Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

He gave a hollow laugh at the depths of his own folly. While he walked the boards as the Constable of France, he was supremely aware of her attention. His vanity was breathtaking. Why should any woman swoon over him ? Set against the imperious charm of Lawrence Firethorn, the sensual vitality of Owen Elias, or the striking good looks of James Ingram, his qualities were negligible. It was idiocy to pretend otherwise. The rose which had warmed his heart all afternoon was now a stake which pierced it. His hand clutched at his breast to hold in the searing pain.

And then she came. Not in person, that was too much to ask. An innyard in the wake of a performance was not the ideal place for the first meeting of lovers. It was too public, too mundane, too covered in the litter of the departed audience. What she sent was an emissary. He was a tall, well-favoured youth in the attire of a servant. Walking briskly across to Hoode, he gave him a polite bow and thrust a scroll into his hand before leaving at speed.

The fragrance of the letter invaded Hoode’s senses and confirmed the identity of the sender. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment to read her purpose. His heart was whole again and pounding with joy. The elegant hand had written only one word, but it gave him a positive surge of elation.

‘Tomorrow…’

***

When did you speak with Raphael Parsons?’

‘Yesterday evening.’

‘You sought him out?’

‘He came to me, Nick. The porter told him how he might track me down. He was waiting for me at my lodging when I returned from here.’

Nicholas Bracewell and James Ingram were sharing a drink and comparing opinions in the taproom. Both had been astounded by the unheralded arrival of Raphael Parsons, but each had learned much from his visit.

‘I found him at odds with expectation,’ said Ingram. ‘My first encounter with him was too fleeting for me to form a proper opinion. This time, I conversed alone with him. He did not seem at all like the ogre I had been led to expect. A strong-willed man, yes, and with strong passions. But he was too polite and reasonable to be a vile tyrant.’

‘Tyranny can work in many ways,’ observed Nicholas. ‘A reasonable despot can sometimes be more difficult to resist. Master Parsons was civil with me but I sensed a capacity to be otherwise. We saw but one side of him.’

‘A caring man, deeply shaken by the murder of a friend.’

‘That was how he wanted to present himself, James.’

‘It was a form of disguise?’

‘I am not sure, but Raphael Parsons knew best how to engage our help. He was eager yet not overbearing, persistent but undemanding. He even invited me to question him . That was most enlightening. At the same time…’

‘You had doubts about him?’

‘I did.’

‘He put mine to flight, Nick.’

‘And most of mine, I must confess. He was very adept. Perhaps it was his ease in stilling my doubts which kept one or two of them alive. There is craft here. Deep cunning.’

‘You saw qualities in him that eluded me.’

‘I may be wrong, James. I hope that I am.’

‘He spoke so warmly of Cyril Fulbeck,’ said Ingram, ‘and I can forgive a man most things if he does that. For what it is worth, my judgement is in his favour. I do not believe that Raphael Parsons was involved in this crime.’

‘I delay my verdict on that.’

‘He shook with grief when he talked of the murder.’

‘It is a grief that is not allowed to interfere with his business affairs,’ remarked Nicholas coolly. ‘He may mourn his partner but he has not suspended performances at the Blackfriars as a mark of respect. His company are due to perform again tomorrow, young actors who must themselves be consumed with their own grief and beset by terror. Master Parsons tempers his sorrow with an instinct for gain.’

‘That is strange behaviour.’

‘Strange and unfeeling. What was his profession before he became a theatre manager?’

‘He was a lawyer.’

‘That explains much.’

They finished their drinks, then Nicholas took his leave. He crossed to the table at which Owen Elias was sitting with other members of the company, trading impersonations of the luckless John Tallis. Nicholas waited for the laughter to subside. Crouching beside the Welshman, he plucked his sleeve and kept his voice low.

‘Will you undertake a special task for me?’

‘Willingly, Nick.’

‘Go about it privily.’

‘A secretive assignment? You arouse my curiosity at once. What is it?’

‘The rumour is that Jonas fought a duel.’

‘More than a rumour. I know it to be a fact.’

‘Find out who his opponent was.’

‘Why?’

‘Jonas was attacked last night as we walked home,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘The ambush may be linked in some way to the duel. We need to recognise the face of the enemy so that we may safeguard Jonas from him.’

‘He made no mention to me of any ambush.’

‘He denies it happened in the same way as he refuses to admit that he was involved in a duel. But I was there when a dagger was thrown at him. Jonas is one of us now. Though he may spurn it, he needs our help.’

‘This is work I’ll readily accept, Nick,’ said Elias with concern. ‘I am grateful you chose me for the task.’

‘You can get closer to him than me.’

‘That is because Jonas and I are birds of the same feather. Roisterers with red blood in our veins. Lovers of life and troubadours of the tavern. We were both born to carouse.’ Elias grinned. ‘I need him alive to buy his share of the ale. Besides, he’s asked me to teach him some Welsh songs. I’ll not let an assassin kill my fellow-chorister.’

‘Then we must find the man before he strikes again.’

‘I’ll about it straight.’ He looked around the taproom. ‘Jonas was here even now. Where is the fellow?’

‘Returned home.’

‘When danger lurks in the streets? He is too careless. Each time he goes abroad, he is at risk. Jonas needs protection.’

‘I arranged it,’ Nicholas assured him. ‘Have no fear. He had a companion on his journey. By now, he will be safely bestowed in his house.’

***

The Maids of Honour had amused Jonas Applegarth for a couple of hours that afternoon, but it also fed his arrogance. He regarded the play as vastly inferior to anything he had written and voiced that opinion loudly in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. Watching one comedy prompted him to work on another. After only one tankard of ale, therefore, he left the inn to waddle back to his house.

When Nathan Curtis fell in beside him, it never occurred to Applegarth that the carpenter had been assigned to act as his bodyguard. He was happy enough to have jocular company on the walk back home, not pausing to wonder for a moment why a man who lived in Bankside was walking in the opposite direction. The sturdy presence of Curtis kept any potential attacker at bay. Once Curtis saw the playwright enter his house, he turned his steps back towards the river. The duty which Nicholas Bracewell had given him was discharged.

Jonas Applegarth clambered up the stairs to the little room at the front of the house. He sat down before a table set under the window and covered in sheets of parchment. After sharpening his pen, he dipped it into the inkwell and wrote with a swift hand. The surge of creativity kept him bent over the table for an hour. Evening shadows obliged him to light a candle and he used its flame to read what he had written. Pleased with his progress, he took up his pen once more.

Hugh Naismith watched it all from the cover of a fetid lane opposite the house. While the actor stood in a stinking quagmire, the playwright sat in comfort in his window as he created a new theatrical gem to set before the playgoers of London. Naismith spat with disgust. The difference in their stations rankled. He was cast into the wilderness by a man whose career was now flourishing. It was unjust.