Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘Please, please!’ he encouraged.

‘Your plays, Edmund, are a source of joy to me.’

‘For that compliment alone, they were worth writing.’

‘ Double Deceit .’

‘Juvenilia. When I was young and green.’

‘Its humour bubbled like a mountain stream.’

‘ Pompey the Great . That is Edmund Hoode at his finest.’

‘I regret that I have never seen it played.’

‘You must, you must, Mistress Gilbourne.’

‘Call me Cecily…if we are to be friends.’

‘Thank you, Cecily,’ he gushed. ‘And we will.’

‘Be friends?’

‘I earnestly hope so.’

‘No more than that?’

She gave him an enigmatic smile. Hoode was not sure if she was enticing him or merely appraising him. It did not matter. He was ready to surrender unconditionally to her will. A rose. A promise. A tryst. Cecily Gilbourne was a kindred spirit, a true romantic, someone removed from the sordid lusts of the world, a woman of perception who loved the way that he wrote about love.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do I surprise you?’

‘Surprise me and delight me, Cecily.’

‘Am I as you imagined I might be?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘You are disappointed?’

‘Overjoyed. The reality far exceeds my imaginings.’

She laughed softly. ‘I knew that I had chosen well.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, Edmund. Your plays let me look into your heart.’

‘What did you find there?’

The enigmatic smile played around her lips again.

‘I found you.’

The words caressed his ears and he almost swooned. He could not believe that it was happening to him. Years of rejection by the fairer sex had sapped his self-esteem. Romantic disaster was his natural habitat. Women like Cecily Gilbourne did not exist in his life except as phantoms. There had been no chase, no agonising period of courtship, no sequence of sonnets to express his desire in honeyed phrases. She had come to him. It was the most natural and painless relationship he had ever enjoyed with a beautiful woman, intensified as it was by an element of mystery, and given a deeper resonance by the fact that she adored his work as much as his person.

‘Will you come to me again, Edmund?’ she whispered.

‘Whenever you call.’

‘It will be very soon.’

‘I will be waiting.’

‘Thank you.’

She offered her hand and he placed the lightest of kisses upon it, his lips burning with pleasure as they touched her glove.

‘Farewell, my prince,’ she said.

Cecily turned to stare out of the window, allowing him to see her in profile and to admire the marmoreal perfection of her neck and chin. Caught in the light, her skin was so white and silky that Hoode had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it with the tips of his fingers. Instead, he gave her the lowest bow yet, mumbled his farewell and backed towards the door with his mouth still agape.

Their first meeting was over. He was ensnared.

***

When they reached the precinct of Blackfriars, they explored the surrounding streets and the church before going into the theatre itself. Geoffrey, the old porter, gave them a subdued welcome and told them that Raphael Parsons was still in the building. Nicholas Bracewell went briskly up the staircase with James Ingram at his side.

What met them in the theatre itself was a far less gruesome sight than the one which had greeted them on their earlier visit. Raphael Parsons was talking to a group of young actors, who were sitting on the edge of the stage in costume. Behind them was the setting for the final scene of Mariana’s Revels . His voice was loud but unthreatening. None of the Chapel Children evinced any fear of the man.

Hearing their approach, Parsons swung round to face them.

‘You trespass on private property,’ he said crisply.

‘The theatre is open to the public,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘You performed here this very afternoon, it seems. Mariana’s Revels . Not that we come as spectators, Master Parsons. We would speak with you.’

‘The time is not convenient.’

‘Then we will wait.’

Nicholas and his companion folded their arms and stood there patiently. They would not easily be dismissed. The manager clicked his tongue in exasperation before snapping his fingers to dismiss the actors. They scampered off into the tiring-house. Nicholas looked after them.

‘Was Philip Robinson in your cast?’ he asked.

‘He was,’ said Parsons. ‘He played Mariana herself.’

‘The boy can carry a leading role?’

‘Exceeding well. His plaintive songs moved all who heard him sing. But you did not come here to discuss the talents of my actors. I see that by your faces.’

‘We are here on Master Fulbeck’s behalf,’ said Ingram.

‘There is something you did not tell me?’

‘It is the other way around,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We have questions to put to you.’

‘To what end?’

‘The arrest and conviction of a killer. A Laughing Hangman, who turned your stage into a gallows. You and I and James here, each working on his own, would never track him down. But if we pool our knowledge, if we share opinion and conjecture, we may perchance succeed.’

‘I do not need your help,’ said Parsons sharply.

‘You know the murderer, then?’

‘Not yet, Master Bracewell.’

‘Then how do you propose to root him out?’

‘By cunning, sir. Alone and unaided.’

‘We came by Ireland Yard,’ said Ingram, pointedly.

‘So?’

‘That was where you claimed to be when Master Fulbeck was dangling from a noose in here.’

‘You doubt my word?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘We would simply like to know which house you visited,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘Your host would confirm the time of your arrival and departure.’

‘Damn your impudence, sir!’

‘What number in Ireland Yard?’

‘I’ll not be harried like this,’ warned Parsons. ‘Where I went that day was and will remain my business. I am not under scrutiny here. Do you dare to suggest that I was implicated in the crime in some way? Cyril Fulbeck was my partner. I worshipped the man.’

‘Yet argued with him constantly.’

‘That was in the nature of things.’

‘Why did you open the theatre today?’ said Ingram.

‘Because a play had been advertised.’

‘The murder of Master Fulbeck notwithstanding?’

‘He would have sanctioned the performance.’

‘I beg leave to question that.’

Parsons was blunt. ‘Our beloved Master of the Chapel may have died but life goes on.’

‘With no decent interval for mourning?’

‘This theatre itself is his memorial.’

‘And your source of income,’ observed Nicholas.

‘That, too.’

‘Therein lies the true reason for performance.’

‘I run this theatre the way that I choose!’

‘No,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘The way that you have to run it, Master Parsons. By cramming in every performance that you possibly can and by working your actors like oxen in the field. That is why you staged Mariana’s Revels today. Not by way of a memorial to Cyril Fulbeck. You wanted the money.’

‘The theatre has expenses.’

‘Is that why you wrangled with your partner?’

‘Leave off this, sir!’

‘Did you argue over profit?’

‘I’ll not account to you or anyone else for what I do within these four walls!’ yelled Parsons, waving his arms. ‘Blackfriars is my theatre. I live for this place.’

‘Master Fulbeck died for it.’

Anger building, Parsons looked from one to the other. ‘Envy drives you both on,’ he sneered. ‘I see that now. Blackfriars is without peer. We offer our patrons a real playhouse, not an innyard smelling of dung and stale beer. Here they sit in comfort to watch the best plays in London, protected from the rain and wind, marvelling at our skill and our invention. Westfield’s Men are vagabonds beside my Chapel Boys.’