‘How will you find him, Nick? Where will you start to look? You have no clues to guide you. The murderer vanished into thin air. I caught no glimpse of him when I ran to the window.’ He shrugged his shoulders in despair. ‘It is hopeless. You have no notion whom you seek.’
‘Yes, I do. A Laughing Hangman.’
***
Anne Hendrik was not expecting any visitors to her Bankside house that evening, and she was consequently surprised when there was a knock on the front door. Her servant answered it and the sound of Nicholas Bracewell’s voice filtered into the parlour. Putting her embroidery aside, Anne rose to greet him with spontaneous pleasure.
‘Nick!’
‘I am sorry to disturb you so late.’
‘You are more than welcome.’
‘Thank you, Anne.’
She offered both hands and he squeezed them gently. That moment alone redeemed in his mind an otherwise grim evening. For the first time in a year, he was back in the house he had shared with her, and it was both exciting and unnerving. Thrilled to be within those walls again, he was painfully aware of the parting that had taken place between the two of them in that same parlour. Nostalgia touched them both deeply and bathed their mutual wounds.
The silence and the mood were shattered by an urgent banging on the door. The servant opened it to admit an eager Ambrose Robinson. Blundering straight into the parlour, he grabbed Nicholas by the arm.
‘Have you brought news of Philip?’
‘Master Ambrose-’
‘I saw you as you walked past my shop,’ explained the butcher. ‘Even in the shadows, I could not mistake you. Those broad shoulders and that long stride could belong only to our Nicholas Bracewell. Have you been to Blackfriars?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it! What transpired?’
‘If you will calm down, I will tell you.’
‘Did you see Philip? Have they agreed to release him?’
‘Stop badgering him, Ambrose,’ said Anne. ‘Take a seat and let Nick explain in his own time.’
Robinson accepted the rebuke with his ingratiating smile and moved to a stool. Anne resumed her own seat and Nicholas remained standing to pass on his tidings. The note of oily familiarity in ‘our Nicholas Bracewell’ still grated on his ear. After one short meeting, Robinson was presuming a bond of friendship that would never exist between them. The book holder was brief.
‘I went to Blackfriars this evening in the hope of speaking with Cyril Fulbeck, but that is no longer possible. Master Fulbeck is dead.’
‘Dead?’ repeated Anne. ‘Was his illness that severe?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘God in Heaven!’
She was utterly shocked, but Ambrose Robinson took an almost perverse delight in the news. As Nicholas gave the two of them full details of what had happened, the butcher came close to smirking. Anne Hendrik offered wholehearted sympathy to the victim, but her neighbour saw it only as a form of crude justice.
‘Fulbeck deserved it,’ he grunted.
‘Ambrose!’ exclaimed Anne in reproach.
‘No man deserves such an end,’ said Nicholas.
‘He stole Philip away from me.’
‘Cyril Fulbeck’s death may make it far more difficult to gain your son’s release. By common report, he was a gentle and well-loved Master of the Chapel. His assistant will now take over his duties, but the theatre will be entirely in the hands of Raphael Parsons. He is the one from whom we must wrest your son, and he will be far less amenable than the man whose murder brings you such cruel pleasure. Your joyful response is both premature and in poor taste.’
Robinson was far less abashed by Nicholas’s strictures than by the glances of disapproval from Anne Hendrik. For her sake, he mumbled an apology, but his eye still had some truculence in it when it met the book holder’s. Every time the name of Cyril Fulbeck was mentioned, the butcher sat there in quiet exaltation.
‘What will happen next?’ asked Anne.
‘The law will take its course,’ said Nicholas, ‘though not with any great speed, I fear. Constables were summoned to the scene and they made examination of the corpse. James Ingram and I helped all we could, then gave sworn statements to the magistrate. The search for the killer has started.’
‘I hope and pray that they catch him,’ said Anne.
‘We will,’ vowed Nicholas.
‘Are there sufficient clues that point to a murderer?’
‘Not as yet, but they will emerge.’
‘Poor man!’ sighed Anne. ‘Did he have a family?’
‘Only the choir. All twenty of them will mourn him. Eight vicars choral and twelve choirboys.’
‘Philip will not shed a tear,’ promised Robinson.
‘He may have more compassion than his father.’
‘And more tact, Ambrose,’ chided Anne. ‘Show a proper respect for the deceased. Your attitude is unseemly.’
‘Then you are right to tax me with it,’ said the butcher with a surge of regret. ‘I do not mean to upset you in any way, Anne, but you know my situation. If someone takes your son away, it is difficult to feel anything but hostility towards him. That is only natural but it is also unworthy, as you point out. I accept your correction. Forgive me.’
‘It is Nick’s forgiveness you should seek, Ambrose. Not mine. He would never have ventured into Blackfriars except on an errand from you.’
‘True, true. I spoke out of turn. I crave his pardon.’
There was a bungling politeness about the man which made Nicholas wonder yet again how he had wormed his way into Anne’s affections, but the book holder had given his word in front of her and could not go back on that now.
‘This is bound to force a delay,’ he explained, ‘and it may be some time before I can secure an interview with Master Fulbeck’s assistant or with Raphael Parsons. When they have a murder on their hands, we cannot expect them to put the future of one chorister to the forefront of their minds.’
‘Philip is at the forefront of my mind always!’ said the father proudly. ‘We must rescue him. If there is a killer stalking the Blackfriars playhouse, my son must be brought back to the safety of his own home as soon as possible. His own life may be at risk.’
‘We must let Nick handle this,’ said Anne.
‘Of course, of course.’
‘He will judge when the time is right to go back.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Nicholas to the butcher, ‘you must temper your anger with a little patience. Your son may not be as ill-used as you fear. While at Blackfriars Theatre, we took the opportunity to speak with the porter there, one Geoffrey Bless, who has been involved with the choristers for many a year. He knows them all by name and spoke well of young Philip Robinson.’
‘What did he say?’ demanded the father.
‘Little beyond the fact that the lad always had a civil word for him and worked as hard as he was able. Your son is a diligent and talented chorister.’
‘That much is not in doubt.’
‘One thing still is,’ said Nicholas. ‘Philip is not the sole victim of Raphael Parsons. All the boys are swinged soundly if they do not attain the high standards which he sets them. Yet none of them is trying to leave the Chapel Children or writing home to entreat some intercession from a parent.’
Robinson’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Your son is the only apostate. Why is that?’
‘You read his letters. You could see his terror.’
‘His friends do not seem to share it.’
‘I do not care a fig for the others!’
‘Ambrose!’ reprimanded Anne.
‘My son is in pain. I must save him.’
‘Nicholas is working to that end.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the book holder, ‘and the more facts I have at my disposal, the better am I able to act on his behalf. That is why I would like to know why eleven choristers can tolerate a situation that one finds quite unendurable. I will look i
nto it. Bear this in mind, however. Westfield’s Men have first claim on my time and my energy.’
‘I explained that,’ said Anne.
‘I want to hear that Master Robinson understands it.’
The butcher squirmed slightly in his seat before nodding his assent. His face moved slowly into a smile of appeasement, but Nicholas saw the muted resentment in his eyes. Ambrose Robinson was evidently a man who could shift from friendship to enmity with no intervening stages. He was no longer taking such obvious satisfaction from the demise of Cyril Fulbeck. He was dripping with envy. Accustomed to slaughtering animals with brutal efficiency, he felt cheated that the Master of the Chapel had escaped the even more horrific death that he would have inflicted upon him.
Nicholas also sensed danger of another kind, and it touched off his protective instinct again. Anne Hendrik had to be guarded from the man. The butcher would pursue his own ends with single-minded determination. Rescuing his son from the Chapel Children was the normal act of a concerned parent, but Nicholas now realised that it was only the first stage in Robinson’s domestic plans. Marriage to Anne Hendrik was his next target. In confiding his problem to her, he had both flattered her by showing such trust and activated all her maternal impulses. Anne was wholly committed to the rescue of Philip Robinson.
Annoyed at first to be inveigled into the situation in which he found himself, Nicholas was now almost grateful. It would not only introduce him to the Chapel Children and give him an insight into the way that his young theatrical rivals operated, it would enable him to keep a watchful eye on the amorous butcher.
‘When will you go back to Blackfriars?’ asked Robinson.
‘When time serves,’ said Nicholas.
‘Please inform me of everything that happens.’
‘I will get in touch with Anne.’
Her smile of gratitude was a rich reward for his pains.
***
Success was an ephemeral pleasure in the theatre. It soon evaporated and could never be taken for granted. The day after the Queen’s Head had reverberated to the cheers for The Misfortunes of Marriage, the troupe were back on the same makeshift stage to rehearse The History of King John. It was a staple drama from their repertoire and was beginning to look well worn. Edmund Hoode patched it assiduously each time it was played again, but even his art could not turn the piece into anything more than workmanlike chronicle. In the wake of Jonas Applegarth’s play, it was bound to look dull and uninspiring. Westfield’s Men would have to strive hard in order to lift King John to the level of a minor achievement. It could never emulate the triumph that was The Misfortunes of Marriage.
Lawrence Firethorn was all too conscious of this fact.
‘From a mountain peak,’ he said, striking a pose, ‘down to the foothills. From cold Sir Marcus to Bad King John.’
‘The play has served us well in the past,’ reminded Edmund Hoode. ‘You have Magna Carta-red your way through it fifty times without complaint.’
‘That was before we had Jonas Applegarth.’
Hoode recoiled visibly. He was less hurt by the blow to his pride than by the implications of Firethorn’s remark. The playwright had gritted his teeth to endure close proximity to Applegarth in the hope that the latter was a bird of passage. Was a more permanent relationship with the company now envisaged? Hoode was bound to wonder where that eventuality would leave its resident playwright.
‘No offence meant to you,’ said Firethorn hastily, when he saw the dismay on the other’s face. ‘And it will not affect your position among us in any way, Edmund.’
‘I am relieved to hear that.’
‘You will always be our leading author. You are the very foundation of Westfield’s Men. Take but you away and we all tumble into a bottomless pit.’
He went off for a few minutes into such a fulsome paean of praise that Hoode lowered his guard. They were standing in the innyard after the morning’s rehearsal. Five yards away was the stage on which most of Hoode’s plays had first come to life before an admiring audience. Firethorn’s eulogy bolstered his self-esteem and made him feel deeply heartened. It did not last. Reassurance soon changed to dread.
‘On the other hand,’ warned Firethorn, ‘we would be fools to spurn a dramatic jewel when it falls into our lap, and The Misfortunes of Marriage is unquestionably such a jewel. That is why we must stage it again.’
‘Again?’
‘Again and again and again.’
‘It is to be our sole offering, then?’
‘Of course not, Edmund. Every jewel needs a setting and we will surround it with baser material.’
‘My plays!’
‘No, not yours,’ said Firethorn, trying to placate him. ‘Well, not only yours. That does not mean your art is base or merely semi-precious. Far from it, man. You shower the stage with diamonds every time you pick up your pen and dazzle every eye. But Jonas has given us a much larger stone.’
‘I feel the weight of it around my neck.’
‘He has enriched us all beyond measure. Westfield’s Men must respond accordingly.’ Firethorn bestowed an affectionate smile on his friend before hitting him with his decision. ‘That is why we play The Misfortunes of Marriage at The Rose.’
Hoode gulped. ‘The Rose?’
‘Ten days hence.’
‘But my new play was to have graced The Rose!’
‘And so it will, Edmund. In time, in time.’
‘We so rarely seize upon the chance to work at the theatre. It may be months before The Faithful Shepherd travels to Bankside.’
‘A good play is like a good wine, old friend. It improves with age. Store it until a fitter time.’
‘Why cannot Jonas do that with his play?’
‘Because it has already been uncorked. It has already been tasted. You saw that audience yesterday. Drunk with joy at the play and doubly drunk with my performance as Sir Marcus Coldbed. They clamour for more. We must slake their thirst.’
‘But not at The Rose, surely?’
‘Where better?’
‘Lawrence, you promised.’
‘And I will keep that promise-in due course.’
‘The Faithful Shepherd stands first in line.’
‘Jonas Applegarth leaps over it.’
‘That is unjust.’
‘Theatre mixes pain with its plaudits.’
‘This is cruel in the extreme.’
‘Is it not a greater cruelty to deny our patrons what they demand? We serve a fickle public, Edmund. Soon, they may cast The Misfortunes of Marriage away as worthless trash. At this moment, however, it is the talk of London. Lord Westfield himself was so entranced with the piece, he’ll not rest until everyone at Court has been told about it. He insists that it take pride of place at The Rose.’
‘Lord Westfield insists?’
‘That was my understanding,’ lied Firethorn, using the one argument that Hoode could not defeat. ‘Who am I to flout the express wishes of our generous patron?’
Hoode sagged. ‘Then am I truly lost.’
‘Your day will come again.’
‘Will I live to enjoy it, though?’
Firethorn chuckled. ‘I knew that you would accept this unwonted check with fortitude. Be not afraid of Jonas Applegarth. He has not come to displace you in any way. Edmund Hoode is what he has always been to Westfield’s Men. Our faithful shepherd.’
‘Then why let a wolf into the fold?’
‘We keep him well muzzled.’
‘Look to your lambs. His claws can still kill.’
‘It is decided.’
Lawrence Firethorn tossed his cloak over his shoulder and strode off towards the tiring-house, leaving Hoode speechless with indignation. A play over which he had laboured devotedly for months had been pushed contemptuously aside. It was an honour to have any work staged at a fine playhouse like The Rose, and The Faithful Shepherd was written specifically for that theatre. Jonas Applegarth had robbed him of that honour. Hoode had one more reason to rese
nt the obese interloper.
He was distraught. He felt completely estranged from Westfield’s Men. It was as if members of his own family had turned him out of the house in favour of a newcomer. Hoode contemplated suicide. Had he been standing on London Bridge, he would certainly have jumped off it, howling the name of Applegarth with defiance before hitting the cold water and drowning with alacrity.
While he was at the very nadir of his career, Fate stepped in to save him. It came in the shape of Rose Marwood, the landlord’s daughter, a vivacious young woman with long dark hair and a readiness to please. How two parents as physically repellent as Alexander and Sybil Marwood could produce such an attractive creature between them he did not know, but it often exercised his mind. It was rather as if two gargoyles had copulated in order to produce a statute of a Madonna.
Hoode had once conceived a foolish passion for her that led only to humiliation, and so he tended to keep clear of the landlord’s daughter. Rose’s shining face was now an embarrassment to him.
‘I have a message for you, Master Hoode,’ she said.
‘For me?’
‘Put it into his hands, I was told.’
‘By whom?’
‘The lady who gave it to me.’
‘Lady? What lady?’
‘She would not tell me her name, sir.’
Rose handed over the missive and gave a little curtsey.
‘Can you describe this lady to me?’ he said.
‘I saw her for only a moment, sir. She said that I was to give the letter to you in person. It is a gift.’
‘Gift?’
‘From her mistress.’
Rose giggled, showed two exquisite dimples in her cheeks, and bounded off towards the taproom. Hoode was intrigued. He broke the seal on the letter and opened it to find a red rose pressed inside. Only three words had been written in an elegant hand, but they clutched at his very soul.
“To my love…”
***
Jonas Applegarth scratched his head as he quaffed his beer. The empty tankard was slammed back down on the table by way of a signal and it was soon filled by a serving-man.
‘Who could wish to kill Cyril Fulbeck?’ he wondered.
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