The Laughing Hangman

Chapter Eleven

The miracle had happened at last. After a lifetime’s fruitless search, Edmund Hoode finally found his way into the Garden of Eden and discovered Paradise. Cecily Gilbourne was a most alluring Eve, soft and supple, at once virginal and seasoned in all the arts of love. She was a true symbol of womanhood. Hoode’s ardour matched her eager demands, his desire soared with her passion. Hearts, minds and bodies met in faultless rhyme. Their destinies mingled.

It was several minutes before he regained his breath. He used the back of his arm to wipe the perspiration from his brow, then gazed up at the ceiling. The Garden of Eden, he now learned, was a bedchamber at the Unicorn. When he turned his head, he saw that his gorgeous and compliant Eve had freckles on her shoulder. She, too, was glistening with joy.

What thrilled him most was the ease with which it had all happened. A rose. A promise. A tryst. Consummation. There had been no intervening pauses and no sudden obstacles. No inconvenient appearances by returning husbands. Everything proceeded with a graceful inevitability. It was an experience he had always coveted but never come within sight of before. In Hoode’s lexicon, romance was a synonym for anguish. Cecily Gilbourne offered him a far more satisfactory definition.

Her voice rose up softly from the pillow beside him.

‘Edmund?’

‘My love?’

‘Are you still awake?’

‘Yes, Cecily.’

‘Are you still happy?’

‘Delirious.’

‘Are you still mine?’

‘Completely.’

She pulled him gently on top of her and kissed him.

‘Take me, Edmund.’

‘Again?’

‘Again.’

He kicked open the gate with his naked foot and went into the Garden of Eden, not, as before, with halting gait and wide-eyed wonder but with a proprietary swagger. Edmund Hoode had found his true spiritual home.

***

The silence seemed interminable. Anne Hendrik was petrified. She stood there unable to move, unable to call out for her servant and incapable of defending herself in any way. The menacing figure of Ambrose Robinson loomed over her. She felt like one of the dumb animals whom he routinely slaughtered.

Cold fury coursed through the butcher. The veins on his forehead stood out like whipcord as he fought to contain his violent instincts. When he took a step towards her, Anne was so convinced that he was about to strike her that she shut her eyes and braced herself against the blow. It never came. Instead, she heard a quiet snivelling noise. When she dared to lift her lids again, she saw that Robinson was now sitting on a chair with his head in his hands.

Her fear slowly shaded into cautious sympathy.

‘What ails you?’ she asked.

‘All is lost,’ he murmured between sobs of remorse.

‘Lost?’

‘My son, my dearest friend, my hopes of happiness. All gone for ever.’ He looked up with a tearful face. ‘It was my only chance, Anne. I did it out of love.’

‘Love?’

‘The loan, those letters…’

‘You are not making much sense, Ambrose.’

‘It was wrong of me,’ he said, lurching to his feet. ‘I should not have deceived you so. You deserved better of me. I will get out of your life for ever and leave you in peace.’

Wiping his tears away, he lumbered towards the door.

‘Stay!’ she said, curiosity roused. ‘Do not run away with the truth untold. What is going on, Ambrose?’

He stopped to face her and gave a hopeless shrug.

‘You were right, Anne.’

‘Philip did not send those letters?’

‘No,’ he confessed, ‘but they are exactly the letters that he would have sent, had he the time and opportunity to write. I know my own son. Philip is in torment at Blackfriars. Those letters only said what he feels.’

‘Did you write them yourself?’

‘With these clumsy hands?’ he said, spreading his huge palms. ‘They are more used to holding an axe than a pen. No, Anne. I only wrote those letters in my own mind. A scrivener put them on paper at my direction.’

She was baffled. ‘Why?’

‘To reassure me. To tell myself that my son really did love me and want to come home to me. When I’d read those letters enough times, I truly began to believe that Philip had indeed sent them.’ His chin sank to his chest again. ‘And there was another reason, Anne.’

‘I see it only too clearly.’

‘It was a mistake.’

‘You used those letters to ensnare me,’ she said angrily. ‘To work on my feelings and draw me closer. And through me, you brought Nick Bracewell in to help.’

‘You spoke so highly of him. Of how resourceful he was and what a persuasive advocate he would be. That was why I was so keen and willing to meet Nick.’

‘And to deceive him with those false letters!’

‘They are not false. Philip might have written them.’

‘But he did not, Ambrose. You beguiled us!’

‘How else could I secure your help?’

‘By being honest with me.’

‘Honesty would have put you straight to flight.’

‘Why so?’

‘Because of the person I am,’ he said, beating his chest with a fist. ‘Look at me. A big, ugly, shambling butcher. What hope had I of winning you with honesty? When you thought I lent that money out of friendship, you took it gladly. Had I told you I gave it because I cared, because I loved, because I wanted you as mine, you would have spurned it.’ A pleading note reappeared. ‘What I did was dishonest but from honest motives. I worship my son and so I inveigled you and Nick Bracewell into working for his release. Because I dote on you-and this is my worst offence-I used Philip as a means to get close to you. To make you think and feel like a mother to him. I was trying to court you, Anne.’

‘There was a worse offence yet,’ she said vehemently.

‘That is not so.’

‘I see it now and shudder at what I see. You dangled your own son in front of me like a carrot in front of a donkey. That was disgusting enough. To mislead Philip as well was despicable.’

‘I did not mislead him.’

‘Yes you did,’ she accused. ‘We were not the only dupes. He had his share of false letters. You wrote to him to tell him that he would come back to a happy home with a second mother. You used me to tempt Philip back.’

‘No!’

‘It was the one thing that might bring him home.’

‘You don’t know Philip.’

‘I know him well enough to understand why he likes it in the Chapel Royal. He has escaped from his father. No wonder he enjoys it so at the Blackfriars Theatre.’

‘I want him home!’ shouted Robinson.

Anne walked to the front door and opened it wide.

‘Do not expect me to help you, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘There lies your way. Do not let me detain you. I’ll be no man’s false hope to wave in front of an unwitting child. Farewell, Ambrose. You are no longer welcome here!’

He glared at her for a moment, then skulked out.

***

Sunday morning turned London into a gigantic bell-foundry. The whole city clanged to and fro. Bells rang, tolled, chimed or sang out in melodious peals to fill every ear within miles with the clarion call of Christianity and to send the multifarious congregations hurrying in all directions to Matins in church or cathedral. Bells summoned the faithful and accused the less devout, striking chords in the hearts of the one and putting guilt in the minds of the others. Only the dead and deaf remained beyond the monstrous din of the Sabbath.

Nicholas Bracewell left his lodging in Thames Street on his way to his own devotions. Recognising a figure ahead of him, he lengthened his stride to catch her up.

‘Good-morrow!’

‘Oh!’

‘May I walk with you?’

‘I am late, sir. I must hurry.’

‘May I not keep your haste company?’

Joan Hay was not pleased to see him and even less happy about the way he fell in beside her. Keeping her head down and her hands clutched tight in front of her, she bustled along the street. Nicholas guessed the reason for her behaviour.

‘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 voice 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.’

‘I would be most interested to see it.’

‘In time, sir. All in good time.’

Nicholas remembered something. ‘I am glad we have met,’ he said. ‘Andrew Mompesson. Was not he your father-in-law?’

‘Indeed, he was. A sterling fellow and a bookseller of high repute. He taught me much.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘And he entrusted me with the best volume on his shelves when he gave me the hand of his daughter.’

Nicholas smiled, but he was not sure that Hay would make such a gallant remark about his wife in the woman’s presence. Joan Hay had the look of someone who had been starved of compliments for a considerable time.

‘It is an unusual name,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why it stuck in my mind. Andrew Mompesson. He was among the signatories on that petition against the opening of a public theatre in Blackfriars.’

‘Your memory serves you well. My father-in-law helped to draw up that petition. He allowed me to make a fair copy of it, which is what I was able to show you.’

‘Did he live to see the present theatre opened?’

‘Mercifully, no,’ said Hay. ‘It would have broken his heart. The precinct was still unsullied by a playhouse when he died. No sound of drums and trumpets disturbed his peace. No swarming crowds went past his front door seven days a week. No actors mocked the spirit of Blackfriars with their blasphemy and lewd behaviour. He died happy. How many of us will be able to say that?’

‘Not many.’

‘Not poor Cyril Fulbeck, certainly. God rest his soul!’ Head to one side, he looked up at Nicholas. ‘Is that what has brought you here once more? The hunt for his murderer?’

‘Yes, Master Hay.’

‘And are you any closer to catching him?’

‘I believe so.’

‘That is excellent news.’

‘It is only a matter of time now.’

‘You deserve great credit for taking this task upon yourself when the Master of the Chapel meant nothing to you.’ He heaved a sigh of regret. ‘If only I had strength enough for it. Cyril Fulbeck was kind to me. I have many reasons to avenge his death but lack the means to do so.’

‘But for him, you might still be incarcerated.’

A hollow laugh. ‘That is more than possible.’

‘Which prison did they lock you in?’

‘The Clink.’

The approach of feet deflected their attention to the other side of the yard. Choristers from the Chapel Royal were processing towards the theatre with their heads bowed in reverential silence. Philip Robinson was at the front of the column as it wended its way in through the main door. Caleb Hay was duly horrified.

‘There surely cannot be a performance this evening!’

‘A short rehearsal only.’

‘On the Sabbath? In the wake of a funeral?’

‘Raphael Parsons is allowing me to watch them.’

‘Then I will take myself away,’ said the old man as he put his telescope into his pocket. ‘This is no place for me. Choristers making a foul spectacle of themselves upon a stage! Sanctity and sin are one under the instruction of Raphael Parsons. There’s your killer, sir. That man will murder the Sabbath itself.’

Hay made a dignified exit from the Great Yard. Nicholas made his way across to the theatre and explained to the porter why he had come. Geoffrey Bless surprised him.

‘Then you will have seen Master Ingram,’ he said.

‘When?’

‘A few minutes ago when he left the theatre.’

‘He was here?’

‘Talking to me even as you are now.’

‘I saw no sign of him.’

‘You could not have missed him,’ said the porter. ‘If you came across the Great Yard, you would need to be blind to miss him. I wonder that Master Ingram did not hail you.’

Nicholas was wondering the same thing. He decided that Ingram must have seen him first and concealed himself in one of the angles of the building. It was strange behaviour for a friend. He went swiftly back through the main door and looked around, but Ingram was nowhere to be seen. Nicholas concluded that he might not yet have left the premises. He returned to the ancient porter.

‘What was James doing here?’

‘He called in to see me, sir,’ said Geoffrey. ‘To talk over old times when Blackfriars was a happier place to be.’

‘How long was he here?’

‘Above an hour.’

‘Did he know that there was a rehearsal this evening?’

‘I told him so.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘He thought it wrong, sir. On the day of the funeral.’

The porter’s eyes moistened. He was old and tired. Murder in the Blackfriars Theatre had taken all the spirit out of him. Alert and watchful before, Geoffrey Bless was now a broken man. It would not be difficult for someone like James Ingram to slip unnoticed back into the building.

Nicholas went up the staircase and let himself into the theatre as quietly as he could. Raphael Parsons was standing on stage, clapping his hands to summon his actors. Having changed into costume for the rehearsal, they drifted out from the tiring-house. Philip Robinson was the last to come, wearing a dress and pulling on an auburn wig. Nicholas took a seat at the very back of the auditorium. Parsons and his young company seemed unaware of his presence.

‘We’ll rehearse the Trial Scene,’ announced the manager. ‘Philip Robinson?’

‘Yes, sir?’ said the boy.

‘You must carry the action here. All depends on you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Regal bearing, Philip. Remember that. You may be in chains but you are still a queen. Regal bearing even in the face of adversity. Clear the stage. Set the scene.’

Parsons jumped down into the auditorium and caught sight of Nicholas. He gave his visitor a noncommittal nod before turning back to his work. The stagekeeper set a table and benches on stage, then vacated it quickly.

‘Begin!’ ordered the manager.

Three judges came on stage in procession and took their places behind the table. Two soldiers, wearing armour and holding pikes, stood either side of the commission in order to signal its importance and to enforce its decisions.

‘Bring in the prisoner!’ called Parsons.

The gaoler dragged in the hapless Queen with a rope. Philip Robinson did his best to suggest wounded dignity. He stood before his accusers without flinching. The charges were read out, then one of the judges addressed the prisoner.

judge: What have you to say?

queen: The charges against me are false.

judge: That is for us to decide.

queen: You have no power over me, sir. I am a queen and answer to a higher authority than any you can muster here. I’ll not be subject to this mean court like any common malefactor. Do you dare to sit in judgement on God’s anointed? By what perverse and unnatural right do you presume to put the crown of England on trial here?

The speech was long and impassioned. Philip Robinson began slowly but soon hit his stride, delivering the prose with a clear voice that rang around the theatre. Nicholas was impressed. It was more than a mere recitation of the lines. The boy was a true actor. Of the apprentices with Westfield’s Men, only Richard Honeydew could have handled the trial speech with equal skill and righteous indignation.

Having cowed his accused with his majesty, the boy flung himself dramatically to the ground before the judicial bench and challenged them to strike off his royal head. Before the judges could reply, a voice roared out from the back of the theatre.

‘Philip! What on earth have they done to you?’

Ambrose Robinson stood in the open doorway looking with horror at his son. The sight of the dress and the wig ignited him to fever pitch. He went storming towards the stage with his hand stretched out.

‘Come away!’ he shouted. ‘Come with your father. I’m here to rescue you from this vile place. Come home!’

But the boy showed no inclination to return to Bankside. As his father bore down on him, Philip Robinson leapt to his feet and backed away. Snatching his wig off, he cried out in fear:

‘I am happy here, Father! Leave me be!’

‘Come with me!’

‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I will not!’

He fled into the tiring-house and Robinson tried to clamber upon the stage to pursue him. The manager moved in quickly to restrain the angry parent.

‘Stop, sir! There is no place for you here.’

‘I want my son.’

‘Philip is a lawful member of the Chapel Children. You may not touch him. I am Raphael Parsons and I manage this theatre. I must ask you to leave at-’

‘Parsons!’

Robinson turned on the man he saw as the author of his misery. He went berserk. Shrugging Parsons off, he pulled the cleaver from beneath his coat and struck at him with all his force, catching him on the shoulder and opening up a fearful wound that sent blood cascading all over him. The manager fell to the floor in agony and the butcher stood over him to hack him into pieces.

The young actors were too frightened to move, but Nicholas Bracewell was already sprinting down the auditorium. Before the cleaver could strike again, he dived into Robinson with such force that the butcher was knocked flying. As the two of them hit the wooden floor with a thud, the weapon jerked out of Robinson’s hand and spun crazily away. He now turned his manic anger upon Nicholas, rolling over to get a grip on his neck and trying to throttle the life out of him.

Rage lent the butcher extra power, but Nicholas was the more experienced fighter, twisting himself free to deliver a relay of punches to the contorted face, then grabbing the man by the hair to dash his head against the floor. As the two of them grappled once more, footsteps came running towards them and James Ingram hurled himself on top of Robinson to help Nicholas to subdue him. The assistance was not needed. The butcher stopped struggling.

Realising where he was and what he had done, Robinson seemed to come out of a trance. He began to wail piteously. The porter came panting into the hall with two constables.

‘I tried to stop him,’ he said, ‘but he pushed past me. I ran for help.’ He almost fainted at the sight of Parsons. ‘Dear God! What new horror is here!’

Nicholas got to his feet. With Ingram’s help, he pulled Robinson upright and handed him over to the constables. As they marched him out of the theatre, the butcher was still crying with remorse. Raphael Parsons lay on the floor in a widening pool of blood. Nicholas turned to the porter.

‘Fetch a surgeon!’ he ordered.

‘I’ll go,’ volunteered Ingram. ‘Faster legs than Geoffrey’s are needed for this errand.’

The actor went running off towards the staircase, but his journey would be in vain. Nicholas could see that Parsons was well beyond the reach of medicine. Groaning with pain, the manager lay on his back with half his shoulder severed from his body. Nicholas tried to stem the flow of blood but it was a hopeless task. Parsons revived briefly. He looked up through bleary eyes.

‘Who is it?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘I am fading. Beware, sir.’

‘Of what?’

‘The theatre. A dangerous profession. It killed Cyril Fulbeck and now it sends me after him.’ He clutched at Nicholas. ‘Will you do me a service?’

‘Willingly.’

‘Discreetly, too.’

‘I understand,’ said Nicholas. ‘Ireland Yard.’

‘Number fourteen. Commend me to the lady. Explain why I am kept away. Do it gently.’

‘I will, Master Parsons.’

The manager was suddenly convulsed with pain. Nicholas thought he had passed away, but then life flickered once more. Parsons’s lips moved but only the faintest sound emerged. Nicholas put his ear close to the man’s mouth.

‘One favour…deserves another,’ murmured Parsons.

‘Speak on.’

‘I did not…hang…Applegarth.’

‘I know that now,’ said Nicholas.

‘But I…tried to…tried to…’

‘Yes?’

‘Tried to…kill…’

His breathing stopped and his mouth fell slack. Raphael Parsons took leave of the world with confession on his lips. One mystery was solved. He was the man who threw the dagger at Jonas Applegarth’s unprotected back. The playwright had not been stalked that day by a discontented actor with a grudge against him but by a furious theatre manager with an injured pride.

Nicholas could never bring himself to like Raphael Parsons. The man was too malignant and devious. As he looked down at the corpse, however, he felt compassion for him. There was a crude symmetry about his death. Having attempted to commit murder, he had himself been cut down in the most brutal way. On the very day that he bade farewell to the Master of the Chapel, he was sent off in pursuit of him. While rehearsing a trial scene with a favoured son, he was arraigned by a father who appointed himself judge, jury and executioner.

By the time Ingram arrived with a surgeon, Nicholas had taken charge with cool efficiency. The dead body had been covered with a cloak, the weeping porter had been led away, and the actors had been taken to the tiring-house to be comforted. Nicholas did not forget his promise to call on a house in Ireland Yard, but sad tidings had first to be broken to someone else. He took Philip Robinson to a quiet corner backstage where they might speak alone.

‘You must be brave, Philip,’ he said.

‘Who are you, sir?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell. A friend of Mistress Hendrik.’

‘She was kind to me when my mother died.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it is about your father that I must now talk, I fear.’

‘What happened, sir? I heard a fearful yell.’

‘He attacked Master Parsons with a meat-cleaver.’

The boy burst into tears and it took some time to soothe him. Nicholas gave him a brief account of what had taken place. He did not conceal the truth from him.

‘Your father will have to pay for his crime.’

‘I know, sir. I know.’

‘One death may be answered by another.’

‘And the two can be laid at my door!’

‘No, Philip.’

‘I killed them both! If I had not been here, Master Parsons would still be alive and my father would not soon be facing the public hangman.’

‘You were not to blame,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘You are the victim and not the cause of this crime.’ He held the boy until his sobbing gradually eased off. ‘You like it here in the theatre, do you not?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘You were happy out on that stage.’

‘Very happy.’

‘So you did not write to your father to say how much you hated Blackfriars?’

‘I did not write at all.’

‘Would you rather be in the Chapel Royal or at home?’

‘In the Chapel!’ affirmed the boy. ‘Anywhere but home.’

‘Why is that?’

The boy felt the pull of family loyalties. Unhappy with his father, he did not want to divulge the full details of that unhappiness. Ambrose Robinson would soon be tried for murder and removed for ever from his son’s life. The boy wanted to cling to a positive memory.

‘My father loved me, I am sure,’ he said.

‘No question of that.’

‘But it was not the same after my mother died. He told me I was all that he had. It made him watch me every moment of the day. That came to weigh down on me, sir.’

Nicholas understood. Philip Robinson was oppressed at home. The Chapel Royal had been his sanctuary. The boy looked around him in despair.

‘What will happen to me?’ he wondered.

‘You will remain where you are.’

‘But will they still want me after this, sir? I am the son of a murderer. They will expel me straight.’

‘I think not.’

‘Master Fulbeck was my friend. He looked after me. Who will do that now that he has gone?’ His face was pale and haunted. ‘What will happen to the theatre with Master Parsons dead? Chapel and theatre were my life.’

‘They may still be so again.’

‘It will never be the same.’

Philip Robinson was right. Cyril Fulbeck had been a father to him, and notwithstanding his strictness, Raphael Parsons had been an excellent tutor. Having lost both along with his own father, the boy was truly floundering.

‘Which did you prefer, Philip?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Prefer?’

‘Singing in the Chapel Royal or acting at Blackfriars?’

‘Acting, sir, without a doubt.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because I may get better at that in time,’ he said. ‘In the Chapel, I can only sing. On the stage, I can sing, dance, declaim the finest verse ever written and move all who watch to tears or laughter. I long to be an actor. But how can I do that without a theatre?’

Nicholas thought of the broken voice of John Tallis.

‘Let me see if I can find you one,’ he said.