The Laughing Hangman

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 pocket 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.’

‘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?’

‘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.

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.’