Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘There is a difference, however,’ noted Parsons. ‘Your account is longer and more accurate. You are the more reliable witness, but that was to be expected.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you never met Cyril Fulbeck until that grim moment. What you saw was an old man dangling from a rope. James Ingram, we must remember, was looking at someone he revered, and was thus too shocked to observe all the detail which you just listed.’

‘That is understandable.’

‘Also,’ said Parsons drily, ‘you are older and wiser than Ingram, and far more closely acquainted with the horrors that man can afflict on man. You have looked on violent death before.’

‘All too often, alas.’

‘It has sharpened your judgement.’ Parsons stroked his beard as he ruminated afresh. When he spoke again, his tone was pleasant. ‘You have answered my enquiries willingly and honestly. I am most grateful to you for that. Allow me to return the compliment. I am sure that you have questions you wish to put to me.’

Astonished by the offer, Nicholas was nevertheless quick to take advantage of it. His interrogation was direct.

‘Where were you at the time of the murder?’ he said.

‘At the house of a friend in Ireland Yard.’

‘Close by the theatre, then?’

‘Within a stone’s throw.’

‘When did you last see your partner?’

‘An hour or so before his death, it seems,’ said Parsons with a sad shake of his head. ‘Had I known that Cyril was in such danger, I would never have stirred from his side. I blame myself for leaving him so defenceless.’ He bit his lip. ‘And the manner of my departure only serves to increase my guilt.’

‘Your departure?’

‘We had an argument. Strong words were exchanged.’

‘On what subject?’

‘What else but the Blackfriars Theatre? Cyril admired the plays I put upon the stage but criticised the means by which they got there. He thought I was too strict with my young charges.’

‘How did you reply?’

‘Roundly, I fear.’

‘Was he upset by the altercation?’

‘I did not stay to ask. I marched out of the building.’ He clicked his tongue in self-reproach. ‘Can you see what a weight on my conscience it now is? We parted in anger before but we soon became friends again. Not this time. A length of rope strangled any hope of reconciliation between us. Cyril went to his death with our quarrel unresolved. That cuts me to the quick.’

Nicholas was impressed by the readiness of his answers and by his apparent candour. Parsons seemed genuinely hurt by the demise of his friend and business partner. Here was a new and more compassionate side to the man. Others had spoken of a bully and a disciplinarian, and Nicholas had seen the odd glint of belligerence, but he had also discerned a sensitive streak. When Raphael Parsons offered his hand, he shook it without reservation.

‘I must take my leave,’ said the visitor.

‘Let me teach you another way out.’

Nicholas took him through a second door and down a long passageway so that his visitor could step out into Gracechurch Street without having to go back through the yard. The book holder stopped him in the open doorway.

‘There is another matter I would like to raise.’

‘Be brief. I, too, have a rehearsal to attend.’

‘One of your actors is a boy called Philip Robinson.’

‘A gifted child in every way.’

‘He was impressed against his will into the Chapel.’

‘Who told you so?’

‘The boy’s father. He petitions for his son’s return.’

‘Then he does so in vain.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Philip is happy with us,’ said Parsons bluntly. ‘Extremely happy. Farewell, sir.’

With a brusque nod, he swept out into the street.

For the rest of the morning, Nicholas Bracewell was so bound up in his duties that he had no time to reflect upon the unexpected visit of Raphael Parsons or to indulge in any speculation about the true feelings of Philip Robinson towards the Children of the Chapel Royal. Preparation for the afternoon’s performance was his abiding concern, and The Maids of Honour gave him much to prepare. His first task was to prevent the stagekeeper from assaulting his smallest and lowliest assistant.

‘No, no, no, George! You are an idiot!’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so because I know so!’ shouted the irate Thomas Skillen. ‘You have set out the wrong scenery and the wrong properties for the wrong play.’

‘Have I?’ George Dart scratched his head in disbelief. ‘I thought The Maids of Honour called for a bench, a tree, a rock, a tomb, a well and three buckets.’

‘You are thinking of The Two Maids of Milchester .’

‘Am I?’ he said, blushing with embarrassment. ‘Why, so I am! We need no bench and buckets here. Our play demands a wooden canopy, a large bed, a stool, Mercury’s wings and a rainbow. Tell me I am right.’

‘You are even more wrong,’ hissed the other, taking a first wild swipe at him. ‘Dolt! Dunce! Imbecile! Mercury’s wings and the rainbow belong in Made to Marry . Have I taught you nothing?’

Four decades in the theatre had made Thomas Skillen an essentially practical man. Actors might covet a striking role and authors might thrill to the music of their own verse, but the stagekeeper summarised character and language in terms of a few key items.

‘Table, throne and executioner’s block.’

‘Yes, yes,’ gabbled Dart.

‘We play The Maids of Honour .’

‘Table, throne and executioner’s block. I’ll fetch them straight.’ He scampered off but came to a sudden halt. His face was puckered with concentration. ‘ The Maids of Honour ? There is no executioner’s block in the piece. Why do you send for it?’

‘So that I may strike off your useless head!’

The old stagekeeper lunged at his hapless assistant, but Nicholas stepped good-humouredly between them. Dart cowered gratefully behind his sturdy frame.

‘Let me at the rogue!’ shouted Skillen.

‘Leave him be,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘George confused his maids of honour with his maids of Milchester. A natural mistake for anyone to make. It is not a criminal offence.’

‘It is to me!’

‘Does it really merit execution?’

‘Yes, Nick. Perfection is everything.’

‘Then are we all due for the headsman’s axe, Thomas, for each one of us falls short of perfection in some way. George is willing and well intentioned. Build on these virtues and educate him out of his vices.’

Skillen’s anger abated and he chortled happily.

‘I frighted him thoroughly. He will not misjudge The Maids of Honour again.’ He gave a toothless grin. ‘Will you, George?’

‘Never. Table and throne. I’ll find them presently.’

‘No need,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the makeshift stage. ‘The table stands ready. Nathan Curtis was here at first light to repair it. And he is even now putting some blocks of wood beneath the throne to heighten its eminence.’

‘What shall I do, then, Master Bracewell?’

‘Fetch the rest of the properties.’

Skillen took his cue. ‘Act One. First scene, table and four chairs. Second scene, a box-tree. Third scene, curtains and a truckle-bed within. Fourth scene, the aforesaid throne. Fifth scene…’

The rapid litany covered all seventeen scenes of the play and left Dart’s head spinning. He raced off to gather what he could remember and to stay out of reach of the old man’s temper. Nicholas looked fondly after him.

‘You are too hard on the lad, Thomas.’

‘Stern schoolmasters get the best results.’