Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘We may exclude him straight,’ said Nicholas. ‘You saw the way he cried when he beheld the dead man. He was as shocked as we. The porter has no part in this.’

‘You spoke of Parsons’s innocence,’ noted Applegarth.

‘A suggestion of innocence,’ corrected the book holder. ‘If Raphael Parsons had a key that admitted him to the back door of the theatre, why did he steal Master Fulbeck’s keys in order to get out again?’

‘To prevent us from following him,’ said Ingram.

‘But we were unexpected visitors, and the keys had been stolen from the dead man’s belt before we arrived.’

‘I have it,’ announced Applegarth. ‘This Parsons is too devious and cowardly a man to do the deed himself. He hired a confederate, let him into the building and locked the door after him before quitting the scene. The killer stole the other keys to effect his escape.’

‘This was no confederate,’ affirmed Nicholas.

‘How do you know?’ said Ingram.

‘You heard that man, James. He was no assassin, paid to kill a complete stranger. He knew Cyril Fulbeck and gloried in his death. The Laughing Hangman would never have delegated to another a task which gave him so much pleasure. He was connected in some way to the Master of the Chapel.’

‘As his business partner,’ asserted Applegarth.

‘Master Parsons may be only one of many possibilities.’

‘I’ll help you to draw up a list,’ offered Ingram.

‘Thank you, James.’

It was early evening and they had moved to the taproom of the Queen’s Head after the performance of The History of King John . The play had been a moderate success but seemed flat by comparison with The Misfortunes of Marriage . Jonas Applegarth had snored through the last two acts. Exhilarated at the thought that his own play would now be seen at The Rose, he was already working on refinements to the text. Considering himself now part of the troupe, he was ready to sit through their other work out of loyalty even if it bored him into slumber.

Nicholas emptied his tankard and rose from the table.

‘I bid you farewell, my friends.’

‘Hold,’ said Applegarth, struggling to his feet. ‘I’ll walk part of the way with you. My house is close to Thames Street and there is something I would discuss as we walk.’

‘Your company is most welcome.’

‘What of Blackfriars?’ said Ingram.

‘We’ll go again tomorrow, James. Meanwhile, gather what intelligence you can. You must have other old friends from the Chapel Children, choristers who stayed on when you left? Perhaps they can shed some light on this tragedy. I am certain that we look for someone who is, or once was, within Master Fulbeck’s circle.’

‘Leave it with me, Nick. I’ll about it straight.’

They traded farewells, then Nicholas and Applegarth headed for the door, passing, as they did, Edmund Hoode. His feeling of betrayal had faded and a beatific smile now played around his lips. The rose from Rose Marwood had transformed him from a discarded playwright into a hopeful lover. Recognising the look on his friend’s face, Nicholas glided past without comment and simply waved.

The book holder led Applegarth out into the fresh air.

‘I have an idea for my play,’ said the latter.

‘It is already crammed full with ideas.’

‘A scenic device. Something that we could lower from above with the winding-gear they have at The Rose.’

‘They have it at Blackfriars, too,’ observed Nicholas as he recalled the hanging man. ‘What do you wish to lower onto the stage?’

The question remained unanswered because Jonas Applegarth stumbled over the uneven surface of Gracechurch Street and pitched forward. Clumsiness saved his life. Something whistled through the air with vicious speed and sank with a thud into the door of the house directly behind them.

The dagger missed Applegarth by a matter of inches.

The suddenness of the attack took them both by surprise. By the time that Nicholas Bracewell swung round, there was no sign of the assailant. Several other people were walking peacefully along Gracechurch Street, and he called out to those nearest, but none of them had seen anyone throw a dagger. Fear of danger made them scurry quickly away. Nicholas went swiftly up and down the street in search of the assassin, but to no avail. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he was chasing shadows.

He went back to help Jonas Applegarth up from the ground. The latter was more concerned about the state of his apparel than about the ambush.

‘Mud on my new breeches!’ he complained bitterly. ‘And a tear in my sleeve.’

‘Someone just tried to kill you, Jonas.’

‘Look at the state of my shoes.’

‘Does it not concern you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Mightily. My wife will take me to task for it.’

‘I speak of the attack.’

‘A mild annoyance, no more,’ said Applegarth, dusting himself off. ‘Why should I fear such a lame assassin? If he cannot hit a target as large as me, he must be blind. Besides, who says that I was his target? Perhaps the dagger was meant for you, Nick. Have you considered that?’

Nicholas had and dismissed the possibility. The weapon had been thrown directly at Applegarth and only the man’s fall had helped him to evade it. Plucking the dagger from its resting place, Nicholas tried to work out from where it must have been thrown. A lane on the opposite side of the street turned out to be the vantage point. It would give the assailant good cover and an excellent view of anyone leaving the Queen’s Head. He could have fled unseen while the dagger itself was still in flight.

After inspecting the weapon, Nicholas offered it to his companion. Applegarth showed scant interest.

‘Do you recognise this?’ said Nicholas.

‘It is a dagger like any other.’

‘Other daggers are not thrown at you, Jonas.’

‘One or two have been in the past,’ said the playwright with a grim chuckle. ‘This one was as wayward as they were. No, Nick, I do not recognize it. A mean weapon, that is clear. Toss it away and forget all about it.’

‘But it may lead us to your attacker.’

‘Leave him to me.’

‘You know who he is?’

‘I have many enemies.’

‘Match this dagger to one man and you have him.’

‘Do not trouble yourself so. This is my battle.’

‘And mine,’ said Nicholas, slipping the dagger into his own belt. ‘You are the property of Westfield’s Men now. It is my duty to protect you as I would protect any other part of our property.’

Applegarth stiffened. ‘I need no bodyguard.’

‘You are in danger , Jonas.’

‘I will live with that fear.’

They resumed their walk and the playwright returned to the subject of The Rose. His work would be seen by a larger and more perceptive audience at the Bankside theatre. He was anxious to improve the play in any way that he could. Applegarth was still explaining his ideas when they turned into Thames Street. The smell of the river invaded his nostrils and they could hear it lapping against the wharves down to their left.

Applegarth paused on the corner of the next street.

‘Let me see it again, Nick,’ he said.

‘See what?’

‘The dagger. Haply, I do recognise it.’

‘Here,’ said Nicholas, passing it to him. ‘There are some marks upon the hilt that may be initials.’

‘Ah yes. I see.’

After pretending to study the weapon, Jonas Applegarth turned round and pulled back his arm to propel the dagger with full force. It spun crazily through the air and landed with a loud splash in the river. Nicholas was bewildered by his friend’s action, but the latter chortled happily.