The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  ‘The playhouse was not built until some years later.’

  ‘In 1576, to be precise. Consecrated ground, used as a scaffold for lewd performance. By children, no less! Sweet choristers, whose voices should have been uplifted in praise of their Maker.’ He became sharply self-critical. ‘But I go beyond the bounds of my purpose here. An antiquarian must report the progress of events without making undue comment upon them. What is done is done. Who cares one way or the other what Caleb Hay may think about the Children of the Chapel?’

  ‘I do,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘You are too indulgent, my friend,’ said the other with a smile. ‘When I fulminate against plays and players, you take the blows on your back with Stoic resignation and never offer me a buffeting in return.’

  ‘I admire plain speaking.’

  ‘My guilt is unassuaged. You do not deserve to have my trenchant opinions thrust upon you. I console myself with the thought that a man of the theatre must hear harsher tongues than mine in the course of his working day.’

  ‘That is certainly true,’ said Nicholas, thinking of Lawrence Firethorn’s blistering tirades. ‘But you forget that I sailed around the globe with Sir Francis Drake. Modest language has no place aboard a ship. Men speak in the roundest of terms. Your gibes are holy scripture beside the profanities of seafarers. Rail against the theatre as much as you wish, Master Hay. Simply give me the instruction that I seek.’

  ‘In what particular?’

  ‘Describe the first Blackfriars Theatre.’

  ‘A species of Hell!’

  Nicholas laughed. ‘I wish to know something of its appearance and dimensions. Did it have secret passages leading to it or an underground vault beneath it? What changes were made when it was refurbished? Describe, if you will, all possible ways into the building.’

  ‘You have first to get into the precinct.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Five acres of land is all that is left of the original monastic community. They form the liberty of Blackfriars. It preserves its ancient right of sanctuary. Do you know what other privilege is bestowed upon them?’

  ‘Only too well,’ said Nicholas enviously. ‘They are within the city walls yet free from city jurisdiction. We have no such freedom. While we at the Queen’s Head must perforce observe the Sabbath and forego performance, the Blackfriars Theatre is able to stage its plays on the Lord’s Day with impunity. That is a most important liberty.’

  ‘The theatre is only a small part of the whole. It shares the precinct with the fine houses of respectable families. The whole area is walled and its four gates are locked each night by the porter. Blackfriars is an address of note. You will know, I am sure, that many of its inhabitants fought hard to prevent a theatre from being re-opened on the site.’

  ‘I believe that a petition was drawn up.’

  ‘Drawn up and willingly signed. It kept the boards clear of actors for an interval. Then Cyril Fulbeck made his shameful arrangement with Raphael Parsons.’

  ‘Is that how the Master of the Chapel described it?’ said Nicholas. ‘As a shameful arrangement?’

  ‘I intrude my own prejudices once more,’ said Hay with a note of apology. ‘That is not good, not right, not scholarly. Henceforth, I’ll keep to particulars. What is it you seek? Dimensions and alterations? You will not lack for detail here, Master Bracewell. I will tell you all.’

  Caleb Hay fulfilled his boast. He took his guest on a guided tour of Blackfriars, measuring out each wall, noting each doorway, indicating everything of even moderate significance and generally painting such a vivid picture in words that Nicholas saw the remains of the monastery rising before his eyes. It was uncanny. The older man tried to speak with deliberate calm but a more passionate note crept in from time to time. Here was someone who cared so deeply for the glorious past of London that he still lived in it.

  Nicholas absorbed the salient details and thanked him.

  ‘I will speak further, if you wish,’ offered his host.

  ‘You have told me all I need to know, Master Hay.’

  ‘Pray God that it may help you! If I thought that my knowledge of this flower of cities could somehow lead you to the devils who committed this unspeakable act, I would give you a different lecture on the history of Blackfriars every day of the week.’

  ‘You have been most generous with your time.’

  ‘Call on me again,’ said Hay. ‘I am desirous to know how well your enquiries go. Cyril Fulbeck was as decent a man as any in Christendom. Pursue his killers.’

  ‘I will do so,’ promised Nicholas, ‘but I think that only one person is involved here. A perverse creature who takes delight in his villainy.’

  He thought for a moment of the body swinging helplessly on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre. The Master of the Chapel had been given no chance to resist as the breath of life was squeezed out of him inch by inch. It was a brutal death and it sent a chilling message. Nicholas would not easily forget the pallid horror on the face of the victim. Nor could he erase from his mind the glee of the murderer. That was what appalled him the most. The sound filled his ears so completely and so painfully that he had to shake his head to escape the callous mockery of the Laughing Hangman.

  ***

  Too much drink and too little conversation had left Edmund Hoode in a state of maudlin confusion. Seated alone in a corner of the taproom at the Queen’s Head, he was oblivious to the raucous jollity all around him. He sipped, he meditated, he sank ever deeper into bewilderment. Hoode was not sure whether he should be devastated by the tidings from Lawrence Firethorn or inspired by the message from Rose Marwood, and so he shifted with speed between despair and hope until they blended in his mind. A look of inebriated perplexity settled on his moonlike face.

  A friendly arm descended upon his shoulder.

  ‘Come, Edmund,’ said a lilting voice. ‘Time to leave.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he murmured.

  ‘You need help to get home. Lean on me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because those legs of yours would not take you more than seven yards towards Silver Street.’

  To prove his point, Owen Elias hoisted him up, then let go of him. Hoode swayed violently, steadied himself on edge of the table, then felt a surge of confidence. He took three bold strides across the floor before losing his balance and pitching forward. The Welshman caught him just in time.

  ‘Let’s do it my way,’ he said jovially. ‘Otherwise, you must crawl back to your lodging on all fours.’

  ‘You are a true friend, Owen.’

  ‘I know that you would do the same for me.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ mumbled the other.

  It was an unlikely eventuality. Hoode was frequently overcome by alcohol, grief or unrequited love, and sometimes by a lethal combination of all three. Elias, by contrast, could carouse endlessly without lapsing into anything more than merriment or music, rarely gave way to sorrow, and led a career of cheerful lechery among the womenfolk of London. Half-carrying the drooping poet, he came out into the night and headed slowly towards Cripplegate Ward.

  ‘What is her name, Edmund?’ he asked.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Your heart is heavy, my friend. I can feel the full weight pressing down on me. It is an all too familiar burden. Who is she this time?’

  ‘I do not know, Owen.’

  ‘A lady without a name?’

  ‘Without a name, a face or substance of any kind.’

  ‘An invisible creature?’

  ‘To all intents.’

  ‘Explain.’

  To provide anything as logical as an explanation placed an enormous strain on Hoode’s shattered senses, but he did his best. As he ambled along, supported by his friend, he tried to piece together the events of a day which had both destroyed and resurrected him. No sooner had his new play been evicted than an anonymous tenant moved into his heart. He pulled out the flower which he had slipped under his doublet. Crushed and forlorn, it
yet retained the fragrance of its message. Elias noted the irony of the situation.

  ‘You have lost one Rose and gained another,’ he observed. ‘Two, if we count the landlord’s comely daughter. Rose Marwood is a rose in full bloom. It is a source of great regret to me that even my skilful hands have not been able to pluck her from the stem. Her parents are entwined around the girl like prickly thorns. They have drawn blood from my lustful fingers on more than one occasion.’

  ‘Leave we Rose Marwood to her own devices,’ said Hoode. ‘She was only the messenger here, and my concern is with the message itself. Or rather, with the lady who sent it.’

  ‘Your inamorata.’

  ‘If such she be, Owen.’

  ‘No question of that. You hold the certain testimony of her love in your grasp.’

  ‘I hold a rose, it is true,’ said Hoode gloomily. ‘But was it sent by a female hand?’

  Elias guffawed. ‘A male admirer! Have you awakened some dark passion in a love-struck youth? Do not tell Barnaby of this conquest or he will roast on a spit of envy.’

  ‘You misunderstand.’

  ‘Then speak more clearly.’

  ‘I fear me that this is some trick.’

  ‘On whose behalf?’

  ‘Some fellow in the company who means to buy a laugh or two at my expense. Luck has never attended my loving, Owen. Cupid has used my heart for some cruel archery practice over the years. Why should fortune favour me now?’

  ‘Because you deserve it, Edmund.’

  ‘Fate has never used me according to my desserts before,’ said Hoode. ‘No, this is some jest. The love-token was sent to torment me. Someone in the company means to raise my hopes in order to dash them down upon the rocks of his derision.’ He looked down at the rose. ‘I would do well to cast it away and tread it under foot.’

  ‘Stay!’ said Elias, grabbing his wrist. ‘Can you not see a rich prize when it stands before you? This is no jest, my friend. Westfield’s Men love you too much to practise such villainy upon you. This message could not be more precise. You have made a conquest, Edmund. Take her.’

  Hoode stopped in his tracks. ‘Can this be true?’

  ‘Incontestably.’

  ‘I have at last won the heart of a lady?’

  ‘Heart, mind and body.’

  ‘Wonder of wonders,’ Hoode said, sniffing the rose before concealing it in his doublet once more. ‘I almost begin to believe it. It is such an unexpected bounty.’

  ‘They are the choicest kind.’

  ‘If this be love, indeed, it must be requited.’

  ‘Enjoy her!’

  ‘I will, Owen.’

  ‘Go to your bed so that you may dream dreams of joy.’

  ‘Press on.’

  Still supported by the Welshman, Hoode lurched along the street with a new sense of purpose. Someone cared for him. He luxuriated in the thought for a whole glorious minute. A cold frost then attacked the petals of his happiness. The other Rose delivered a message of a different order.

  ‘My occupation is gone,’ he moaned.

  ‘That is not so, Edmund.’

  ‘I am pushed aside to make way for the ample girth of this Applegarth. There is not room enough in Westfield’s Men for him and for me.’

  ‘Indeed there is. Most companies lack one genius to fashion their plays. We have two. Our rivals are consumed with jealousy at our good fortune.’

  ‘My talents have been eclipsed.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘They have, Owen. The Misfortunes of Marriage is work of a higher order than I can produce. It ousts me from the Rose Theatre, and rightly so.’

  ‘Your new piece will have its turn anon.’

  ‘How will it fare in the shadow of Jonas’s play? The Faithful Shepherd is a pigmy beside a giant. Why stage it and invite disgrace? I have suffered enough pain already.’

  ‘You do yourself wrong,’ said Elias earnestly. ‘Jonas has one kind of talent, you have quite another. Both can dazzle an audience in equal measure. Jonas may invest more raw power in his verse, but you have a grace and subtlety that he can never match.’

  ‘He is better.’

  ‘Different, that is all.’

  ‘Different in kind, superior in quality.’

  ‘That is a matter of opinion.’

  ‘It is Lawrence’s view,’ sighed Hoode, ‘and his is the opinion that holds sway in Westfield’s Men. He commissioned my new play for The Rose and could not have been more delighted with it. Until, that is, he espied this new star in the firmament. The Faithful Shepherd is then shunned like a leper and I become an outcast poet.’

  ‘No more of this self-imposed melancholy!’

  ‘I am finished, Owen. Dispatched into obscurity.’

  ‘Enough!’ howled the other, thrusting him against the wall of a house and holding him there with one hand. ‘Jonas Applegarth will never displace Edmund Hoode. You have given us an endless stream of fine plays, he has provided us with one. You are part of the fabric of the company, he is merely a colourful patch which has been sewn on.’

  ‘His play is the talk of London.’

  ‘How long will that last?’

  ‘Until he produces a new one to shame me even more.’

  ‘No!’ yelled Elias.

  ‘He has robbed me of my future.’

  ‘Look to the past instead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there you will read the true story of Jonas Applegarth,’ said the Welshman persuasively. ‘A huge talent fills those huge breeches of his, it is true, but Westfield’s Men are not the first to perceive this. Jonas has been taken up and thrown back by every other troupe in London. He was too choleric for their taste.’

  ‘What are you telling me, Owen?’

  ‘He will not stay with us for long. His blaze of glory will be no more than that. A mere blaze that light up the heavens before fading away entire. We must profit from his brilliance while we may. Jonas will not survive.’ Owen patted his friend of the cheek. ‘You will, Edmund.’

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell was almost invariably the first member of the company to arrive at the Queen’s Head at the start of the day. On the next morning, however, the thud of a hammer told him that one of his colleagues had risen even earlier than he. Nathan Curtis, the master carpenter, was repairing a table for use in the performance that afternoon. Busy at his trade, he did not see the book holder striding across the innyard towards him.

  ‘Good-morrow, Nathan!’ greeted Nicholas.

  ‘Ah!’ He looked up. ‘Well met!’

  ‘I wish that everyone was as diligent in their duties as you. You will have finished that table before some of our fellows have even dragged themselves out of bed.’

  ‘There is much to do. When I have restored this, I must make some new scenic devices. And you spoke, I believe, about some properties that are in request.’

  ‘One rock, one cage, one crozier’s staff.’

  ‘I’ll need precise instructions.’

  Nicholas passed them on at once and the carpenter nodded obediently. Curtis was a rough-looking man in working apparel, but his voice was soft and his manner almost diffident. His craftsmanship helped to put flesh on the bones of a play. Nicholas had another reason to be grateful of a moment alone with him. Curtis lived in Bankside. When the book holder lodged in Anne Hendrik’s house, he and the carpenter were neighbours. The latter might well know one of the other denizens of the area.

  ‘Are you acquainted with an Ambrose Robinson, by any chance?’

  ‘Robinson the Butcher?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I know him as well as I wish to, Nick.’

  ‘You do not like the man, I think.’

  ‘I do not trust him,’ admitted the other. ‘He sells good meat and is polite enough in his shop, but he hides his true feelings from you. I never know where I am with the fellow. His mouth may smile but his eyes are cold and watchful. My wife cannot abide him.’

  ‘He is
not an appealing man,’ agreed Nicholas.

  ‘How came you to meet him?’

  ‘Through a mutual friend.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ said Curtis. ‘I should have linked their names.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘We talk of Mistress Hendrik, do we not?’

  ‘We do, Nathan.’

  ‘Then she will have introduced him to you. The butcher is fast becoming a close companion of hers.’

  Nicholas bridled slightly. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘My wife has often seen him visiting her house and both of us have taken note of them on Sundays.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because we worship at the same altar, Nick. It has been going on for a month or more now.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘Mistress Hendrik and Ambrose Robinson. I was surprised at first, my wife even more so. We both have the highest respect for Mistress Hendrik. Her late husband was as decent a neighbour as we could choose. Not so this butcher. He is not worthy of her. But there is no gainsaying what we saw.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘They come to church together.’

  The information was deeply unsettling, and Nicholas took time to assimilate it. If Anne Hendrik was allowing Robinson to accompany her to her devotions, their relationship must be on a more serious footing than Nicholas realised. Before he could speak again, an ancient voice interrupted them. Thomas Skillen, the venerable stagekeeper, was talking to a stranger on the other side of the yard and pointing a bony finger at the book holder. The visitor thanked him and bore down on Nicholas, giving the latter only a second or two to appraise him.

  He was a man of moderate height and square build, wearing a black doublet and hose which was offset by a lawn ruff and by the ostrich feather in his black soft-crowned hat. His black Spanish cape had a red lining. Neat, compact and dignified, he was in his late thirties. His voice was remarkably deep and had a slight Northern tang to it.

  ‘May I have a word alone?’ the visitor said, giving his request the force of a command. ‘It is needful.’

  ‘Let’s stand aside.’

  Nicholas moved him a few yards away so that Nathan Curtis could resume his work. The carpenter’s hammer was deafening and the stink of fresh horse dung was pungent. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, the visitor waved a dismissive arm.