Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

Putting his shoulder to the timber, he applied more pressure and there was a scraping noise as a heavy object was pushed across the floorboards. The creaking sound continued throughout and the two of them froze in their tracks when they saw what was causing it.

Jonas Applegarth was hanging from the central beam by a thick rope. As he swayed to and fro, the stout timber creaked under his weight. His face was bloated, his eyes staring, his body twisted into an unnatural shape. His shoes were dangling only inches above the floor, but that short distance was enough to separate him from life. A man of enormous vitality and power had been reduced to an inert hulk.

The object which had impeded them was an open coffin jammed against the door. Reeling from the shock, Curtis bent over his handiwork and spewed uncontrollably into it. Nicholas recovered more quickly. He saw that the rope went over the beam and was tied off on a wooden cleat fixed to the wall. After unwinding it carefully, he took the full strain and lowered Applegarth’s body to the ground with as much consideration as he could.

Nathan Curtis turned to help him but their examination of the body was cut short by another noise. It was a weird and maniacal cackle, which seemed to come from an adjoining room and which rose in volume and intensity until it filled the whole place. The carpenter was terrified by the sound but Nicholas had heard it once before. The Laughing Hangman had returned.

Diving to the other door in the room, Nicholas tried to open it but found it locked. He fumbled for his key and inserted into quickly into the lock. The adjoining chamber was the company’s tiring-house. By the time that Nicholas burst into it, the laughter had stopped and the place was empty. He went through the door that led to the yard but could see no sign of a fleeing figure. Guests were departing, ostlers were going about their business, a servant wielded a broom. When he dashed back into the tiring-house, he tried a third door in the chamber. It opened on to the passageway that led all the way down to the taproom.

Nicholas raced along it, searching each room and alcove that he passed. When he reached the taproom, the door opened before him and he came face to face with Alexander Marwood.

‘What’s amiss?’ demanded the landlord.

‘Did anyone come through this door a moment ago?’

‘I saw nobody.’

‘Are you certain, sir?’

‘My eyesight is sound.’

‘Where, then, did he go?’

Nicholas went back along the passageway to see if he had missed anything. Scenting trouble, the landlord trotted at his heels with face aghast and hands clutching the air.

‘What new calamity has befallen me?’ he wailed.

‘Send for the law, Master Marwood.’

‘Thieves have got in? Property has been stolen?’

‘It is a more serious crime than that.’

‘Fire has been started on my premises?’

‘Summon the constables.’

‘Dear God!’ howled Marwood, fearing that the worst had finally happened. ‘My daughter, Rose, has been ravished by one of your goatish actors!’

Nicholas took him by the shoulders to calm him.

‘Be still, sir,’ he soothed. ‘No theft, no arson and no assault upon your daughter. A greater affliction has struck us. There has been murder at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Murder!’

The word sent the landlord into a fresh paroxysm of apprehension. His body shuddered, his hands slapped his balding head and three nervous twitches united together to turn his eyebrows into a pair of mating caterpillars. Nicholas propelled him back towards the taproom.

‘Fetch assistance!’ he ordered. ‘Raise the alarm!’

Marwood scuttled off like a chicken pursued by an axe.

‘Murder! What, ho! Help!’

Abandoning the search, Nicholas made his way swiftly back to the room where Applegarth lay. It was important to look for clues and to guard the body from the invasion of ghoulish interest which the landlord’s cries were bound to excite. Other members of the company would soon be arriving. They had to be shielded from the horror of viewing the corpse. Death would deprive them of the day’s audience. There could be no performance that afternoon.

When Nicholas entered the room, the body lay in the exact position where he had left it. Nathan Curtis was still there but he had been joined by someone else. Nicholas was jolted. While the carpenter gazed down reverentially at Jonas Applegarth, his companion stared at the murder victim with a smile of quiet satisfaction.

James Ingram turned away to look across at Nicholas.

‘Do not ask me to mourn him,’ he said. ‘I will not.’

Lawrence Firethorn was still bemused as his horse trotted in through the looming bulk of Bishopsgate that morning. A promised night of passion with an uninhibited lover had turned into an unseemly squabble with a disappointed wife. Thanks to the intercession of Edmund Hoode, the actor-manager spent the hours of darkness in a cold and cheerless bed. And yet he was not really angry with the playwright. Irritation was the most he could muster. Where he should have been thirsting for the man’s blood, he was instead stupefied by his boldness.

Hoode entered the lion’s den to deliver his ultimatum. He had to be admired for that. Even in the face of extreme conjugal frustration, he did not flinch. Firethorn could usually stifle him at will and his wife could vanquish Hoode with a glance, yet their combined powers had no impact on him this time. He had lain between them like a naked sword and kept two urgent bodies agonisingly chaste.

Who had changed a taciturn playwright into a brave knight? What had made him enter the lists so purposefully on behalf of his work? Why had he chosen to interrupt lawful copulation in a Shoreditch bedchamber at that particular moment? Only one explanation sufficed.

‘A pox on his pizzle!’ groaned Firethorn. ‘He’s in love.’

It posed a real problem for Westfield’s Men. They could no longer take their resident playwright for granted. Hoode was forcing them to choose between his proven reliability and Jonas Applegarth’s potential wizardry. What should they stage at The Rose- The Faithful Shepherd or The Misfortunes of Marriage ? Hoode’s romantic comedy would be an undoubted success, but it was Applegarth’s trenchant satire which would reverberate throughout London.

Firethorn was in despair. To lose Hoode would cause him deep personal pain; to sacrifice Applegarth would be an act of professional folly. He was still weighing the two men in the balance as his horse picked its way through the crowd and turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head.

Chaos awaited him. Bodies dashed hither and thither in wild confusion. Alexander Marwood charged around in everdecreasing circles, bewailing his lot to those who would listen and upbraiding those who would not. Thomas Skillen was shaking his head in disbelief, George Dart was pacing up and down in cold fear, and the four apprentices were weeping openly. Edmund Hoode sat on a barrel in a complete daze. Owen Elias strutted frenziedly around the edge of the yard with a sword in his hand.

Firethorn saw a large coffin being unloaded from a cart by two men. He kicked his horse to take him across to Hoode.

‘Edmund!’ he said. ‘What means this commotion?’

‘Jonas Applegarth has been murdered!’

‘Here at the Queen’s Head?’

‘Hanged by the neck.’

The news hit Firethorn like a body blow. He quivered in the saddle. The implications would be horrendous and far-reaching. One problem had been solved: Hoode would now stay with the company which Applegarth had deserted for ever. But a hundred other problems had just been created. On top of a night of enforced celibacy, it was too much to endure.