Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘I am convinced of it.’

‘Then he is enemy and friend in one.’

‘How so?’

‘I hate him for what he did to Cyril Fulbeck but I love him for the way he dealt with Jonas Applegarth.’

‘You dealt cruelly enough with him yourself.’

‘He invited it.’

‘The dead invite respect.’

‘True,’ said Parsons. ‘But when I commissioned that Prologue to Alexander the Great , I thought he would be alive to hear of it. How was I to know that he would be dead?’

‘And if you had known?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you had been made aware of his death,’ said Nicholas, ‘would you have removed that offensive attack in your Prologue?’

Parsons grinned. ‘By no means. I’d have called for a few more couplets to celebrate the happy event.’

Nicholas struggled to control a powerful urge to strike him. The manager stood his ground, almost inciting some form of violence so that he could bring an action for assault against the book holder. A former lawyer would assuredly win any legal battle and penalise him severely. Nicholas held back. Delight danced in the other man’s eyes. He was taking such pleasure in the death of Jonas Applegarth that Nicholas began to wonder if he might not have been directly involved in it. The egregious manager certainly hated the playwright enough to kill him. Had the surprise he expressed at the news been real or feigned?

Still grinning broadly, Parsons moved away to collect more congratulations from members of the audience. There was a blend of arrogance and obsequiousness about him which was unpleasant to watch. He was alternately boasting and bowing with mock humility. When a generous compliment was paid to him by a lady, Parsons let out a high laugh of gratitude. It made Nicholas prick up his ears. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have heard that sound before.

Speculation was not enough. It was time to support it with evidence, and he was in the correct place to begin the search. The audience was fast dispersing and Ireland Yard was all but empty when he reached it. Starting at the first house on the left, he knocked hard and waited for the servant to open the door.

‘Is Master Parsons at home?’ he asked politely.

‘There is no Master Parsons here, sir.’

‘Does Raphael Parsons not live at this address?’

‘I have never heard the name.’

It was a painstaking process, but Nicholas stuck to his task until he had been to every house. Several of the residents did not even know him. Of those who did, a number were resentful of the fact that he ran a theatre in the precinct and thus disturbed their peace. Nicholas found no close friends of Raphael Parsons. Where, then, had the man been at the time when Cyril Fulbeck was killed?

He was deep in meditation when a figure came around the corner towards him. He threw the woman a half-glance and let her go past before he realised that he knew her.

‘Mistress Hay!’ he called.

‘Oh,’ she said, turning around. ‘Good-day, sir.’

He could see from her expression that she did not recognise him, largely because she was too shy to look at his face properly. He walked over to her.

‘I am Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I called at your house to speak to your husband.’

She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I remember now.’

‘Have you been to the play at the theatre?’

‘God forbid, sir!’

‘Then what are you doing in Blackfriars?’ he asked.

‘Visiting old friends. I was born and brought up here.’

‘In the precinct?’

‘Around the corner,’ she explained, pointing a hand. ‘My father was a bookseller. That is how Caleb and I…how my dear husband and I first met. He came into the shop to buy books and prints.’ A timid enthusiasm flickered. ‘He is such a learned man. Nobody in London knows as much about the history of the city as my husband. I am married to a genius. How many women can say that, sir?’

‘Very few, Mistress Hay. Your husband has been kind and helpful to me. I am grateful.’

Anxiety pinched her. ‘I must return home now. He will be expecting me back. I must be there for him.’

‘Your father was a bookseller, you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What name?’

‘Mompesson. Andrew Mompesson. I must go.’

‘Adieu!’

Nicholas waved her off and watched her shuffle along with her shoulders hunched and her head down. Joan Hay was a woman whose whole purpose in life was to obey her husband’s bidding. A bookseller’s daughter was an ideal helpmeet for him.

‘Mompesson,’ repeated Nicholas. ‘Andrew Mompesson.’

He had a vague feeling that he knew the name.

***

Hugh Naismith used his free arm to lift the tankard and drain the last of his ale. It was good to be back in the Elephant again and to share in the banter with his old friends from Banbury’s Men, even though he was no longer a member of the company. His wounded arm would heal in time and he would be fit for employment again. Meanwhile, he could cadge a few drinks from Ned Meares and his other fellows.

When he got to his feet, he swayed slightly and bade his farewells. Meares and the others sent him on his way with shouts and laughs. It was early evening when Naismith came reeling out of the inn, adjusting the sling around his neck. His lodging was only a few streets away but he did not get much closer to it.

As soon he passed the lane beside the Elephant, a strong hand reached out to grab him by his jerkin and swing him hard against a wall. All the breath was taken out of him and his wounded arm was jarred. The point of a dagger pricked his throat and made him jerk back his head in terror.

‘Leave me alone!’ he begged. ‘I have no money!’

‘That’s not what I want,’ growled a voice.

‘Who are you?’

‘A friend of Jonas Applegarth’s.’

‘That rogue!’

‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias. ‘That rogue.’

He let the blade of his weapon caress the man’s neck.

‘Tell me why you tried to kill him.’

An air of gloom hung over the Queen’s Head like a pall. The murder of Jonas Applegarth changed a haven of conviviality into a murmuring tomb. There was desultory movement in the yard with few guests seeking a bed for the night once they heard about the crime on the premises. The atmosphere in the taproom was funereal. Westfield’s Men sat over their ale with a sense of foreboding. Superstitious by nature, they were convinced that a curse had descended on their company and that a violent death presaged an even worse catastrophe.

Alexander Marwood was in his element. A man whose whole life was agitated by imaginary disasters now had a real one to make him truly despondent. Revelling in his misery, he circled his premises like a lost soul, chanting a monologue of black despair and pausing each time outside the storeroom where the horror had occurred to wonder if it should be exorcised, boarded up or torn down completely. Partnership with a theatre company had visited many tribulations upon his undeserving head but this, he felt, was easily the worst. The ghost of Jonas Applegarth would haunt him for ever.

When Nicholas returned from Blackfriars, the landlord was still perambulating the yard with enthusiastic grief. He swooped on the book holder at once, bony fingers sinking into his arm like the talons of a bird of prey.

‘Why have you done this to me?’ he groaned.

‘It was not deliberate.’

‘My trade blighted, my womenfolk prostrated, my happiness snatched away! Ruination, sir!’

‘A cruel twist of Fate,’ said Nicholas. ‘Westfield’s Men cannot be blamed. You must see that.’

‘Who brought that heretic to the Queen’s Head? Who staged his blasphemy in my yard? Who permitted him to fetch the wrath of the Lord down on my inn?’