Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘I care not.’

‘Margery is waiting for me within.’

‘I will not keep you from your sleep much longer.’

‘Sleep was the least of our concerns!’

‘I had to see you.’

‘Well, see me, you do. So turn tail and leave my house before I speed you on your way!’ His eyes glowed in the half-dark. ‘Come not between the dragon and his mate!’

‘Who is it?’ called Margery from within.

‘Edmund!’

‘At this hour?’

‘Begone, sir!’ snarled Firethorn. ‘You hold up destiny.’

‘That is why I am here,’ said Hoode calmly. ‘To discuss my own destiny. When I sensed danger in the person of a rival, my impulse was to shrink away and yield up my place. Not any more, Lawrence. I intend to fulfil my destiny. I am here to fight for my place in Westfield’s Men.’

Firethorn exploded. ‘If you tarry any longer, you will be fighting for your life! God’s tits, man! The most wonderful woman in the world is waiting for me in that bed.’

‘Not for ever,’ cautioned Margery. ‘I grow weary.’

‘Come back tomorrow, Edmund!’

Firethorn tried to push him away, but Hoode held his ground with a determination that was unprecedented in so reserved a man. Five minutes alone with Cicely Gilbourne had transformed him. He was loved. His plays were admired. His life had purpose after all. What thrilled him most was her appreciation of his work. It was this which had restored his confidence in himself and made him reflect on the shabby treatment he had been accorded by Westfield’s Men. With fire in his belly, he walked all the way to Shoreditch to beard Firethorn in his own den. Margery’s presence was a minor disadvantage.

‘Will you box his ear or will I?’ she shouted.

‘I will, my pretty one,’ cooed Firethorn before glowering at the intruder. ‘Leave now while your legs still carry you or I’ll not be answerable for my actions!’

‘If I leave now, Lawrence, I leave for good!’

‘That will content us.’

‘Who will pen your plays then, I wonder?’

‘Still there?’ wailed Margery. ‘Throttle the idiot!’

‘I talk of my place,’ continued Hoode, unruffled. ‘I talk of my destiny. Westfield’s Men are contracted to perform The Faithful Shepherd at The Rose yet I am thrust aside to make way for Jonas Applegarth.’

Firethorn gasped. ‘You have invaded my bedchamber in order to talk about a paltry play ?’

‘That paltry play means much to me. Thus it stands. Perform it at The Rose and I remain in the company. Supplant me with another playwright and I will henceforth offer my talent to Banbury’s Men. Do you understand, Lawrence?’

The other was so stunned that all he could offer was a meek nod. Hoode’s fearless manner and dire threat robbed him of the organs of speech. Panting on the bed, Margery Firethorn was more concerned with other organs.

‘Lawrence!’ she bawled. ‘Get in here now ! Your kettle is no longer boiling, sir. It needs more heat to make it sing. Light my fire again. Where are you, man?’

Hoode tapped politely on the door and inched it open.

‘We are done now, Margery,’ he said. ‘I’ll send him in.’

***

Unable to sleep for more than a few hours, Nicholas Bracewell rose before dawn and strolled down to the edge of the Thames. The river lapped noisily at the wharf and vessels bobbed in the gloom as they lay at anchor. Born and brought up in a seaport, Nicholas felt at home beside the dark water as it curled between its banks with lazy power. When the first specks of light began to dapple the river, he inhaled the keen air and was at peace with himself. Gulls cried, a winch squealed into life, the plash of oars could be heard in the distance.

His eye then travelled across to Bankside and the demons returned to plague his mind. The Thames did not just snake through London on its way to the sea. Its broad back kept Anne Hendrik and him far apart. They would need more than a bridge to join themselves together again.

Nicholas was still brooding by the quayside when the river was teeming with boats and flanked by scores of people about their daily work. Kneeling down low, he cupped his hands to scoop up some water and let it run over his face. As he began the noisy walk to the Queen’s Head, he felt refreshed and ready to begin his own day.

Blackfriars displaced Anne Hendrik from his thoughts. The second visit to the theatre had yielded much. Aided by Caleb Hay’s sketch, he had been able to take his bearings with more accuracy and James Ingram had pointed out aspects of the precinct which had gone unremarked before. A most fashionable quarter of London had baulked at the notion of a public playhouse in their midst, yet the most successful private theatre in England stood in its place. He wondered how many of the residents who had signed the earlier petition were keen spectators at Blackfriars.

Raphael Parsons now came into the reckoning as a murder suspect. Their first meeting, Nicholas believed, had been deliberately engineered to throw suspicion off the victim’s business partner. Pretending to investigate the crime on his own account, Parsons sought to put himself beyond any investigation. No stage management had been possible before their second encounter. He was taken unawares. His truculent manner, his wild threats and his refusal to account for his precise whereabouts at the time of the murder combined to make him a potential killer.

Nicholas was convinced that the man’s vicious rows with his partner were as much over money as over the treatment of the young actors. Long service with Westfield’s Men had given the book holder an insight into the perilous finances of a theatre company. Blackfriars might not be at the mercy of the elements in the same way as the Queen’s Head, but there was still rent to pay, costumes to buy, scenery and properties to provide, expensive stage equipment to be installed, and the theatre itself to be cleaned and maintained.

When Nicholas added the fees for commissioning new plays with unceasing regularity, he could see how high the running costs must be. The Blackfriars audience might pay higher prices to view the entertainment, but it was much smaller in size than the public playhouses and the gatherers would take less at a performance even than at the Queen’s Head. Raphael Parsons had to drive his actors hard to make a profit. He would not thank the soft-hearted Cyril Fulbeck for standing in his way.

Consideration of the theatre manager inevitably brought him around to the case of Philip Robinson and that let Anne Hendrik back into his mind. He brooded afresh on her until a voice hailed him. Nicholas looked up to see Nathan Curtis emerging from the crowd to join him as he turned into Gracechurch Street.

‘Early again, Nathan. You put the rest to shame.’

‘There are two benches to repair, a coffin to strengthen and a wooden leg to make.’

‘A carpenter is always in request.’

‘Until you go on tour. My trade falls asleep then.’

‘Theatre is a cruel master.’

They were still chatting as they turned in through the archway of the Queen’s Head and made for the rooms which they rented as storage areas. Costumes, properties and scenic devices were expensive items, kept under lock and key at all times. Nicholas was alarmed, therefore, when he tried the first door and found it already unlocked.

‘Someone is here before us?’ said Curtis.

‘Not from the company. Only I have the key.’

‘Who, then, can it be?’

Nicholas drew a cautionary dagger before opening the door. With Curtis behind him, he stepped into the room used as their wardrobe. Nothing seemed to be missing, but he was certain that someone had been in there. A creaking sound took his attention to the room beyond. It was the place where they stored their properties and scenery, and where the carpenter stowed his tools overnight. Nicholas crept over to the door and lifted the latch gently. The door was unlocked but it would only open a matter of inches before it met an obstruction.