Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

He glared at her for a moment, then skulked out.

***

Sunday morning turned London into a gigantic bell-foundry. The whole city clanged to and fro. Bells rang, tolled, chimed or sang out in melodious peals to fill every ear within miles with the clarion call of Christianity and to send the multifarious congregations hurrying in all directions to Matins in church or cathedral. Bells summoned the faithful and accused the less devout, striking chords in the hearts of the one and putting guilt in the minds of the others. Only the dead and deaf remained beyond the monstrous din of the Sabbath.

Nicholas Bracewell left his lodging in Thames Street on his way to his own devotions. Recognising a figure ahead of him, he lengthened his stride to catch her up.

‘Good-morrow!’

‘Oh!’

‘May I walk with you?’

‘I am late, sir. I must hurry.’

‘May I not keep your haste company?’

Joan Hay was not pleased to see him and even less happy about the way he fell in beside her. Keeping her head down and her hands clutched tight in front of her, she bustled along the street. Nicholas guessed the reason for her behaviour.

‘I think that I must beg your pardon,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘For putting you in bad favour with your husband. I should not have told him that we met in Blackfriars. I fear he may have upbraided you for talking to me as you did.’

‘No, no,’ she lied.

‘Master Hay is a private man, I know that.’

‘He is a genius, sir. I am married to a genius.’

‘Why is he not with you this morning?’

‘He has gone ahead. I rush to catch up with him.’

‘Then I will ask one simple question before I let you get on your way.’

‘Please do not, sir. I know nothing.’

‘This is no secret I ask you to divulge. Your husband talked openly of it yesterday.’

‘Then speak with him again.’

‘I would rather hear it from you.’

When they reached a corner, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder to stop her. Joan Hay looked up into his face with frightened eyes. Timorous at the best of times, she was now in a mild panic.

‘Master Hay told me that he was once in prison.’

‘Only for one day,’ she said defensively.

‘There must have been some error, surely? Your husband is the most law-abiding man I have ever met.’

‘He is, he is.’

‘What possible charge could be brought against him?’

‘I do not know.’

‘You must have some idea.’

‘It was a mistake. He was soon released.’

‘Thanks to the help of the Master of the Chapel.’

‘Yes, I believe that he was involved.’

‘So why was your husband arrested?’ pressed Nicholas.

‘Truly, sir, I do not know.’

‘He could not have been taken without a warrant. Did they come to the house? Was he seized there?’

Joan Hay glanced nervously around, fearful of being late for church and anxious to shake off her interrogator. She was patently unaware of the full details of her husband’s temporary incarceration, but Nicholas still felt that he might winkle some clue out of her.

‘Let me go, sir,’ she said. ‘I implore you.’

‘When the officers came for your husband…’

‘Discuss the matter with him.’

‘Did they take anything away with them?’

‘Some documents, that is all.’

‘Documents?’

‘Do not ask me what they were for I know not.’

Nicholas stepped aside so that she could continue on her way. He felt guilty at harassing an already harassed woman but the conversation had yielded something of great interest. It gave him much to ponder as he headed for his own church in the neighbouring parish.

***

The jangling harmonies of London finally brought Edmund Hoode out of his protracted sleep. Expecting to wake up in the Garden of Eden, entwined in the arms of his beloved, he was disconcerted to find himself alone in a dishevelled bed at the Unicorn with a draught blowing in through an open window. As his brain slowly cleared, the full force of the bells hit his ears and he put his hands over them to block out the sound.

There was no trace of Cecily Gilbourne, not even the faintest whiff of the delicate perfume which had so intoxicated him the previous night. Had she fled in disappointment? Was their love shipwrecked on its maiden voyage? Hoode closed his eyes and tried to remember what had actually happened. Paradise had been recreated on the first floor of a London inn. He had been offered an apple from the Tree of Knowledge and had eaten it voraciously. It had been inexpressibly delicious.

The problem was that Eve had given him another apple. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth and possibly more. Before he collapsed in sheer exhaustion, he recalled looking around a Garden of Eden that was littered with apple cores. Eve, meanwhile, was straining to pluck another down from a higher branch. Her pursuit of knowledge was insatiable.

When Hoode struggled to sit up, he realised just how insatiable Cecily Gilbourne had been. She had left him for dead. His muscles ached, his stomach churned and his body seemed to have no intention of obeying any of its owner’s commands. After long hours of sleep, he was still fatigued. His mouth was parched and he longed for some water to slake his thirst.

With a supreme effort, he rolled off the bed and got his feet onto the floor. They showed little enthusiasm for the notion of supporting him and he had to clutch at a bench to stay upright. Blown by the wind and buffeted by the bells, he staggered across to the door, using a variety of props and crutches on his way. What kept him going was the thought that Cecily might be in the adjoining chamber, waiting for him to join her before breakfast was served. But the door was locked.

Hoode leant against it while he gathered his strength. A question began to pound away at the back of his skull. Why did he feel so unhappy? After such a night of madness, he should be overwhelmed with joy. Having tasted the sweet delights of Cecily Gilbourne, his mouth should be tingling with pleasure. Yet his palate was jaded. What had gone wrong?

His body rebelled and threatened to cast him to the floor. Legs buckled, arms went slack and his neck tried to disassociate itself from his head. The bed was his only salvation but it now seemed to be a hundred yards away. Marshalling his forces for one desperate lunge, he flung himself across the room, kicked over a stool, a table and a chamber-pot on the way, then landed on the bed with a thud, resolving never to move from it again.

He was still lying there, moaning softly and idly composing his own obituary, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a letter, protruding from beneath the pillow, clearly left by Cecily Gilbourne. His heart lifted. He was not, after all, an abandoned lover in a draughty bedchamber. She had penned her gratitude in glowing terms before stealing away and affirmed her love. That thought made him open the letter with fumbling enthusiasm, only to drop it instantly in alarm.

Cecily was a laconic correspondent. One word decorated the page and it struck an inexplicable terror into him:

“ Tonight .”

***

Royal command had delayed the funeral of Cyril Fulbeck until that morning. It was no insignificant event. The Master of the Chapel was a loved and revered member of the royal household and the Queen insisted on paying her personal respects to him. Since she only returned from Greenwich Palace on Saturday evening, the obsequies could not take place until the following day.

It was a moving ceremony, conducted with due solemnity by the Bishop of London and held in the Chapel which Fulbeck had served with such exceptional dedication. The choir were in fine voice as they bade farewell to their mentor and Philip Robinson was allowed the privilege of a solo. The funeral oration paid tribute to the work and character of the deceased while tactfully omitting any reference to the manner of his death. Silent tears lubricated the whole service, and when the coffin was borne out, even Her Majesty was seen to lift a gloved hand to her cheek.