Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘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.

‘I’ll not stay here in the middle of the yard like some idle ostler complaining about the price of hay. I desire some private conference.’

Nicholas stood his ground. ‘What is your business with me?’

‘The deadliest kind.’

‘Who are you, sir?’

‘Raphael Parsons.’

Nicholas was at once surprised and curious. The name explained the histrionic air about the man. Parsons moved with grace and spoke in almost declamatory fashion. His black beard and moustache were well trimmed and there was a studied arrogance in his expression. He was accustomed to being obeyed.

‘Come with me,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘This is indoor work.’

‘We have a chamber at hand.’

The book holder led him to the room which was used as the wardrobe by Westfield’s Men. Raphael Parsons ran an expert eye over the racks of costumes, feeling some of the material between his fingers and grunting his approval. Nicholas closed the door behind him.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.

‘James Ingram advised me to call here.’

‘You have spoken with James, then?’

‘Briefly. Geoffrey, our porter, put me in touch with him. I wanted to see if your account confirms, in every particular, what Ingram alleges.’

‘My account?’

‘Of what you found at the Blackfriars Theatre. My dear friend and partner, Cyril Fulbeck, hanged by the neck.’ Parsons relaxed slightly and even managed a thin smile. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I have long wanted an opportunity to meet Nicholas Bracewell. Your fame runs before you, sir.’

‘Fame?’

‘You have a reputation, sir.’

‘I am merely a book holder, Master Parsons.’

‘Your modesty is a credit to your character but it betrays your true worth. You talk to a man of the theatre. I know that a book holder must hold a whole company together and nobody does that better than you. I have sat in your galleries a dozen times and marvelled at your work.’ His face hardened. ‘Though it is perhaps as well that I was not at the Queen’s Head when Applegarth’s latest piece of vomit was spewed out on your stage.’

‘ The Misfortunes of Marriage is a fine play.’

‘It swinged us soundly, I hear.’

‘There was some gentle mockery of boy actors.’

‘Jonas Applegarth could not be gentle if he tried,’ said Parsons vehemently. ‘He tore our work to shreds and questioned our right to exist. Boy actors were innocent lambs beneath his slashing knife. It was unforgivable. Applegarth will pay dearly for his attack.’

‘In what way?’

‘You will see, sir. You will see.’

‘Do you make threats against our author?’

‘Let him watch his back, that is all I say.’

‘Take care,’ warned Nicholas, looking him hard in the eye. ‘Touch any member of this company and you will have to deal with me.’

‘Proof positive!’ said Parsons with a disarming smile. ‘You are no mere book holder. You are the true guardian of Westfield’s Men. Its very essence, some say.’

‘I stand by my friends.’

‘Why, so do I, sir. And that is why I came here this morning. Away with that mound of offal known as Jonas Applegarth! Let’s talk of a sweeter gentleman, and one whose death cries out for retribution. Cyril Fulbeck.’

‘Ask what you will, Master Parsons.’

‘Describe the scene in your own terms. When you and James Ingram entered the theatre, what exactly did you see?’

‘I will tell you.…’

Nicholas reconstructed the events with care, as much for his own benefit as for that of his visitor. He wanted to sift every detail in the hope that it might contain a clue that had so far eluded him. Raphael Parsons was a patient audience. When he had heard the full tale, he stroked his beard pensively. There was a long pause.

‘Well?’ said Nicholas.

‘Your version accords with that given by Ingram.’

‘And so it should.’