The Laughing Hangman

Chapter Four

Nicholas Bracewell reacted with speed. Running to the edge of the chest-high stage, he put a hand on it and vaulted up in one easy movement. His first concern was for the victim and he checked to see if the man were still alive, but Cyril Fulbeck was palpably beyond help. James Ingram joined him to look up at the swollen tongue, the contorted expression on the face and the slack body. The last remaining ounces of life had been wrung out of the old man’s emaciated frame. Having served his Maker with gentleness and dedication, he had gone to meet Him in the most excruciating way.

The weird laughter stopped, a door banged in the tiring-house and a key could be heard turning in a lock. Nicholas dashed through one of the exits at the rear of the stage and found himself in the tiring-house, which was divided into three main bays. Costumes were hanging from racks and an array of properties was piled up on a low table. A quick search of the whole area revealed a door in one corner, but when Nicholas tried to open it, he found it locked. There seemed to be no other rear exit from the tiring-house.

Leaping off the stage, he sprinted back down the auditorium and descended the winding staircase to the Porter’s Lodge. Geoffrey had dozed off to sleep again but he came awake as the book holder went haring past him and out into the Great Yard. Nicholas dashed up to the southern end of the building and scoured it carefully, but he could see nobody. When he tried the door in the room immediately below the tiring-house, it was also locked, as were the doors on the side of the building which gave access to the parlour and the lower hall.

Nicholas called off the search. To reach the exterior of the tiring-house, he had run well over a hundred yards, giving his quarry far too much time to escape. He returned quickly to the theatre itself via the Porter’s Lodge. Curious to know what was happening, Geoffrey had staggered up the stairs and gone into the auditorium. The hideous sight halted him in his tracks. Nicholas was just in time to catch him as the porter’s legs buckled beneath him. Ingram, who had been peering through one of the arched windows that looked out on Water Lane, hurried across to help him. They carried the porter to a bench and lowered him onto it, taking care to stand between him and the stage in order to block out the sight of the hanged man.

Geoffrey was wheezing heavily and trembling all over. One hand clutched at his breast. Tears flowed freely. It was minutes before he was able to utter a word.

‘Not Master Fulbeck!’ he groaned.

‘That is how we found him,’ said Ingram softly.

‘He was my dear friend.’

‘Mine, too, Geoffrey.’

The porter tried to rise. ‘Let me cut him down!’

‘Rest,’ said Nicholas, easing him back onto the bench.

‘Cut him down!’ insisted the old man. ‘I’ll not leave Master Fulbeck up there like that.’

‘I’ll do it straight,’ agreed the book holder.

While Ingram remained to soothe the porter, Nicholas clambered back up onto the stage. The rope from which the Master of the Chapel was dangling went up through a trap-door in the ceiling. Nicholas could see the elaborate winding-gear above that enabled scenic devices and even actors themselves to be lowered onto the stage during the performance of a play. A facility of which Cyril Fulbeck would have been very proud had been used to engineer his death.

Nicholas ran into the tiring-house, went up the ladder to the storey above and found the windlass that controlled the apparatus. Slowly and with reverence, he lowered the dead body to the stage, then returned swiftly in order to examine it. Cyril Fulbeck’s bulbous eyes seemed to be on the point of popping out of their sockets. His skin was a ghastly white, his neck encircled by an ugly red weal. But it was the trickle of blood on his shoulder which interested Nicholas. When he rolled the corpse gently onto its side, he saw an open wound in the man’s scalp.

As he lay the man on his back again, Nicholas observed that the hem of his cassock was torn, that his black stockings were badly wrinkled and that one of his shoes had come off. He released the noose and lifted the rope clear of its victim. Slipping back into the tiring-house, he chose a large cloak from among the costumes and used it to cover the entire body.

‘Let me see him!’ sobbed Geoffrey. ‘Let me see him!’

‘Stay here, old friend,’ advised Ingram, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘You have seen enough.’

‘He was driven to it, Master Ingram.’

‘Driven?’

‘To take his own life. ’Tis shameful!’

‘Suicide?’ asked Nicholas, joining them again. ‘Who or what might have driven him to that?’

‘It is not my place to say, sir,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but this I can tell you. Master Fulbeck was very unhappy. It broke his heart, some of the things that went on here. He told me once that his spirits were so low that he was even thinking of putting an end to his misery.’ He pointed to the prostrate figure on the stage. ‘And now he has!’

‘Calm down, calm down!’ said Ingram, patting him on the back. ‘Master Fulbeck may not have died by his own hand.’

‘He did not,’ confirmed Nicholas.

The porter flinched from this new intelligence.

‘Murdered!’ he gasped. ‘Never! Who would lay a finger on Master Fulbeck? He was the gentlest soul alive.’

Nicholas sighed. ‘Gentle but weak. Unable to defend himself against attack. Who else has been in the building today?’

‘None but Master Parsons and the choristers. The boys all left this afternoon.’

‘And Raphael Parsons?’ said Nicholas.

‘He stayed for a while with Master Fulbeck, then left.’

‘You saw him go?’

‘Not with my own eyes. He left by the other exit.’

‘Through the door in the tiring-house?’

‘He always comes and goes that way.’

‘How, then, can you be certain that he quit the building? That door is a long way from the Porter’s Lodge.’

‘I spoke with Master Fulbeck not an hour since,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘He came to the Lodge to draw some water for refreshment. ’Twas he told me that Master Parsons had gone. I think that words had passed between them again. Master Fulbeck was very upset.’

‘Did he say why?’ probed Nicholas.

‘No, sir. Nor was it my place to ask.’

‘Did anyone else visit the theatre this evening?’

‘Not a soul.’

‘Is there no chance that somebody may have come here and escaped your notice?’

The porter was affronted. ‘Nobody came, sir. I can vouch for that. Old I may be, but blind and deaf I am not. No man alive could sneak past Geoffrey Bless. Even when my eyes close in sleep, my ears stay wide open. Nobody passed me.’

‘But they might have entered by another means.’

‘Not into the theatre, sir. The main entrance is up the winding staircase. The only other way to reach the stage is by the back stairs and the back door is kept locked.’

‘Who has a key to that door?’

‘Only three of us, sir. Myself, Master Parsons and Master Fulbeck. We are very careful to keep the building locked and guarded at all times. Thieves would else come in.’

‘Or murderers,’ thought Nicholas. ‘I saw no keys upon Master Fulbeck. Where did he carry them?’

‘Always at his belt.’

‘Habitually?’

‘He was never without them.’

‘The keys are not at his belt now.’

‘Then they have been stolen!’ cried Geoffrey.

‘And used to make an escape through the back door,’ said Ingram, trying to think it through. ‘That would explain how someone got out, but how did he get into the theatre in the first place?’

‘Perhaps he was hiding in here all along,’ suggested Nicholas, scanning the galleries. ‘There are places where a patient assassin might lie in wait. The rooms above the stage itself would be an ideal refuge.’

‘Nobody was here!’ insisted the old man, defending himself against what he saw as a slur on his competence. ‘I walk around the whole building first thing in the morning and I do the same at night when I secure it. A mouse could not sneak in without my knowing it.’

Indignation had helped to rally the porter and he had stopped wheezing. He was soon well enough to get up and walk. After a few last questions, Nicholas sent him off to fetch constables in order that he could have a word alone with James Ingram.

They knelt by the body in the middle of the stage. Nicholas drew back the cloak to reveal the staring eyes. Ingram blenched and lowered his own lids in a moment of silent prayer. Nicholas then indicated the bloodstains.

‘He has a wound on the back of his head. I believe he was struck from behind by his assailant so that he was unconscious when the rope was placed around his neck. He may only have revived when it was too late.’

‘Could he not have called out for help?’

‘To whom?’ said Nicholas. ‘The porter was too far away and there was nobody else in the building. The murderer knew that. In case of interruption, he killed his prey sooner than the rope alone could have done.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He grabbed Master Fulbeck by the legs and swung on him with his full weight.’ He lifted the other end of the cloak. ‘You see the tear in his cassock and the wrinkles in his stockings? A buckle snapped and one shoe was pulled off.’

Ingram was aghast. ‘He helped to throttle him?’

‘No question. It might otherwise have been a lingering death. Our only comfort is that it speeded up a dreadful execution and shortened the agony.’

‘Who could do such a thing to sweet Master Fulbeck?’

‘Someone who did not think him quite so sweet, James. I mean to track the villain down, however long it takes me. This is heinous work and the killer must answer for it.’

‘How will you find him, Nick? Where will you start to look? You have no clues to guide you. The murderer vanished into thin air. I caught no glimpse of him when I ran to the window.’ He shrugged his shoulders in despair. ‘It is hopeless. You have no notion whom you seek.’

‘Yes, I do. A Laughing Hangman.’

***

Anne Hendrik was not expecting any visitors to her Bankside house that evening, and she was consequently surprised when there was a knock on the front door. Her servant answered it and the sound of Nicholas Bracewell’s voice filtered into the parlour. Putting her embroidery aside, Anne rose to greet him with spontaneous pleasure.

‘Nick!’

‘I am sorry to disturb you so late.’

‘You are more than welcome.’

‘Thank you, Anne.’

She offered both hands and he squeezed them gently. That moment alone redeemed in his mind an otherwise grim evening. For the first time in a year, he was back in the house he had shared with her, and it was both exciting and unnerving. Thrilled to be within those walls again, he was painfully aware of the parting that had taken place between the two of them in that same parlour. Nostalgia touched them both deeply and bathed their mutual wounds.

The silence and the mood were shattered by an urgent banging on the door. The servant opened it to admit an eager Ambrose Robinson. Blundering straight into the parlour, he grabbed Nicholas by the arm.

‘Have you brought news of Philip?’

‘Master Ambrose-’

‘I saw you as you walked past my shop,’ explained the butcher. ‘Even in the shadows, I could not mistake you. Those broad shoulders and that long stride could belong only to our Nicholas Bracewell. Have you been to Blackfriars?’

‘Yes.’

‘I knew it! What transpired?’

‘If you will calm down, I will tell you.’

‘Did you see Philip? Have they agreed to release him?’

‘Stop badgering him, Ambrose,’ said Anne. ‘Take a seat and let Nick explain in his own time.’

Robinson accepted the rebuke with his ingratiating smile and moved to a stool. Anne resumed her own seat and Nicholas remained standing to pass on his tidings. The note of oily familiarity in ‘our Nicholas Bracewell’ still grated on his ear. After one short meeting, Robinson was presuming a bond of friendship that would never exist between them. The book holder was brief.

‘I went to Blackfriars this evening in the hope of speaking with Cyril Fulbeck, but that is no longer possible. Master Fulbeck is dead.’

‘Dead?’ repeated Anne. ‘Was his illness that severe?’

‘He was murdered.’

‘God in Heaven!’

She was utterly shocked, but Ambrose Robinson took an almost perverse delight in the news. As Nicholas gave the two of them full details of what had happened, the butcher came close to smirking. Anne Hendrik offered wholehearted sympathy to the victim, but her neighbour saw it only as a form of crude justice.

‘Fulbeck deserved it,’ he grunted.

‘Ambrose!’ exclaimed Anne in reproach.

‘No man deserves such an end,’ said Nicholas.

‘He stole Philip away from me.’

‘Cyril Fulbeck’s death may make it far more difficult to gain your son’s release. By common report, he was a gentle and well-loved Master of the Chapel. His assistant will now take over his duties, but the theatre will be entirely in the hands of Raphael Parsons. He is the one from whom we must wrest your son, and he will be far less amenable than the man whose murder brings you such cruel pleasure. Your joyful response is both premature and in poor taste.’

Robinson was far less abashed by Nicholas’s strictures than by the glances of disapproval from Anne Hendrik. For her sake, he mumbled an apology, but his eye still had some truculence in it when it met the book holder’s. Every time the name of Cyril Fulbeck was mentioned, the butcher sat there in quiet exaltation.

‘What will happen next?’ asked Anne.

‘The law will take its course,’ said Nicholas, ‘though not with any great speed, I fear. Constables were summoned to the scene and they made examination of the corpse. James Ingram and I helped all we could, then gave sworn statements to the magistrate. The search for the killer has started.’

‘I hope and pray that they catch him,’ said Anne.

‘We will,’ vowed Nicholas.

‘Are there sufficient clues that point to a murderer?’

‘Not as yet, but they will emerge.’

‘Poor man!’ sighed Anne. ‘Did he have a family?’

‘Only the choir. All twenty of them will mourn him. Eight vicars choral and twelve choirboys.’

‘Philip will not shed a tear,’ promised Robinson.

‘He may have more compassion than his father.’

‘And more tact, Ambrose,’ chided Anne. ‘Show a proper respect for the deceased. Your attitude is unseemly.’

‘Then you are right to tax me with it,’ said the butcher with a surge of regret. ‘I do not mean to upset you in any way, Anne, but you know my situation. If someone takes your son away, it is difficult to feel anything but hostility towards him. That is only natural but it is also unworthy, as you point out. I accept your correction. Forgive me.’

‘It is Nick’s forgiveness you should seek, Ambrose. Not mine. He would never have ventured into Blackfriars except on an errand from you.’

‘True, true. I spoke out of turn. I crave his pardon.’

There was a bungling politeness about the man which made Nicholas wonder yet again how he had wormed his way into Anne’s affections, but the book holder had given his word in front of her and could not go back on that now.

‘This is bound to force a delay,’ he explained, ‘and it may be some time before I can secure an interview with Master Fulbeck’s assistant or with Raphael Parsons. When they have a murder on their hands, we cannot expect them to put the future of one chorister to the forefront of their minds.’

‘Philip is at the forefront of my mind always!’ said the father proudly. ‘We must rescue him. If there is a killer stalking the Blackfriars playhouse, my son must be brought back to the safety of his own home as soon as possible. His own life may be at risk.’

‘We must let Nick handle this,’ said Anne.

‘Of course, of course.’

‘He will judge when the time is right to go back.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said Nicholas to the butcher, ‘you must temper your anger with a little patience. Your son may not be as ill-used as you fear. While at Blackfriars Theatre, we took the opportunity to speak with the porter there, one Geoffrey Bless, who has been involved with the choristers for many a year. He knows them all by name and spoke well of young Philip Robinson.’

‘What did he say?’ demanded the father.

‘Little beyond the fact that the lad always had a civil word for him and worked as hard as he was able. Your son is a diligent and talented chorister.’

‘That much is not in doubt.’

‘One thing still is,’ said Nicholas. ‘Philip is not the sole victim of Raphael Parsons. All the boys are swinged soundly if they do not attain the high standards which he sets them. Yet none of them is trying to leave the Chapel Children or writing home to entreat some intercession from a parent.’

Robinson’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Your son is the only apostate. Why is that?’

‘You read his letters. You could see his terror.’

‘His friends do not seem to share it.’

‘I do not care a fig for the others!’

‘Ambrose!’ reprimanded Anne.

‘My son is in pain. I must save him.’

‘Nicholas is working to that end.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the book holder, ‘and the more facts I have at my disposal, the better am I able to act on his behalf. That is why I would like to know why eleven choristers can tolerate a situation that one finds quite unendurable. I will look into it. Bear this in mind, however. Westfield’s Men have first claim on my time and my energy.’

‘I explained that,’ said Anne.

‘I want to hear that Master Robinson understands it.’

The butcher squirmed slightly in his seat before nodding his assent. His face moved slowly into a smile of appeasement, but Nicholas saw the muted resentment in his eyes. Ambrose Robinson was evidently a man who could shift from friendship to enmity with no intervening stages. He was no longer taking such obvious satisfaction from the demise of Cyril Fulbeck. He was dripping with envy. Accustomed to slaughtering animals with brutal efficiency, he felt cheated that the Master of the Chapel had escaped the even more horrific death that he would have inflicted upon him.

Nicholas also sensed danger of another kind, and it touched off his protective instinct again. Anne Hendrik had to be guarded from the man. The butcher would pursue his own ends with single-minded determination. Rescuing his son from the Chapel Children was the normal act of a concerned parent, but Nicholas now realised that it was only the first stage in Robinson’s domestic plans. Marriage to Anne Hendrik was his next target. In confiding his problem to her, he had both flattered her by showing such trust and activated all her maternal impulses. Anne was wholly committed to the rescue of Philip Robinson.

Annoyed at first to be inveigled into the situation in which he found himself, Nicholas was now almost grateful. It would not only introduce him to the Chapel Children and give him an insight into the way that his young theatrical rivals operated, it would enable him to keep a watchful eye on the amorous butcher.

‘When will you go back to Blackfriars?’ asked Robinson.

‘When time serves,’ said Nicholas.

‘Please inform me of everything that happens.’

‘I will get in touch with Anne.’

Her smile of gratitude was a rich reward for his pains.

***

Success was an ephemeral pleasure in the theatre. It soon evaporated and could never be taken for granted. The day after the Queen’s Head had reverberated to the cheers for The Misfortunes of Marriage, the troupe were back on the same makeshift stage to rehearse The History of King John. It was a staple drama from their repertoire and was beginning to look well worn. Edmund Hoode patched it assiduously each time it was played again, but even his art could not turn the piece into anything more than workmanlike chronicle. In the wake of Jonas Applegarth’s play, it was bound to look dull and uninspiring. Westfield’s Men would have to strive hard in order to lift King John to the level of a minor achievement. It could never emulate the triumph that was The Misfortunes of Marriage.

Lawrence Firethorn was all too conscious of this fact.

‘From a mountain peak,’ he said, striking a pose, ‘down to the foothills. From cold Sir Marcus to Bad King John.’

‘The play has served us well in the past,’ reminded Edmund Hoode. ‘You have Magna Carta-red your way through it fifty times without complaint.’

‘That was before we had Jonas Applegarth.’

Hoode recoiled visibly. He was less hurt by the blow to his pride than by the implications of Firethorn’s remark. The playwright had gritted his teeth to endure close proximity to Applegarth in the hope that the latter was a bird of passage. Was a more permanent relationship with the company now envisaged? Hoode was bound to wonder where that eventuality would leave its resident playwright.

‘No offence meant to you,’ said Firethorn hastily, when he saw the dismay on the other’s face. ‘And it will not affect your position among us in any way, Edmund.’

‘I am relieved to hear that.’

‘You will always be our leading author. You are the very foundation of Westfield’s Men. Take but you away and we all tumble into a bottomless pit.’

He went off for a few minutes into such a fulsome paean of praise that Hoode lowered his guard. They were standing in the innyard after the morning’s rehearsal. Five yards away was the stage on which most of Hoode’s plays had first come to life before an admiring audience. Firethorn’s eulogy bolstered his self-esteem and made him feel deeply heartened. It did not last. Reassurance soon changed to dread.

‘On the other hand,’ warned Firethorn, ‘we would be fools to spurn a dramatic jewel when it falls into our lap, and The Misfortunes of Marriage is unquestionably such a jewel. That is why we must stage it again.’

‘Again?’

‘Again and again and again.’

‘It is to be our sole offering, then?’

‘Of course not, Edmund. Every jewel needs a setting and we will surround it with baser material.’

‘My plays!’

‘No, not yours,’ said Firethorn, trying to placate him. ‘Well, not only yours. That does not mean your art is base or merely semi-precious. Far from it, man. You shower the stage with diamonds every time you pick up your pen and dazzle every eye. But Jonas has given us a much larger stone.’

‘I feel the weight of it around my neck.’

‘He has enriched us all beyond measure. Westfield’s Men must respond accordingly.’ Firethorn bestowed an affectionate smile on his friend before hitting him with his decision. ‘That is why we play The Misfortunes of Marriage at The Rose.’

Hoode gulped. ‘The Rose?’

‘Ten days hence.’

‘But my new play was to have graced The Rose!’

‘And so it will, Edmund. In time, in time.’

‘We so rarely seize upon the chance to work at the theatre. It may be months before The Faithful Shepherd travels to Bankside.’

‘A good play is like a good wine, old friend. It improves with age. Store it until a fitter time.’

‘Why cannot Jonas do that with his play?’

‘Because it has already been uncorked. It has already been tasted. You saw that audience yesterday. Drunk with joy at the play and doubly drunk with my performance as Sir Marcus Coldbed. They clamour for more. We must slake their thirst.’

‘But not at The Rose, surely?’

‘Where better?’

‘Lawrence, you promised.’

‘And I will keep that promise-in due course.’

‘The Faithful Shepherd stands first in line.’

‘Jonas Applegarth leaps over it.’

‘That is unjust.’

‘Theatre mixes pain with its plaudits.’

‘This is cruel in the extreme.’

‘Is it not a greater cruelty to deny our patrons what they demand? We serve a fickle public, Edmund. Soon, they may cast The Misfortunes of Marriage away as worthless trash. At this moment, however, it is the talk of London. Lord Westfield himself was so entranced with the piece, he’ll not rest until everyone at Court has been told about it. He insists that it take pride of place at The Rose.’

‘Lord Westfield insists?’

‘That was my understanding,’ lied Firethorn, using the one argument that Hoode could not defeat. ‘Who am I to flout the express wishes of our generous patron?’

Hoode sagged. ‘Then am I truly lost.’

‘Your day will come again.’

‘Will I live to enjoy it, though?’

Firethorn chuckled. ‘I knew that you would accept this unwonted check with fortitude. Be not afraid of Jonas Applegarth. He has not come to displace you in any way. Edmund Hoode is what he has always been to Westfield’s Men. Our faithful shepherd.’

‘Then why let a wolf into the fold?’

‘We keep him well muzzled.’

‘Look to your lambs. His claws can still kill.’

‘It is decided.’

Lawrence Firethorn tossed his cloak over his shoulder and strode off towards the tiring-house, leaving Hoode speechless with indignation. A play over which he had laboured devotedly for months had been pushed contemptuously aside. It was an honour to have any work staged at a fine playhouse like The Rose, and The Faithful Shepherd was written specifically for that theatre. Jonas Applegarth had robbed him of that honour. Hoode had one more reason to resent the obese interloper.

He was distraught. He felt completely estranged from Westfield’s Men. It was as if members of his own family had turned him out of the house in favour of a newcomer. Hoode contemplated suicide. Had he been standing on London Bridge, he would certainly have jumped off it, howling the name of Applegarth with defiance before hitting the cold water and drowning with alacrity.

While he was at the very nadir of his career, Fate stepped in to save him. It came in the shape of Rose Marwood, the landlord’s daughter, a vivacious young woman with long dark hair and a readiness to please. How two parents as physically repellent as Alexander and Sybil Marwood could produce such an attractive creature between them he did not know, but it often exercised his mind. It was rather as if two gargoyles had copulated in order to produce a statute of a Madonna.

Hoode had once conceived a foolish passion for her that led only to humiliation, and so he tended to keep clear of the landlord’s daughter. Rose’s shining face was now an embarrassment to him.

‘I have a message for you, Master Hoode,’ she said.

‘For me?’

‘Put it into his hands, I was told.’

‘By whom?’

‘The lady who gave it to me.’

‘Lady? What lady?’

‘She would not tell me her name, sir.’

Rose handed over the missive and gave a little curtsey.

‘Can you describe this lady to me?’ he said.

‘I saw her for only a moment, sir. She said that I was to give the letter to you in person. It is a gift.’

‘Gift?’

‘From her mistress.’

Rose giggled, showed two exquisite dimples in her cheeks, and bounded off towards the taproom. Hoode was intrigued. He broke the seal on the letter and opened it to find a red rose pressed inside. Only three words had been written in an elegant hand, but they clutched at his very soul.

“To my love…”

***

Jonas Applegarth scratched his head as he quaffed his beer. The empty tankard was slammed back down on the table by way of a signal and it was soon filled by a serving-man.

‘Who could wish to kill Cyril Fulbeck?’ he wondered.

‘That is what we must find out,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’d happily have hanged his partner, Raphael Parsons. If ever a man invited a noose, it is that rogue. But not that shuffling Master of the Chapel. He was a harmless fellow.’

‘Everyone speaks well of him.’

‘He was a dear man and a gifted teacher,’ said James Ingram. ‘Cyril Fulbeck was the epitome of goodness.’

‘Then why ally himself to such a villain as Parsons?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Nor I,’ added Nicholas, ‘but the talk is that the two men did not agree. Geoffrey, the porter, often heard arguments between them.’

‘There is your murderer, then,’ decided Applegarth. ‘Look no further than Raphael Parsons. He stands to gain most from Fulbeck’s death.’

‘He must be suspect, assuredly,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I would not accuse him without further evidence. Indeed, one clue suggests he may be innocent of the crime.’

‘What is that, Nick?’ asked Ingram.

‘The key to the back door of Blackfriars Theatre.’

‘But Master Parsons has such a key. He, and only he, had the means to gain entrance privily. Unless you believe that old Geoffrey was involved in some way. His key fits that same lock.’

‘We may exclude him straight,’ said Nicholas. ‘You saw the way he cried when he beheld the dead man. He was as shocked as we. The porter has no part in this.’

‘You spoke of Parsons’s innocence,’ noted Applegarth.

‘A suggestion of innocence,’ corrected the book holder. ‘If Raphael Parsons had a key that admitted him to the back door of the theatre, why did he steal Master Fulbeck’s keys in order to get out again?’

‘To prevent us from following him,’ said Ingram.

‘But we were unexpected visitors, and the keys had been stolen from the dead man’s belt before we arrived.’

‘I have it,’ announced Applegarth. ‘This Parsons is too devious and cowardly a man to do the deed himself. He hired a confederate, let him into the building and locked the door after him before quitting the scene. The killer stole the other keys to effect his escape.’

‘This was no confederate,’ affirmed Nicholas.

‘How do you know?’ said Ingram.

‘You heard that man, James. He was no assassin, paid to kill a complete stranger. He knew Cyril Fulbeck and gloried in his death. The Laughing Hangman would never have delegated to another a task which gave him so much pleasure. He was connected in some way to the Master of the Chapel.’

‘As his business partner,’ asserted Applegarth.

‘Master Parsons may be only one of many possibilities.’

‘I’ll help you to draw up a list,’ offered Ingram.

‘Thank you, James.’

It was early evening and they had moved to the taproom of the Queen’s Head after the performance of The History of King John. The play had been a moderate success but seemed flat by comparison with The Misfortunes of Marriage. Jonas Applegarth had snored through the last two acts. Exhilarated at the thought that his own play would now be seen at The Rose, he was already working on refinements to the text. Considering himself now part of the troupe, he was ready to sit through their other work out of loyalty even if it bored him into slumber.

Nicholas emptied his tankard and rose from the table.

‘I bid you farewell, my friends.’

‘Hold,’ said Applegarth, struggling to his feet. ‘I’ll walk part of the way with you. My house is close to Thames Street and there is something I would discuss as we walk.’

‘Your company is most welcome.’

‘What of Blackfriars?’ said Ingram.

‘We’ll go again tomorrow, James. Meanwhile, gather what intelligence you can. You must have other old friends from the Chapel Children, choristers who stayed on when you left? Perhaps they can shed some light on this tragedy. I am certain that we look for someone who is, or once was, within Master Fulbeck’s circle.’

‘Leave it with me, Nick. I’ll about it straight.’

They traded farewells, then Nicholas and Applegarth headed for the door, passing, as they did, Edmund Hoode. His feeling of betrayal had faded and a beatific smile now played around his lips. The rose from Rose Marwood had transformed him from a discarded playwright into a hopeful lover. Recognising the look on his friend’s face, Nicholas glided past without comment and simply waved.

The book holder led Applegarth out into the fresh air.

‘I have an idea for my play,’ said the latter.

‘It is already crammed full with ideas.’

‘A scenic device. Something that we could lower from above with the winding-gear they have at The Rose.’

‘They have it at Blackfriars, too,’ observed Nicholas as he recalled the hanging man. ‘What do you wish to lower onto the stage?’

The question remained unanswered because Jonas Applegarth stumbled over the uneven surface of Gracechurch Street and pitched forward. Clumsiness saved his life. Something whistled through the air with vicious speed and sank with a thud into the door of the house directly behind them.

The dagger missed Applegarth by a matter of inches.