The Laughing Hangman

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 saw 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?’

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.’

Anne was in a quandary. She wanted Philip Robinson released from the Chapel Royal, partly because she believed that father and son should be together and partly because she felt that the boy’s return would liberate her from the now irksome attentions of the butcher. A new factor had come into her calculations. Should she remain silent or should she confront Ambrose Robinson with it?

His earnest enquiry forced her to make a decision.

‘Has there been further word from Nick?’ he asked.

‘I spoke with him at length.’

‘And?’

‘He visited Blackfriars this afternoon,’ she said, ‘and watched a play there. Philip was in the cast.’

‘Dressed up as a woman, no doubt! Wearing a wig and daubing his face with powder! Strutting around the stage like a Bankside harlot for any man to ogle!’ He scowled at her. ‘I want my son to grow into a man. They do him wrong to force him into female attire. Philip detests it.’

‘That was not Nick’s impression.’

‘He despises every moment of it.’

‘Yet he gave a fine performance, it seems.’

‘Under duress.’

‘Of his own volition.’

‘Never!’

‘Nick loves the theatre. He spends every waking moment in the company of actors. When he admires a performance, he knows what lies behind it. I trust his judgement.’ She inhaled deeply before confronting him. ‘Your son enjoys working in the theatre. Nick says he has decided flair.’

‘Blackfriars is a torture chamber for Philip.’

‘That may not be so.’

‘It is so. I know my son.’

‘Nick has seen him on the stage-you have not.’

‘The shame would be too much for me!’

‘Philip was a most willing actor this afternoon.’

‘Then why does he beg me to rescue him!’ said Robinson with mounting rage. ‘Why does he plead so in every letter that he sends me? You saw his pain, Anne, you saw his misery. Were those the letters of a boy who is happy?’

‘No, Ambrose.’

‘Then why did he write them? Let Nick answer that.’

‘He has,’ she said levelly. ‘He does not believe that Philip sent those letters at all. They were written by someone else. Is that not so?’

Ambrose Robinson fell silent. He looked deeply hurt and betrayed. His fists bunched, his body tensed, and he began to breathe stertorously through his nose. Eyes narrowing, he glared at her with a mixture of animosity and wounded affection. Anne took a step backwards. She was suddenly afraid of him.

***

Nicholas Bracewell returned to the Queen’s Head once more. As he turned into the yard, he heard the familiar voice of Owen Elias.

‘So I told Barnaby that I’d translate Cupid’s Folly into Welsh for him so that he could take it on a tour of the Principality and play to an audience of sheep!’

Appreciative guffaws came from the knot of actors around the speaker. When Nicholas came up, he saw with a shock that it was not Elias at all. James Ingram had been diverting his fellows with an impersonation of their Welsh colleague. It was the accuracy of his mimicry which had produced the laughter.

The mirth faded when they saw Nicholas. Actors who should have been mourning the death of Jonas Applegarth looked a little shamefaced at being caught at their most raucous. They slunk quietly away, leaving Ingram alone to talk with the book holder.

‘You are a cunning mimic,’ said Nicholas.

‘Harmless fun, Nick. Nothing more.’

‘Does Owen know that he has a twin brother?’

‘He’d slaughter me if he did,’ said Ingram. ‘It was an affectionate portrait of him, but Owen would not thank the artist.’ He became remorseful. ‘But I am glad that we meet again. I was brusque and unmannerly at Blackfriars. You deserved better from me. I have no excuse.’

‘Let it pass, James.’

‘It will not happen again.’

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Nicholas. ‘But you have still not told me what brought you to the Queen’s Head so early this morning.’

‘Eagerness. Nothing more.’

‘It does not often get you here ahead of your fellows.’

‘It did today.’

‘Why did you come into the storeroom?’

‘The door of the tiring-house was open. I wondered who was here. Nathan Curtis was in the storeroom with the body. I got there only seconds before you returned.’

Ingram spoke with his usual open-faced honesty and Nicholas had no reason to doubt him. The tension between the two of them had gone completely. The book holder was glad. Fond of the actor, he did not want a rift between them.

‘Let’s into the taproom,’ he suggested.

‘Not me, Nick,’ said the other pleasantly. ‘It is too full of reminiscence about Jonas Applegarth for me. You know my feelings there. I would be out of place.’

They exchanged farewells and Ingram left the innyard.

The atmosphere in the taproom had lightened considerably. Members of the company sat in a corner and traded maudlin memories of the dead man, but most of the customers were only there to drink and gamble. Laughter echoed around the room once more and the serving-men were kept busy. Alexander Marwood could never be expected to smile, but his despair was noticeably less fervent than before.

Nicholas joined the table at which Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias sat. Both had been drinking steadily. They called for an extra tankard and poured the newcomer some ale from their jug.

‘Thank heaven you’ve come, Nick!’ said Elias.

‘Yes,’ added Firethorn. ‘We are in such a morass of self-pity that we need you to pull us out. Marwood still swears we have performed our last play in his yard.’

‘He has done that often before,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we always return to confound his prediction. Tomorrow is Sunday and our stage would in any case stand empty. That will make our landlord think again. Two days without a penny taken in his yard! His purse will speak up for Westfield’s Men.’

‘I hope so,’ said Firethorn. ‘The last twenty-four hours have been a nightmare. One author turns my marital couch into a bed of nails, another gets himself hanged and my occupation rests on the whim of an imbecile landlord! I might as well become a holy anchorite and live on herbs. There’s no future for me here.’

He drank deep. Elias saw the chance to impart his news.

‘I found Naismith,’ he said. ‘The dog admitted that he had been shadowing Jonas through the streets.’

‘Did he throw that dagger?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Unhappily, no. I’d have welcomed the excuse to carve him up and send him back to Banbury’s Men in a meat-pie. Hugh Naismith is too weak to throw anything, Nick. He is not our man.’

‘Then we must look elsewhere.’

‘What have you learned?’

‘Much of interest but little that ties the name of the murderer to Jonas Applegarth.’

‘Choose from any of a hundred names,’ said Firethorn. ‘Jonas spread his net widely. Enemies all over London.’

‘That was not the case with Cyril Fulbeck,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘Few would pick a quarrel with him. That cuts our list right down. We look for a rare man, one with motive to kill both the Master of the Chapel and Jonas Applegarth.’ A new thought made him sit up. ‘Unless I am mistaken.’

‘About what?’ said Elias.

‘The Laughing Hangman. Do I search for one murderer when there are really two?’ He thought it through. ‘Jonas was hanged in the same manner as Cyril Fulbeck, it is true. And I heard what I thought was the same laughter. But ears can play strange tricks sometimes. Sound can be distorted in chambers and passageways.’

‘It must be the same man,’ insisted Elias.

‘Why?’

‘Coincidence could not be that obliging.’

‘We are not talking of coincidence, Owen, but of mimicry. Someone who saw the first man hanged could dispose of a second in the identical way. Someone who heard that peal of laughter at Blackfriars could bring the same mockery to the Queen’s Head.’

‘Why go to such elaborate lengths?’ asked Firethorn.

‘To evade suspicion,’ said Nicholas. ‘What better ruse than to use the method of one killer as your own and put the crime on his account?’

‘Your reasoning breaks down,’ decided Elias. ‘Only someone who actually saw the first victim could know the necessary detail. Only a trained actor with a gift for mimicry could reproduce a laugh like that. Where on earth would you find such a man?’

Nicholas said nothing. He was preoccupied with the thought that he had just been talking with that very person in the innyard. Motive, means and opportunity. A perfect cloak for his crime. James Ingram had them all.

‘I give up!’ moaned Elias.

‘Why?’

‘The villains multiply before my eyes. First, I thought our killer and our dagger-thrower were one man. Then you separate them. Now you split the hangman into two as well to give us three in all. By tomorrow, it will have grown to four and so on until we are searching for a whole band of them!’

‘I am lost,’ admitted Firethorn. ‘What is happening?’

‘Confusion, Lawrence!’

‘Do we have any idea at all who murdered Jonas?’

‘Yes,’ said Elias with irony. ‘Nick pulls a new suspect out of the air every minute. Each one a possible killer. We’ll get them all to sign a petition, then pick out the name that pleases us most and designate him as Laughing Hangman.’

‘Mompesson!’ muttered Nicholas.

‘My God! He’s added another suspect to the list.’

‘Andrew Mompesson.’

Nicholas remembered where he had seen the name before.