It was a moving ceremony, conducted with due solemnity by the Bishop of London and held in the Chapel which Fulbeck had served with such exceptional dedication. The choir were in fine voice as they bade farewell to their mentor and Philip Robinson was allowed the privilege of a solo. The funeral oration paid tribute to the work and character of the deceased while tactfully omitting any reference to the manner of his death. Silent tears lubricated the whole service, and when the coffin was borne out, even Her Majesty was seen to lift a gloved hand to her cheek.
Yet still the murder remained unsolved. Pressure from above was strong and the official investigation was as thorough as it could be, but little evidence had been unearthed as yet and the Queen let it be known that she was displeased. Now that his body had been laid to rest, Cyril Fulbeck deserved to be avenged in the most prompt way. Additional men were assigned to help with the search for his killer.
Raphael Parsons kept his head bent and his thoughts to himself throughout the funeral. When the burial had taken place, he waited until the congregation left in strict order of precedence before slipping away in the direction of Blackfriars. When he reached the theatre, he was annoyed to see a sturdy figure waiting for him.
‘I am glad I have caught you,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Pray excuse me, sir. I am too busy to talk.’
‘But there is no performance here today.’
‘Sadly, no,’ said Parsons.
‘Even you would not expect to stage a play only hours after the funeral of the Master of the Chapel.’
‘I most certainly would. Sentiment and commerce must be kept apart. We cannot let the former dictate the latter. I was sorry to see my old friend laid in his grave, but I would not, from choice, let it affect the entertainment here.’
‘Is that not like dancing on a man’s tomb?’
‘Not in my opinion.’
‘Do you take no account of your actors?’
‘Actors exist to act.’
‘They have feelings, Master Parsons,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Senses, emotions, loyalties. That is especially true of your young company. Their hearts were not hacked from the same flint as your own. I’ll wager they did not want to tread the boards today.’
‘I’d have made them!’
‘They would have hated you for it. Westfield’s Men did not think twice about performance yesterday. When we discovered the body of Jonas Applegarth, the play cancelled itself. Not a member of the company could have been forced upon that scaffold.’
‘I’d have willingly taken their place,’ volunteered the manager. ‘Applegarth dead! I’d have danced a jig all afternoon to mark the occasion!’
Nicholas smarted. ‘Where were you when he was killed?’ he said. ‘With your friend in Ireland Yard?’
‘What is that to you?’
‘I wondered if you would use the same lie twice.’
‘I never used it once,’ retorted the other. ‘Yesterday morning, when that blessed hangman was testing Applegarth’s weight, I was here at Blackfriars.’
‘At dawn?’
‘My day starts early.’
‘Was any else here with you?’
‘Not for an hour or so,’ admitted Parsons. ‘But then Geoffrey, the porter, arrived. He’ll vouch for me.’
‘I am only interested in the exact time when Jonas Applegarth was murdered,’ said Nicholas. ‘You have a story but no witness to its credence. It is so with the death of Cyril Fulbeck. You claim to be in Ireland Yard when that occurred. But nobody there will speak up for you.’
Parsons bridled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have asked them all.’
‘The devil take you!’
‘Most residents did not even know who Raphael Parsons was.’
‘You had the gall to intrude on my privacy?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘By what right?’
‘Simple curiosity,’ said Nicholas easily, ‘and the urge to catch a foul murderer. Whoever killed Cyril Fulbeck used the same villainy on Jonas Applegarth. If he was not in Ireland Yard when he claims, he may not have been at the Blackfriars Theatre when he alleges. Do you follow my reasoning?’
‘Hell and damnation!’
Parsons lashed out a hand to strike Nicholas but the book holder was far too quick. He seized the manager’s wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, then pushed him to the ground. Parsons cursed aloud. Rolling over, he got slowly and painfully to his feet, dusting himself off and regarding Nicholas with growling hostility.
‘Let us begin again,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where were you when Cyril Fulbeck was hanged by the neck?’
‘In Ireland Yard.’
‘That lie will not serve.’
‘Ireland Yard!’ repeated Parsons through gritted teeth.
‘Then why will nobody come forward?’
‘Why do you think, man?’
‘Tell me.’
Parsons looked around furtively to make sure that they were not overheard, then glared at Nicholas. After much agonising, he decided that the only way to get rid of his visitor was to tell him a measure of the truth.
‘My dear friend in Ireland Yard is not in a position to acknowledge my friendship,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘She is married.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do not ask me to give you her name and address, for that is too great a betrayal. Just accept that I was with the lady at the time when Cyril Fulbeck was hanged.’ He glanced in the direction of Ireland Yard. ‘She would also swear that I was with her at dawn yesterday morning. Her husband is a merchant and travelling to Holland. Do I need to say more?’
Nicholas shook his head. He knew the man was telling the truth now. It absolved him of both murders and took away the one obvious link between Fulbeck and Applegarth. Parsons argued with the one and fulminated against the other. He gave more detail of his relationship with both men.
‘That was what we were quarrelling about only hours before he was killed,’ he said. ‘Cyril found out about her. He read me a sermon on the virtues of marriage and the evils of adultery. Was I a fit person to be put in charge of his choristers when I was committing a dreadful sin? Would not my mere presence corrupt their young minds? Arrant nonsense!’
‘What did you say?’ asked Nicholas.
‘What any man would have said. In round terms, I told him not to meddle in my affairs. What I do between the sheets, when I do it, and with whom, is my affair. I called him a vestal virgin and stormed out of the theatre.’
‘Before going straight to Ireland Yard?’
Parsons grinned. ‘I felt in need of consolation.’ The rancour returned. ‘As for your second accusation, I can rebut that as well. I hated Jonas Applegarth but I did not hang him. I was enjoying other pleasures at the time.’
‘Why did you detest him so?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Ask of him why he detested me? For that is how it began. We admired his plays greatly and invited him to write one for the Chapel Children. And what did he do?’
‘Reject the offer and rail at you.’
‘Then continue that railing in The Misfortunes of Marriage. We work hard here in Blackfriars and have problems enough to contend with. Why should that bloated knave be allowed to sneer at everything we did? It was unjust. Applegarth simply had to be put down somehow.’
‘With a knife in his back?’
‘That was one way,’ said the manager calmly. ‘I prefer to stab him in the chest with a Prologue.’
Nicholas studied him for a moment with quiet contempt. There was nothing more to be gained from the confrontation, yet he found it difficult to walk away. The manager might have proved that he was not the Laughing Hangman, but Nicholas still felt that the man had some blood on his ha
nds. Had he planned the murders and left a confederate to commit them? His work at Blackfriars was a testimony to his theatrical skills. Could not those same skills be used to stage two hangings?
Parsons taunted him. ‘Have you done with me?’ he said.
‘For the moment.’
‘Good. I must prepare for my rehearsal.’
‘On the day of the funeral?’
‘They’ve taken the performance from me. I’ll not be robbed of a rehearsal as well. The boys are coming here after Evensong.’
‘Why are you making them do this?’
‘I am not,’ said Parsons. ‘They requested it. Ask them, if you do not believe me. You are welcome to watch us, for we only rehearse a few scenes. The boys are rightly upset by the funeral. They want to push it out of their minds for a couple of hours.’ He peered at Nicholas. ‘Have you never lost yourself in work to escape your thoughts?’
***
Evensong filled the whole building with the most beauteous sound, climbing up into the vaulted roof and penetrating every corner of the chancel and the nave before seeping down into the dank crypt to swirl around the ears of the dead. Ambrose Robinson was oblivious to it all. He knew that Anne Hendrik would be in the congregation but he did not even try to catch a glimpse of her, still less attempt to sit beside her. She now belonged to his past.
When he looked at the choir, he did not see the upturned faces of the boys as they offered their praise up to God. What he noted was the absence of his son from his accustomed position in the stalls. Evensong had always been an occasion of great joy to him when Philip Robinson’s voice was an essential part of it. Without him, the service had become an ordeal for his father.
Nor did the sermon offer any comfort or inspiration. The meaningless drone of the vicar’s voice was a grim reminder of another service at the same place of worship. When Robinson’s wife was buried there, the vicar had consoled him with the simple statement that it was the will of God. Philip Robinson’s enforced departure to the Chapel Royal was also characterised by the vicar as the will of God, and the butcher was certain that he would describe the loss of Anne Hendrik in the same way.
One bereavement was enough to bear. Three were quite insupportable. Wife, son and potential second wife. He had lost them all and was now left with an existence that was both empty and pointless. The vicar might counsel resignation but Robinson refused to accept that counsel any more. He would not simply lie down and let the stone wheels of Fate roll over him time and again. He would get up and fight.
With the service still in progress, therefore, he rose from his seat and marched up the aisle before the surprised eyes of the other parishioners. A gust of wind blew in as he opened the west door. Robinson did not hear the rustle of complaint that ran up and down the benches and pews. His mind was on more unholy matters than Evensong.
When he reached his shop, he let himself in and stood in front of his bench. He surveyed the weaponry which hung from the ceiling on iron hooks. Knives, skewers, cleavers and axes were kept clean and sharp at all times. It was a matter of pride with him. Everything was in readiness for the morrow, but some butchery was now called for on the Sabbath. Ambrose Robinson selected a cleaver and examined its blade with his thumb. It was honed to perfection.
He set off on the long walk towards redemption.
***
Nicholas Bracewell decided to avail himself of the chance to watch the evening rehearsal at Blackfriars and he timed his return to the theatre accordingly. He was halfway across the Great Yard before he noticed Caleb Hay. Tucked away in the far corner, the old man was scanning the buildings with a small telescope. Nicholas walked across to him.
‘Good-even, good sir!’ he called. ‘Is your eyesight grown so bad that you need a telescope to see something that is right in front of you?’
‘You mistake me,’ said Hay with a chuckle. ‘What I look at is the distant past. You see only the vestigial remains of Blackfriars. I was trying to map out, in my mind’s eye, the full extent of the old monastery. Then I may draw my plan.’
‘I would be most interested to see it.’
‘In time, sir. All in good time.’
Nicholas remembered something. ‘I am glad we have met,’ he said. ‘Andrew Mompesson. Was not he your father-in-law?’
‘Indeed, he was. A sterling fellow and a bookseller of high repute. He taught me much.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘And he entrusted me with the best volume on his shelves when he gave me the hand of his daughter.’
Nicholas smiled, but he was not sure that Hay would make such a gallant remark about his wife in the woman’s presence. Joan Hay had the look of someone who had been starved of compliments for a considerable time.
‘It is an unusual name,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why it stuck in my mind. Andrew Mompesson. He was among the signatories on that petition against the opening of a public theatre in Blackfriars.’
‘Your memory serves you well. My father-in-law helped to draw up that petition. He allowed me to make a fair copy of it, which is what I was able to show you.’
‘Did he live to see the present theatre opened?’
‘Mercifully, no,’ said Hay. ‘It would have broken his heart. The precinct was still unsullied by a playhouse when he died. No sound of drums and trumpets disturbed his peace. No swarming crowds went past his front door seven days a week. No actors mocked the spirit of Blackfriars with their blasphemy and lewd behaviour. He died happy. How many of us will be able to say that?’
‘Not many.’
‘Not poor Cyril Fulbeck, certainly. God rest his soul!’ Head to one side, he looked up at Nicholas. ‘Is that what has brought you here once more? The hunt for his murderer?’
‘Yes, Master Hay.’
‘And are you any closer to catching him?’
‘I believe so.’
‘That is excellent news.’
‘It is only a matter of time now.’
‘You deserve great credit for taking this task upon yourself when the Master of the Chapel meant nothing to you.’ He heaved a sigh of regret. ‘If only I had strength enough for it. Cyril Fulbeck was kind to me. I have many reasons to avenge his death but lack the means to do so.’
‘But for him, you might still be incarcerated.’
A hollow laugh. ‘That is more than possible.’
‘Which prison did they lock you in?’
‘The Clink.’
The approach of feet deflected their attention to the other side of the yard. Choristers from the Chapel Royal were processing towards the theatre with their heads bowed in reverential silence. Philip Robinson was at the front of the column as it wended its way in through the main door. Caleb Hay was duly horrified.
‘There surely cannot be a performance this evening!’
‘A short rehearsal only.’
‘On the Sabbath? In the wake of a funeral?’
‘Raphael Parsons is allowing me to watch them.’
‘Then I will take myself away,’ said the old man as he put his telescope into his pocket. ‘This is no place for me. Choristers making a foul spectacle of themselves upon a stage! Sanctity and sin are one under the instruction of Raphael Parsons. There’s your killer, sir. That man will murder the Sabbath itself.’
Hay made a dignified exit from the Great Yard. Nicholas made his way across to the theatre and explained to the porter why he had come. Geoffrey Bless surprised him.
‘Then you will have seen Master Ingram,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘A few minutes ago when he left the theatre.’
‘He was here?’
‘Talking to me even as you are now.’
‘I saw no sign of him.’
‘You could not have missed him,’ said the porter. ‘If you came across the Great Yard, you would need
to be blind to miss him. I wonder that Master Ingram did not hail you.’
Nicholas was wondering the same thing. He decided that Ingram must have seen him first and concealed himself in one of the angles of the building. It was strange behaviour for a friend. He went swiftly back through the main door and looked around, but Ingram was nowhere to be seen. Nicholas concluded that he might not yet have left the premises. He returned to the ancient porter.
‘What was James doing here?’
‘He called in to see me, sir,’ said Geoffrey. ‘To talk over old times when Blackfriars was a happier place to be.’
‘How long was he here?’
‘Above an hour.’
‘Did he know that there was a rehearsal this evening?’
‘I told him so.’
‘What was his reaction?’
‘He thought it wrong, sir. On the day of the funeral.’
The porter’s eyes moistened. He was old and tired. Murder in the Blackfriars Theatre had taken all the spirit out of him. Alert and watchful before, Geoffrey Bless was now a broken man. It would not be difficult for someone like James Ingram to slip unnoticed back into the building.
Nicholas went up the staircase and let himself into the theatre as quietly as he could. Raphael Parsons was standing on stage, clapping his hands to summon his actors. Having changed into costume for the rehearsal, they drifted out from the tiring-house. Philip Robinson was the last to come, wearing a dress and pulling on an auburn wig. Nicholas took a seat at the very back of the auditorium. Parsons and his young company seemed unaware of his presence.
‘We’ll rehearse the Trial Scene,’ announced the manager. ‘Philip Robinson?’
‘Yes, sir?’ said the boy.
‘You must carry the action here. All depends on you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Regal bearing, Philip. Remember that. You may be in chains but you are still a queen. Regal bearing even in the face of adversity. Clear the stage. Set the scene.’
Parsons jumped down into the auditorium and caught sight of Nicholas. He gave his visitor a noncommittal nod before turning back to his work. The stagekeeper set a table and benches on stage, then vacated it quickly.
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