanwhile, was straining to pluck another down from a higher branch. Her pursuit of knowledge was insatiable.
When Hoode struggled to sit up, he realised just how insatiable Cecily Gilbourne had been. She had left him for dead. His muscles ached, his stomach churned and his body seemed to have no intention of obeying any of its owner’s commands. After long hours of sleep, he was still fatigued. His mouth was parched and he longed for some water to slake his thirst.
With a supreme effort, he rolled off the bed and got his feet onto the floor. They showed little enthusiasm for the notion of supporting him and he had to clutch at a bench to stay upright. Blown by the wind and buffeted by the bells, he staggered across to the door, using a variety of props and crutches on his way. What kept him going was the thought that Cecily might be in the adjoining chamber, waiting for him to join her before breakfast was served. But the door was locked.
Hoode leant against it while he gathered his strength. A question began to pound away at the back of his skull. Why did he feel so unhappy? After such a night of madness, he should be overwhelmed with joy. Having tasted the sweet delights of Cecily Gilbourne, his mouth should be tingling with pleasure. Yet his palate was jaded. What had gone wrong?
His body rebelled and threatened to cast him to the floor. Legs buckled, arms went slack and his neck tried to disassociate itself from his head. The bed was his only salvation but it now seemed to be a hundred yards away. Marshalling his forces for one desperate lunge, he flung himself across the room, kicked over a stool, a table and a chamber-pot on the way, then landed on the bed with a thud, resolving never to move from it again.
He was still lying there, moaning softly and idly composing his own obituary, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a letter, protruding from beneath the pillow, clearly left by Cecily Gilbourne. His heart lifted. He was not, after all, an abandoned lover in a draughty bedchamber. She had penned her gratitude in glowing terms before stealing away and affirmed her love. That thought made him open the letter with fumbling enthusiasm, only to drop it instantly in alarm.
Cecily was a laconic correspondent. One word decorated the page and it struck an inexplicable terror into him:
“Tonight.”
***
Royal command had delayed the funeral of Cyril Fulbeck until that morning. It was no insignificant event. The Master of the Chapel was a loved and revered member of the royal household and the Queen insisted on paying her personal respects to him. Since she only returned from Greenwich Palace on Saturday evening, the obsequies could not take place until the following day.
It was a moving ceremony, conducted with due solemnity by the Bishop of London and held in the Chapel which Fulbeck had served with such exceptional dedication. The choir were in fine voice as they bade farewell to their mentor and Philip Robinson was allowed the privilege of a solo. The funeral oration paid tribute to the work and character of the deceased while tactfully omitting any reference to the manner of his death. Silent tears lubricated the whole service, and when the coffin was borne out, even Her Majesty was seen to lift a gloved hand to her cheek.
Yet still the murder remained unsolved. Pressure from above was strong and the official investigation was as thorough as it could be, but little evidence had been unearthed as yet and the Queen let it be known that she was displeased. Now that his body had been laid to rest, Cyril Fulbeck deserved to be avenged in the most prompt way. Additional men were assigned to help with the search for his killer.
Raphael Parsons kept his head bent and his thoughts to himself throughout the funeral. When the burial had taken place, he waited until the congregation left in strict order of precedence before slipping away in the direction of Blackfriars. When he reached the theatre, he was annoyed to see a sturdy figure waiting for him.
‘I am glad I have caught you,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Pray excuse me, sir. I am too busy to talk.’
‘But there is no performance here today.’
‘Sadly, no,’ said Parsons.
‘Even you would not expect to stage a play only hours after the funeral of the Master of the Chapel.’
‘
I most certainly would. Sentiment and commerce must be kept apart. We cannot let the former dictate the latter. I was sorry to see my old friend laid in his grave, but I would not, from choice, let it affect the entertainment here.’
‘Is that not like dancing on a man’s tomb?’
‘Not in my opinion.’
‘Do you take no account of your actors?’
‘Actors exist to act.’
‘They have feelings, Master Parsons,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Senses, emotions, loyalties. That is especially true of your young company. Their hearts were not hacked from the same flint as your own. I’ll wager they did not want to tread the boards today.’
‘I’d have made them!’
‘They would have hated you for it. Westfield’s Men did not think twice about performance yesterday. When we discovered the body of Jonas Applegarth, the play cancelled itself. Not a member of the company could have been forced upon that scaffold.’
‘I’d have willingly taken their place,’ volunteered the manager. ‘Applegarth dead! I’d have danced a jig all afternoon to mark the occasion!’
Nicholas smarted. ‘Where were you when he was killed?’ he said. ‘With your friend in Ireland Yard?’
‘What is that to you?’
‘I wondered if you would use the same lie twice.’
‘I never used it once,’ retorted the other. ‘Yesterday morning, when that blessed hangman was testing Applegarth’s weight, I was here at Blackfriars.’
‘At dawn?’
‘My day starts early.’
‘Was any else here with you?’
‘Not for an hour or so,’ admitted Parsons. ‘But then Geoffrey, the porter, arrived. He’ll vouch for me.’
‘I am only interested in the exact time when Jonas Applegarth was murdered,’ said Nicholas. ‘You have a story but no witness to its credence. It is so with the death of Cyril Fulbeck. You claim to be in Ireland Yard when that occurred. But nobody there will speak up for you.’
Parsons bridled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have asked them all.’
‘The devil take you!’
‘Most residents did not even know who Raphael Parsons was.’
‘You had the gall to intrude on my privacy?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘By what right?’
‘Simple curiosity,’ said Nicholas easily, ‘and the urge to catch a foul murderer. Whoever killed Cyril Fulbeck used the same villainy on Jonas Applegarth. If he was not in Ireland Yard when he claims, he may not have been at the Blackfriars Theatre when he alleges. Do you follow my reasoning?’
‘Hell and damnation!’
Parsons lashed out a hand to strike Nicholas but the book holder was far too quick. He seized the manager’s wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, then pushed him to the ground. Parsons cursed aloud. Rolling over, he got slowly and painfully to his feet, dusting himself off and regarding Nicholas with growling hostility.
‘Let us begin again,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where were you when Cyril Fulbeck was hanged by the neck?’
‘In Ireland Yard.’
‘That lie will not serve.’
‘Ireland Yard!’ repeated Parsons through gritted teeth.
‘Then why will nobody come forward?’
‘Why do you think, man?’
‘Tell me.’
Parsons looked around furtively to make sure that they were not overheard, then glared at Nicholas. After much agonising, he decided that the only way to get rid of his visitor was to tell him a measure of the truth.
‘My dear friend in Ireland Yard is not in a position to acknowledge my friendship,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘She is married.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do not ask me to give you her name and address, for that is too great a betrayal. Just accept that I was with the lady at the time when Cyril Fulbeck was hanged.’ He glanced in the direction of Ireland Yard. ‘She would also swear that I was with her at dawn yesterday morning. Her husband is a merchant and travelling to Holland. Do I need to say more?’
Nicholas shook his head. He knew the man was telling the truth now. It absolved him of both murders and took away the one obvious link between Fulbeck and Applegarth. Parsons argued with the one and fulminated against the other. He gave more detail of his relationship with both men.
‘That was what we were quarrelling about only hours before he was killed,’ he said. ‘Cyril found out about her. He read me a sermon on the virtues of marriage and the evils of adultery. Was I a fit person to be put in charge of his choristers when I was committing a dreadful sin? Would not my mere presence corrupt their young minds? Arrant nonsense!’
‘What did you say?’ asked Nicholas.
‘What any man would have said. In round terms, I told him not to meddle in my affairs. What I do between the sheets, when I do it, and with whom, is my affair. I called him a vestal virgin and stormed out of the theatre.’
‘Before going straight to Ireland Yard?’
Parsons grinned. ‘I felt in need of consolation.’ The rancour returned. ‘As for your second accusation, I can rebut that as well. I hated Jonas Applegarth but I did not hang him. I was enjoying other pleasures at the time.’
‘Why did you detest him so?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Ask of him why he detested me? For that is how it began. We admired his plays greatly and invited him to write one for the Chapel Children. And what did he do?’
‘Reject the offer and rail at you.’
‘Then continue that railing in The Misfortunes of Marriage. We work hard here in Blackfriars and have problems enough to contend with. Why should that bloated knave be allowed to sneer at everything we did? It was unjust. Applegarth simply had to be put down somehow.’
‘With a knife in his back?’
‘That was one way,’ said the manager calmly. ‘I prefer to stab him in the chest with a Prologue.’
Nicholas studied him for a moment with quiet contempt. There was nothing more to be gained from the confrontation, yet he found it difficult to walk away. The manager might have proved that he was not the Laughing Hangman, but Nicholas still felt that the man had some blood on his hands. Had he planned the murders and left a confederate to commit them? His work at Blackfriars was a testimony to his theatrical skills. Could not those same skills be used to stage two hangings?
Parsons taunted him. ‘Have you done with me?’ he said.
‘For the moment.’
‘Good. I must prepare for my rehearsal.’
‘On the day of the funeral?’
‘They’ve taken the performance from me. I’ll not be robbed of a rehearsal as well. The boys are coming here after Evensong.’
‘Why are you making them do this?’
‘I am not,’ said Parsons. ‘They requested it. Ask them, if you do not believe me. You are welcome to watch us, for we only rehearse a few scenes. The boys are rightly upset by the funeral. They want to push it out of their minds for a couple of hours.’ He peered at Nicholas. ‘Have you never lost yourself in work to escape your thoughts?’
***
Evensong filled the whole building with the most beauteous sound, climbing up into the vaulted roof and penetrating every corner of the chancel and the nave before seeping down into the dank crypt to swirl around the ears of the dead. Ambrose Robinson was oblivious to it all. He knew that Anne Hendrik would be in the congregation but he did not even try to catch a glimpse of her, still less attempt to sit beside her. She now belonged to his past.
When he looked at the choir, he did not see the upturned faces of the boys as they offered their praise up to God. What he noted was the absence of his son from his accustomed position in the stalls. Evensong had always been an occasion of great joy to him when Philip Robinson’s voice was an essential part of it. Without him, the service had become an ordeal for his father.
Nor did the sermon offer any comfort or inspiration. The meaningless drone of the vicar’s v
oice was a grim reminder of another service at the same place of worship. When Robinson’s wife was buried there, the vicar had consoled him with the simple statement that it was the will of God. Philip Robinson’s enforced departure to the Chapel Royal was also characterised by the vicar as the will of God, and the butcher was certain that he would describe the loss of Anne Hendrik in the same way.
One bereavement was enough to bear. Three were quite insupportable. Wife, son and potential second wife. He had lost them all and was now left with an existence that was both empty and pointless. The vicar might counsel resignation but Robinson refused to accept that counsel any more. He would not simply lie down and let the stone wheels of Fate roll over him time and again. He would get up and fight.
With the service still in progress, therefore, he rose from his seat and marched up the aisle before the surprised eyes of the other parishioners. A gust of wind blew in as he opened the west door. Robinson did not hear the rustle of complaint that ran up and down the benches and pews. His mind was on more unholy matters than Evensong.
When he reached his shop, he let himself in and stood in front of his bench. He surveyed the weaponry which hung from the ceiling on iron hooks. Knives, skewers, cleavers and axes were kept clean and sharp at all times. It was a matter of pride with him. Everything was in readiness for the morrow, but some butchery was now called for on the Sabbath. Ambrose Robinson selected a cleaver and examined its blade with his thumb. It was honed to perfection.
He set off on the long walk towards redemption.
***
Nicholas Bracewell decided to avail himself of the chance to watch the evening rehearsal at Blackfriars and he timed his return to the theatre accordingly. He was halfway across the Great Yard before he noticed Caleb Hay. Tucked away in the far corner, the old man was scanning the buildings with a small telescope. Nicholas walked across to him.
‘Good-even, good sir!’ he called. ‘Is your eyesight grown so bad that you need a telescope to see something that is right in front of you?’
‘You mistake me,’ said Hay with a chuckle. ‘What I look at is the distant past. You see only the vestigial remains of Blackfriars. I was trying to map out, in my mind’s eye, the full extent of the old monastery. Then I may draw my plan.’
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