Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

‘Can this be done without corrupting your tale?’

‘It will enhance it, Cecily. My play is partly set on the island of Sicily, allowing me to conjure endlessly with your magical name. I’ll move the action from midsummer’s night to St Cecilia’s Day to give my fancy even more scope and pen you fourteen lines of the purest poetry ever heard on a stage. Will this content you?’

‘Beyond measure.’

‘Look for pretty conceits and clever rhymes.’

‘I will savour the prettiness of the conceits but I do not look to find a rhyme that is half so clever as this before us.’

‘What rhyme is that?’

‘Why, Cecily and Edmund. Can two words fit more snugly together than that? Edmund and Cecily. They agree in every particular. Set them apart and neither can stand for much on its own. Put them together, seal them tight, lock them close in a loving embrace and they defy the laws of sound and language. Edmund and Cecily. Is that not the apotheosis of rhyme?’

‘They blend together most perfectly into one.’

‘Edmund!’

‘Cecily!’

No more words were needed.

***

Nicholas Bracewell escorted her back over London Bridge and on to Bankside. It was pleasant to have Anne Hendrik on his arm again and it rekindled memories for both of them. The long walk was far too short for them to exchange all the information they would have wished, but he now had a much clearer idea of the life she had been living since their separation, and she, for her part, filled in many blank pages of his own recent history.

Anne invited him into her home for some refreshment before he journeyed back. Over a glass of wine, they let nostalgia brush seductively against them.

‘Have you missed me?’ she asked.

‘Painfully.’

‘How did you cope with that pain?’

‘I worked, Anne. There is a dignity in that.’

‘That was also my escape.’

‘Westfield’s Men have kept me busier than ever. I was able to lose myself in my work and keep my mind from straying too often to you and to this house.’

‘Did you never think of straying here in person?’

‘Daily.’

She laughed lightly, then her face clouded over.

‘I worried deeply about you, Nick.’

‘Why?’

‘Westfield’s Men thrust too much upon you. The burden would break a lesser man. Yet still they ask for more from their book holder. It is unfair.’

‘I do not complain.’

‘That is your failing. They will overload you and you will not raise your voice in protest. You always put the company first.’

‘Westfield’s Men are my family. Without them, I would be an orphan. That is why I always seek to advance them. And why I rush to defend them, as I do in this instance.’

‘What instance?’

‘The murder of Jonas Applegarth,’ he said. ‘It was no random killing. Only one man died, but the whole company will suffer as a result. That was the intention. Victim and place were selected with deep guile.’ He made to leave. ‘Our Laughing Hangman wants to strangle Westfield’s Men as well.’

‘Why?’

‘He keeps his reason private.’

‘Take care,’ she said, moving close. ‘For my sake.’

‘I will.’

After a brief kiss, he forced himself to leave. The temptation to linger was almost overwhelming, but Nicholas resisted it. A year’s absence could not be repaired in a single evening. Anne’s feelings towards him had changed slightly and he could no longer trust his own promptings. They needed time to find more common ground.

Other commitments took priority over Anne Hendrik. Only when two murders had been solved and the fate of a chorister had been decided could he feel free to renew his friendship with her, properly and at leisure.

Instead of crossing the bridge, he walked down to the river to hail a boat. It felt good to be back on the water again and he let a hand trail over the stern like a rudder. His boatman rowed hard. Thames Street drifted slowly towards them. When he landed, Nicholas went straight to the house of a friend.

‘I will not take much of your time.’

‘Come in, come in, sir,’ said Caleb Hay.

‘I feel guilty at dragging you away from your history.’

‘It will wait, Master Bracewell.’

‘How many hours a day do you spend working on it?’

‘Not enough, not enough.’

Caleb Hay looked weary. He rubbed his eyes to dispel some of the fatigue and conducted Nicholas into his parlour. His wife had answered the door, but he had come down from his study when he heard the name of the visitor. Joan Hay crept nervously away to leave the two men alone.

‘Well, sir,’ said Hay. ‘How may I help this time?’

‘In a number of ways. You were, I believe, a scrivener.’

‘That is so.’

‘How did you discover your aptitude for history?’

‘In the course of my work. A scrivener spends much of his time copying documents of various kinds. I was fortunate enough to be commissioned to make fair copies of ancient records in the Tower of London. It was an inspiration. From that moment on, I knew what my life’s work would be.’

‘Were you ever called upon to write letters?’

‘Frequently.’

‘Of what kind?’

‘All kinds. Most of London is illiterate. If people need to send an important letter, they will often dictate it to a scrivener. We are like parish priests. We hear a man’s most intimate thoughts.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Letters of love were my special joy. You have no idea how many times I ravished beautiful women with my quill. I must have seduced a hundred or more on paper. I knew the tricks and the turn of phrase.’

‘Could you always tell the hand of a scrivener?’

‘Of course.’

‘How?’

‘By the neatness of his calligraphy,’ he said. ‘And by a dozen other smaller signs. Why do you ask?’

‘I read some letters from a boy to his father on a matter of some consequence. I took them at face value and the father is eager for me to do so. But I now suspect that the lad did not write them at all.’

‘Bring one to me and I’ll tell you for sure.’

‘If I can contrive it, I will.’

‘How old is the boy?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Then we have a certain guide,’ said Hay blithely. ‘I’ve taught many lads of that age to hold a pen. I know what an eleven-year-old hand can do.’ He cocked his head to one side to peer at Nicholas. ‘But is this not a trivial affair for so serious as man as yourself? When my wife told me you were here, I thought you’d come for more advice to help you catch the man who murdered Cyril Fulbeck.’

‘There is a connection.’

‘I fail to see it.’

‘The boy is a chorister in the Chapel Royal. Against the express wishes of his father, he was taken there by deed of impressment at the behest of Master Fulbeck.’

‘I begin to understand.’

‘What distresses him most is that his son spends much of his time at Blackfriars as a child actor. The father is demanding his release, but to no avail.’

Hay’s face darkened. ‘Then we have one suspect before us. What father would not feel ready to commit a murder in such a case? Might not this same parent be the fellow who killed Cyril Fulbeck?’

‘He might well be,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but I think that it is unlikely. And I am certain that he is not guilty of the other hanging.’

‘There has been a second ?’ gasped the old man.

‘This morning. At the Queen’s Head.’

‘What poor wretch has died this time?’

‘Jonas Applegarth.’

‘Ah!’ His tone became neutral. ‘The playwright. I will not speak harshly of any man on his way to the grave. But I cannot pity him so readily as I do the Master of the Chapel. And this Applegarth was hanged, you say?’