The Laughing Hangman

Chapter Five

The suddenness of the attack took them both by surprise. By the time that Nicholas Bracewell swung round, there was no sign of the assailant. Several other people were walking peacefully along Gracechurch Street, and he called out to those nearest, but none of them had seen anyone throw a dagger. Fear of danger made them scurry quickly away. Nicholas went swiftly up and down the street in search of the assassin, but to no avail. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he was chasing shadows.

He went back to help Jonas Applegarth up from the ground. The latter was more concerned about the state of his apparel than about the ambush.

‘Mud on my new breeches!’ he complained bitterly. ‘And a tear in my sleeve.’

‘Someone just tried to kill you, Jonas.’

‘Look at the state of my shoes.’

‘Does it not concern you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Mightily. My wife will take me to task for it.’

‘I speak of the attack.’

‘A mild annoyance, no more,’ said Applegarth, dusting himself off. ‘Why should I fear such a lame assassin? If he cannot hit a target as large as me, he must be blind. Besides, who says that I was his target? Perhaps the dagger was meant for you, Nick. Have you considered that?’

Nicholas had and dismissed the possibility. The weapon had been thrown directly at Applegarth and only the man’s fall had helped him to evade it. Plucking the dagger from its resting place, Nicholas tried to work out from where it must have been thrown. A lane on the opposite side of the street turned out to be the vantage point. It would give the assailant good cover and an excellent view of anyone leaving the Queen’s Head. He could have fled unseen while the dagger itself was still in flight.

After inspecting the weapon, Nicholas offered it to his companion. Applegarth showed scant interest.

‘Do you recognise this?’ said Nicholas.

‘It is a dagger like any other.’

‘Other daggers are not thrown at you, Jonas.’

‘One or two have been in the past,’ said the playwright with a grim chuckle. ‘This one was as wayward as they were. No, Nick, I do not recognize it. A mean weapon, that is clear. Toss it away and forget all about it.’

‘But it may lead us to your attacker.’

‘Leave him to me.’

‘You know who he is?’

‘I have many enemies.’

‘Match this dagger to one man and you have him.’

‘Do not trouble yourself so. This is my battle.’

‘And mine,’ said Nicholas, slipping the dagger into his own belt. ‘You are the property of Westfield’s Men now. It is my duty to protect you as I would protect any other part of our property.’

Applegarth stiffened. ‘I need no bodyguard.’

‘You are in danger, Jonas.’

‘I will live with that fear.’

They resumed their walk and the playwright returned to the subject of The Rose. His work would be seen by a larger and more perceptive audience at the Bankside theatre. He was anxious to improve the play in any way that he could. Applegarth was still explaining his ideas when they turned into Thames Street. The smell of the river invaded his nostrils and they could hear it lapping against the wharves down to their left.

Applegarth paused on the corner of the next street.

‘Let me see it again, Nick,’ he said.

‘See what?’

‘The dagger. Haply, I do recognise it.’

‘Here,’ said Nicholas, passing it to him. ‘There are some marks upon the hilt that may be initials.’

‘Ah yes. I see.’

After pretending to study the weapon, Jonas Applegarth turned round and pulled back his arm to propel the dagger with full force. It spun crazily through the air and landed with a loud splash in the river. Nicholas was bewildered by his friend’s action, but the latter chortled happily.

‘There. ’Tis all past now. Think no more about it.’

‘But that dagger was to have been a murder weapon.’

‘I have blocked it out of my mind.’

‘You have thrown away the one clue that we had.’

‘There will be other nights, other daggers.’

‘Next time, you may not have such good fortune.’

‘Next time,’ said Applegarth, ‘I will not be taken unawares. This was a useful warning, but there’s an end to it. I’ll not lose sleep over the matter.’

Nicholas was convinced that the playwright knew the name of his attacker, but it could not be prised out of him. Jonas Applegarth lapsed into a kind of jocular bravado that was proof against all questioning. Even though it took him out of his way, Nicholas insisted on walking back to his friend’s house to make sure that he got home safely. The journey passed without further incident.

Applegarth beamed hospitably at his colleague.

‘Will you step in to continue our debate?’

‘Not tonight, Jonas.’

‘But I have much more to say about my play.’

‘We will find time tomorrow,’ said Nicholas. ‘Stay alert and keep your doors locked. Your attacker may return during the night.’

Applegarth shrugged. ‘What attacker?’

Nicholas could not understand his apparent unconcern. An attempt had been made on the man’s life, yet he was choosing to ignore it. The book holder foresaw further trouble ahead and his anxiety was for the company as well as for its newest recruit. Westfield’s Men might yet live to regret their association with the brilliant talent of Jonas Applegarth.

‘Are you sure that you will not stay, Nick?’

‘Unhappily, I may not.’

‘There is plentiful wine within.’

‘Thank you. But I have another call to make.’

***

The study was on the first floor of the house in Thames Street. Around all four walls were oak shelves heavily laden with books, documents, maps and manuscripts. Two long tables occupied most of the space and they were covered with more books and rolls of parchment. Quill pens lay sharpened in a little wooden box. Ink stood ready in a large well. The whole room smelled of musty scholarship.

Caleb Hay sat beneath the sagging beams and pored over a medieval document with intense concentration. He used a magnifying glass to help him translate the minuscule Latin script. His eyes sparkled with fascination as he took a privileged walk through the past of his beloved London. So absorbed was he in his research that he did not hear the respectful tap on the door of his study. His wife had to bang more loudly before she caught his attention.

Bristling with annoyance, he glared at the door.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘Can you spare a minute, Caleb?’ she asked tentatively.

‘No!’

‘He said that it was important.’

‘I’ve told you a hundred times, Joan. My work must not be interrupted. For any reason.’

‘But you have a visitor.’

‘Send him on his way.’

‘He is too persistent, husband.’

‘I’ll see nobody.’

‘He claims to be a friend of yours.’

‘Friends know better than to disturb my studies. They only come to my house by invitation, and that rarely. Persistent, you say? Who is this rogue?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Give him a dusty answer and bid him farewell,’ Caleb said abruptly. ‘No, tarry a while,’ he added, as curiosity began to grapple with irritation. ‘Nicholas Bracewell, is it? What does he want with me? Did he state his business?’

‘No, Caleb.’

‘But he told you that it was important?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘He is a most polite and courteous gentleman, but resolved on talking to you.’

Caleb Hay glanced down at his work. Pursing his lips, he shook his head in mild anger before finally relenting.

‘Ask him to stay. I’ll come down anon.’

‘Thank you!’

Waiting in the parlour below, Nicholas Bracewell heard the relief in her voice. Joan Hay was a submissive wife, eager to avoid her husband’s displeasure. The mild-mannered historian whom Nicholas knew was evidently a more despotic creature within his own home.

She came clattering down the stairs to rejoin the visitor. A short, slim, timorous woman in a plain dress, she gave him a nervous smile of apology and relayed the message before bowing out again. Nicholas listened to the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back in the study. A key turned in a stout lock and the door creaked open. It was immediately closed and locked. Feet padded down the wooden steps.

Caleb Hay shuffled in with an irritated politeness.

‘Well met, Master Bracewell!’

‘I am sorry to break in upon your studies.’

‘A matter of some significance must have brought you.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It concerns Blackfriars.’

‘Go on, sir.’

‘I need you to tell me something of its recent past.’

‘This is hardly the moment for a lesson in history,’ said his host with quiet outrage. ‘Have you dragged me away from my desk to purvey a few anecdotes about a friary?’

‘With good reason, Master Hay.’

‘And what may that be?’

‘It touches on a murder lately carried out there.’

‘A murder?’

‘The victim was Cyril Fulbeck.’

‘Cyril Fulbeck?’ echoed Hay incredulously. ‘The Master of the Chapel has been murdered? How? When?’

‘He was hanged on the stage of the Blackfriars Theatre but yesterday.’

‘Dear God! Can this be true? Cyril Fulbeck was a true Christian. The soul of kindness. Who could have wrought such villainy upon him?’ He grasped Nicholas by the arm. ‘Have the rogues been caught? This heinous crime must be answered.’

‘So it will be, Master Hay. With your help.’

‘It is at your disposal, sir.’

His host waved Nicholas to a seat and sat beside him. Caleb Hay swung between agitation and sorrow. He pressed for more detail and Nicholas recounted the facts. The older man shook his head in disbelief.

‘Cyril Fulbeck!’ he sighed. ‘I spoke with him not ten days ago. A gracious gentleman in every way.’

‘You know him well, then?’

‘Tolerably well. He gave me the kindest assistance in my work. The Master of the Chapel is a person of consequence. Through him, I gained access to many documents that would else have lain beyond my reach. He could not have been more helpful, nor I more grateful for that help.’

‘How did you find him at that last meeting?’

‘Not in the best of health, alas. Ailing badly.’

‘I speak of his mood.’

‘Sombre. Sombre and full of remorse. He seemed much oppressed by the cares of his office.’

‘Did he confide the reasons?’

‘No, no,’ said Hay firmly. ‘Nor did I seek them. It was not my place to meddle in his private affairs. I am a scholar and not a father-confessor.’

‘What dealings did you have with Raphael Parsons?’

‘None whatsoever-thank heaven!’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Common report has him a most unprepossessing fellow. I wonder that Cyril Fulbeck allowed the man near him. I had no call to make the acquaintance of Master Parsons. If you seek intelligence about him, look elsewhere for it.’

‘Tell me about Blackfriars,’ said Nicholas.

Hay brightened. ‘Ah! Now, there, I am on firm ground. I can teach you all that may be taught on that subject. A Dominican House was first founded in London in 1221 at a site in Chancery Lane. Some fifty years or more later, Robert Fitzwalter gave them Baynard’s Castle and Montfichet Tower on the river, enabling them to build a much larger monastery. King Edward I, of blessed memory, offered his patronage, and the House became rich and influential as a result.’

‘I am more interested in recent events there.’

‘They can only be judged aright if set against the ancient traditions of Blackfriars,’ insisted Hay with a pedagogic zeal. ‘Parliament first met there in 1311. It was later used as a repository for records relating to matters of state. Later still-in the years 1343, 1370, 1376 and 1378, to be exact-it was the meeting place of the Court of Chancery. Parliaments and Privy Councils were often convened there. Visiting dignitaries from foreign lands stayed there as honoured guests. In our own century,’ he said, sniffing noisily in disapproval, ‘a court sat in Blackfriars to hear the divorce case against that worthy lady, Catherine of Aragon. In that same fateful year of 1529, Parliament met there to bring a Bill of Attainder against Cardinal Wolsey.’

‘All this is fascinating,’ said Nicholas patiently, ‘but not entirely relevant to my inquiry.’

‘But you need to understand the greatness of the House in order to appreciate how ruinously it has dwindled. Before the suppression of the Religious, it was a major presence in the city. But now…’

‘Largely demolished.’

‘And the Dominicans expelled.’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘To make way for members of your profession.’

‘The playhouse was not built until some years later.’

‘In 1576, to be precise. Consecrated ground, used as a scaffold for lewd performance. By children, no less! Sweet choristers, whose voices should have been uplifted in praise of their Maker.’ He became sharply self-critical. ‘But I go beyond the bounds of my purpose here. An antiquarian must report the progress of events without making undue comment upon them. What is done is done. Who cares one way or the other what Caleb Hay may think about the Children of the Chapel?’

‘I do,’ said Nicholas.

‘You are too indulgent, my friend,’ said the other with a smile. ‘When I fulminate against plays and players, you take the blows on your back with Stoic resignation and never offer me a buffeting in return.’

‘I admire plain speaking.’

‘My guilt is unassuaged. You do not deserve to have my trenchant opinions thrust upon you. I console myself with the thought that a man of the theatre must hear harsher tongues than mine in the course of his working day.’

‘That is certainly true,’ said Nicholas, thinking of Lawrence Firethorn’s blistering tirades. ‘But you forget that I sailed around the globe with Sir Francis Drake. Modest language has no place aboard a ship. Men speak in the roundest of terms. Your gibes are holy scripture beside the profanities of seafarers. Rail against the theatre as much as you wish, Master Hay. Simply give me the instruction that I seek.’

‘In what particular?’

‘Describe the first Blackfriars Theatre.’

‘A species of Hell!’

Nicholas laughed. ‘I wish to know something of its appearance and dimensions. Did it have secret passages leading to it or an underground vault beneath it? What changes were made when it was refurbished? Describe, if you will, all possible ways into the building.’

‘You have first to get into the precinct.’

‘Of course.’

‘Five acres of land is all that is left of the original monastic community. They form the liberty of Blackfriars. It preserves its ancient right of sanctuary. Do you know what other privilege is bestowed upon them?’

‘Only too well,’ said Nicholas enviously. ‘They are within the city walls yet free from city jurisdiction. We have no such freedom. While we at the Queen’s Head must perforce observe the Sabbath and forego performance, the Blackfriars Theatre is able to stage its plays on the Lord’s Day with impunity. That is a most important liberty.’

‘The theatre is only a small part of the whole. It shares the precinct with the fine houses of respectable families. The whole area is walled and its four gates are locked each night by the porter. Blackfriars is an address of note. You will know, I am sure, that many of its inhabitants fought hard to prevent a theatre from being re-opened on the site.’

‘I believe that a petition was drawn up.’

‘Drawn up and willingly signed. It kept the boards clear of actors for an interval. Then Cyril Fulbeck made his shameful arrangement with Raphael Parsons.’

‘Is that how the Master of the Chapel described it?’ said Nicholas. ‘As a shameful arrangement?’

‘I intrude my own prejudices once more,’ said Hay with a note of apology. ‘That is not good, not right, not scholarly. Henceforth, I’ll keep to particulars. What is it you seek? Dimensions and alterations? You will not lack for detail here, Master Bracewell. I will tell you all.’

Caleb Hay fulfilled his boast. He took his guest on a guided tour of Blackfriars, measuring out each wall, noting each doorway, indicating everything of even moderate significance and generally painting such a vivid picture in words that Nicholas saw the remains of the monastery rising before his eyes. It was uncanny. The older man tried to speak with deliberate calm but a more passionate note crept in from time to time. Here was someone who cared so deeply for the glorious past of London that he still lived in it.

Nicholas absorbed the salient details and thanked him.

‘I will speak further, if you wish,’ offered his host.

‘You have told me all I need to know, Master Hay.’

‘Pray God that it may help you! If I thought that my knowledge of this flower of cities could somehow lead you to the devils who committed this unspeakable act, I would give you a different lecture on the history of Blackfriars every day of the week.’

‘You have been most generous with your time.’

‘Call on me again,’ said Hay. ‘I am desirous to know how well your enquiries go. Cyril Fulbeck was as decent a man as any in Christendom. Pursue his killers.’

‘I will do so,’ promised Nicholas, ‘but I think that only one person is involved here. A perverse creature who takes delight in his villainy.’

He thought for a moment of the body swinging helplessly on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre. The Master of the Chapel had been given no chance to resist as the breath of life was squeezed out of him inch by inch. It was a brutal death and it sent a chilling message. Nicholas would not easily forget the pallid horror on the face of the victim. Nor could he erase from his mind the glee of the murderer. That was what appalled him the most. The sound filled his ears so completely and so painfully that he had to shake his head to escape the callous mockery of the Laughing Hangman.

***

Too much drink and too little conversation had left Edmund Hoode in a state of maudlin confusion. Seated alone in a corner of the taproom at the Queen’s Head, he was oblivious to the raucous jollity all around him. He sipped, he meditated, he sank ever deeper into bewilderment. Hoode was not sure whether he should be devastated by the tidings from Lawrence Firethorn or inspired by the message from Rose Marwood, and so he shifted with speed between despair and hope until they blended in his mind. A look of inebriated perplexity settled on his moonlike face.

A friendly arm descended upon his shoulder.

‘Come, Edmund,’ said a lilting voice. ‘Time to leave.’

‘What’s that?’ he murmured.

‘You need help to get home. Lean on me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because those legs of yours would not take you more than seven yards towards Silver Street.’

To prove his point, Owen Elias hoisted him up, then let go of him. Hoode swayed violently, steadied himself on edge of the table, then felt a surge of confidence. He took three bold strides across the floor before losing his balance and pitching forward. The Welshman caught him just in time.

‘Let’s do it my way,’ he said jovially. ‘Otherwise, you must crawl back to your lodging on all fours.’

‘You are a true friend, Owen.’

‘I know that you would do the same for me.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ mumbled the other.

It was an unlikely eventuality. Hoode was frequently overcome by alcohol, grief or unrequited love, and sometimes by a lethal combination of all three. Elias, by contrast, could carouse endlessly without lapsing into anything more than merriment or music, rarely gave way to sorrow, and led a career of cheerful lechery among the womenfolk of London. Half-carrying the drooping poet, he came out into the night and headed slowly towards Cripplegate Ward.

‘What is her name, Edmund?’ he asked.

‘Name?’

‘Your heart is heavy, my friend. I can feel the full weight pressing down on me. It is an all too familiar burden. Who is she this time?’

‘I do not know, Owen.’

‘A lady without a name?’

‘Without a name, a face or substance of any kind.’

‘An invisible creature?’

‘To all intents.’

‘Explain.’

To provide anything as logical as an explanation placed an enormous strain on Hoode’s shattered senses, but he did his best. As he ambled along, supported by his friend, he tried to piece together the events of a day which had both destroyed and resurrected him. No sooner had his new play been evicted than an anonymous tenant moved into his heart. He pulled out the flower which he had slipped under his doublet. Crushed and forlorn, it yet retained the fragrance of its message. Elias noted the irony of the situation.

‘You have lost one Rose and gained another,’ he observed. ‘Two, if we count the landlord’s comely daughter. Rose Marwood is a rose in full bloom. It is a source of great regret to me that even my skilful hands have not been able to pluck her from the stem. Her parents are entwined around the girl like prickly thorns. They have drawn blood from my lustful fingers on more than one occasion.’

‘Leave we Rose Marwood to her own devices,’ said Hoode. ‘She was only the messenger here, and my concern is with the message itself. Or rather, with the lady who sent it.’

‘Your inamorata.’

‘If such she be, Owen.’

‘No question of that. You hold the certain testimony of her love in your grasp.’

‘I hold a rose, it is true,’ said Hoode gloomily. ‘But was it sent by a female hand?’

Elias guffawed. ‘A male admirer! Have you awakened some dark passion in a love-struck youth? Do not tell Barnaby of this conquest or he will roast on a spit of envy.’

‘You misunderstand.’

‘Then speak more clearly.’

‘I fear me that this is some trick.’

‘On whose behalf?’

‘Some fellow in the company who means to buy a laugh or two at my expense. Luck has never attended my loving, Owen. Cupid has used my heart for some cruel archery practice over the years. Why should fortune favour me now?’

‘Because you deserve it, Edmund.’

‘Fate has never used me according to my desserts before,’ said Hoode. ‘No, this is some jest. The love-token was sent to torment me. Someone in the company means to raise my hopes in order to dash them down upon the rocks of his derision.’ He looked down at the rose. ‘I would do well to cast it away and tread it under foot.’

‘Stay!’ said Elias, grabbing his wrist. ‘Can you not see a rich prize when it stands before you? This is no jest, my friend. Westfield’s Men love you too much to practise such villainy upon you. This message could not be more precise. You have made a conquest, Edmund. Take her.’

Hoode stopped in his tracks. ‘Can this be true?’

‘Incontestably.’

‘I have at last won the heart of a lady?’

‘Heart, mind and body.’

‘Wonder of wonders,’ Hoode said, sniffing the rose before concealing it in his doublet once more. ‘I almost begin to believe it. It is such an unexpected bounty.’

‘They are the choicest kind.’

‘If this be love, indeed, it must be requited.’

‘Enjoy her!’

‘I will, Owen.’

‘Go to your bed so that you may dream dreams of joy.’

‘Press on.’

Still supported by the Welshman, Hoode lurched along the street with a new sense of purpose. Someone cared for him. He luxuriated in the thought for a whole glorious minute. A cold frost then attacked the petals of his happiness. The other Rose delivered a message of a different order.

‘My occupation is gone,’ he moaned.

‘That is not so, Edmund.’

‘I am pushed aside to make way for the ample girth of this Applegarth. There is not room enough in Westfield’s Men for him and for me.’

‘Indeed there is. Most companies lack one genius to fashion their plays. We have two. Our rivals are consumed with jealousy at our good fortune.’

‘My talents have been eclipsed.’

‘Never!’

‘They have, Owen. The Misfortunes of Marriage is work of a higher order than I can produce. It ousts me from the Rose Theatre, and rightly so.’

‘Your new piece will have its turn anon.’

‘How will it fare in the shadow of Jonas’s play? The Faithful Shepherd is a pigmy beside a giant. Why stage it and invite disgrace? I have suffered enough pain already.’

‘You do yourself wrong,’ said Elias earnestly. ‘Jonas has one kind of talent, you have quite another. Both can dazzle an audience in equal measure. Jonas may invest more raw power in his verse, but you have a grace and subtlety that he can never match.’

‘He is better.’

‘Different, that is all.’

‘Different in kind, superior in quality.’

‘That is a matter of opinion.’

‘It is Lawrence’s view,’ sighed Hoode, ‘and his is the opinion that holds sway in Westfield’s Men. He commissioned my new play for The Rose and could not have been more delighted with it. Until, that is, he espied this new star in the firmament. The Faithful Shepherd is then shunned like a leper and I become an outcast poet.’

‘No more of this self-imposed melancholy!’

‘I am finished, Owen. Dispatched into obscurity.’

‘Enough!’ howled the other, thrusting him against the wall of a house and holding him there with one hand. ‘Jonas Applegarth will never displace Edmund Hoode. You have given us an endless stream of fine plays, he has provided us with one. You are part of the fabric of the company, he is merely a colourful patch which has been sewn on.’

‘His play is the talk of London.’

‘How long will that last?’

‘Until he produces a new one to shame me even more.’

‘No!’ yelled Elias.

‘He has robbed me of my future.’

‘Look to the past instead.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there you will read the true story of Jonas Applegarth,’ said the Welshman persuasively. ‘A huge talent fills those huge breeches of his, it is true, but Westfield’s Men are not the first to perceive this. Jonas has been taken up and thrown back by every other troupe in London. He was too choleric for their taste.’

‘What are you telling me, Owen?’

‘He will not stay with us for long. His blaze of glory will be no more than that. A mere blaze that light up the heavens before fading away entire. We must profit from his brilliance while we may. Jonas will not survive.’ Owen patted his friend of the cheek. ‘You will, Edmund.’

***

Nicholas Bracewell was almost invariably the first member of the company to arrive at the Queen’s Head at the start of the day. On the next morning, however, the thud of a hammer told him that one of his colleagues had risen even earlier than he. Nathan Curtis, the master carpenter, was repairing a table for use in the performance that afternoon. Busy at his trade, he did not see the book holder striding across the innyard towards him.

‘Good-morrow, Nathan!’ greeted Nicholas.

‘Ah!’ He looked up. ‘Well met!’

‘I wish that everyone was as diligent in their duties as you. You will have finished that table before some of our fellows have even dragged themselves out of bed.’

‘There is much to do. When I have restored this, I must make some new scenic devices. And you spoke, I believe, about some properties that are in request.’

‘One rock, one cage, one crozier’s staff.’

‘I’ll need precise instructions.’

Nicholas passed them on at once and the carpenter nodded obediently. Curtis was a rough-looking man in working apparel, but his voice was soft and his manner almost diffident. His craftsmanship helped to put flesh on the bones of a play. Nicholas had another reason to be grateful of a moment alone with him. Curtis lived in Bankside. When the book holder lodged in Anne Hendrik’s house, he and the carpenter were neighbours. The latter might well know one of the other denizens of the area.

‘Are you acquainted with an Ambrose Robinson, by any chance?’

‘Robinson the Butcher?’

‘The same.’

‘I know him as well as I wish to, Nick.’

‘You do not like the man, I think.’

‘I do not trust him,’ admitted the other. ‘He sells good meat and is polite enough in his shop, but he hides his true feelings from you. I never know where I am with the fellow. His mouth may smile but his eyes are cold and watchful. My wife cannot abide him.’

‘He is not an appealing man,’ agreed Nicholas.

‘How came you to meet him?’

‘Through a mutual friend.’

‘Ah, yes!’ said Curtis. ‘I should have linked their names.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘We talk of Mistress Hendrik, do we not?’

‘We do, Nathan.’

‘Then she will have introduced him to you. The butcher is fast becoming a close companion of hers.’

Nicholas bridled slightly. ‘Indeed?’

‘My wife has often seen him visiting her house and both of us have taken note of them on Sundays.’

‘Why so?’

‘Because we worship at the same altar, Nick. It has been going on for a month or more now.’

‘What has?’

‘Mistress Hendrik and Ambrose Robinson. I was surprised at first, my wife even more so. We both have the highest respect for Mistress Hendrik. Her late husband was as decent a neighbour as we could choose. Not so this butcher. He is not worthy of her. But there is no gainsaying what we saw.’

‘And what was that?’

‘They come to church together.’

The information was deeply unsettling, and Nicholas took time to assimilate it. If Anne Hendrik was allowing Robinson to accompany her to her devotions, their relationship must be on a more serious footing than Nicholas realised. Before he could speak again, an ancient voice interrupted them. Thomas Skillen, the venerable stagekeeper, was talking to a stranger on the other side of the yard and pointing a bony finger at the book holder. The visitor thanked him and bore down on Nicholas, giving the latter only a second or two to appraise him.

He was a man of moderate height and square build, wearing a black doublet and hose which was offset by a lawn ruff and by the ostrich feather in his black soft-crowned hat. His black Spanish cape had a red lining. Neat, compact and dignified, he was in his late thirties. His voice was remarkably deep and had a slight Northern tang to it.

‘May I have a word alone?’ the visitor said, giving his request the force of a command. ‘It is needful.’

‘Let’s stand aside.’

Nicholas moved him a few yards away so that Nathan Curtis could resume his work. The carpenter’s hammer was deafening and the stink of fresh horse dung was pungent. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, the visitor waved a dismissive arm.

‘I’ll not stay here in the middle of the yard like some idle ostler complaining about the price of hay. I desire some private conference.’

Nicholas stood his ground. ‘What is your business with me?’

‘The deadliest kind.’

‘Who are you, sir?’

‘Raphael Parsons.’

Nicholas was at once surprised and curious. The name explained the histrionic air about the man. Parsons moved with grace and spoke in almost declamatory fashion. His black beard and moustache were well trimmed and there was a studied arrogance in his expression. He was accustomed to being obeyed.

‘Come with me,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘This is indoor work.’

‘We have a chamber at hand.’

The book holder led him to the room which was used as the wardrobe by Westfield’s Men. Raphael Parsons ran an expert eye over the racks of costumes, feeling some of the material between his fingers and grunting his approval. Nicholas closed the door behind him.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.

‘James Ingram advised me to call here.’

‘You have spoken with James, then?’

‘Briefly. Geoffrey, our porter, put me in touch with him. I wanted to see if your account confirms, in every particular, what Ingram alleges.’

‘My account?’

‘Of what you found at the Blackfriars Theatre. My dear friend and partner, Cyril Fulbeck, hanged by the neck.’ Parsons relaxed slightly and even managed a thin smile. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I have long wanted an opportunity to meet Nicholas Bracewell. Your fame runs before you, sir.’

‘Fame?’

‘You have a reputation, sir.’

‘I am merely a book holder, Master Parsons.’

‘Your modesty is a credit to your character but it betrays your true worth. You talk to a man of the theatre. I know that a book holder must hold a whole company together and nobody does that better than you. I have sat in your galleries a dozen times and marvelled at your work.’ His face hardened. ‘Though it is perhaps as well that I was not at the Queen’s Head when Applegarth’s latest piece of vomit was spewed out on your stage.’

‘The Misfortunes of Marriage is a fine play.’

‘It swinged us soundly, I hear.’

‘There was some gentle mockery of boy actors.’

‘Jonas Applegarth could not be gentle if he tried,’ said Parsons vehemently. ‘He tore our work to shreds and questioned our right to exist. Boy actors were innocent lambs beneath his slashing knife. It was unforgivable. Applegarth will pay dearly for his attack.’

‘In what way?’

‘You will see, sir. You will see.’

‘Do you make threats against our author?’

‘Let him watch his back, that is all I say.’

‘Take care,’ warned Nicholas, looking him hard in the eye. ‘Touch any member of this company and you will have to deal with me.’

‘Proof positive!’ said Parsons with a disarming smile. ‘You are no mere book holder. You are the true guardian of Westfield’s Men. Its very essence, some say.’

‘I stand by my friends.’

‘Why, so do I, sir. And that is why I came here this morning. Away with that mound of offal known as Jonas Applegarth! Let’s talk of a sweeter gentleman, and one whose death cries out for retribution. Cyril Fulbeck.’

‘Ask what you will, Master Parsons.’

‘Describe the scene in your own terms. When you and James Ingram entered the theatre, what exactly did you see?’

‘I will tell you.…’

Nicholas reconstructed the events with care, as much for his own benefit as for that of his visitor. He wanted to sift every detail in the hope that it might contain a clue that had so far eluded him. Raphael Parsons was a patient audience. When he had heard the full tale, he stroked his beard pensively. There was a long pause.

‘Well?’ said Nicholas.

‘Your version accords with that given by Ingram.’

‘And so it should.’

‘There is a difference, however,’ noted Parsons. ‘Your account is longer and more accurate. You are the more reliable witness, but that was to be expected.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you never met Cyril Fulbeck until that grim moment. What you saw was an old man dangling from a rope. James Ingram, we must remember, was looking at someone he revered, and was thus too shocked to observe all the detail which you just listed.’

‘That is understandable.’

‘Also,’ said Parsons drily, ‘you are older and wiser than Ingram, and far more closely acquainted with the horrors that man can afflict on man. You have looked on violent death before.’

‘All too often, alas.’

‘It has sharpened your judgement.’ Parsons stroked his beard as he ruminated afresh. When he spoke again, his tone was pleasant. ‘You have answered my enquiries willingly and honestly. I am most grateful to you for that. Allow me to return the compliment. I am sure that you have questions you wish to put to me.’

Astonished by the offer, Nicholas was nevertheless quick to take advantage of it. His interrogation was direct.

‘Where were you at the time of the murder?’ he said.

‘At the house of a friend in Ireland Yard.’

‘Close by the theatre, then?’

‘Within a stone’s throw.’

‘When did you last see your partner?’

‘An hour or so before his death, it seems,’ said Parsons with a sad shake of his head. ‘Had I known that Cyril was in such danger, I would never have stirred from his side. I blame myself for leaving him so defenceless.’ He bit his lip. ‘And the manner of my departure only serves to increase my guilt.’

‘Your departure?’

‘We had an argument. Strong words were exchanged.’

‘On what subject?’

‘What else but the Blackfriars Theatre? Cyril admired the plays I put upon the stage but criticised the means by which they got there. He thought I was too strict with my young charges.’

‘How did you reply?’

‘Roundly, I fear.’

‘Was he upset by the altercation?’

‘I did not stay to ask. I marched out of the building.’ He clicked his tongue in self-reproach. ‘Can you see what a weight on my conscience it now is? We parted in anger before but we soon became friends again. Not this time. A length of rope strangled any hope of reconciliation between us. Cyril went to his death with our quarrel unresolved. That cuts me to the quick.’

Nicholas was impressed by the readiness of his answers and by his apparent candour. Parsons seemed genuinely hurt by the demise of his friend and business partner. Here was a new and more compassionate side to the man. Others had spoken of a bully and a disciplinarian, and Nicholas had seen the odd glint of belligerence, but he had also discerned a sensitive streak. When Raphael Parsons offered his hand, he shook it without reservation.

‘I must take my leave,’ said the visitor.

‘Let me teach you another way out.’

Nicholas took him through a second door and down a long passageway so that his visitor could step out into Gracechurch Street without having to go back through the yard. The book holder stopped him in the open doorway.

‘There is another matter I would like to raise.’

‘Be brief. I, too, have a rehearsal to attend.’

‘One of your actors is a boy called Philip Robinson.’

‘A gifted child in every way.’

‘He was impressed against his will into the Chapel.’

‘Who told you so?’

‘The boy’s father. He petitions for his son’s return.’

‘Then he does so in vain.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Philip is happy with us,’ said Parsons bluntly. ‘Extremely happy. Farewell, sir.’

With a brusque nod, he swept out into the street.