The Laughing Hangman

Chapter Eight

When he reached the landing, he made an effort to compose his features and to straighten his back. It was as a man of the theatre that his admirer had first seen Edmund Hoode. She would lose all respect for him if he were to slink apologetically into her company and behave like a callow youth in a fumbling courtship. A dramatic entrance was called for and he did his best to supply it.

The maidservant tapped on a door, opened it in answer to a summons from within and then stepped back to admit the visitor. Pretending that he was about to face an audience in the innyard, Hoode went into the chamber with a confident stride and doffed his hat to bow low. The door closed soundlessly behind him. When he raised his eyes to take a first long look at the mysterious lady in his life, he was quite bedazzled.

She was beautiful. Fair-skinned and neat-boned, she had an alabaster neck which supported an oval face of quiet loveliness. She wore a dark blue velvet dress but no jewellery of any kind. Well-groomed blond hair was brushed back under a blue cap. Gloved hands were folded in her lap as she sat on a chair, framed by the window.

Hoode was struck by her poise and elegance. Her voice was low and accompanied by a sweet smile of welcome.

‘It is a pleasure to see you, Master Hoode,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ he replied politely, ‘but I fear that you have the advantage over me.’

‘My name is Cecily Gilbourne.’

A second bow. ‘At your service, Mistress Gilbourne.’

‘Pray take a seat, sir.’

She motioned him to a chair opposite her and he lowered himself gingerly onto it, his gaze never leaving her. Cecily Gilbourne was a trifle older than he had expected-in her late twenties, perhaps even thirty-but her maturity was to him a form of supreme ripeness. He would not have changed her age by a year or her appearance by the tiniest emendation. It was reassuring to learn that she was no impressionable child, no giggling girl, no shallow creature infatuated with the theatre, but a woman of experience with an intelligence that positively shone out of her.

‘The Merchant of Calais,’ she announced.

‘A workmanlike piece,’ he said modestly.

‘I thought it brilliant. It was the first of your plays that I saw and it made me yearn to meet the author.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Such an understanding of the true price of love.’

‘Your praise overwhelms me.’

‘Not as much as your work overwhelms me,’ she said with a sigh of admiration. ‘You are a true poet of the soul. The Corrupt Bargain.’

‘Another apple plucked from the orchard of my brain.’

‘Delicious in the mouth. Love’s Sacrifice. We have all made that in our time, alas. Your play on that theme was so profound.’

‘Drawn from life.’

‘That is what I guessed. Only those who have suffered the pangs of a broken heart can understand the nature of that suffering. Love’s Sacrifice gave me untold pleasure and helped me to keep sorrow at bay during a most troubling time in my life. Your plays, Master Hoode-may I call you Edmund?’

‘Please, please!’ he encouraged.

‘Your plays, Edmund, are a source of joy to me.’

‘For that compliment alone, they were worth writing.’

‘Double Deceit.’

‘Juvenilia. When I was young and green.’

‘Its humour bubbled like a mountain stream.’

‘Pompey the Great. That is Edmund Hoode at his finest.’

‘I regret that I have never seen it played.’

‘You must, you must, Mistress Gilbourne.’

‘Call me Cecily…if we are to be friends.’

‘Thank you, Cecily,’ he gushed. ‘And we will.’

‘Be friends?’

‘I earnestly hope so.’

‘No more than that?’

She gave him an enigmatic smile. Hoode was not sure if she was enticing him or merely appraising him. It did not matter. He was ready to surrender unconditionally to her will. A rose. A promise. A tryst. Cecily Gilbourne was a kindred spirit, a true romantic, someone removed from the sordid lusts of the world, a woman of perception who loved the way that he wrote about love.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do I surprise you?’

‘Surprise me and delight me, Cecily.’

‘Am I as you imagined I might be?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘You are disappointed?’

‘Overjoyed. The reality far exceeds my imaginings.’

She laughed softly. ‘I knew that I had chosen well.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, Edmund. Your plays let me look into your heart.’

‘What did you find there?’

The enigmatic smile played around her lips again.

‘I found you.’

The words caressed his ears and he almost swooned. He could not believe that it was happening to him. Years of rejection by the fairer sex had sapped his self-esteem. Romantic disaster was his natural habitat. Women like Cecily Gilbourne did not exist in his life except as phantoms. There had been no chase, no agonising period of courtship, no sequence of sonnets to express his desire in honeyed phrases. She had come to him. It was the most natural and painless relationship he had ever enjoyed with a beautiful woman, intensified as it was by an element of mystery, and given a deeper resonance by the fact that she adored his work as much as his person.

‘Will you come to me again, Edmund?’ she whispered.

‘Whenever you call.’

‘It will be very soon.’

‘I will be waiting.’

‘Thank you.’

She offered her hand and he placed the lightest of kisses upon it, his lips burning with pleasure as they touched her glove.

‘Farewell, my prince,’ she said.

Cecily turned to stare out of the window, allowing him to see her in profile and to admire the marmoreal perfection of her neck and chin. Caught in the light, her skin was so white and silky that Hoode had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it with the tips of his fingers. Instead, he gave her the lowest bow yet, mumbled his farewell and backed towards the door with his mouth still agape.

Their first meeting was over. He was ensnared.

***

When they reached the precinct of Blackfriars, they explored the surrounding streets and the church before going into the theatre itself. Geoffrey, the old porter, gave them a subdued welcome and told them that Raphael Parsons was still in the building. Nicholas Bracewell went briskly up the staircase with James Ingram at his side.

What met them in the theatre itself was a far less gruesome sight than the one which had greeted them on their earlier visit. Raphael Parsons was talking to a group of young actors, who were sitting on the edge of the stage in costume. Behind them was the setting for the final scene of Mariana’s Revels. His voice was loud but unthreatening. None of the Chapel Children evinced any fear of the man.

Hearing their approach, Parsons swung round to face them.

‘You trespass on private property,’ he said crisply.

‘The theatre is open to the public,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘You performed here this very afternoon, it seems. Mariana’s Revels. Not that we come as spectators, Master Parsons. We would speak with you.’

‘The time is not convenient.’

‘Then we will wait.’

Nicholas and his companion folded their arms and stood there patiently. They would not easily be dismissed. The manager clicked his tongue in exasperation before snapping his fingers to dismiss the actors. They scampered off into the tiring-house. Nicholas looked after them.

‘Was Philip Robinson in your cast?’ he asked.

‘He was,’ said Parsons. ‘He played Mariana herself.’

‘The boy can carry a leading role?’

‘Exceeding well. His plaintive songs moved all who heard him sing. But you did not come here to discuss the talents of my actors. I see that by your faces.’

‘We are here on Master Fulbeck’s behalf,’ said Ingram.

‘There is something you did not tell me?’

‘It is the other way around,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We have questions to put to you.’

‘To what end?’

‘The arrest and conviction of a killer. A Laughing Hangman, who turned your stage into a gallows. You and I and James here, each working on his own, would never track him down. But if we pool our knowledge, if we share opinion and conjecture, we may perchance succeed.’

‘I do not need your help,’ said Parsons sharply.

‘You know the murderer, then?’

‘Not yet, Master Bracewell.’

‘Then how do you propose to root him out?’

‘By cunning, sir. Alone and unaided.’

‘We came by Ireland Yard,’ said Ingram, pointedly.

‘So?’

‘That was where you claimed to be when Master Fulbeck was dangling from a noose in here.’

‘You doubt my word?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘We would simply like to know which house you visited,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘Your host would confirm the time of your arrival and departure.’

‘Damn your impudence, sir!’

‘What number in Ireland Yard?’

‘I’ll not be harried like this,’ warned Parsons. ‘Where I went that day was and will remain my business. I am not under scrutiny here. Do you dare to suggest that I was implicated in the crime in some way? Cyril Fulbeck was my partner. I worshipped the man.’

‘Yet argued with him constantly.’

‘That was in the nature of things.’

‘Why did you open the theatre today?’ said Ingram.

‘Because a play had been advertised.’

‘The murder of Master Fulbeck notwithstanding?’

‘He would have sanctioned the performance.’

‘I beg leave to question that.’

Parsons was blunt. ‘Our beloved Master of the Chapel may have died but life goes on.’

‘With no decent interval for mourning?’

‘This theatre itself is his memorial.’

‘And your source of income,’ observed Nicholas.

‘That, too.’

‘Therein lies the true reason for performance.’

‘I run this theatre the way that I choose!’

‘No,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘The way that you have to run it, Master Parsons. By cramming in every performance that you possibly can and by working your actors like oxen in the field. That is why you staged Mariana’s Revels today. Not by way of a memorial to Cyril Fulbeck. You wanted the money.’

‘The theatre has expenses.’

‘Is that why you wrangled with your partner?’

‘Leave off this, sir!’

‘Did you argue over profit?’

‘I’ll not account to you or anyone else for what I do within these four walls!’ yelled Parsons, waving his arms. ‘Blackfriars is my theatre. I live for this place.’

‘Master Fulbeck died for it.’

Anger building, Parsons looked from one to the other. ‘Envy drives you both on,’ he sneered. ‘I see that now. Blackfriars is without peer. We offer our patrons a real playhouse, not an innyard smelling of dung and stale beer. Here they sit in comfort to watch the best plays in London, protected from the rain and wind, marvelling at our skill and our invention. Westfield’s Men are vagabonds beside my Chapel Boys.’

‘We pay our actors,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do you pay yours?’

‘I’ll hear no more of this!’

‘Answer me but one thing.’

‘Away with you both or I’ll summon a constable!’

‘Master Fulbeck’s keys.’

‘What of them?’

‘Have they ever been found?’

Raphael Parsons made them wait for a reply, his eyes flicking around the theatre before finally settling on Nicholas with a defiant glare.

‘They have not been found.’

‘So they are still in the possession of the murderer?’

‘We may presume as much.’

‘Beware, Master Parsons,’ said Nicholas. ‘He can gain access to this theatre again by means of those keys.’

The manager was unperturbed. He walked to the door and opened it for them to leave. The visitors exchanged a nod. To remain any longer would be a waste of time. Nicholas felt that they had learned far more from the manner of his answers than from anything that Raphael Parsons had said. When he questioned the two friends earlier, the theatre manager had been calm and plausible. Cornered by surprise on his own territory, he was resentful and uncooperative.

As they walked to the door, Parsons stopped them.

‘Come tomorrow and pay to gain entrance,’ he suggested.

‘Why?’ said Nicholas.

‘Because you will not only see a fine play finely acted on a stage fit to bear it. You will witness our revenge.’

‘Against whom?’

‘Master Foulmouth himself. Jonas Applegarth.’

‘What do you play tomorrow?’

‘Alexander the Great. An old play on an old theme but with a Prologue newly minted to cut the monstrous Applegarth down to human size. Westfield’s Men are soundly whipped as well. They who attack Blackfriars will suffer reprisals.’ He wagged an admonitory finger. ‘Deliver that message to your lewd playwright. We’ll destroy his reputation entire. We’ll hang him from the roof-beam with a rope of rhyming couplets and strangle the life out of his disgusting carcass!’

Easing them through the door, he closed it firmly behind them. They heard a key turning in the lock. As they descended the stairs, Ingram glanced over his shoulder.

‘Master Parsons has grown testy,’ he said.

‘We came unannounced into his domain and caught him on the raw. He has a malignant streak, no question of that. I would not care to be one of his young actors.’

‘Nor I, Nick. It was never thus in my day.’

‘You were trained as well as any of our apprentices.’

‘And shown great kindness. Times have changed.’

The porter was waiting at the foot of the staircase to detain Ingram in conversation. Nicholas drifted out of the building and retraced the steps he had taken when in pursuit of the murderer on the earlier visit. Pausing at the rear of the theatre, he looked at the various avenues of escape which the man could have taken. If he had run fast, he might have been clear of the precinct before Nicholas reached the spot where he was now standing. Or he might have gone to ground in any one of the nearby streets and alleyways.

By way of experiment, Nicholas broke into a trot and dodged around a few corners. When he came to a halt, he saw that he was standing in Ireland Yard. He studied the houses with interest before he walked back towards the theatre. As he strolled past it, the rear door was unlocked and a dozen or more figures emerged. Wearing white surplices over black cassocks, they lined up in pairs and march away in step, the choirboys at the front and the vicars choral behind them.

‘Philip!’ called Nicholas.

One of the boys turned in surprise to look at him. The resemblance to Ambrose Robinson was clear. His bright young face was puzzled by the salutation. The boy was pushed gently from behind by another chorister and the procession wended on its way. Nicholas was impressed by the sense of order and assurance about them. Philip Robinson was an integral part of the whole. He did not look like an unwilling prisoner. Nicholas watched him until the column vanished out of sight.

***

The journey took an eternity. Owen Elias was soon regretting his offer to safeguard the drunken Jonas Applegarth. The playwright kept stopping in the street to accuse innocent by-standers of unspeakable crimes, to hurl verbal thunderbolts at every church they passed, to kick at the stray dogs which yapped at his heels and to relieve himself unceremoniously against any available wall. When Elias tried to remonstrate with him, Applegarth either turned his vituperation on the Welshman or embraced him tearfully while vowing undying friendship.

Celtic patience finally snapped. Applegarth reviled him once too often and Elias expressed his displeasure in the most direct way. Grabbing the bigger man by the scruff of the neck, he dragged him towards a horse-trough and threw him in head-first. Applegarth hit the water with a fearsome splash. His face was submerged for a full minute as he emitted a hideous gurgling sound. Then he managed to haul himself out of the trough and fell to the ground.

He lay there twitching violently like a giant cod on the deck of a fishing vessel. His clothes were sodden, his hair and beard dripping and his hat floating in a puddle beside him. After expelling a pint of water from his mouth, he let out a bellow of anger and tried to get up. Elias put a foot in the middle of his chest to hold him down. Applegarth replied with an even louder bellow but it soon gave way to rumbling laughter. Instead of lambasting his colleague, he turned his derision upon himself.

‘Look at me!’ he said, wobbling with mirth. ‘The most brilliant playwright in London, flat on his back in the mire! The greatest ale-drinker in England, spewing out rank water. The fattest belly in Christendom, staring up at the sky! Is this not a pretty sight, Owen?’

‘You deserved it.’

‘Indeed, I did.’

‘You went well beyond the bounds of fellowship.’

‘I am the first to acknowledge it.’

‘The horse-trough was the best place for you.’

‘No, my friend,’ said Applegarth, as remorse wiped the grin from his wet face. ‘It is too elevated a station for me. A swamp would be a fitter home. A ditch. A dunghill. Find me a hole big enough and I’ll crawl into it with the other vermin. Why do I do it, Owen?’

‘I’ll tell you in the morning when you’re sober.’

Reaching down, he took the other in a firm grip and heaved backwards. Jonas Applegarth swung slowly upright. He looked down at the state of his apparel with revulsion.

‘My wife will assault me!’ he moaned.

‘There may be others keen to do that office for her.’

‘My doublet is stained, my breeches torn, my stockings past repair. I am an insult to her tailoring.’ He felt his head in a panic. ‘Where’s my hat? Where’s my hat?’

‘Here,’ said Elias, retrieving it from the puddle.

‘I dare not go home like this.’

‘You will and you must, Jonas.’

‘What will my wife say?’

‘That is her privilege. But I marvel that you rail against religion so when you must be married to a saint. Who else would put up with you?’

‘True, true, Owen,’ agreed the other. ‘She is a saint.’

‘A martyr to her husband.’

Applegarth remained solemn and silent all the way home. He was a sorry sight as he was admitted to the house by a servant. Elias waited long enough to hear the first shriek of complaint from the resident saint before turning away. Movement in the shadows then alerted him. He was reminded why he had accompanied Applegarth in the first place.

Pulling out his dagger, he ran diagonally across the street to the lane on the opposite side but he was too slow. All he caught was the merest glimpse of a man, darting down the lane before disappearing into the rabbit warren of streets beyond it. Elias stabbed the air in his anger.

They had been followed.

***

Anne Hendrik counted out the coins and handed them over.

‘There, Ambrose,’ she said with relief. ‘’Tis done!’

‘Thank you.’

‘My debt is cleared at last.’

‘There was no hurry to repay me,’ he said, putting the coins into his purse. ‘And I am far more in your debt than you in mine. No amount of money can ever discharge that obligation.’

‘I have done nothing.’

‘Is saving a man’s life nothing? Is giving him fresh hope nothing? You did all that for me and more.’

‘I think not.’

‘Every penny I have is yours for the asking.’

‘We can pay our own way again now.’

‘You must know how much you mean to me, Anne.’

She turned away and resumed her seat in order to avoid what she sensed might be an embarrassing declaration. They were in the parlour of her house in Bankside. The butcher stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, peeved that the settlement of her debt had deprived him of an excuse to call on a regular basis and searching for a means to secure a more permanent mooring in her affections.

‘I acted out of simple friendship,’ she said.

‘Is that all that it will remain?’

‘For the moment, Ambrose.’

‘And in time?’

‘Who knows what the future will hold?’

‘Who indeed?’ he agreed, shaking his head ruefully. ‘A year ago, I was the most contented of men. I had a happy marriage, a son I adored and a business that was thriving. What else could anyone ask? Then, suddenly…’ He clapped his hands together. ‘I lost it all. My dear wife died, my son was taken from me by deed of impressment, and I had no pleasure from my occupation. What was the point in struggling on?’

‘There is always a point, Ambrose.’

‘You taught me that.’

‘I, too, lost my dearest partner.’

‘But not your child as well.’

‘No,’ she conceded sadly. ‘Not my child. The joys of motherhood were denied me and that is a grievous loss in itself.’ She brightened. ‘Besides, your son has not left you for ever. Philip is still alive and like to return to you before too long. Nick will see to that.’

‘Will he?’

‘Put your trust in him.’

‘It is growing difficult to do so.’

‘Ambrose!’ she scolded.

‘You saw the way he rounded on me. He is supposed to be helping Philip, not accusing the boy’s father with such severity. I am sorry, Anne, but I begin to have serious doubts about Nick Bracewell.’

‘Then you do not know him as well as I.’

‘That is another cause of my discomfort.’

He moved away to hide the surly expression on his face. When he turned back to her, it was with a slow smile and a surge of ungainly affection.

‘I have written to Philip again today,’ he said.

‘Your letters will be a comfort to him.’

‘He is old enough to be told now. To understand.’

‘Understand?’

‘What an angel of mercy you have been. Without you to rescue me, I would have given in. Philip knows that. He always liked you, Anne. He always talked kindly of you. It will make such a difference to him. Philip was much closer to his mother than to me but that is only natural. It will make such a difference.’

‘I do not follow.’

‘A child needs a proper home, Anne.’

‘He has one.’

‘He has a house but something is missing from it.’

Anne realised what he was trying to say to her and steeled herself. In paying off her debt she had hoped to lighten the weight of his friendship, but she had merely given him the cue to translate it into a deeper relationship.

‘I know that I have little enough to offer,’ he began, planting himself before her. ‘Jacob Hendrik was a decent, God-fearing, conscientious man and I could never be the husband to you that he was. But I swear to you-’

‘That is enough,’ she interrupted. ‘I would prefer it if you said no more on that subject.’

Robinson was hurt. ‘Have I offended you?’

‘No, Ambrose.’

‘Do you find me so revolting, then?’

‘You are a good man with many qualities.’

‘But not good enough for you?’

‘That was not my meaning.’

‘Then why do you spurn me?’

‘I do not,’ she said, standing and crossing to the window. ‘I am just not ready to consider…what you wish to propose, that is all.’

‘Not ready now?’ he said, brightening. ‘But one day…’

‘I make no promises.’

‘One day…’

‘My life is happy enough as it is.’

‘A husband and a son will make it even happier.’

‘No,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘We are friends. I like to think that we are close friends. You helped me when others would not and I will always be grateful to you for that. It made me want to help you to bring Philip home.’

Robinson stared at her. A resentful note intruded.

‘It is him, is it not?’

‘Who?’

‘Your precious Nick Bracewell. He is the canker here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It has all changed,’ he said bitterly. ‘Until he came back into your world, you had time for me and interest in my affairs. We talked together, supped together, even walked to church together on a Sunday. All golden times for me. Then this friend, this Nick Bracewell, appears again and my chances go begging.’

‘That is not true.’

‘He changed everything.’

‘No, Ambrose.’

‘But for him, you would have been mine. I know it.’

‘Nick changed nothing!’

The force of her rejection was like a slap in the face. His body tensed and his eyes blazed but he made no comment. Swinging on his heel, he went out of the house and slammed the door behind him.

***

Lawrence Firethorn was just about to climb into bed when he heard the thunderous knocking on his front door. Margery was already lying among the pillows in her nightgown with a smile of lustful anticipation on her face. Vincentio’s Revenge had sent them early to their bedchamber and they knew that nobody in the house would dare to interrupt them.

When more knocking came, Firethorn stamped a bare foot on the floor to signal to the servant below.

‘Whoever that is, send them on their way!’ he yelled.

‘Ignore them, Lawrence,’ purred his wife.

‘When you lie before me like that, my sweet, I would ignore the Last Judgement. Was ever a man so blessed in his wife? Was ever lover so well matched with lover?’ He moved in to bestow a first tender kiss on her lips. ‘Was ever an actor given such a fine role as this that I play now?’

He embraced her with fiery passion and buried his head between her generous breasts. Digging her fingers into his hair, she pulled him close and urged him on with cries of delight, groaning with even more pleasure when his hands slipped under her nightgown to explore her warm thighs. The bed soon began to creak rhythmically but a louder noise rose above it. Somebody was actually pounding on their door.

Ecstasy froze on the instant. Firethorn could not believe it. At a time when he and his wife most wanted to be alone, they were being rudely disturbed. It was unforgivable. Leaping from the bed half-naked, he stalked across the room, determined to castigate the servant in the roundest of terms before hurling her out into the street. When he snatched open the door, he fully expected the girl to be cowering in terror. Instead, he was met by the improbable sight of Edmund Hoode, hands on hips, standing there with his legs set firmly apart.

‘I have come to speak with you, Lawrence,’ he asserted.

‘Now? Must it be now? Must it be here?’ Firethorn stepped outside the bedchamber and pulled the door shut after him. ‘Do you know what you have just interrupted?’

‘I care not.’

‘Margery is waiting for me within.’

‘I will not keep you from your sleep much longer.’

‘Sleep was the least of our concerns!’

‘I had to see you.’

‘Well, see me, you do. So turn tail and leave my house before I speed you on your way!’ His eyes glowed in the half-dark. ‘Come not between the dragon and his mate!’

‘Who is it?’ called Margery from within.

‘Edmund!’

‘At this hour?’

‘Begone, sir!’ snarled Firethorn. ‘You hold up destiny.’

‘That is why I am here,’ said Hoode calmly. ‘To discuss my own destiny. When I sensed danger in the person of a rival, my impulse was to shrink away and yield up my place. Not any more, Lawrence. I intend to fulfil my destiny. I am here to fight for my place in Westfield’s Men.’

Firethorn exploded. ‘If you tarry any longer, you will be fighting for your life! God’s tits, man! The most wonderful woman in the world is waiting for me in that bed.’

‘Not for ever,’ cautioned Margery. ‘I grow weary.’

‘Come back tomorrow, Edmund!’

Firethorn tried to push him away, but Hoode held his ground with a determination that was unprecedented in so reserved a man. Five minutes alone with Cicely Gilbourne had transformed him. He was loved. His plays were admired. His life had purpose after all. What thrilled him most was her appreciation of his work. It was this which had restored his confidence in himself and made him reflect on the shabby treatment he had been accorded by Westfield’s Men. With fire in his belly, he walked all the way to Shoreditch to beard Firethorn in his own den. Margery’s presence was a minor disadvantage.

‘Will you box his ear or will I?’ she shouted.

‘I will, my pretty one,’ cooed Firethorn before glowering at the intruder. ‘Leave now while your legs still carry you or I’ll not be answerable for my actions!’

‘If I leave now, Lawrence, I leave for good!’

‘That will content us.’

‘Who will pen your plays then, I wonder?’

‘Still there?’ wailed Margery. ‘Throttle the idiot!’

‘I talk of my place,’ continued Hoode, unruffled. ‘I talk of my destiny. Westfield’s Men are contracted to perform The Faithful Shepherd at The Rose yet I am thrust aside to make way for Jonas Applegarth.’

Firethorn gasped. ‘You have invaded my bedchamber in order to talk about a paltry play?’

‘That paltry play means much to me. Thus it stands. Perform it at The Rose and I remain in the company. Supplant me with another playwright and I will henceforth offer my talent to Banbury’s Men. Do you understand, Lawrence?’

The other was so stunned that all he could offer was a meek nod. Hoode’s fearless manner and dire threat robbed him of the organs of speech. Panting on the bed, Margery Firethorn was more concerned with other organs.

‘Lawrence!’ she bawled. ‘Get in here now! Your kettle is no longer boiling, sir. It needs more heat to make it sing. Light my fire again. Where are you, man?’

Hoode tapped politely on the door and inched it open.

‘We are done now, Margery,’ he said. ‘I’ll send him in.’

***

Unable to sleep for more than a few hours, Nicholas Bracewell rose before dawn and strolled down to the edge of the Thames. The river lapped noisily at the wharf and vessels bobbed in the gloom as they lay at anchor. Born and brought up in a seaport, Nicholas felt at home beside the dark water as it curled between its banks with lazy power. When the first specks of light began to dapple the river, he inhaled the keen air and was at peace with himself. Gulls cried, a winch squealed into life, the plash of oars could be heard in the distance.

His eye then travelled across to Bankside and the demons returned to plague his mind. The Thames did not just snake through London on its way to the sea. Its broad back kept Anne Hendrik and him far apart. They would need more than a bridge to join themselves together again.

Nicholas was still brooding by the quayside when the river was teeming with boats and flanked by scores of people about their daily work. Kneeling down low, he cupped his hands to scoop up some water and let it run over his face. As he began the noisy walk to the Queen’s Head, he felt refreshed and ready to begin his own day.

Blackfriars displaced Anne Hendrik from his thoughts. The second visit to the theatre had yielded much. Aided by Caleb Hay’s sketch, he had been able to take his bearings with more accuracy and James Ingram had pointed out aspects of the precinct which had gone unremarked before. A most fashionable quarter of London had baulked at the notion of a public playhouse in their midst, yet the most successful private theatre in England stood in its place. He wondered how many of the residents who had signed the earlier petition were keen spectators at Blackfriars.

Raphael Parsons now came into the reckoning as a murder suspect. Their first meeting, Nicholas believed, had been deliberately engineered to throw suspicion off the victim’s business partner. Pretending to investigate the crime on his own account, Parsons sought to put himself beyond any investigation. No stage management had been possible before their second encounter. He was taken unawares. His truculent manner, his wild threats and his refusal to account for his precise whereabouts at the time of the murder combined to make him a potential killer.

Nicholas was convinced that the man’s vicious rows with his partner were as much over money as over the treatment of the young actors. Long service with Westfield’s Men had given the book holder an insight into the perilous finances of a theatre company. Blackfriars might not be at the mercy of the elements in the same way as the Queen’s Head, but there was still rent to pay, costumes to buy, scenery and properties to provide, expensive stage equipment to be installed, and the theatre itself to be cleaned and maintained.

When Nicholas added the fees for commissioning new plays with unceasing regularity, he could see how high the running costs must be. The Blackfriars audience might pay higher prices to view the entertainment, but it was much smaller in size than the public playhouses and the gatherers would take less at a performance even than at the Queen’s Head. Raphael Parsons had to drive his actors hard to make a profit. He would not thank the soft-hearted Cyril Fulbeck for standing in his way.

Consideration of the theatre manager inevitably brought him around to the case of Philip Robinson and that let Anne Hendrik back into his mind. He brooded afresh on her until a voice hailed him. Nicholas looked up to see Nathan Curtis emerging from the crowd to join him as he turned into Gracechurch Street.

‘Early again, Nathan. You put the rest to shame.’

‘There are two benches to repair, a coffin to strengthen and a wooden leg to make.’

‘A carpenter is always in request.’

‘Until you go on tour. My trade falls asleep then.’

‘Theatre is a cruel master.’

They were still chatting as they turned in through the archway of the Queen’s Head and made for the rooms which they rented as storage areas. Costumes, properties and scenic devices were expensive items, kept under lock and key at all times. Nicholas was alarmed, therefore, when he tried the first door and found it already unlocked.

‘Someone is here before us?’ said Curtis.

‘Not from the company. Only I have the key.’

‘Who, then, can it be?’

Nicholas drew a cautionary dagger before opening the door. With Curtis behind him, he stepped into the room used as their wardrobe. Nothing seemed to be missing, but he was certain that someone had been in there. A creaking sound took his attention to the room beyond. It was the place where they stored their properties and scenery, and where the carpenter stowed his tools overnight. Nicholas crept over to the door and lifted the latch gently. The door was unlocked but it would only open a matter of inches before it met an obstruction.

Putting his shoulder to the timber, he applied more pressure and there was a scraping noise as a heavy object was pushed across the floorboards. The creaking sound continued throughout and the two of them froze in their tracks when they saw what was causing it.

Jonas Applegarth was hanging from the central beam by a thick rope. As he swayed to and fro, the stout timber creaked under his weight. His face was bloated, his eyes staring, his body twisted into an unnatural shape. His shoes were dangling only inches above the floor, but that short distance was enough to separate him from life. A man of enormous vitality and power had been reduced to an inert hulk.

The object which had impeded them was an open coffin jammed against the door. Reeling from the shock, Curtis bent over his handiwork and spewed uncontrollably into it. Nicholas recovered more quickly. He saw that the rope went over the beam and was tied off on a wooden cleat fixed to the wall. After unwinding it carefully, he took the full strain and lowered Applegarth’s body to the ground with as much consideration as he could.

Nathan Curtis turned to help him but their examination of the body was cut short by another noise. It was a weird and maniacal cackle, which seemed to come from an adjoining room and which rose in volume and intensity until it filled the whole place. The carpenter was terrified by the sound but Nicholas had heard it once before. The Laughing Hangman had returned.

Diving to the other door in the room, Nicholas tried to open it but found it locked. He fumbled for his key and inserted into quickly into the lock. The adjoining chamber was the company’s tiring-house. By the time that Nicholas burst into it, the laughter had stopped and the place was empty. He went through the door that led to the yard but could see no sign of a fleeing figure. Guests were departing, ostlers were going about their business, a servant wielded a broom. When he dashed back into the tiring-house, he tried a third door in the chamber. It opened on to the passageway that led all the way down to the taproom.

Nicholas raced along it, searching each room and alcove that he passed. When he reached the taproom, the door opened before him and he came face to face with Alexander Marwood.

‘What’s amiss?’ demanded the landlord.

‘Did anyone come through this door a moment ago?’

‘I saw nobody.’

‘Are you certain, sir?’

‘My eyesight is sound.’

‘Where, then, did he go?’

Nicholas went back along the passageway to see if he had missed anything. Scenting trouble, the landlord trotted at his heels with face aghast and hands clutching the air.

‘What new calamity has befallen me?’ he wailed.

‘Send for the law, Master Marwood.’

‘Thieves have got in? Property has been stolen?’

‘It is a more serious crime than that.’

‘Fire has been started on my premises?’

‘Summon the constables.’

‘Dear God!’ howled Marwood, fearing that the worst had finally happened. ‘My daughter, Rose, has been ravished by one of your goatish actors!’

Nicholas took him by the shoulders to calm him.

‘Be still, sir,’ he soothed. ‘No theft, no arson and no assault upon your daughter. A greater affliction has struck us. There has been murder at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Murder!’

The word sent the landlord into a fresh paroxysm of apprehension. His body shuddered, his hands slapped his balding head and three nervous twitches united together to turn his eyebrows into a pair of mating caterpillars. Nicholas propelled him back towards the taproom.

‘Fetch assistance!’ he ordered. ‘Raise the alarm!’

Marwood scuttled off like a chicken pursued by an axe.

‘Murder! What, ho! Help!’

Abandoning the search, Nicholas made his way swiftly back to the room where Applegarth lay. It was important to look for clues and to guard the body from the invasion of ghoulish interest which the landlord’s cries were bound to excite. Other members of the company would soon be arriving. They had to be shielded from the horror of viewing the corpse. Death would deprive them of the day’s audience. There could be no performance that afternoon.

When Nicholas entered the room, the body lay in the exact position where he had left it. Nathan Curtis was still there but he had been joined by someone else. Nicholas was jolted. While the carpenter gazed down reverentially at Jonas Applegarth, his companion stared at the murder victim with a smile of quiet satisfaction.

James Ingram turned away to look across at Nicholas.

‘Do not ask me to mourn him,’ he said. ‘I will not.’