Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

***

Nicholas Bracewell worked as quickly as he could in the limited time at his disposal. To prevent any unnecessary intrusion, he stationed James Ingram and Nathan Curtis, respectively, outside each of the two doors. Ingram’s reaction to the murder had been almost callous, but Nicholas could not spare a moment to reflect upon such an unexpected response from such a caring man. Jonas Applegarth pushed all else from the book holder’s mind. Before examining the dead body, he first removed the rope and noted how carefully the noose had been tied. The playwright had not been dispatched from the world with the aid of a crude knot. The Laughing Hangman knew his craft.

Inspecting the body, Nicholas was surprised to find no sign of blood. Applegarth would not have gone willingly to the makeshift gallows. His killer would have had to disable him first or he would have fought and yelled. Nicholas eventually located the large swelling on the back of the victim’s head. He had been knocked unconscious from behind. A sturdy mallet lay on the floor. The carpenter had unwittingly provided the weapon just as Westfield’s Men had unwittingly provided the rope. The scene of the execution had been chosen with care.

When he turned the body on its side, Nicholas was puzzled by the sight of sawdust sticking to the doublet and breeches. Curtis was a tidy carpenter. Though he used the room as his workshop, he always swept the floor clean. Nicholas went over to the roughhewn table in the corner. Pinches of sawdust still lay in the grooves and knot-holes of the carpenter’s workbench. How had it found its way onto the victim’s attire?

Bending over the prostrate Applegarth once more, he searched the man’s pockets but found only one item that might be a clue. The brief note scribbled on a piece of paper went into Nicholas’s own pocket. Mute and unprotesting, Applegarth lay on his back with his eyes searching the ceiling. In his brief stay with Westfield’s Men, he had made a forceful impact and he would be missed. Nicholas offered up a silent prayer for him, then reached down with delicate fingers to close his eyelids.

The sound of raised voices outside the door told him that he did not have much time left. He used it to search for parallels between this murder and that of Cyril Fulbeck. The similarities were too obvious to ignore. Both were rendered unconscious before the noose was fitted. Both were hanged by a man who celebrated his crime with mocking laughter. Both died in buildings from which the killer could make an easy escape. Nicholas was musing on the other common factors when there was a banging on the door.

Constables had arrived and the official investigation began. Nicholas and Curtis gave statements, the scene of the crime was thoroughly searched and the body was scrutinised. Unable to get it into their coffin, the two men had to perch it on top and cover it with a black cloth. More tears were shed in the yard as the corpse of Jonas Applegarth was carried solemnly out to the cart and driven away to the morgue. Westfield’s Men were bereaved.

When Nicholas finally emerged, Lawrence Firethorn was standing outside the door. He took the book holder by the arm and led him aside for a hissed interrogation.

‘Do you know what this will do to the company?’

‘My thoughts are with his poor wife.’

‘Mine, too,’ said Firethorn defensively. ‘Mine, too. The woman will be destroyed. But we suffer an act of destruction as well. Today’s performance has been hanged by the neck and Marwood is in such a state of superstitious panic that he is talking of renouncing our contract. What are we to do , Nick?’

‘Try to keep calm.’

‘When one of our number has been murdered?’

‘Reassure the rest of the company,’ advised Nicholas. ‘They need kindness and support at a time like this. I’ll speak with the landlord and smooth his ruffled feathers.’

‘Who did this, Nick?’

‘I do not know.’

‘And why did he have to do it here ?’

‘That question is easier to answer.’

‘Why not stab Jonas in some dark alleyway?’

‘Because the killer wanted to inflict the most damage on Westfield’s Men. You see the disarray it has caused.’

‘It was like Bedlam out in that yard,’ said Firethorn. ‘Marwood was prancing around like some lunatic at full moon. Why could not the hangman put his scrawny neck into a noose? If our landlord were swinging from the rafters, we’d have something to celebrate.’ He pulled Nicholas close. ‘Tell me what happened from the moment you arrived here.’

Nicholas was succinct. Firethorn frowned.

‘What was Jonas doing here so early?’ he wondered.

‘Answering your summons.’

‘My what?’

‘You were the only person who could get him to the Queen’s Head at the crack of dawn. The murderer knew that and set his trap accordingly.’

‘Trap?’

‘Here is the bait,’ said Nicholas.

He handed over the letter which he had found in pocket of the dead man. His companion read the scribbled words.

If you would remain with Westfield’s Men, meet me at the Queen’s Head at dawn.…Lawrence Firethorn .

‘I never sent this!’ protested the actor-manager.

‘Jonas believed that you did.’

‘This is not my summons.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is a death warrant.’

***

Anne Hendrik was at once saddened and relieved by her exchange with Ambrose Robinson on the previous evening. She was sorry to wound the feelings of someone who was already suffering a degree of emotional pain. A powerful man in a brutal profession, he was nevertheless remarkably sensitive and she had been touched that he felt able to reveal this side of his character to her. At the same time, however, she did not want her friendship to be misinterpreted. His unwelcome proposal had forced her to be more open with him about her own affections, and that brought a measure of relief. She may have hurt him but at least he would not pester her again.

‘What time is he coming?’

‘At noon, Preben.’

‘Do you wish me to be there?’

‘I shall insist,’ she said, pleasantly. ‘I would never dream of taking on a new apprentice without your full approval.’

‘Where does the boy’s family come from?’

‘Amsterdam.’

‘That is recommendation enough.’

Preben van Loew was, as usual, first to arrive at work. Anne came in from her adjacent house to discuss plans for the day. She took a full and active part in the running of the business. The old Dutchman and his colleagues might make the hats, but it was Anne who often designed them and she was solely responsible for gathering all the orders and for ensuring delivery. When demand was especially pressing, she had even been known to take up needle and thread herself.

By the time her other employees drifted in, the discussion with Preben van Loew had ended. Her first task was to buy some new material for the shop. She went back into her house and put on her own hat before she was ready to leave. A dull thud at her front door made her turn. A figure flitted past her window but far too quickly to be identified. She was mystified.

Anne crossed to the door and opened it tentatively. There was nobody there. Something then brushed against her dress. It was a large bunch of flowers in a wicker basket. She picked it up to inhale their fragrance. The scent was quite enchanting. Anne was moved by the unexpected present and she wondered who could have bestowed it on her.

The sender soon declared himself. Stepping around the corner of the street, Ambrose Robinson waved cheerily to her. His expression was apologetic and the flowers were clearly meant as some kind of peace offering. Accepting them as such, Anne replied with a grateful flick of her hand and a token smile. He grinned broadly before ducking out of sight again. She put the basket of flowers on a table without pausing to consider for a moment the real significance of the gift that she was taking into her house.