The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  ‘Because I have something for you. Step this way, sir. Let us rid ourselves of this tumult.’

  ‘I may not tarry long, Master Hay.’

  ‘This will take but a few minutes and I think that you will consider them well spent.’

  He led Nicholas back down the busy street to his house. Once they were inside, the noise subsided to a gentle hubbub. Joan Hay was sitting in the parlour with her embroidery as they entered. A glance from her husband made her jump to her feet and give the visitor a hesitant smile before moving off into the kitchen.

  Caleb Hay went to a box on the table. Taking a large iron ring from his belt, he selected one of the keys and opened the box. Nicholas was first handed a sheet of parchment. His interest quickened as he studied the sketch of the Blackfriars Theatre.

  ‘Forgive my crude handiwork,’ said Hay. ‘As you see, I am no artist, but it may give you some idea of the shape and size of the building. It is yours to scrutinise at will.’

  ‘Thank you. This will be a great help.’

  ‘Every exit is clearly marked.’

  The sketch was simple but drawn roughly to scale. It enabled Nicholas to see exactly where he had been when he heard the Laughing Hangman and why it had taken him so long to reach the door at the rear of the building. Names of the adjacent streets had been added in a neat hand.

  Caleb Hay produced a second item from the box.

  ‘I can take more pride in this,’ he said with a mild chuckle. ‘You asked about the petition that was drawn up to prevent a theatre being re-opened in Blackfriars. This is not the document itself but an exact copy. It must remain in my keeping but you are welcome to over-glance it, if you wish.’

  ‘Please,’ said Nicholas, taking the document from him. ‘I am most grateful to you. Anything which pertains to Blackfriars is of interest to me.’

  He read the petition with attention to its detail:

  To the right honorable the Lords and others of her Majesties most honorable Privy Counsell-Humbly shewing and beseeching your honors, the inhabitants of the precinct of Blackfryers, London, that whereas one Burbage hath lately bought certaine roomes in the said precinct neere adjoyning unto the houses of the right honorable, the Lord Chamberlaine and the Lord of Hunsdon, which roomes the said Burbage is now altering and meaneth very shortly to convert and turne the same into a comon playhouse, which will grow to be a very great annoyance and trouble.…

  The complaints against public theatre were all too familiar to Nicholas. They were voiced every week by members of the City authorities and by outraged Puritans, who sought to curb the activities of Westfield’s Men. The Blackfriars petition was signed by thirty-one prominent residents of the precinct, starting with Lord Hunsdon, who, ironically, was the patron of his own troupe-Lord Chamberlain’s Men-but who drew the line at having a playhouse on his doorstep. Nicholas ran his eye down the other names, which included the dowager Lady Russell and a respected printer, Richard Field.

  ‘Is it not strongly and carefully worded?’ said Hay.

  ‘Indeed, it is.’

  ‘It represents my own view on the theatre. I was mightily relieved when the petition was accepted by the Privy Council.’

  ‘With such names to sustain it, the plea could hardly be denied,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was only a temporary measure. A public playhouse may have been kept out of Blackfriars, but a private theatre was re-opened.’

  ‘Alack the day!’

  ‘The audiences who flock there will disagree.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Hay, taking the document back and locking it in the box. ‘This petition belongs to history.’

  Nicholas moved to the door. ‘You have been most kind. This drawing of Blackfriars will make a difficult task much easier.’

  ‘Catch him! Catch this vile murderer.’

  ‘I will bend all my efforts to do so.’

  ‘Keep the name of Raphael Parsons firmly in mind.’

  ‘You have evidence against him, Master Hay?’

  ‘Nothing that would support his arrest,’ confessed the other. ‘But I have a feeling in my old bones that he is involved in this crime in some way. He is a man without scruple or remorse. Keep watch on him. From what I hear about this Master Parsons, he would be a ready hangman.’

  ***

  Raphael Parsons endured the rehearsal for as long as he could but the lackluster performance and the recurring errors were too much for him to bear.

  ‘Stop!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll stand no more of this ordeal! It is a disgrace to our reputation!’

  The young actors on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the second act. Even a play as well tried as Mariana’s Revels seemed to be beyond their scope. Their diction was muted, their gesture without conviction and their movement sluggish. A drama which required a lightness of touch was accorded a leaden treatment. Parsons was livid.

  ‘This is shameful!’ he snarled. ‘I would not dare to put such a miserable account of the play before a crew of drunken sailors, let alone in front of a paying audience. Where is your art, sirs? Where is your self-respect? Where is your pride in our work? We laboured hard to make the Children of the Chapel Royal a company of distinction. Will you betray all that we have struggled to create?’

  The cast stood there with heads bowed while the manager harangued them. Some shook with trepidation, others shed tears, all were plunged into the deepest melancholy. Parsons came striding down the hall to bang on the edge of the stage with his fist.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me!’ he demanded.

  The youngest member of the company was its spokesman.

  ‘We are grieving, sir,’ said Philip Robinson meekly.

  ‘That performance was enough to make anyone grieve!’

  ‘Master Fulbeck is ever in our minds.’

  Nods of agreement came from several of the cast and more eyes moistened. Philip Robinson’s own face was glistening with tears. Short, slim and pale, he wore the costume of Mariana as if it were a set of chains. Features which had a feminine prettiness when animated were now dull and plain. His body sagged. His voice was a pathetic bleat.

  ‘We are too full of sadness, sir,’ he said.

  The manager’s first impulse was to supplant the sadness with naked fear. It would not be the first time that he had instilled terror into his company in order to raise the level of their performance. Instinct held him back. These were unique circumstances, calling for a different approach. Instead of excoriating his juvenile players, therefore, he opted for a show of compassion.

  Clambering upon the stage, he beckoned them closer.

  ‘We all mourn him,’ he said softly. ‘And rightly so. The cruel manner of his death makes it an intolerable loss. Master Fulbeck was the only true begetter of this theatre. Though the Chapel Royal was his first love, he came to take an equal delight in your work here at Blackfriars. Hold to that thought. We do not play Mariana’s Revels for our own benefit or even for the entertainment of our spectators. We stage it in remembrance of Cyril Fulbeck, late Master of the Chapel. Will you honour his name with a jaded performance?’

  ‘No, Master Parsons,’ said Philip boldly.

  ‘Shall we close the theatre and turn people away? Is that what he would have wanted? Or shall we continue the noble work which he first started here? Cyril Fulbeck died in and for this theatre. The place to celebrate his memory is here on this very stage with a play which he held dear.’

  ‘Yes!’ called a voice at the back.

  ‘We must play on!’ added another.

  ‘Under your instruction,’ said Philip Robinson.

  ‘So it will be,’ decided Parsons, watching their spirits revive. ‘But let us do it with no show of sadness or despair. Mariana’s Revels is a joyful play. Speak its lines with passion. Dance its measures with vigour. Sing its songs with elation. Tell us why, Philip.’

  ‘They were written by Master Fulbeck himself.’

  ‘Even so. Most of them fall to Mariana
to sing. Give them full voice, my boy. Treat them like hymns of praise!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The rehearsal started again with a new gusto. For all his youth and inexperience, Philip Robinson led the Chapel Children like a boy on a mission, taking his first solo and offering it up to Heaven in the certainty that it would be heard and applauded by the man who had composed it for him.

  ***

  Marriage to an actor as brilliant and virile as Lawrence Firethorn brought many pains but they were swamped beneath the compensating pleasures. Foremost among these for his redoubtable wife, Margery, was the never-ending delight of watching him ply his trade, strutting the stage with an imperious authority and carving an unforgettable performance in the minds of the onlookers. His talent and his sheer vitality were bound to make countless female hearts flutter and Firethorn revelled in the adulation. When Margery visited the Queen’s Head, she could not only share in the magic of his art, she could also keep his eye from roving and his eager body from straying outside the legitimate confines of the marital couch.

  Vincentio’s Revenge was a darker play in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men, but one that gave its actor-manager a superb role as the eponymous hero. It never failed to wring her emotions and move Margery to tears. Since it was being played again that afternoon, she abandoned her household duties, dressed herself in her finery and made her way to Gracechurch Street with an almost girlish excitement. Good weather and high hopes brought a large audience converging on the Queen’s Head. Pleased to see the throng, Margery was even more thrilled to identify two of its members.

  ‘Anne!’ she cried. ‘This is blessed encounter.’

  ‘You come to watch Vincentio’s Revenge?’

  ‘Watch it, wonder at it and wallow in it.’

  ‘May we then sit together?’ suggested Anne Hendrik.

  ‘Indeed we may, though I must warn you that I will use all the womanly wiles at my command to steal that handsome gallant away from your side.’

  Preben van Loew blushed deeply and made a gesture of self-deprecation. Margery’s blunt speech and habit of teasing always unnerved him. When the three of them paid their entrance fee to the lower gallery, the old Dutchman made sure that Anne sat between him and the over-exuberant Margery. It allowed the two women to converse freely.

  ‘I have not seen you this long while,’ said Margery.

  ‘My visits to the Queen’s Head are less frequent.’

  ‘You are bored with Westfield’s Men?’

  ‘Far from it,’ said Anne. ‘It is work that keeps me away and not boredom. I love the theatre as much as ever.’

  ‘Does Nicholas know that you are here?’

  ‘No, he does not.’

  ‘Then it were a kindness to tell him. It would lift his spirits to know that you were in the audience.’

  ‘I am not so sure.’

  ‘He dotes on you, woman,’ said Margery with a nudge. ‘Are you blind? Are you insensible? If a man as fine and upright as Nick Bracewell loved me, I would never leave his side for a second. He misses you, Anne.’

  ‘I miss him,’ she said involuntarily.

  ‘Then why keep him ignorant of your presence?’

  ‘It is needful.’

  ‘For whom? You or him?’

  ‘I simply came to watch a play, Margery.’

  ‘Then why not visit The Rose, which is closer to your home and far more commodious? Why not go to Shoreditch to choose between The Curtain and The Theatre? Deceive yourself, but do not try to deceive me. You came here for a purpose.’

  ‘To see Vincentio’s Revenge,’ insisted Anne.

  ‘I will not press the matter.’

  ‘What happened between Nick and myself is…all past.’

  ‘Not in his mind. Still less in his heart.’

  Anne grew pensive. Margery’s companionship gave her joy and discomfort in equal measure. Anne’s feelings were so confused that she was not quite sure why she had decided to find the time to attend the play, and to release Preben van Loew from his work in order to chaperone her. She had responded to an urge which had yet to identify itself properly.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Margery, squeezing her wrist in apology. ‘My fondness for Nick makes me speak out of turn. You and he need no Cupid. I’ll hold my peace.’

  ‘A friend’s advice is always welcome.’

  ‘You know what mine would be. I say no more.’

  Anne nodded soulfully and a surge of regret ran through her. It soon passed. Vincentio’s Revenge began and the forthright woman beside her turned into a sobbing spectator. Anne herself was caught up in the emotion of the piece and whisked along for two harrowing but glorious hours by its poetry and its poignancy. It was only when the performance was over that she realised why she had come to it.

  ***

  Having piloted another play safely into port, Nicholas Bracewell supervised the unloading of the cargo and the crew. It was not until the last of the properties and the costumes had been safely locked away that he was able to spare the time to listen to Owen Elias’s report of his findings. The two of them were alone in the tiring-house.

  ‘His name is Hugh Naismith.’

  ‘Can you be certain, Owen?’

  ‘As certain as it is possible to be. The fellow was a regular member of Banbury’s Men, a promising actor, secure in the company’s estimation and likely to rise to the rank of sharer.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Friar Francis. By one Jonas Applegarth.’

  ‘I remember seeing the playbills for it.’

  ‘Hugh Naismith did not like the piece. Friar Francis was a most un-Christian play, by all account, as full of fury as The Misfortunes of Marriage, and with an even sharper bite. This foolish actor dared to rail against it in the hearing of the author and the two of them had to be held apart for they squawked at each other like fighting cocks.’

  ‘Was this Naismith his opponent in the duel?’

  ‘Ned Meares confirms it,’ said Elias. ‘The varlet was so badly injured that his arm was put in a sling for weeks. Banbury’s Men expelled him straight. The fight with Jonas has cost Naismith both his pride and his occupation.’

  ‘Two strong reasons for him to seek revenge.’

  ‘One arm was in a sling but he still might throw a dagger with the other. It must be him, Nick.’

  ‘Where does he dwell?’

  ‘In Shoreditch. I called at his lodging.’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘He was not there. Out stalking his prey, no doubt. That thought made me straight repair to Jonas’s house, where I found our fat friend, sitting at his desk in the window of his chamber, writing away as if he did not have a care in the world.’

  ‘You and he arrived here together, I saw.’

  ‘Yes, Nick,’ said Elias. ‘I felt compelled to go back to his house again this morning. An assassin may strike on the journey to the Queen’s Head just as well as on the walk back home. Four eyes offer better protection than two.’

  ‘How did Jonas seem?’

  ‘As loud and irreverent as ever.’

  ‘Did you mention Hugh Naismith to him?’

  ‘He affected not to know the man and would not discuss his time with Banbury’s Men except to say that it was a species of torment.’

  ‘For him or for them?’ asked Nicholas with a wry smile.

  ‘Both.’

  The book holder checked that everything had been cleared out of the tiring-house before taking his friend through into the taproom. It was throbbing with noise. Players and playgoers alike were ready for drink and debate after the stirring performance of Vincentio’s Revenge.

  Jonas Applegarth was holding forth in the middle of the room, addressing his remarks to all who would listen. His lack of tact and restraint made the newcomers gasp.

  ‘It is a miserable, meandering, worm-eaten play,’ he argued.

  ‘Vincentio’s Revenge is a sterling piece,’ countered James Ingram. ‘You saw how the au
dience loved it.’

  ‘Ignorant fools! What do they know of drama? If you put ten bare arses on the stage and farted at them for two hours, they would applaud you just as wildly. The Maids of Honour was base enough, but today’s offering was putrid.’

  ‘That is unkind! Unjust!’

  ‘And untrue!’ added Barnaby Gill, entering the fray. ‘Vincentio’s Revenge has been a loyal servant to the company. It fires my imagination each time we play it and raises the pitch of my performance.’

  ‘Then is it time for you to retire,’ said Applegarth with scorn. ‘You were a walking abomination up on that stage. I have seen sheep with more talent and less confusion. Show some benevolence to mankind, Barnaby, and quit the theatre for good.’

  ‘I was sublime!’ howled Gill.

  ‘Scurvy!’

  ‘Unparallelled.’

  ‘In absurdity!’

  ‘Barnaby was at his best,’ defended Ingram stoutly.

  ‘Then I would hate to see his worst,’ retorted Applegarth, ‘for it would beggar belief. Why wave his hands so, and pull his face thus?’ His grotesque mime turned Gill purple with rage. ‘It was a barbarous performance, almost as bad as that of Vincentio himself.’

  Lawrence Firetorn came sailing into the taproom.

  ‘What’s that you say, sir?’ he growled.

  ‘The play was ill-chosen.’

  ‘Not as ill-chosen as your words, Jonas,’ warned the other. ‘Have a care, sir. We like Vincentio’s Revenge.’

  ‘Can any sane man admire such a botch of nature?’

  ‘Yes!’ challenged Firethorn. ‘He stands before you.’

  ‘Then I will list my complaints against the piece in order,’ said Applegarth, quite unabashed. ‘Firstly…’

  ‘Save your strictures for another time,’ insisted Nicholas, diving in quickly to take the heat out of the argument. ‘Master Firethorn is entertaining his wife and does not wish to be led astray by idle comment that smells too strongly of ale. Our play found favour this afternoon and there’s an end to it.’

  With the aid of Owen Elias, he shepherded Applegarth to a table in the corner and sat him down on a bench. Barnaby Gill was still pulsating with anger and James Ingram with disgust, but the quarrel was effectively over. Lawrence Firethorn mastered his fury. Reminded that Margery was still waiting for him in the adjoining chamber, he ordered wine and withdrew to the urgent solace of her embrace. An uneasy peace descended on the taproom.