The Laughing Hangman

Chapter Seven

The Elephant was a large, low, sprawling inn, famed for its strong ale and unflagging hospitality. It stood near near The Curtain, one of the two theatres in Shoreditch which brought the citizens of London streaming out through Bishopsgate in search of entertainment. Banbury’s Men, the resident company at The Curtain, used the inn as a place to celebrate their frequent successes or to drown their sorrows in the wake of occasional abysmal failures. When Owen Elias arrived at the Elephant that evening, the boisterous atmosphere told him that celebration was in order. Banbury’s Men were basking in the triumph of their new play, The Fatal Dowry, performed that afternoon to general acclaim.

Elias ducked below a beam and surveyed the taproom through a fug of tobacco smoke. Westfield’s Men were deadly rivals of the company at The Curtain and relations between them went well beyond bitterness. The Welshman would not normally have sought out the other troupe, especially as he had once belonged to it for a brief and acrimonious period. Necessity compelled him to come, and he looked for the swiftest way to discharge his business and leave the enemy lair.

Selecting his man with care, he closed in on him.

‘Why, how now, Ned!’

‘Is that you, Owen?’

‘As large and lovely as life itself.’

‘What brings you to the Elephant?’

‘Two strong legs and a devil of a thirst. Will you drink some ale with me, Ned?’

‘I’ll drink with any man who pays the bill, even if he belong to that hellish crew known as Westfield’s Men.’ He turned to his friends on the adjoining table. ‘See here, lads. Look what the tide has washed up. Owen Elias!’

Jeers of disapproval went up and Owen had to endure some stinging insults before he could settle down beside his former colleague. Ale was brought and he drank deep. Ned Meares was a hired man, one of the many actors who scraped a precarious living at their trade and who made the most of their intermittent stretches of employment while they lasted.

A stout man in his thirties, Meares was an able actor with a wide range. In the time since he had last seen the man, Elias noted, regular consumption of ale had filled out his paunch and deepened the florid complexion.

‘A sharer now, I hear,’ said Meares enviously.

‘I have been lucky, Ned.’

‘Spare a thought for we who toil on as hired men.’

‘I do. I struggled along that same road myself.’

‘It will never end for me, alas.’ He nudged the visitor. ‘Come, Owen, you crafty Welshman. Do not pretend that you are here to renew old acquaintance. Westfield’s Men lurk in the Queen’s Head. You have no place at the Elephant. What do you want?’

‘To talk about a playwright you will know.’

‘What is his name?’ asked Meares, quaffing his ale.

‘Jonas Applegarth.’

Elias had to move sharply to avoid the drink which was spat out again by his companion. Meares coughed and spluttered until his eyes watered. A few hearty slaps on the back were needed to help him recover.

Elias grinned. ‘I see that you remember Jonas.’

‘Remember him! Could I ever forget that monster? Jonas Applegarth was like a visitation of the plague.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he infected the whole company.’

‘He wrote only one play for Banbury’s Men.’

‘One play too many!’ groaned Meares. ‘Friar Francis. The name of that dread piece is scrawled on my soul for ever.’ He sipped his ale before continuing. ‘Most authors sell us a play, advise us how best to stage it, then stand aside while we do our work. Not Jonas. He was author, actor and book holder rolled into one. He stood over us from start to finish. We were no more than galley-slaves, lashed to the oars while he whipped us unmercifully with his tongue and urged us to row harder.’

‘He does have a warm turn of phrase,’ conceded Elias.

‘Threats and curses were all his conversation.’

‘Did the company not resist?’

‘Every inch of the way, Owen. Banbury’s Men were to have played Friar Francis but that raging bull tried to turn us into Applegarth’s Men. It could not be borne.’

Meares needed another fortifying drink of his ale before he could recount full details of the fierce battle against the arrogance of the author. Feigning sympathy, Elias took great satisfaction from the chaos which had been caused in the rival company while making a mental note to take precautions to stop the obstreperous playwright from wreaking the same havoc among Westfield’s Men. Recrimination left Ned Meares shaking like an aspen. The visitor had to buy him another tankard of ale to restore his shattered nerves.

‘Did anyone hate Jonas enough to kill him?’

‘Yes,’ said Meares. ‘All of us!’

‘Was there a special enemy of his in the company?’

‘A dozen at least, Owen.’

‘Who had most cause to loathe him?’

‘Most cause?’ The actor rubbed a hand ruminatively through his beard. ‘Most cause? That would have to be Hugh Naismith.’

***

Nicholas Bracewell slept fitfully that night, dreaming of happier days at the Bankside home of Anne Hendrik and waking at intervals to scold himself for the way he had upset her during his visit. Both were strong-willed individuals and this had led to many arguments in the past, but they had usually been resolved in the most joyful and effective way in Anne’s bed. That avenue of reconciliation had now been closed off to him, and he feared that as long as Ambrose Robinson stayed in her life, she would remain beyond his reach.

Jealousy of the butcher was not the only reason why he wanted to put the man to flight. Robinson had a temper which flared up all too easily and threatened to spill over into violence. Nicholas was worried that Anne might one day unwittingly become the victim of that choleric disposition. What mystified him was that she seemed to enjoy’s the man’s friendship, enough to attend church in his company and to fret about his enforced estrangement from his son.

The plight of Philip Robinson had drawn the two of them together and placed Nicholas in a quandary. If he helped to secure the boy’s release from the Chapel Children, would he be pushing Anne even closer to the Robinson family, and was it not in his interests to keep father and son apart? His sense of duty prevented his taking the latter course. Having promised assistance, he could not now go back on his word.

His mind was still in turmoil and his feelings still in a state of ambivalence as he left his lodging in Thames Street. The morning cacophony enveloped him and he did not hear the soft footsteps which came scurrying up behind him.

‘Stay, sir!’ said a voice. ‘I would speak with you.’

Caleb Hay had to pluck at his sleeve to get Nicholas’s attention. The book holder turned and exchanged greetings with him. Boyish enthusiasm lit up the older man’s features.

‘I hoped that I would catch you,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I have something for you. Step this way, sir. Let us rid ourselves of this tumult.’

‘I may not tarry long, Master Hay.’

‘This will take but a few minutes and I think that you will consider them well spent.’

He led Nicholas back down the busy street to his house. Once they were inside, the noise subsided to a gentle hubbub. Joan Hay was sitting in the parlour with her embroidery as they entered. A glance from her husband made her jump to her feet and give the visitor a hesitant smile before moving off into the kitchen.

Caleb Hay went to a box on the table. Taking a large iron ring from his belt, he selected one of the keys and opened the box. Nicholas was first handed a sheet of parchment. His interest quickened as he studied the sketch of the Blackfriars Theatre.

‘Forgive my crude handiwork,’ said Hay. ‘As you see, I am no artist, but it may give you some idea of the shape and size of the building. It is yours to scrutinise at will.’

‘Thank you. This will be a great help.’

‘Every exit is clearly marked.’

The sketch was simple but drawn roughly to scale. It enabled Nicholas to see exactly where he had been when he heard the Laughing Hangman and why it had taken him so long to reach the door at the rear of the building. Names of the adjacent streets had been added in a neat hand.

Caleb Hay produced a second item from the box.

‘I can take more pride in this,’ he said with a mild chuckle. ‘You asked about the petition that was drawn up to prevent a theatre being re-opened in Blackfriars. This is not the document itself but an exact copy. It must remain in my keeping but you are welcome to over-glance it, if you wish.’

‘Please,’ said Nicholas, taking the document from him. ‘I am most grateful to you. Anything which pertains to Blackfriars is of interest to me.’

He read the petition with attention to its detail:

To the right honorable the Lords and others of her Majesties most honorable Privy Counsell-Humbly shewing and beseeching your honors, the inhabitants of the precinct of Blackfryers, London, that whereas one Burbage hath lately bought certaine roomes in the said precinct neere adjoyning unto the houses of the right honorable, the Lord Chamberlaine and the Lord of Hunsdon, which roomes the said Burbage is now altering and meaneth very shortly to convert and turne the same into a comon playhouse, which will grow to be a very great annoyance and trouble.…

The complaints against public theatre were all too familiar to Nicholas. They were voiced every week by members of the City authorities and by outraged Puritans, who sought to curb the activities of Westfield’s Men. The Blackfriars petition was signed by thirty-one prominent residents of the precinct, starting with Lord Hunsdon, who, ironically, was the patron of his own troupe-Lord Chamberlain’s Men-but who drew the line at having a playhouse on his doorstep. Nicholas ran his eye down the other names, which included the dowager Lady Russell and a respected printer, Richard Field.

‘Is it not strongly and carefully worded?’ said Hay.

‘Indeed, it is.’

‘It represents my own view on the theatre. I was mightily relieved when the petition was accepted by the Privy Council.’

‘With such names to sustain it, the plea could hardly be denied,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was only a temporary measure. A public playhouse may have been kept out of Blackfriars, but a private theatre was re-opened.’

‘Alack the day!’

‘The audiences who flock there will disagree.’

‘No doubt,’ said Hay, taking the document back and locking it in the box. ‘This petition belongs to history.’

Nicholas moved to the door. ‘You have been most kind. This drawing of Blackfriars will make a difficult task much easier.’

‘Catch him! Catch this vile murderer.’

‘I will bend all my efforts to do so.’

‘Keep the name of Raphael Parsons firmly in mind.’

‘You have evidence against him, Master Hay?’

‘Nothing that would support his arrest,’ confessed the other. ‘But I have a feeling in my old bones that he is involved in this crime in some way. He is a man without scruple or remorse. Keep watch on him. From what I hear about this Master Parsons, he would be a ready hangman.’

***

Raphael Parsons endured the rehearsal for as long as he could but the lackluster performance and the recurring errors were too much for him to bear.

‘Stop!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll stand no more of this ordeal! It is a disgrace to our reputation!’

The young actors on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the second act. Even a play as well tried as Mariana’s Revels seemed to be beyond their scope. Their diction was muted, their gesture without conviction and their movement sluggish. A drama which required a lightness of touch was accorded a leaden treatment. Parsons was livid.

‘This is shameful!’ he snarled. ‘I would not dare to put such a miserable account of the play before a crew of drunken sailors, let alone in front of a paying audience. Where is your art, sirs? Where is your self-respect? Where is your pride in our work? We laboured hard to make the Children of the Chapel Royal a company of distinction. Will you betray all that we have struggled to create?’

The cast stood there with heads bowed while the manager harangued them. Some shook with trepidation, others shed tears, all were plunged into the deepest melancholy. Parsons came striding down the hall to bang on the edge of the stage with his fist.

‘Why are you doing this to me!’ he demanded.

The youngest member of the company was its spokesman.

‘We are grieving, sir,’ said Philip Robinson meekly.

‘That performance was enough to make anyone grieve!’

‘Master Fulbeck is ever in our minds.’

Nods of agreement came from several of the cast and more eyes moistened. Philip Robinson’s own face was glistening with tears. Short, slim and pale, he wore the costume of Mariana as if it were a set of chains. Features which had a feminine prettiness when animated were now dull and plain. His body sagged. His voice was a pathetic bleat.

‘We are too full of sadness, sir,’ he said.

The manager’s first impulse was to supplant the sadness with naked fear. It would not be the first time that he had instilled terror into his company in order to raise the level of their performance. Instinct held him back. These were unique circumstances, calling for a different approach. Instead of excoriating his juvenile players, therefore, he opted for a show of compassion.

Clambering upon the stage, he beckoned them closer.

‘We all mourn him,’ he said softly. ‘And rightly so. The cruel manner of his death makes it an intolerable loss. Master Fulbeck was the only true begetter of this theatre. Though the Chapel Royal was his first love, he came to take an equal delight in your work here at Blackfriars. Hold to that thought. We do not play Mariana’s Revels for our own benefit or even for the entertainment of our spectators. We stage it in remembrance of Cyril Fulbeck, late Master of the Chapel. Will you honour his name with a jaded performance?’

‘No, Master Parsons,’ said Philip boldly.

‘Shall we close the theatre and turn people away? Is that what he would have wanted? Or shall we continue the noble work which he first started here? Cyril Fulbeck died in and for this theatre. The place to celebrate his memory is here on this very stage with a play which he held dear.’

‘Yes!’ called a voice at the back.

‘We must play on!’ added another.

‘Under your instruction,’ said Philip Robinson.

‘So it will be,’ decided Parsons, watching their spirits revive. ‘But let us do it with no show of sadness or despair. Mariana’s Revels is a joyful play. Speak its lines with passion. Dance its measures with vigour. Sing its songs with elation. Tell us why, Philip.’

‘They were written by Master Fulbeck himself.’

‘Even so. Most of them fall to Mariana to sing. Give them full voice, my boy. Treat them like hymns of praise!’

‘Yes, sir!’

The rehearsal started again with a new gusto. For all his youth and inexperience, Philip Robinson led the Chapel Children like a boy on a mission, taking his first solo and offering it up to Heaven in the certainty that it would be heard and applauded by the man who had composed it for him.

***

Marriage to an actor as brilliant and virile as Lawrence Firethorn brought many pains but they were swamped beneath the compensating pleasures. Foremost among these for his redoubtable wife, Margery, was the never-ending delight of watching him ply his trade, strutting the stage with an imperious authority and carving an unforgettable performance in the minds of the onlookers. His talent and his sheer vitality were bound to make countless female hearts flutter and Firethorn revelled in the adulation. When Margery visited the Queen’s Head, she could not only share in the magic of his art, she could also keep his eye from roving and his eager body from straying outside the legitimate confines of the marital couch.

Vincentio’s Revenge was a darker play in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men, but one that gave its actor-manager a superb role as the eponymous hero. It never failed to wring her emotions and move Margery to tears. Since it was being played again that afternoon, she abandoned her household duties, dressed herself in her finery and made her way to Gracechurch Street with an almost girlish excitement. Good weather and high hopes brought a large audience converging on the Queen’s Head. Pleased to see the throng, Margery was even more thrilled to identify two of its members.

‘Anne!’ she cried. ‘This is blessed encounter.’

‘You come to watch Vincentio’s Revenge?’

‘Watch it, wonder at it and wallow in it.’

‘May we then sit together?’ suggested Anne Hendrik.

‘Indeed we may, though I must warn you that I will use all the womanly wiles at my command to steal that handsome gallant away from your side.’

Preben van Loew blushed deeply and made a gesture of self-deprecation. Margery’s blunt speech and habit of teasing always unnerved him. When the three of them paid their entrance fee to the lower gallery, the old Dutchman made sure that Anne sat between him and the over-exuberant Margery. It allowed the two women to converse freely.

‘I have not seen you this long while,’ said Margery.

‘My visits to the Queen’s Head are less frequent.’

‘You are bored with Westfield’s Men?’

‘Far from it,’ said Anne. ‘It is work that keeps me away and not boredom. I love the theatre as much as ever.’

‘Does Nicholas know that you are here?’

‘No, he does not.’

‘Then it were a kindness to tell him. It would lift his spirits to know that you were in the audience.’

‘I am not so sure.’

‘He dotes on you, woman,’ said Margery with a nudge. ‘Are you blind? Are you insensible? If a man as fine and upright as Nick Bracewell loved me, I would never leave his side for a second. He misses you, Anne.’

‘I miss him,’ she said involuntarily.

‘Then why keep him ignorant of your presence?’

‘It is needful.’

‘For whom? You or him?’

‘I simply came to watch a play, Margery.’

‘Then why not visit The Rose, which is closer to your home and far more commodious? Why not go to Shoreditch to choose between The Curtain and The Theatre? Deceive yourself, but do not try to deceive me. You came here for a purpose.’

‘To see Vincentio’s Revenge,’ insisted Anne.

‘I will not press the matter.’

‘What happened between Nick and myself is…all past.’

‘Not in his mind. Still less in his heart.’

Anne grew pensive. Margery’s companionship gave her joy and discomfort in equal measure. Anne’s feelings were so confused that she was not quite sure why she had decided to find the time to attend the play, and to release Preben van Loew from his work in order to chaperone her. She had responded to an urge which had yet to identify itself properly.

‘Forgive me,’ said Margery, squeezing her wrist in apology. ‘My fondness for Nick makes me speak out of turn. You and he need no Cupid. I’ll hold my peace.’

‘A friend’s advice is always welcome.’

‘You know what mine would be. I say no more.’

Anne nodded soulfully and a surge of regret ran through her. It soon passed. Vincentio’s Revenge began and the forthright woman beside her turned into a sobbing spectator. Anne herself was caught up in the emotion of the piece and whisked along for two harrowing but glorious hours by its poetry and its poignancy. It was only when the performance was over that she realised why she had come to it.

***

Having piloted another play safely into port, Nicholas Bracewell supervised the unloading of the cargo and the crew. It was not until the last of the properties and the costumes had been safely locked away that he was able to spare the time to listen to Owen Elias’s report of his findings. The two of them were alone in the tiring-house.

‘His name is Hugh Naismith.’

‘Can you be certain, Owen?’

‘As certain as it is possible to be. The fellow was a regular member of Banbury’s Men, a promising actor, secure in the company’s estimation and likely to rise to the rank of sharer.’

‘What happened?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Friar Francis. By one Jonas Applegarth.’

‘I remember seeing the playbills for it.’

‘Hugh Naismith did not like the piece. Friar Francis was a most un-Christian play, by all account, as full of fury as The Misfortunes of Marriage, and with an even sharper bite. This foolish actor dared to rail against it in the hearing of the author and the two of them had to be held apart for they squawked at each other like fighting cocks.’

‘Was this Naismith his opponent in the duel?’

‘Ned Meares confirms it,’ said Elias. ‘The varlet was so badly injured that his arm was put in a sling for weeks. Banbury’s Men expelled him straight. The fight with Jonas has cost Naismith both his pride and his occupation.’

‘Two strong reasons for him to seek revenge.’

‘One arm was in a sling but he still might throw a dagger with the other. It must be him, Nick.’

‘Where does he dwell?’

‘In Shoreditch. I called at his lodging.’

‘You met him?’

‘He was not there. Out stalking his prey, no doubt. That thought made me straight repair to Jonas’s house, where I found our fat friend, sitting at his desk in the window of his chamber, writing away as if he did not have a care in the world.’

‘You and he arrived here together, I saw.’

‘Yes, Nick,’ said Elias. ‘I felt compelled to go back to his house again this morning. An assassin may strike on the journey to the Queen’s Head just as well as on the walk back home. Four eyes offer better protection than two.’

‘How did Jonas seem?’

‘As loud and irreverent as ever.’

‘Did you mention Hugh Naismith to him?’

‘He affected not to know the man and would not discuss his time with Banbury’s Men except to say that it was a species of torment.’

‘For him or for them?’ asked Nicholas with a wry smile.

‘Both.’

The book holder checked that everything had been cleared out of the tiring-house before taking his friend through into the taproom. It was throbbing with noise. Players and playgoers alike were ready for drink and debate after the stirring performance of Vincentio’s Revenge.

Jonas Applegarth was holding forth in the middle of the room, addressing his remarks to all who would listen. His lack of tact and restraint made the newcomers gasp.

‘It is a miserable, meandering, worm-eaten play,’ he argued.

‘Vincentio’s Revenge is a sterling piece,’ countered James Ingram. ‘You saw how the audience loved it.’

‘Ignorant fools! What do they know of drama? If you put ten bare arses on the stage and farted at them for two hours, they would applaud you just as wildly. The Maids of Honour was base enough, but today’s offering was putrid.’

‘That is unkind! Unjust!’

‘And untrue!’ added Barnaby Gill, entering the fray. ‘Vincentio’s Revenge has been a loyal servant to the company. It fires my imagination each time we play it and raises the pitch of my performance.’

‘Then is it time for you to retire,’ said Applegarth with scorn. ‘You were a walking abomination up on that stage. I have seen sheep with more talent and less confusion. Show some benevolence to mankind, Barnaby, and quit the theatre for good.’

‘I was sublime!’ howled Gill.

‘Scurvy!’

‘Unparallelled.’

‘In absurdity!’

‘Barnaby was at his best,’ defended Ingram stoutly.

‘Then I would hate to see his worst,’ retorted Applegarth, ‘for it would beggar belief. Why wave his hands so, and pull his face thus?’ His grotesque mime turned Gill purple with rage. ‘It was a barbarous performance, almost as bad as that of Vincentio himself.’

Lawrence Firetorn came sailing into the taproom.

‘What’s that you say, sir?’ he growled.

‘The play was ill-chosen.’

‘Not as ill-chosen as your words, Jonas,’ warned the other. ‘Have a care, sir. We like Vincentio’s Revenge.’

‘Can any sane man admire such a botch of nature?’

‘Yes!’ challenged Firethorn. ‘He stands before you.’

‘Then I will list my complaints against the piece in order,’ said Applegarth, quite unabashed. ‘Firstly…’

‘Save your strictures for another time,’ insisted Nicholas, diving in quickly to take the heat out of the argument. ‘Master Firethorn is entertaining his wife and does not wish to be led astray by idle comment that smells too strongly of ale. Our play found favour this afternoon and there’s an end to it.’

With the aid of Owen Elias, he shepherded Applegarth to a table in the corner and sat him down on a bench. Barnaby Gill was still pulsating with anger and James Ingram with disgust, but the quarrel was effectively over. Lawrence Firethorn mastered his fury. Reminded that Margery was still waiting for him in the adjoining chamber, he ordered wine and withdrew to the urgent solace of her embrace. An uneasy peace descended on the taproom.

Jonas Applegarth was still in a bellicose mood.

‘I am entitled to my opinion,’ he asserted.

‘Not when it offends your fellows so,’ said Nicholas.

‘Can they not cope with honesty?’

‘Honesty, yes, but this was random cruelty.’

‘I will not praise where praise is not due, Nick.’

‘Then hold your tongue,’ counselled Elias, ‘or you’ll lose every friend you have made in Westfield’s Men. Insult Master Firethorn again and your career with us is ended.’

‘This play was lame stuff.’

‘Why, then, did you force yourself to watch it?’ said Nicholas. ‘If Vincentio’s Revenge is not to your taste, avoid it. That way, you will not have to suffer its shortcomings and your fellows will not have to bear your gibes. How can you expect actors to give of their best in your play when you mock their performances in every other piece?’

‘Stop biting the hand that feeds you,’ said Elias. ‘You have spat out enough fingers already. Respect our work and we might grow to respect yours.’

‘My art demands reverence!’ said Applegarth, slapping the table with a peremptory hand. ‘The Misfortunes of Marriage is an absolute masterpiece.’

‘Only when it is played,’ reminded Nicholas.

‘Why, so it will be. At The Rose next week.’

‘Not if you talk it off the stage.’

‘Westfield’s Men are contracted to perform it.’

‘We were contracted to perform The Faithful Shepherd by Edmund Hoode until you came along. If one play can be ousted thus easily from The Rose, so can another.’ Nicholas did not mince his words. ‘And if Westfield’s Men do not perform your work, it will remain as no more than words on a page. I gave you fair warning at the start, Jonas. You will be out of the company and we will cheer your departure.’

Applegarth was momentarily checked. ‘But you saw my play, Nick. It blazed across the stage like a meteor. Owen will vouch for its quality. He tasted its true worth from the inside. Would any company be so prodigal as to cast aside a work of art?’

‘Our doubts are not about The Misfortunes of Marriage,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is a rare phenomenon. We all agree on that. But the playwright obstructs our view of the play. In plain terms, you are making us regret the misfortunes of marriage between Westfield’s Men and Jonas Applegarth. Divorce grows daily nearer.’

‘Then let it come!’ shouted the other.

‘Listen to Nick,’ said Elias. ‘You need us.’

‘Not if I must be bound and gagged. Fie on thee!’

‘Sleep on what I have said,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘We would be friends. Why rush to make us mortal enemies?’

‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Applegarth. ‘I’ll not stand it!’

He rose to his feet and swayed over them. The smell of strong ale was on his breath. Applegarth had been drinking heavily before, during and after the performance. It made him even more pugnacious and fearless of consequence.

‘A turd in your teeth!’ he bawled. ‘Oust me? I spurn you all like the knaves you are! There is a world elsewhere!’

Kicking the bench aside, he lurched towards the door. Owen Elias was outraged by his behaviour but his affection for the playwright won through.

‘Wild words spoken in haste,’ he said.

‘That tongue of his will talk him out of employment.’

‘I’ll after him and see the rogue safe home.’

‘Counsel moderation, Owen.’

‘What I counsel is a bucket of cold water over his foolish head before I deign to speak to him. If Jonas will not see sense, he loses my esteem. I’ll not sew another patch on the torn sleeve of our fellowship.’

As soon as the Welshman left, Nicholas was joined by James Ingram, still in a state of agitation.

‘Applegarth is a menace to us all, Nick!’

‘But chiefly to himself.’

‘Do not ask me to show him sympathy.’

‘Jonas has supped too much ale.’

‘Sober, he is merely obnoxious; drunk, he is beyond excuse. He poured contempt on the whole company.’

‘I heard him, James.’

‘He is one big barrel of arrogance.’

‘His time with us may be very short indeed.’

‘It will be,’ said Ingram with feeling. ‘If he takes the cudgel to us, we will fight back. I tell you, Nick, I’d willingly strike the first blow.’

Nicholas was surprised. James Ingram was not given to fits of anger. With the exception of Edmund Hoode, he was the most mild-mannered person in the company. Yet he was now curling his lip in a sneer of animosity. It was several minutes before Nicholas could calm him down. When he finally did so, he slipped his hand inside his buff jerkin to take out the sketch which Caleb Hay had drawn for him.

‘I have something to show you, James.’

‘What is it?’

‘Blackfriars. Given to me by a friend.’

Ingram examined the sketch with great interest and traced the outline of the theatre with his finger. There was a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

‘It is very accurate.’

‘The artist is a keen historian of the city.’

‘Then here, in this small drawing, is history writ large. Castle and tower are turned into a monastery. Monastery becomes a theatre. And this very week, theatre becomes a place of execution. Master Fulbeck’s death is one more violent change in Blackfriars. God rest his soul!’

‘Amen.’

‘When will you go back there, Nick?’

‘This evening.’

‘Take me with you.’

‘Gladly.’

‘I am ready,’ said Ingram, handing the sketch back to him. ‘Why do we tarry here?’

‘Because I have to pay my respects first.’

‘To whom?’

Nicholas glanced towards a door on the far side of the room and Ingram gave a smile of understanding. The book holder needed to exchange a greeting with Margery Firethorn.

‘I’ll be with you anon,’ said Nicholas.

He crossed to the door and tapped lightly on it.

‘Enter!’ boomed the actor.

Husband and wife were seated at a table when he went in. Both rose to their feet instantly, Margery coming across to embrace the visitor and Firethorn seeing an opportunity to elude her matrimonial vigilance for a few minutes.

‘Is that insolent braggart still here, Nick?’

‘Jonas Applegarth has gone back home.’

‘He is like to stay there if he rail against me. I was Vincentio to the life this afternoon. Was I not, my dove?’

‘Beyond compare,’ cooed Margery.

‘Yet that wrangling malcontent denied my genius. I’ll fetch him such a box on the ears, he’ll not wake until Doomsday! Let me see that he has quit the premises or I’ll not rest.’

Firethorn slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Margery was clearly delighted to be left alone with Nicholas. Taking him by the hand, she led him across to a small bench and they sat down together. She spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

‘Thank heaven that you came to me, Nick.’

‘Why?’

‘You’d else have missed the glad tidings.’

‘Tidings?’

‘She was here.’

‘Who?’

‘Who else, man?’

‘Anne? Here at the performance?’

‘Sitting as close to me as you are now. She loved the play as much as I did and wept almost as many tears. Anne sent a private message to you.’

‘Did she?’

‘I am to give you her warmest regards,’ said Margery. ‘What she really meant me to convey was her undying love but she could not put that into words.’

Nicholas was pleased that Anne had made contact through an intermediary, though disappointed that she had not delivered her message in person.

‘Did Anne come to the Queen’s Head alone?’ he said.

‘No,’ replied Margery with a teasing grin. ‘She was on the arm of the most striking young man I have seen for a long time. Were I not a contented wife, I would have fought her tooth and nail for the privilege of being escorted by so dashing a partner. An exquisite fellow.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Preben van Loew.’

Nicholas laughed with relief. There was no point in trying to hide his love for Anne Hendrik from her. Margery had seen them together in earlier days and never ceased to tax him over their parting. Unwilling and unable to talk about Anne with anyone else, he was now with the one person who had some insight into the relationship.

‘Go to her, Nick,’ she advised.

‘It is not the answer, I fear.’

‘She wastes away without you.’

‘That is not my impression.’

‘I can tell when a woman is grieving.’

‘It is not for me,’ he said with a sigh. ‘When I called on her yesterday, I only managed to upset her. We have lost the way of speaking to each other.’

‘Use deeds instead of words. Embrace her with love.’

He shook his head. ‘My suit is unwelcome.’

‘Press it with more diligence.’

‘I am too late. There is another man in her life.’

‘Ambrose Robinson.’

He blinked in astonishment. ‘She spoke of him?’

‘Not a word.’

‘Then how did you learn of his existence?’

‘From her handsome escort.’

‘Preben van Loew?’

‘Yes,’ she said airily. ‘Anne would not talk of her personal affairs and so I bided my time until I could speak with the Dutchman alone. For some reason, the poor fellow is afraid of me. I cannot think why. I am Mildness itself. Is any woman in London less frightening than me?’

‘I think not,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

‘As we were leaving the gallery, Anne met a neighbour and exchanged a few words with her. I seized my opportunity. Preben was most forthcoming.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He does not like this Ambrose Robinson, I know that.’

‘No more do I.’

‘Anne does, it seems. And with some reason.’

‘What might it be?’

‘Money,’ she said. ‘The Dutchman was too loyal to betray the full details, but he gave me hints and nudges enough for me to piece together the story. Earlier in the year, her business was in grave difficulty.’

‘Anne told me that it was faring well.’

‘Only because of the butcher. Thieves broke into the shop three times. Hats were destroyed, patterns stolen. They were unable to meet their orders and lost business. To make matters worse, the shop was damaged by fire and much of their material went up in smoke.’

‘Why did not Anne turn to me?’ Nick asked anxiously.

‘Because you had drifted out of her life. What she needed was money to rebuild and restock her premises. That is when Ambrose Robinson came on the scene.’

‘Now I understand her sense of obligation.’

‘Understand something else, Nick. She came to see you.’

‘But I was hidden from sight.’

‘You were here, that was enough. Anne wanted to be close.’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘She did not need to.’

Nicholas was touched. Margery had been active on his behalf, and for all her outspokenness, he knew that she could be discreet. What she had found out explained much that had been puzzling him. Though she did not feel able to speak with him directly, Anne Hendrik had taken a definite step towards him. It was something on which to build.

***

Edmund Hoode waited for well over an hour before disillusion set in. Standing alone in the empty innyard, he began to feel decidedly conspicuous. He had been like a mettlesome horse at first, prancing on his toes and quivering with pent-up energy. His high expectation slowly trickled away and he was now as forlorn and motionless as a parish pump in a rainstorm.

Her message had been explicit. Tomorrow. Surely that was a firm promise? He was at the same spot, in the same yard at more or less the same time. Why did she not send word? A sleepless night in a fever of hope had been followed by a morning rehearsal. Knowing that she would be watching, he dedicated his performance in Vincentio’s Revenge to her and invested it with every ounce of skill and commitment.

After changing out of his costume in the tiring-house and waiting for the yard to clear of spectators, he began his vigil with a light heart. It was now a huge boulder which weighed him down and which threatened to burst out of the inadequate lodging of his chest. Could any woman be capable of such wanton cruelty? A rose. A promise. Betrayal. Hoode was devastated.

There was no hint of Rose Marwood this time, no sign of a well-groomed servant with a secret missive. All he could see were a couple of ostlers, sniggering at him from the shadow of the stables and wondering why a man in his best doublet and hose should be standing in the middle of a filthy innyard. Hoode gave up. With weary footsteps, he trudged towards the archway which led to Gracechurch Street.

When the horse and rider trotted into the yard, he stood swiftly to one side to let them pass, never suspecting that they had come in search of him. The young man in the saddle brought his mount in a tight circle and its flank brushed Hoode as it went past. About to protest, the playwright suddenly realised that he was holding something in his hand. Another missive had been delivered.

Spirits soaring once more, he tore the seal off and unrolled the sheet. Hoping for a letter, he was at first dumbfounded to find no words at all on the page. In their place was what appeared to be the head of a horse with a spike protruding from between its eyes. Was it a message or a piece of mockery? It was only when his brain cleared that he was able to read its import.

‘The Unicorn!’

A rose. A promise. A tryst. Love was, after all, moving in ascending steps. She was waiting for him at the Unicorn. It was an inn no more than a hundred yards away. His first impulse was to run there as fast as his trembling legs could carry him, but a more sensible course of action recommended itself. Since she had kept him on tenterhooks, he would make her wait as well. It would only serve to heighten the pleasure of their encounter.

Adjusting his attire and straightening his hat, he left the Queen’s Head and strolled along Gracechurch Street with dignity. He was no love-lorn rustic, rushing to answer the call of a capricious mistress. He was a conqueror about to enjoy the spoils of war. That illusion carried him all the way to the Unicorn and in through its main door. It was shattered the moment he was confronted by a smiling young woman with a fawnlike grace and beauty. His jaw dropped.

She gave him a curtsey, then indicated the stairs.

‘My mistress awaits you, sir. Follow me.’

With uncertain steps, Edmund Hoode climbed towards Elysium.