Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘He had whispers of genius,’ said Gill grudgingly. ‘I give him that. But he might have chosen another day to die. Cupid’s Folly is an appalling loss. I have seventeen magical moments in the play and he has robbed me of every one of them!’ He rose to his feet. ‘“Cruel death hath stolen my Rigormortis from me.”’

Quoting his lines from the play, he flounced off. Hoode poured them both more wine from the jug. Alexander Marwood came buzzing around them with his woes.

‘What am I to do? Where am I to go?’

‘As far out of my sight as you can,’ said Firethorn.

‘Murder was committed on my premises. Guests have fled. Spectators have stayed away. My serving-men and ostlers are too frightened to do their offices. My wife is distraught. My daughter had taken to her bed. I am dead, sirs.’

‘We’ll sing lustily at your funeral.’

‘I blame you, Master Firethorn.’

‘For what?’

‘Bringing that heathen among us,’ said the landlord. ‘His play all but caused an affray in my yard. Jonas Applegarth dared to mock God and the Almighty has given His reply. You should not have let that heathen befoul my yard with his irreverence!’

‘Let him rest in peace,’ said Hoode. ‘He is gone.’

‘And taken my livelihood with it!’

Marwood’s twitch suddenly broke out around his mouth and both lips trembled so dramatically that they looked like a pair of fluttering wings. His words were distorted into grunts and whines. It rescued them from further persecution and the landlord stole away, holding his mouth in both hands lest it take flight.

‘Which is worse?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Marwood with his twitch or Barnaby with his rigor mortis ?’ He lifted his cup of wine. ‘Let’s drink to Jonas!’

‘I’ll say Amen to that!’ added Hoode.

‘We have lost a playwright but his play lives on. The Misfortunes of Marriage must be staged again in tribute.’

‘But not at The Rose next week.’

‘Are we to have that argument all over again?’

‘No, Lawrence,’ said Hoode, becoming more assertive. ‘The matter is settled. My new play will grace The Rose, as you promised. Choose another time for the tribute to Jonas Applegarth. I’ll not forfeit my right.’

There was a glint in his eye which forbade any further debate. Hoode was reaffirming his position in the company. Firethorn gave a nod of agreement, then leaned in close.

‘What is her name, Edmund?’

‘Whose name?’

‘This fairy princess who has waved a wand over you.’

‘I know of no fairies or wands.’

‘Come, sir. You talk to a master of the sport. I am a denizen of dark bedchambers. I know how a woman can make your blood race. Love has put this vigour into you. Some enchantress has stroked your manhood upright at last.’ He slipped an arm around Hoode. ‘Who is she?’

‘An invention of your mind.’

‘Am I never to meet this goddess?’

‘What goddess?’

‘Share her wonder with me.’

‘How can I?’ said Hoode, coolly. ‘She does not exist.’

‘ Someone has put this new spirit into you.’

But Edmund Hoode would not be drawn. Cecily Gilbourne was a secret he would share with no-one. She had enlarged his mind and captured his soul. With her in his life, he felt, he could achieve anything. He recalled the one omission in her catalogue of his work.

‘When do we play Pompey again?’ he asked.

‘It has fallen out of our repertoire.’

‘Insert it back in, Lawrence.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I tell you. I, too, can make the earth quake on occasion, nowhere more so than in my tale of Pompey. See him put upon the stage once more. Those who remember him will welcome him back and he is sure to win fresh hearts.’

He thought of Cecily Gilbourne and smiled serenely.

***

Blackfriars Theatre brought a steady flow of spectators into the precinct. The reputation of the Chapel Children grew with each performance and the murder of their Master seemed to encourage interest rather than to deter it. Some came out of love for Cyril Fulbeck and others out of morbid curiosity, but the result was that the whole precinct was soon swarming with playgoers. Where the Dominican Order once held sway, Alexander the Great would now march in triumph.

Nicholas Bracewell arrived well before the performance was due to begin and loitered in the Great Yard to study the composition of the milling crowd. The audience differed markedly from that normally seen at the Queen’s Head. Westfield’s Men played to patrons drawn from every rank of society. Aristocrats, artisans and apprentices would share the same space as lawyers, landowners and local politicians. Merchants and mathematicians sat in the balcony while punks and pickpockets mingled with the standees in the pit.

Blackfriars had a more exclusive clientele. It was less a heterogeneous mix than a parade of sumptuary legislation. The laws designed to regulate the dress of men and women were strictly applied. Flashes of gold, silver and purple told Nicholas how many members of the hereditary peerage were present. Velvet denoted a large number of gentlemen and their ladies. Satin, damask, taffeta and grosgain spoke of the eldest sons of knights and all above that rank, or of an income of at least one hundred pounds per annum. And so it went on.

Since costume was such an important element of theatre and accuracy of detail vital, Nicholas had a close acquaintance with the regulations, and he took wry amusement from the fact that gifts of old clothing to actors were one of the few permitted exceptions to the rules. A deeper irony often impressed itself upon him. Actors who struggled to make ten pounds a year would appear on stage in apparel worth far more than that. Popes and princes at the Queen’s Head were hired men who rubbed shoulders with poverty when they left it.

A face came out of the crowd to startle him. Nicholas had not expected to see James Ingram there. He was about to hail his colleague when he recalled the latter’s strange behavior beside the corpse of Jonas Applegarth. It had seemed so mean-spirited. What, in any case, was Ingram doing at the Queen’s Head so early? Was his sudden appearance in the storeroom coincidental? Nicholas stepped back out of sight as the actor went past, wondering if past loyalty had brought him to Blackfriars or if a more sinister motive was at work. Ingram would repay watching.

Waiting until the majority of the spectators had taken their places, he paid sixpence for a seat at the rear. Ingram was three rows in front of him but on a diagonal which allowed Nicholas a clear view of his profile. He did not dwell on it for long. His attention was captured by the splendour of the private playhouse. Shutters had been closed to block out the afternoon sun but the stage was ablaze with light. Candles burned in branched candelabra, many of them hanging and operated by pulleys. The auditorium itself was illumined by numerous small flames as well but full radiance was concentrated on the stage.

Musicians kept the audience entertained while they awaited the performance and Nicholas once again noted a stark contrast. Peter Digby and his consort inhabited a narrow balcony above the stage at the Queen’s Head, a cramped and windswept arena in which to practice their art. Their music had to complete with the jostling hubbub of the innyard, the strident yells of vendors selling refreshment and the relentless uproar of the adjacent Gracechurch Street.

Blackfriars was more benevolent to its musicians. Seated in complete comfort, they were given an attentive audience in a building that was designed to catch and amplify the beauty of their work. No raucous yells disturbed the concert, no violent quarrels broke out between onlookers. Music was able to create the perfect mood for the presentation of Alexander the Great .