The Laughing Hangman

by Edward Marston

‘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.

  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. T
hat 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 bot
h 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!’