Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘There. ’Tis all past now. Think no more about it.’

‘But that dagger was to have been a murder weapon.’

‘I have blocked it out of my mind.’

‘You have thrown away the one clue that we had.’

‘There will be other nights, other daggers.’

‘Next time, you may not have such good fortune.’

‘Next time,’ said Applegarth, ‘I will not be taken unawares. This was a useful warning, but there’s an end to it. I’ll not lose sleep over the matter.’

Nicholas was convinced that the playwright knew the name of his attacker, but it could not be prised out of him. Jonas Applegarth lapsed into a kind of jocular bravado that was proof against all questioning. Even though it took him out of his way, Nicholas insisted on walking back to his friend’s house to make sure that he got home safely. The journey passed without further incident.

Applegarth beamed hospitably at his colleague.

‘Will you step in to continue our debate?’

‘Not tonight, Jonas.’

‘But I have much more to say about my play.’

‘We will find time tomorrow,’ said Nicholas. ‘Stay alert and keep your doors locked. Your attacker may return during the night.’

Applegarth shrugged. ‘What attacker?’

Nicholas could not understand his apparent unconcern. An attempt had been made on the man’s life, yet he was choosing to ignore it. The book holder foresaw further trouble ahead and his anxiety was for the company as well as for its newest recruit. Westfield’s Men might yet live to regret their association with the brilliant talent of Jonas Applegarth.

‘Are you sure that you will not stay, Nick?’

‘Unhappily, I may not.’

‘There is plentiful wine within.’

‘Thank you. But I have another call to make.’

***

The study was on the first floor of the house in Thames Street. Around all four walls were oak shelves heavily laden with books, documents, maps and manuscripts. Two long tables occupied most of the space and they were covered with more books and rolls of parchment. Quill pens lay sharpened in a little wooden box. Ink stood ready in a large well. The whole room smelled of musty scholarship.

Caleb Hay sat beneath the sagging beams and pored over a medieval document with intense concentration. He used a magnifying glass to help him translate the minuscule Latin script. His eyes sparkled with fascination as he took a privileged walk through the past of his beloved London. So absorbed was he in his research that he did not hear the respectful tap on the door of his study. His wife had to bang more loudly before she caught his attention.

Bristling with annoyance, he glared at the door.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘Can you spare a minute, Caleb?’ she asked tentatively.

‘No!’

‘He said that it was important.’

‘I’ve told you a hundred times, Joan. My work must not be interrupted. For any reason.’

‘But you have a visitor.’

‘Send him on his way.’

‘He is too persistent, husband.’

‘I’ll see nobody.’

‘He claims to be a friend of yours.’

‘Friends know better than to disturb my studies. They only come to my house by invitation, and that rarely. Persistent, you say? Who is this rogue?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Give him a dusty answer and bid him farewell,’ Caleb said abruptly. ‘No, tarry a while,’ he added, as curiosity began to grapple with irritation. ‘Nicholas Bracewell, is it? What does he want with me? Did he state his business?’

‘No, Caleb.’

‘But he told you that it was important?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘He is a most polite and courteous gentleman, but resolved on talking to you.’

Caleb Hay glanced down at his work. Pursing his lips, he shook his head in mild anger before finally relenting.

‘Ask him to stay. I’ll come down anon.’

‘Thank you!’

Waiting in the parlour below, Nicholas Bracewell heard the relief in her voice. Joan Hay was a submissive wife, eager to avoid her husband’s displeasure. The mild-mannered historian whom Nicholas knew was evidently a more despotic creature within his own home.

She came clattering down the stairs to rejoin the visitor. A short, slim, timorous woman in a plain dress, she gave him a nervous smile of apology and relayed the message before bowing out again. Nicholas listened to the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back in the study. A key turned in a stout lock and the door creaked open. It was immediately closed and locked. Feet padded down the wooden steps.

Caleb Hay shuffled in with an irritated politeness.

‘Well met, Master Bracewell!’

‘I am sorry to break in upon your studies.’

‘A matter of some significance must have brought you.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It concerns Blackfriars.’

‘Go on, sir.’

‘I need you to tell me something of its recent past.’

‘This is hardly the moment for a lesson in history,’ said his host with quiet outrage. ‘Have you dragged me away from my desk to purvey a few anecdotes about a friary?’

‘With good reason, Master Hay.’

‘And what may that be?’

‘It touches on a murder lately carried out there.’

‘A murder?’

‘The victim was Cyril Fulbeck.’

‘Cyril Fulbeck?’ echoed Hay incredulously. ‘The Master of the Chapel has been murdered ? How? When?’

‘He was hanged on the stage of the Blackfriars Theatre but yesterday.’

‘Dear God! Can this be true? Cyril Fulbeck was a true Christian. The soul of kindness. Who could have wrought such villainy upon him?’ He grasped Nicholas by the arm. ‘Have the rogues been caught? This heinous crime must be answered.’

‘So it will be, Master Hay. With your help.’

‘It is at your disposal, sir.’

His host waved Nicholas to a seat and sat beside him. Caleb Hay swung between agitation and sorrow. He pressed for more detail and Nicholas recounted the facts. The older man shook his head in disbelief.

‘Cyril Fulbeck!’ he sighed. ‘I spoke with him not ten days ago. A gracious gentleman in every way.’

‘You know him well, then?’

‘Tolerably well. He gave me the kindest assistance in my work. The Master of the Chapel is a person of consequence. Through him, I gained access to many documents that would else have lain beyond my reach. He could not have been more helpful, nor I more grateful for that help.’

‘How did you find him at that last meeting?’

‘Not in the best of health, alas. Ailing badly.’

‘I speak of his mood.’

‘Sombre. Sombre and full of remorse. He seemed much oppressed by the cares of his office.’

‘Did he confide the reasons?’

‘No, no,’ said Hay firmly. ‘Nor did I seek them. It was not my place to meddle in his private affairs. I am a scholar and not a father-confessor.’

‘What dealings did you have with Raphael Parsons?’

‘None whatsoever-thank heaven!’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Common report has him a most unprepossessing fellow. I wonder that Cyril Fulbeck allowed the man near him. I had no call to make the acquaintance of Master Parsons. If you seek intelligence about him, look elsewhere for it.’

‘Tell me about Blackfriars,’ said Nicholas.

Hay brightened. ‘Ah! Now, there, I am on firm ground. I can teach you all that may be taught on that subject. A Dominican House was first founded in London in 1221 at a site in Chancery Lane. Some fifty years or more later, Robert Fitzwalter gave them Baynard’s Castle and Montfichet Tower on the river, enabling them to build a much larger monastery. King Edward I, of blessed memory, offered his patronage, and the House became rich and influential as a result.’