The Laughing Hangman

Chapter Twelve

The day of rest was the least restful day of the week for Margery Firethorn. Tolled out of bed by the sonorous bells of Shoreditch, she had to rouse the remainder of the household, see them washed and dressed, lead them off to Matins at the parish church of St Leonard’s, and smack them awake again when any of them dozed off during the service. Apart from the four apprentices and the two servants, she had three actors staying at the house until they could find a more suitable lodging. Thirteen mouths, including the ever-open ones of her children, had thus to be fed throughout the day. Since the servants tended to bungle some of the chores and burn all the food, Margery ended up doing more cleaning and cooking than was good for her temper.

When she got back from Evensong with her flock in tow, she was vexed by the irreligious thought that the Sabbath had been invented as a punishment for anyone foolish enough to embrace marriage and succumb to motherhood. Margery looked ahead grimly to an evening laden with even more tasks and groaned inwardly. It was not the most auspicious time to call on her. Edmund Hoode felt the full force of rumbling dissatisfaction.

‘Avaunt! Begone! Take your leprous visage away!’

‘I have come on an errand of mercy.’

‘Take mercy on me and go as fast as you may!’

‘This is no kind of welcome, Margery.’

‘It is the warmest you will get, sir,’ she said. ‘Have you so soon forgot your last visit here when you sewed such discord between man and wife that Lawrence and I have barely exchanged a civil word since?’

‘That is one reason I came.’

‘To part us asunder even more! Saints in Heaven! You will depopulate the city at this rate. Who can engage in the lawful business of procreation with you standing outside their bedchamber? What woman will submit to her husband’s pleasure if she sees your ghoulish face staring at her over his naked shoulder?’

‘I am here to beg your apology,’ he said.

‘Do so from a further distance, sir. Stand off a mile or more and I’ll let you grovel all you wish.’

She tried to close the front door but he stopped her.

‘Please do not turn me away!’

‘Be grateful I do not set the dogs on you!’

‘I am desperate, Margery.’

‘Shift your desperation to another place, for we’ll have none of it. Though it be the Sabbath, I’ll use some darker language to send you on your way, if you dare to linger.’

‘I must come in!’

‘Go ruin another marriage instead.’

‘I implore you!’

‘You do so in vain,’ she said. ‘Lawrence is not within. Since you made converse with his wife impossible, he has taken himself off with his fellows.’

‘But it is you I wish to see.’

‘Wait till I fetch a broom and you will see me at my best. For I can beat a man black and blue within a minute.’

Seizing his cue, Hoode flung himself to the ground in an attitude of contrition.

‘Beat me all you wish!’ he invited. ‘I deserve it, I need it, I invite it. Belabour me at will.’

Margery was taken aback. She looked at him properly for the first time and saw the haggard face and the hollow eyes. Hoode was suffering. She bent down to help him up from her doorstep.

‘What is wrong with you, man?’

‘Admit me and I’ll tell all.’

‘Have you stared at yourself in a mirror today?’

‘I dare not, Margery.’

‘Plague victims look healthier.’

‘Their symptoms are mild compared to mine.’

Concern pushed belligerence aside as Margery brought him into the house and closed the front door. He was shivering all over. She took him into the kitchen and sat him down.

‘What has happened, Edmund?’

‘Armageddon.’

‘Where?’

‘In a lady’s chamber.’

‘Did she reject you?’

‘Worse. She accepted me. Time and again.’

A series of uncontrollable grunts came from outside the door as if a frog with a sense of humour were eavesdropping. Margery darted out to find John Tallis bent double with mirth. She clipped his ear, kicked him on his way, then closed the door firmly behind her. Edmund Hoode’s anguish needed the balm of privacy. A sniggering apprentice would only intensify the playwright’s already unbearable pain.

She sat on the bench beside him and enfolded him in a maternal arm. This was no bold interloper, pounding on the door of her bedchamber. It was the old Edmund Hoode.

‘This tale is for your ears only,’ he insisted.

‘Then it must be worth the hearing.’

‘Lawrence would only mock me cruelly.’

‘He will learn nothing from me. Speak on.’

Hoode needed a minute to summon up his strength before he could embark on his narrative. He was honest. He held nothing back. Margery was attentive and sympathetic. She realised that instant help was needed.

‘When must you see the lady again?’ she asked.

‘This evening at the Unicorn.’

‘Do not go.’

‘That would be ungentlemanly,’ he said. ‘I must go. I owe her that. But I will not submit to another night of seductive exhaustion. My flesh and blood cannot stand it.’

‘Explain that to her.’

‘She would not listen. I know what she would say.’

‘What?’

‘Again!’ he moaned. ‘Again, Edmund, again, again! As if my manhood is a water-wheel that turns and turns with the flow of her passion. Save me, Margery! I drown!’

‘There is only one sure means of rescue, Edmund.’

‘What is that?’

She smiled benignly. ‘You will see.’

***

You have still not told me what took you to Blackfriars.

‘My own folly.’

‘Folly?’

‘Yes, Nick,’ said James Ingram. ‘I thought I knew best. I was convinced that Raphael Parsons was our Laughing Hangman and sought to spy on him. While you were watching the rehearsal, I was hiding up in the gallery.’

‘You sneaked back into the building?’

‘Geoffrey has grown careless. He did not see me.’

Nicholas Bracewell was relieved to learn that Ingram’s presence at Blackfriars had no darker significance. His doubts about his friend were groundless. While Nicholas had a personal reason for hunting the killer of Jonas Applegarth, the actor had a personal reason for catching the man who hanged Cyril Fulbeck. From differing motives, both were searching for the same man.

‘Parsons will no longer bother us,’ said Ingram.

‘True.’

‘Nor will the Chapel Children.’

‘Do not be so sure, James.’

‘Why not?’

‘One manager may have died, but another will soon come to take his place. A private playhouse with a resident company which can stage its work for twelve months of the year. What temptation! It will not be long before a new Raphael Parsons is installed there.’

‘Competing for our audience.’

‘We must take our chances there,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have rivals enough without the children’s companies, but we cannot stop them. Westfield’s Men must find new and more cunning ways to outwit these young thespians.’

They were walking briskly across London Bridge together. Having given sworn statements regarding the killing of Raphael Parsons, the two men were free to leave. They plunged into Bankside and picked their way through its labyrinthine streets. Nicholas stopped outside a house.

‘Whom do we visit here?’ asked Ingram.

‘You go on to another port of call.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes, James. The Clink.’

‘You are sending me to prison?’

‘Only to make an enquiry.’

‘The place is full of debtors and brothel-owners.’

‘Not entirely. The man in whom I am interested is neither. Do you have money about you?’

‘Sufficient. Why?’

‘You’ll need to bribe the prison serjeant.’

After arranging to meet him back in Gracechurch Street, Nicholas gave Ingram his instructions, then sent him on his way. The book holder then tapped on door of the house. When the servant showed him into the parlour, Anne Hendrik got up from her chair with alacrity and embraced him.

‘I prayed that you might come, Nick!’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘It has been such a trying time since we parted.’

‘In what way?’

‘Ambrose Robinson has been here.’

She took him through the events of the previous day and admitted how frightened she had been of the butcher. Nicholas was deeply upset that he had not been there to protect her.

‘Did he bother you at all today?’ he asked.

‘No. The only time I saw him was at Evensong, and that was not for long. Ambrose got up in the middle of the service and stalked out with his face aflame. It was as if he suddenly had an irresistible urge to go somewhere.’

‘He did, Anne.’

‘Where?’

‘To Blackfriars. I was there when he arrived.’

‘At the theatre?’

‘He came looking for his son.’

‘I feared that might happen. Was there a tussle?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘but not with the boy. He ran away from his father. It was Raphael Parsons who tussled with your neighbour and who came off worst. The butcher had armed himself with a meat-cleaver.’

‘Oh, no!’ said Anne in horror. ‘Murder?’

‘One blow was all it took.’

‘What then?’

‘We overpowered him and constables led him away. Master Parsons did not survive for long.’

‘What of Philip? It must have been a terrible experience for him. Such humiliation! His own father!’

‘Fortunately, he did not witness the killing. I made a point of talking at length with him to explain precisely what had happened and to prepare him for what was to come.’

‘Poor child! He has lost everything!’

‘There are gains as well as losses here.’

‘Ambrose is like to be tried and hanged.’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Philip will have to bear that stain.’

‘He has already foreseen that.’

‘Will there be a place in the Chapel Royal for him after this?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Where will he go if they turn him out? This could blight his young life.’

‘There may be salvation yet for him,’ said Nicholas, touching her arm. ‘But I may not tarry. I came simply to give you the tidings before you heard them from a less well-informed source.’

‘I am deeply grateful, Nick. And relieved.’

‘Ambrose Robinson will never pester you again.’

‘Thank heaven!’ she said. ‘And yet, it did not seem like that at first. He helped me. I must not forget that.’ She glanced towards the adjoining premises. ‘Without his loan, I would have struggled to keep the business afloat. That was an act of friendship, whatever else he hoped to gain by it. Was he a good man with a streak of evil in him? Or an evil man with a vein of goodness?’ She shook her head. ‘Had his dear wife lived, we would not even be asking that question.’

‘Too true.’ He moved to the door. ‘But I must go.’

‘Nick…’

‘Yes?’

‘Now that you have remembered where I live, do not pass my house again without calling.’

‘We play at The Rose next week.’

She smiled. ‘Then I will expect you.’

***

Alexander Marwood surveyed the yard of the Queen’s Head with mixed feelings. Instinct told him to sever all connections with Westfield’s Men and thereby liberate himself from the recurring crises which beset the company and the ever present threat of assault upon his nubile daughter by one of the lustful actors. Commonsense whispered a different message in his hairy ear. The troupe paid him a rent and brought in custom. Westfield’s Men also gave his inn a status in the capital which was important to him, and, more decisively, to his wife. The Queen’s Head was recognised as the home of one of the most celebrated theatre companies in London.

Commonsense was still wrestling with instinct when Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias sidled up to him. They beamed with delight at a man whom they found unrelievedly loathsome.

‘We need a decision from you,’ said Firethorn.

Marwood grunted, ‘I am thinking, I am thinking.’

‘Is there any way we may aid your thought?’

‘By leaving me alone, Master Firethorn.’

‘You must not delay the verdict any longer. Too much rests on it. Do we play here tomorrow or not?’

‘I do not know, sir.’

‘The company is waiting to be told,’ said Elias. ‘We have lost one performance and would hate to lose another. That would empty your yard for two afternoons next week.’

‘Two?’

‘Yes,’ explained Firethorn. ‘We play at The Rose on Wednesday. There’ll be no crowds thirsting for your ale.’

‘And no ruffians pissing in my stables,’ said the landlord. ‘No lechers ogling my daughter.’

They could see that he was weakening. Firethorn felt that he could handle the negotiations more easily on his own and nudged Elias accordingly. The Welshman moved away and was in time to welcome Nicholas Bracewell as the latter came in through the archway.

‘Nick!’ he called. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I’ll tell you anon,’ said Nicholas, looking across at Marwood. ‘Has our landlord relented yet?’

‘Lawrence is slowly bringing him round.’

‘He must not be rushed. That’s the trick of it.’

‘I tried to help but was shooed away.’

‘Then I’ll borrow you for a weightier purpose.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘I need to hang you, Owen.’

‘Hang me!’

Nicholas laughed at his expression. ‘Come. You’ll find me a gentle executioner.’

He led the way to the storeroom where the dead body had been discovered the previous morning. The noose had been taken away as evidence by the constables, but Nicholas quickly fashioned another out of a length of rope. Elias watched his deft fingers at work.

‘You have done this before, I see.’

‘What you see is a sailor’s hands at work. If you spent as much time at sea as I have, you learn to tie knots of all kinds in a rope.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘Now, Owen. Lie there.’

‘Why?’

‘To please my fancy.’

‘What is this all about?’ grumbled Elias, lowering himself to the floor. ‘Am I the dupe in this little game?’

‘It is no game,’ said Nicholas, placing the noose around his neck. ‘How heavy are you? Half the weight of Jonas?’

‘A third at least. I carried that man home and he was like a ton of iron. A triple Owen Elias.’

‘I’ll make allowances for that. Put your hands inside the rope to stop it cutting into your flesh.’ He flung one end of the rope over the central beam. ‘Are you ready!’

‘Iesu Mawr! He really means to hang me!’

‘Hold on.’

Nicholas pulled on the rope until it tightened around the hands and neck of his friend. He applied what he judged to be the correct pressure but could not move the body from the floor. Even when he wound the rope around his waist to give himself a stronger purchase on it, he could not lift the supine Elias.

‘Thanks, Owen. You may get up now.’

‘Good,’ said the other, tugging at the noose.

‘No, leave that on,’ ordered Nicholas. ‘I want to find another way to kill you.’

‘You’ve tortured me long enough.’

‘One more minute. That’s all it will take.’

‘Be quick about it then.’

‘Stand there and do not move.’

Owen Elias was in the middle of the room. Nicholas moved the workbench until it almost brushed his jerkin. Picking up the mallet from the floor, he mimed a blow to the back of the Welshman’s head, then grabbed him by the collar.

‘Fall gently back.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘Go on. The table will catch you.’

Elias did as he was told and Nicholas guided him so that his back was across the workbench. When he tested the other end of the rope this time, he got more response. By applying some real pressure, he lifted the body into a sitting position. Hands inside the noose, Owen Elias gave a dramatic gurgle and pretended to be choking. Nicholas tossed the rope back over the beam. He then brushed the grains of sawdust from his friend’s buff jerkin.

‘Am I dead?’ asked Elias, removing the noose.

‘Completely. And now I know how he did it.’

‘Who?’

‘The Laughing Hangman.’

‘Do you mind if we get out of here, Nick? I’m starting to feel like his next victim.’

They returned to the yard and found Firethorn talking volubly to James Ingram. The actor-manager preened himself as the others approached.

‘I have done it, sirs! We play here tomorrow.’

A concerted cheer went up from the others.

‘Marwood was like wax in my hands. Soft and smelly.’

‘But you moulded him into shape,’ said Owen.

They congratulated him profusely. Firethorn wanted to take them all to the taproom to celebrate, but Nicholas was more interested to hear the news from Ingram.

‘Did you find out what I asked?’ he said.

‘I did, Nick. At a price.’

‘A prison sergeant will do nothing without garnish.’

‘I paid up, then came straight back here.’ He turned to Firethorn. ‘Please give my deepest apologies to your wife.’

‘You’ve been to a prison and seen my wife?’

‘No,’ said Ingram. ‘It was on my way back. I did not recognise her until it was too late. She must have thought it rude of me to ignore her. Explain that I was in such a rush to get back here.’

Firethorn was perplexed. ‘Margery is in Shoreditch.’

‘Not this evening.’

‘Where else can she be?’

‘Five minutes away at another inn.’

‘An inn? Here in the city?’

Elias cackled. ‘I spy merriment here.’

‘You must have been mistaken, James,’ said Firethorn.

‘When I passed as close to her as I am to you? It was her. I’d swear that on the Bible.’

‘I’m sure that there is a simple explanation,’ said Nicholas with easy tact. ‘Perhaps she is visiting a friend.’

‘What kind of friend?’ nudged Elias.

‘And why did she make no mention of this to me?’ added Firethorn as his suspicions grew. ‘Was she alone, James?’

‘She was.’

‘And how was she attired?’

‘In her finest apparel.’

‘What was the name of the inn?’

‘I did not mean to put you to choler in this way.’

‘What was the name?’

‘I assumed that you knew Margery was there.’

‘The name!’ demanded Firethorn.

‘It was the Unicorn.’

***

Cecily Gilbourne did not waste much time on the formalities. Romantic dalliance was cast ruthlessly aside in favour of more tangible pleasure. As soon as Edmund Hoode was conducted in to her, she gave him a kiss on the cheek and took him through into the next chamber. He looked down at the bed on which they spent their torrid night together and he blenched. There was no resemblance to the Garden of Eden now. It reminded him of the gruesome rack which he had once beheld in the house of Richard Topcliffe, the master torturer. The bed was an instrument of pain.

‘Have you written that sonnet yet?’ she asked.

‘It is still forming in my mind, Cecily.’

‘But you promised to quote it to me.’

‘Did I?’ He saw a way to delay her ardour. ‘Step back into the next chamber and I’ll try a line or two for you.’

‘In here,’ she insisted. ‘You swore that you would stroke my body with your poetry.’

‘Did I?’ gulped Hoode.

‘Have you so soon forgotten?’

She pushed him into a sitting position on the bed. He was terrified. Cecily Gilbourne’s appetite was too great for him to satisfy. Making love to her had turned into an ordeal. The thought that he would have to quote a sonnet to her in the middle of the exercise made it even more unappealing. Hoode looked around for escape but she was already unhooking his doublet.

‘Why make such haste?’ he said, panic-stricken.

She forced him back. ‘Do you need to ask?’

‘Will you not take refreshment beforehand, Cecily?’

‘This is my refreshment!’

She writhed about on top of him until she was panting, then she began to pluck at her clothing. He had no idea that a dress could be removed so easily. When Cecily switched her attentions to his hose, his panic gave way to hysteria.

‘I feel the first line of my sonnet coming!’

‘Hold still while I take these off.’

‘“O hot Sicilian Cecily…” Stay your hand. Please!’

‘I am in too hot and Sicilian a mood!’

‘Cecily!’ he protested.

‘Edmund!’ she purred. ‘My rhyming couplet!’

And before he could move, she flung herself full upon him and fixed her lips ineluctably on his. Hoode felt the waters closing over his head. He was just about to abandon all hope and submit when he heard a thumping noise on the door. The maidservant called out the warning.

‘Mistress! Mistress! Beware!’

‘What is it?’ snarled Cecily in mid-rhyme.

‘Master Hoode’s wife is without.’

‘His wife!’

‘Yes!’

‘But he does not have a wife.’

‘I do, I do,’ said Hoode gratefully. ‘Can she be here?’

‘Asking to come in,’ said the maidservant.

‘Demanding!’ thundered a voice on the other side of the door. ‘Edmund! Are you there?’

‘No, my dear.’

‘Stand aside, girl,’ ordered the unexpected visitor.

The maidservant gave a little scream, the door burst open and the redoubtable figure of Margery Firethorn came through it at speed. She bristled at the sight of betrayal. Cecily Gilbourne retreated to a corner of the room, snatching up a sheet to cover herself and trying to show what dignity she could muster. Hoode threshed about helplessly on the bed. Margery did not stand on ceremony. Bestowing a glare of contempt on Cecily, she grabbed Hoode by the arm, hauled him off the bed and dragged him behind her like a sack of grain.

Hoode gladly withstood the discomfort of his departure. Bouncing down the stairs of the Unicorn was infinitely preferable to being eaten alive by a rampant lover with only one word in her sexual vocabulary-“Again!” Margery played her part to the hilt. It was only when she had brought him out into the street that she relaxed and permitted herself a chuckle. Hoode was so thankful that he threw his arms impulsively around her and gave her a resounding kiss.

Lawrence Firethorn chose that moment to steal upon them.

***

Nicholas Bracewell knew where to find him. When the man was not at home, there was only one place he could be. It did not take the book holder long to walk to the precinct. He made his way across the Great Yard and into the theatre. Geoffrey Bless, the old watchdog, was slumped in his chair fast asleep, his eyes closed to shut out the fearful sight he had seen at Blackfriars that evening. The porter did not even stir when Nicholas took the key ring gently from his gnarled hand.

Creeping quietly up the staircase, Nicholas came to the door of the theatre and searched for the key to unlock it. He stepped into the auditorium to find it in darkness, the shutters now firmly closed to block out the last of the day. The place seemed deserted but Nicholas was certain that he was not alone. As he felt his way along, one hand held his dagger at the ready. He halted close to the stage.

‘Come forth, sir,’ he said. ‘I know that you are here.’

There was a long pause before flickering light slowly appeared. A branched candelabra was carried on stage and set on the table, which had been used during the brief rehearsal. A figure lowered himself onto the bench behind the table and set out some rolls of parchment before him. He seemed as confident and relaxed as if sitting in his own study.

‘I expected you,’ said Caleb Hay with a smile.

‘Did you?’

‘Sooner or later.’

‘Then you will know why I have come.’

‘Put that dagger away, sir. I am not armed. I will not talk to a man who threatens me with a weapon.’

‘It is for my defence.’

‘Against what? An old man with a pile of documents?’

Nicholas nodded and sheathed his dagger. Candlelight now illumined the area immediately in front of the stage. He looked across to the place where Raphael Parsons had fallen. The body had been removed but the floor was still covered by a dark stain. Caleb Hay glanced down at it.

‘Master Parsons held one rehearsal too many in here.’

‘Was he your next victim?’

‘Do not look to me. He was killed by a disgruntled father.’

‘And spared a more lingering death at the end of a rope,’ said Nicholas. ‘Is that why you were lurking in the precinct this evening? Until you could come upon him alone here in the theatre? Until you could let yourself in with Master Fulbeck’s keys and take him unawares?’

‘Why should I wish to murder Raphael Parsons?’

‘For the same reason that you murdered Cyril Fulbeck and Jonas Applegarth.’

‘The Master of the Chapel was my trusted friend. As for your fat playwright, how could a weak fellow like myself hoist such a weight upon the gallows?’

‘With the aid of a workbench,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was easier to lever him up from that. You used another lever to bring Jonas to the Queen’s Head in the first place. That letter, purporting to be from Lawrence Firethorn. An able scrivener would have had no trouble in writing that.’

‘Able scriveners are quiet, sedentary souls like me.’

‘You are not as weak and harmless as you appear. That was the mistake that Cyril Fulbeck made. Thinking you safe, he let you close enough to strike.’

‘He let me close enough a hundred times, yet lived.’

‘The case was altered the last time you met.’

‘Pray tell me why,’ challenged Hay. ‘Here I sit at a judicial bench and yet I am accused of unspeakable crimes. A friend whom I cherished. A playwright whom I never met. What flight of folly makes you link my name with their fate?’

‘Religion!’ said Nicholas.

‘Indeed?’

‘The old religion.’

‘All three of us were Dominican friars? Is that your argument?’

‘No, sir,’ returned Nicholas. ‘I thought at first the theatre was the common bond between them. Cyril Fulbeck was involved with the Chapel Children and Jonas Applegarth was engaged by Westfield’s Men. One here at Blackfriars and the other at the Queen’s Head, both places of antiquity in their different ways and therefore fit subjects of study for a historian of London. Only someone who knew each room, cellar and passageway at the Queen’s Head could have evaded me.’

‘I hear no sound of the old religion in all this.’

‘The Clink.’

‘What of it?’

‘You spent a day imprisoned there.’

‘Yes,’ said Hay. ‘I made no secret of that.’

‘It is a place where religious dissidents are held,’ said Nicholas. ‘Even a short stay there is recorded by the prison serjeant in his ledger. I found a way to peep into its pages. Master Caleb Hay was taken to the Clink but three months ago, his name and offence duly entered in the ledger.’ He took a step forward. ‘Documents favouring the old religion were found in your possession. You were held there as a Roman Catholic dissident.’

‘Held but soon discharged.’

‘On the word of the Master of the Chapel.’

‘Yes!’ said Hay, rising to his feet. ‘I am a historian. Those documents were at my house so that I might copy them. They are a legitimate part of my work. Go search my study. You will find papers relating to John Wycliffe and others touching on the Jewish settlements in London. Does that mean I am a Lollard or a member of the Chosen People?’

‘Cyril Fulbeck was deceived.’

‘And so are you, sir.’

‘He later came to see that deception.’

‘Wild surmise!’

‘Blackfriars,’ said Nicholas calmly. ‘The wheel has come full circle, Master Hay. This is where it started and must perforce end. Blackfriars was a symbol of the old religion to you. I recall how lovingly you talked of its past. Your father-in-law, Andrew Mompesson, only fought to keep a public playhouse out of the precinct because its noise would offend his ears. You had a deeper objection still. To turn a monastery into a theatre was sacrilege to you!’

‘It was!’ admitted Hay, stung into honesty.

‘Vulgar plays on consecrated ground.’

‘Anathema!’

‘The Children of the Chapel mocking the Pope.’

‘I could never forgive Cyril for that!’

‘And then came Jonas Applegarth,’ continued Nicholas. ‘The scourge of Rome. A man whose wit lacerated the old religion in every play.’

‘I saw them all,’ said Hay, bitterly. ‘Each one more full of venom and blasphemy. I thought Friar Francis was his worst abomination until you staged The Misfortunes of Marriage. What a piece of desecration was that! He stabbed away at everything I hold dear.’

‘You made him pay a terrible price for his impudence.’

‘It was downright wickedness!’

Caleb Hay took a few moments to compose himself. When he looked down at Nicholas again, he gave an amused chuckle.

‘You have done your research well.’

‘It was needful.’

‘You would make an astute historian.’

‘My study was the life of Caleb Hay.’

‘How will that story be written?’

‘With sadness, sir.’

‘But my whole existence has been a joy!’

‘It was not a joy you shared with your wife,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘She knew nothing of your inner life. You kept her on the outer fringes as your drudge. It was she who first made me wonder about the genius to whom she was married.’

‘Why was that?’

‘The fear in her eyes. The terror with which she climbed those stairs to call you. What kind of man locks out his wife from his room? What does he keep hidden from her behind that bolted door?’

‘You have divined the answer, Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘I think that I was not the only one to do so.’

‘No,’ confessed Hay. ‘Cyril Fulbeck got there before you. That is why he had to die. Not only because of this abomination in which we stand. He threatened to denounce me, and my bones are far too old for a bed at the Clink.’

He picked up the candelabra and held it high to light up a wider area of the stage. He shook his head ruefully.

‘Centuries of worship wiped uncaringly away!’ he mused. ‘A religious house turned into a seat of devilry. Innocent children schooled in corruption. A heritage ruinously scorned.’

The elegiac mood faded as he began to chuckle quietly to himself. His mirth increased until he was almost shaking. Then it burst forth in a full-throated laugh that Nicholas recognised at once. He had heard it at Blackfriars before and also at the Queen’s Head. The difference was that it now lacked a note of celebration. As the laughter built and raced around the whole theatre, it had a kind of valedictory joy as if it were some kind of manic farewell.

Nicholas was thrown off his guard. There was a calculation in Caleb Hay’s mirth. The laughter came to a sudden end, the flames were blown out, and the candelabra was hurled at the book holder by a strong arm. It came out of the gloom to strike him in the chest and knock him backwards. Nicholas recovered and pulled out his dagger. He felt for the edge of the stage and vaulted up onto it. All that he could pick out in the darkness were vague shapes. When he tried to move forward, he collided with a bench.

He was convinced that Hay would try to make his escape through the rear exit and groped his way towards the tiring-house. A sound from above made him stop. Light feet were tapping on the rungs of a ladder. Hay was climbing high above the stage. When Nicholas tried to follow him, a missile came hurtling down to miss him by inches. It was a heavy iron weight which was used to counterbalance one of the ropes on the pulleys. Nicholas moved to safety and considered his choices.

As long as he was trapped in the dark, he was at a severe disadvantage. Caleb Hay knew where to hide and how to defend himself. With no means of igniting the candles, Nicholas sought the one alternative source of light. He felt his way downstage, jumped into the auditorium and made for the nearest casement. Sliding back the bolt, he flung back the shutters to admit the last dying rays of a summer evening. One window enabled him to see the others more clearly and he ran down one side of the theatre to open all the shutters. When he turned back, he could see the stage quite clearly. He approached it with his dagger still drawn.

‘There is no way out, Master Hay!’ he called.

The familiar chuckle could be heard high above him.

‘Come down, sir.’

‘I’ll be with you directly,’ said Hay.

‘It is all over now.’

‘I know it well.’

‘Come down!’

‘I do, sir. Adieu, Nicholas Bracewell!’

Caleb Hay tightened the noose and jumped into space. The long drop had been measured with care. The rope arrested his descent with such vicious force that there was an awesome crack as his neck snapped. Six feet above the stage that he despised, he spun lifelessly until Nicholas stood on the table to cut him down.

The Laughing Hangman had chosen his own gallows.

***

‘I regard this as a noble act of self-sacrifice, Edmund.’

‘It was the least I could do to assuage my guilt.’

‘Guilt?’

‘Yes, Lawrence. I was too envious of Jonas.’

‘That is not crime.’

‘I sought to oust his work from our repertoire.’

‘Only because we gave him precedence over you.’

‘That rankled with me.’

‘The fault was mine for riding roughshod over you.’

‘All faults are mended this afternoon.’

‘Amen!’

Lawrence Firethorn and Edmund Hoode were putting on their costumes in the tiring-house at The Rose. In view of the circumstances, Hoode had insisted that the privilege of performance at a proper theatre should go to The Misfortunes of Marriage. It would act as a fitting epitaph to the rumbustious talent of Jonas Applegarth and meet the upsurge of interest in the play which the murder of its author had created. The Bankside playhouse was packed to capacity for the occasion. Hoode was the first to concede that The Faithful Shepherd would not have provoked the same curiosity.

Barnaby Gill bounced across to them in a teasing mood.

‘Is all well between you now?’ he asked.

‘Why should it not be?’ said Firethorn.

‘Rumours, Lawrence. Scandalous rumours.’

‘Ignore them.’

‘They are far too delicious for that.’

‘Edmund and I are the best of friends,’ said Firethorn with an arm around Hoode’s shoulder. ‘We have too much in common to fall out.’

‘Too much indeed. Including your dear wife, Margery.’

‘That is slander, sir!’

‘A hideous misunderstanding,’ said Hoode.

‘They speak otherwise at the Unicorn,’ prodded Gill. ‘There they talk of the bigamous Margery Firethorn. One woman with two husbands. So much for the misfortunes of marriage! I give thanks that I never dwindled into matrimony.’

‘It is only because the Chapel Children rejected your proposal,’ rejoined Firethorn. ‘You’d be bigamously married to every boy’s bum in the choir if you could!’

Gill flew into a rage and Firethorn threw fresh taunts at him. Hoode found himself back in his customary role as the peacemaker between the two. He was home again.

Nicholas Bracewell gave the warning and the company readied themselves for the start of the performance. Its actor-manager had a last whispered exchange with Hoode.

‘Turn to me when you are next in that predicament.’

‘To you, Lawrence?’

‘I have a remedy even better than Margery’s.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Why, man, to take a woman off your hands and into mine. If this Cecily Gilbourne was too hot for your unskilled fingers to hold, you should have given her to me. My palms are proof against the fires of Hell.’

‘Margery’s was the eftest way.’

‘I would have been a sprightly unicorn to the lady.’

‘Then why did she not choose you in the first place?’ said Hoode. ‘No, Lawrence. The matter is ended and my debt is paid off to you both.’

‘What debt?’

‘I inadvertently disturbed your nuptial pleasure. By way of reprisal, Margery pulled me from the delights of the bedchamber. An eye for an eye.’

‘A testicle for a testicle!’

Firethorn’s chortle was masked by the sound of the music as Peter Digby and the consort brought the play to life once more. Westfield’s Men soared to the occasion.

The Misfortunes of Marriage blossomed at The Rose. Its plot was firmer, its characters enriched and its satire more biting and hilarious. The company took full advantage of the superior facilities at the theatre to make their play a more exciting experience. Many dazzling new effects were incorporated by Nicholas Bracewell into the action, including one he had borrowed from Raphael Parsons and adapted for their own purposes. Trapdoors allowed sudden appearances. Flying equipment permitted the dramatic descent of actors and scenic devices. With the book holder in control behind the scenes, the pace of the play never faltered and its thrusts never missed their targets.

The acclaim which greeted the cast as they were led out to take their bow by Firethorn was so loud and so sustained that they could have played the final scene through again before its last echoes died. When the actors plunged back into the tiring-house, they were inebriated with their success. Barnaby Gill was dancing, Richard Honeydew was singing, Edmund Hoode was quoting his favourite speech from the play and John Tallis was croaking happily. Firethorn himself went around hugging each member of the troupe in tearful gratitude.

Even James Ingram was infected by the mood of celebration. He confided his feelings to the book holder.

‘It is a better play than I gave it credit, Nick.’

‘The play is unchanged,’ said Nicholas. ‘What has altered is your perception of it.’

‘True. It is so much easier to appreciate when its author is not here to obstruct my view of its virtues.’

‘Jonas was here this afternoon.’

‘In spirit, if not in body.’

‘That was his voice I heard out there on the stage. Even your mimicry could not reproduce that sound. It was a distinctive voice, James. Too harsh for some, maybe. You have been among them. But impossible to ignore.’

‘Westfield’s Men have done him proud.’

‘No playwright could ask for more,’ said Hoode, joining them as he pulled off his costume. ‘Jonas Applegarth was a true poet. He died for his art. It is a tragedy that we only have this one play of his to act as his headstone.’

‘We may yet have a second,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘Has he bequeathed us another?’

‘No, Edmund. But you could provide it.’

‘I could never write with that surging brilliance. Only Jonas could pen a Jonas Applegarth play.’

‘Work with him as your co-author.’

‘How can he, Nick?’ said Ingram. ‘Jonas is dead.’

‘Yes,’ added Hoode with a touch of envy. ‘He outshines me there as well. Not only did he live with more of a flourish, he died in a way that made all London sit up and say his name. Edmund Hoode will just fade away, unsung, in some mean lodging. That is what I admire most about Jonas Applegarth. His own life was his most vivid and unforgettable drama.’

‘Then there is your theme,’ urged Nicholas.

‘Theme?’

‘Put him back up on the stage in full view.’

‘Jonas?’

‘Why not?’ said Ingram, warming to the idea. ‘Change his name, if you wish. But retain his character. Keep that humour. Keep that wit. Keep that belligerence. If ever a man belonged on the boards with a mouth-filling oath, it is Jonas Applegarth.’

‘His death will certainly give me my final scene.’

‘The play foments in your mind already, Edmund,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘Write it as an act of appreciation. Let him know that Westfield’s Men cherish his memory. We loved him but did not have time to tell him so before he left us.’

***

It took Anne Hendrik a long time to make a comparatively short journey. The audience at The Rose was too large and too inclined to linger for her to make a swift exit from the theatre. She and Preben van Loew were forced to wait until the earnest discussions of the play gradually subsided and the press of bodies thinned out. The Dutchman escorted her home before going on to his own house in Bankside.

There was no hurry. Nicholas would be delayed even longer than she had been. First of the company to arrive, he would be the last to leave, having supervised the removal of their scenery and costumes, the cleaning of the tiring-house and the collection of the money from the gatherers. There would be a dozen other chores before he could begin to think of slipping away.

When Anne caught herself calculating the earliest possible time of his arrival, she tried to pull herself together and put him from her mind. There was no guarantee that Nicholas would come. When Westfield’s Men had last played at The Rose, she had no visit from its book holder afterwards. Why should this time be different? They had no obligations towards each other. Ambrose Robinson may have eased them back together but his arrest would just as effectively push them apart. She soon persuaded herself that Nicholas would be too busy carousing with his fellows to remember her invitation. She sank into a chair with resignation.

It was an hour before she got out of it. The tap on the door made her leap up and rush to answer it, waving away the servant who came out from the kitchen. Adjusting her dress and modifying her broad grin to a smile, she opened the door to find Nicholas standing there. She dismissed his apology for being so late and took him into the parlour.

‘Did you enjoy the play?’ he asked.

‘As much as anything I have seen in years.’

‘It is a remarkable piece of theatre.’

‘A little too remarkable for Preben, I fear.’

‘Oh?’

‘He laughed at its jests but shied at its irreverence.’

‘It is strong meat for a timid palate.’

They talked at length about the play until they felt sufficiently relaxed with each other to move away from it. Nicholas had some news for her.

‘I spoke with Master Firethorn today,’ he said, ‘and put the name of Philip Robinson in his ear.’

‘Why?’

‘We need a new apprentice.’

‘And you would consider Philip?’

‘He recommends himself.’

‘He may,’ she said cautiously, ‘but his situation does not. Did you tell Master Firethorn the full facts?’

‘Each and every one.’

‘The boy carries a stigma. Did he not baulk at that?’

‘The only stigma that Lawrence Firethorn recognises is bad acting. Show him a willing lad with a wealth of talent and he’ll take him into Westfield’s Men, though his mother be a witch and his father have cloven hooves and a tail.’

‘Then Philip is apprenticed?’

‘If the Chapel Royal agree to release him.’

‘They’ll embrace the opportunity, Nick. Thank you!’

‘For what?’

‘Your kindness and consideration.’

‘Philip will be an asset to us. I am only being kind and considerate to Westfield’s Men, believe me.’

‘I fretted over him,’ she said. ‘My mind is put at rest by this news. It is a relief to know that some good has come out of all of this upset. I am still wracked with guilt about it.’

‘Why?’

‘I caused you so much unnecessary trouble. But for me, you would never have met Ambrose Robinson.’

‘But for him, I might never have met Anne Hendrik again.’ He grinned at her. ‘I call that a fair exchange.’

‘Then I am content.’

They fell silent. Nicholas feasted his eyes on her and basked in the luxury of her company. He had not been able to enjoy it to the full before. The obstacles between them had now vanished and he could appraise her properly for the first time. Anne wallowed in his curiosity before being prompted by her own.

‘Do you live alone?’ she said.

‘No. The house is full of people.’

‘I was talking about your room,’ she said, probing quietly. ‘I wondered if you…shared it with anybody.’

‘I am never there long enough to notice.’

‘Still married to Westfield’s Men?’

‘With all its misfortunes.’ They laughed together. ‘But what of you, Anne? Alone here still?’

‘Not for much longer.’

‘Why?’

‘That passage with Ambrose taught me much. I felt the lack of a man around the house. I will take another lodger.’

‘I see,’ he said with obvious disappointment.

‘I do it for my own protection, Nick,’ she argued. ‘He would not need to be here night and day. His scent would be enough. It would keep danger away.’

‘What sort of lodger would you seek?’

‘One that suited me.’

‘In what way?’

Her eyes searched his. Nicholas was the first to smile.

‘Where do you live?’ she asked, moving closer.

‘In Thames Street.’

‘How much do you pay your landlord?’

‘Too much.’

He took her in his arms for a long and loving kiss.

‘I am thinking of moving,’ he said.