‘That is our loss.’
Preben van Loew was the senior hatmaker in the business which Anne Hendrik had inherited from her late husband and which she managed in the adjoining building. A spectral figure in a black skull-cap, the old Dutchman embraced Nicholas warmly before quitting the house. Anne herself waited until they were alone in the parlour before she gave him her welcome.
‘This is a lovely surprise, Nick!’
‘Do I call at an inconvenient hour?’
Her answer came in the form of a light kiss on the cheek. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, but she moved to a seat and gestured for him to sit opposite her. There was a long pause as they simply luxuriated in the pleasure of being together again. Nicholas let a tidal wave of fond memories wash over him. When it passed, he was left with a profound sense of loss and of waste. Why had he walked away from a house which had given him so much happiness?
‘What did you play this afternoon?’ she asked.
‘The Maids of Honour.’
‘I have seen the piece more than once.’
‘Not quite as it was performed today,’ he said wryly. ‘John Tallis came to grief at a most unfortunate moment. His voice broke as he was about to marry the Prince of Navarre.’
‘Poor boy!’
‘He is a man now.’
Nicholas recounted the incident in full and the two of them were soon sharing a chuckle. It was just like old times when the book holder would repair to his lodging and divert her with tales from the innyard of the Queen’s Head. Each day brought new adventures. A theatre company inhabited a world of extremes. Anne was a kind audience, interested and responsive, always rejoicing in the heady triumphs of Westfield’s Men while sympathising with their numerous disasters. Her bright-eyed curiosity in his work was one of the things that he missed most.
‘How goes it with you?’ he asked softly.
‘The business fares well.’
‘Good.’
‘We are to take on a new apprentice.’
‘Preben will teach him his trade.’
‘I have learnt much from him myself.’
Nicholas nodded. ‘And the house?’
‘What about it?’
‘Do you have a lodger here?’
‘That is my affair,’ she said with a note of gentle reprimand. ‘As it happens, there is nobody here at the moment, but that situation may change.’ She looked at him with a cautious affection. ‘Why did you come?’
‘To see you.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘My own pleasure. Do I need a larger reason?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not when that pleasure is mutual.’
She met his gaze and Nicholas thought of a dozen compliments he wished to pay. All of them had to be held back because there was now an obstacle between them. Until the intrusive figure of Ambrose Robinson were removed, he did not feel able to express his true feelings to her.
‘A peculiar visitor called on me this morning,’ he said.
‘Who might that be?’
‘Raphael Parsons.’
‘Peculiar, indeed! Why did he come?’
‘To ascertain the facts about the discovery of Cyril Fulbeck’s corpse. Master Parsons had already questioned James Ingram on the matter. This morning, it was my turn.’
‘Is he the beast that he is reputed to be?’
‘Far from it, Anne.’
‘Maligned by report, then?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Nicholas. ‘He is a lawyer by training. He knows what to hide and what to show. Like most lawyers, he has the touch of an actor about him. I found him pleasant enough and remarkably candid. The Chapel Children no doubt see aspects of him that were concealed from me.’
‘They loathe him.’
‘So I am told.’
‘You saw the letters written by Philip Robinson.’
‘I did, Anne.’
‘They speak of a cruel master, who makes them work hard and who beats them into submission if they try to disobey. Philip is more or less a prisoner there.’
‘That is not what Master Parsons says.’
‘Oh?’
‘He claims that the boy is very happy at Blackfriars.’
‘Happy? It is one long ordeal for Philip!’
‘So his father alleges.’
‘You read the boy’s own testimony.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘That is why I found Master Parsons’s denial surprising. Why does it contradict the lad’s version of events so completely?’
‘The man must be lying.’
‘That was not my impression.’
‘What other explanation can there be?’
Nicholas let her question hang in the air for a moment.
‘How well do you know Philip?’ he said at length.
‘Reasonably well. He lived but a step away from here.’
‘Did you see much of him?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He was a quiet boy. Always polite but rather diffident. And very lonely after his mother’s sad death. Philip was almost invisible. Until Sundays, that is.’
‘Sundays?’
‘When he sang in the choir. He came alive then. I have never seen a child take such a delight in singing the praises of God. His little face would light up with joy.’
‘Does he not have that same joy in the Chapel Royal?’
‘I fear not.’
‘What chorister would not relish the opportunity of singing before Her Majesty?’
‘His pleasure is marred by the misery he endures at the Blackfriars Theatre, where he is forced to be an actor.’
‘By Raphael Parsons.’
‘Even so. Philip’s father has told you all.’
‘Has he?’
She grew defensive. ‘Of course. Do you doubt Ambrose?’
‘Not if you can vouch for him.’
‘I can, Nick.’
‘I see.’ He felt a flicker of jealousy. ‘You and he seem well acquainted.’
‘He is a neighbour and a friend.’
‘Does he have no closer hold on you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nathan Curtis has observed you in church together.’
‘So that is it!’ she said, stiffening. ‘You have set your carpenter to spy on us.’
‘Not at all, Anne. He vouchsafed the information.’
‘In answer to your prompting.’
‘I simply wondered if he knew Ambrose Robinson.’
‘This is unworthy of you, Nick.’
‘If I am engaged to help the man, I am entitled to know as much about him as I can. Nathan’s opinion of your friend was helpful. It confirms my own impression.’
‘You do not like Ambrose, I know that.’
‘My concern is that you do, Anne. Sufficient to walk to church with him on a Sunday and to kneel beside him.’
‘That is my choice.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes!’ she said, rising angrily from her seat. ‘If you have come to turn me against Ambrose, you have come in vain. I live my own life, Nick, and you are no longer part of it. I am grateful to you for the help you have offered, but it does not give you the right to meddle in my private affairs.’
‘I do it out of affection.’
‘Then express that affection in a more seemly way.’
‘Anne…’
He got up and reached out for her, but she moved away. There was an awkward pause. Before he could frame an apology into words, there was a loud knock on the door. The servant answered it and Ambrose Robinson came blundering in. His face was puce with indignation.
‘Fresh tidings from Blackfriars? Why was I not called?’
‘I came to speak with Anne,’ explained Nicholas.
‘Philip is my son. I have prior claim on any news.’
‘How did you know that I was here?’
‘I met with Preben van Loew in the street,’ said the butcher. ‘He told me that you were here. What has happened? I demand to know.’
>
‘Can you not first offer my guest a polite greeting?’ chided Anne. ‘You burst in here with improper haste, Ambrose. Remember where you are.’
‘I do, I do,’ he whined, instantly repentant. ‘Forgive my unmannerly behaviour, Anne. My anxiety over Philip robs me of my wits yet again.’ He took a deep breath and turned back to Nicholas. ‘Please allay my concern. What has happened?’
‘I spoke with Raphael Parsons.’
‘Did you insist on the release of my son?’
‘I raised the topic with him.’
‘What was his answer? How did that snake reply?’
‘He told me that your son was content to perform on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre. The boy has talent as an actor. He is keen to develop it.’
‘Lies! Deception! Trickery!’
‘That is all Master Parsons would say on the subject.’
‘Falsehood!’
‘Lower your voice!’ urged Anne.
‘Why did you not take hold of the rogue and beat the truth out of him?’
‘He came to discuss the murder of Cyril Fulbeck,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘It weighs heavily upon him. Set against the death of the Master of the Chapel, the fate of one chorister was an irrelevance.’
‘It is not an irrelevance to me, sir!’
‘I will try to pursue the matter with him.’
‘Parsons is an arrant knave,’ said Robinson. ‘I should have done what a father’s love told me to do at the very start. Attend a performance at Blackfriars and snatch Philip off the stage.’
‘That would be madness,’ argued Anne.
‘I want my son back home with me.’
‘Then achieve that end by peaceful means. Take him away by force and the law will descend on you with such severity that you’d lose both Philip and your own freedom.’
‘Anne counsels well,’ added Nicholas. ‘What use are you to the boy if you’re fretting away in prison? I’ll speak with Master Parsons again and use what persuasion I may. In the meantime, you must learn patience.’
Robinson’s fury seemed to drain away. Face ashen and shoulders dropping, he stood there in silent bewilderment. He looked so wounded and defenceless that Anne lay a hand on his arm, like a mother comforting a hurt child. The gesture annoyed Nicholas but it had a different effect on the butcher.
It only served to ignite the spirit of vengeance until it glinted in his eyes. Taking her by the hand, Robinson led Anne gently out of the room and closed the door behind her so that he could speak to Nicholas alone. There was no ranting this time, no bluster and arm-waving, only a quiet and quite eerie intensity.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Try once more, Nick. Work within the law. Use reason and supplication to restore my son to me.’ His jaw tightened. ‘But if you fail, if they keep Philip locked up, if they continue to spread malicious lies about him wanting to stay there, I’ll seek Raphael Parsons out and play a part for him myself.’
‘A part?’
‘The Laughing Hangman.’
‘Keep well away from Blackfriars.’
‘That is what Anne advises,’ he said, ‘and for her sake, I have stayed my hand. But not for much longer. Unless Philip comes home to me soon, I’ll hang Raphael Parsons by the neck from the tallest building in London and I’ll laugh until my sides burst.’
The threat was a serious one.
Chapter Seven
The Elephant was a large, low, sprawling inn, famed for its strong ale and unflagging hospitality. It stood near near The Curtain, one of the two theatres in Shoreditch which brought the citizens of London streaming out through Bishopsgate in search of entertainment. Banbury’s Men, the resident company at The Curtain, used the inn as a place to celebrate their frequent successes or to drown their sorrows in the wake of occasional abysmal failures. When Owen Elias arrived at the Elephant that evening, the boisterous atmosphere told him that celebration was in order. Banbury’s Men were basking in the triumph of their new play, The Fatal Dowry, performed that afternoon to general acclaim.
Elias ducked below a beam and surveyed the taproom through a fug of tobacco smoke. Westfield’s Men were deadly rivals of the company at The Curtain and relations between them went well beyond bitterness. The Welshman would not normally have sought out the other troupe, especially as he had once belonged to it for a brief and acrimonious period. Necessity compelled him to come, and he looked for the swiftest way to discharge his business and leave the enemy lair.
Selecting his man with care, he closed in on him.
‘Why, how now, Ned!’
‘Is that you, Owen?’
‘As large and lovely as life itself.’
‘What brings you to the Elephant?’
‘Two strong legs and a devil of a thirst. Will you drink some ale with me, Ned?’
‘I’ll drink with any man who pays the bill, even if he belong to that hellish crew known as Westfield’s Men.’ He turned to his friends on the adjoining table. ‘See here, lads. Look what the tide has washed up. Owen Elias!’
Jeers of disapproval went up and Owen had to endure some stinging insults before he could settle down beside his former colleague. Ale was brought and he drank deep. Ned Meares was a hired man, one of the many actors who scraped a precarious living at their trade and who made the most of their intermittent stretches of employment while they lasted.
A stout man in his thirties, Meares was an able actor with a wide range. In the time since he had last seen the man, Elias noted, regular consumption of ale had filled out his paunch and deepened the florid complexion.
‘A sharer now, I hear,’ said Meares enviously.
‘I have been lucky, Ned.’
‘Spare a thought for we who toil on as hired men.’
‘I do. I struggled along that same road myself.’
‘It will never end for me, alas.’ He nudged the visitor. ‘Come, Owen, you crafty Welshman. Do not pretend that you are here to renew old acquaintance. Westfield’s Men lurk in the Queen’s Head. You have no place at the Elephant. What do you want?’
‘To talk about a playwright you will know.’
‘What is his name?’ asked Meares, quaffing his ale.
‘Jonas Applegarth.’
Elias had to move sharply to avoid the drink which was spat out again by his companion. Meares coughed and spluttered until his eyes watered. A few hearty slaps on the back were needed to help him recover.
Elias grinned. ‘I see that you remember Jonas.’
‘Remember him! Could I ever forget that monster? Jonas Applegarth was like a visitation of the plague.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he infected the whole company.’
‘He wrote only one play for Banbury’s Men.’
‘One play too many!’ groaned Meares. ‘Friar Francis. The name of that dread piece is scrawled on my soul for ever.’ He sipped his ale before continuing. ‘Most authors sell us a play, advise us how best to stage it, then stand aside while we do our work. Not Jonas. He was author, actor and book holder rolled into one. He stood over us from start to finish. We were no more than galley-slaves, lashed to the oars while he whipped us unmercifully with his tongue and urged us to row harder.’
‘He does have a warm turn of phrase,’ conceded Elias.
‘Threats and curses were all his conversation.’
‘Did the company not resist?’
‘Every inch of the way, Owen. Banbury’s Men were to have played Friar Francis but that raging bull tried to turn us into Applegarth’s Men. It could not be borne.’
Meares needed another fortifying drink of his ale before he could recount full details of the fierce battle against the arrogance of the author. Feigning sympathy, Elias took great satisfaction from the chaos which had been caused in the rival company while making a mental note to take precautions to stop the obstreperous playwright from wreaking the same havoc among Westfield’s Men. Recrimination left Ned Meares shaking like an aspen. The visitor had to buy him another tankard of ale to r
estore his shattered nerves.
‘Did anyone hate Jonas enough to kill him?’
‘Yes,’ said Meares. ‘All of us!’
‘Was there a special enemy of his in the company?’
‘A dozen at least, Owen.’
‘Who had most cause to loathe him?’
‘Most cause?’ The actor rubbed a hand ruminatively through his beard. ‘Most cause? That would have to be Hugh Naismith.’
***
Nicholas Bracewell slept fitfully that night, dreaming of happier days at the Bankside home of Anne Hendrik and waking at intervals to scold himself for the way he had upset her during his visit. Both were strong-willed individuals and this had led to many arguments in the past, but they had usually been resolved in the most joyful and effective way in Anne’s bed. That avenue of reconciliation had now been closed off to him, and he feared that as long as Ambrose Robinson stayed in her life, she would remain beyond his reach.
Jealousy of the butcher was not the only reason why he wanted to put the man to flight. Robinson had a temper which flared up all too easily and threatened to spill over into violence. Nicholas was worried that Anne might one day unwittingly become the victim of that choleric disposition. What mystified him was that she seemed to enjoy’s the man’s friendship, enough to attend church in his company and to fret about his enforced estrangement from his son.
The plight of Philip Robinson had drawn the two of them together and placed Nicholas in a quandary. If he helped to secure the boy’s release from the Chapel Children, would he be pushing Anne even closer to the Robinson family, and was it not in his interests to keep father and son apart? His sense of duty prevented his taking the latter course. Having promised assistance, he could not now go back on his word.
His mind was still in turmoil and his feelings still in a state of ambivalence as he left his lodging in Thames Street. The morning cacophony enveloped him and he did not hear the soft footsteps which came scurrying up behind him.
‘Stay, sir!’ said a voice. ‘I would speak with you.’
Caleb Hay had to pluck at his sleeve to get Nicholas’s attention. The book holder turned and exchanged greetings with him. Boyish enthusiasm lit up the older man’s features.
‘I hoped that I would catch you,’ he said.
‘Why?’
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