Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

He missed her. Nicholas Bracewell felt a pang of regret so sharp and so unexpected that it made him catch his breath. He looked down involuntarily to see if the point of a knife had pricked his chest and drawn blood. Nicholas had not even been thinking about Anne Hendrik, still less talking about her, yet she was suddenly filling his mind, standing before his eyes and stroking his cheek with wistful fingers. It was at once reassuring and tantalising.

For several minutes, Nicholas was so enveloped by a flurry of wonderful memories that he paid no heed to the argument that was raging in front of him. Anne Hendrik whispered softly in his ear and kept out the violent discord. The book holder did not even hear the fist that banged the table like the blast of a cannon.

‘I’ll not be thwarted!’ roared Lawrence Firethorn.

‘Then leave off this madness!’ argued Barnaby Gill.

‘I put the good of the company first and foremost.’

‘You have never done so before, Lawrence.’

‘I have always done so! It is you who believe that Westfield’s Men exists for the greater glory of one paltry individual.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Look in any mirror, Barnaby. He will leer back at you.’

‘That is a gross slander!’

‘I speak but the truth.’

‘Calumny!’ said Gill, rising to his feet and inflating his chest to its full extent. ‘But for me, there would be no company. I have oftentimes saved it from extinction and I am trying to do so again.’

‘You are obstructing the path to triumph.’

‘Yes, Lawrence. Triumph for our rivals. If we follow your lunatic advice, we hand the advantage to them.’

‘My plan puts Westfield’s Men in the seat of power.’

‘It is a cucking-stool and we shall be drowned by ridicule if we place our buttocks anywhere near it.’

Firethorn gave a mock bow. ‘I defer to your superior knowledge on the subject of buttocks.’

Barnaby Gill turned purple and slapped his thigh with a petulant palm. Turning on his heel, he tried to make a dramatic exit, but Edmund Hoode jumped up to restrain him.

‘Hold, Barnaby. This is no way to settle a quarrel.’

‘I’ll not stay to be insulted.’

‘Then scurry off,’ said Firethorn, ‘for the very sight of you calls up a hundred insults. We’ll make the decision without you and inform you in due course.’

Gill stamped a foot. ‘I demand to be part of that decision.’

‘Take your seat once more and you will be,’ soothed Hoode. ‘Your voice is needed at this table, Barnaby, and you shall be heard. Is that not so, Nick?’

A nudge brought Nicholas out of his reverie and he adjusted quickly to the familiar scene. Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were at each other’s throats again. Two men who could combine brilliantly to lift the performance of any play were sworn enemies the moment that they quit the stage. Their mutual antagonism went deeper than mere professional jealousy. Firethorn, the company’s actor-manager, felt that his remarkable talents were not properly acknowledged by his colleague; Gill, the resident clown with Westfield’s Men, saw himself as the true leader of the troupe and resented any reminder that he occupied second place behind Firethorn.

Nicholas Bracewell helped to calm the quivering Gill and the latter eventually agreed to resume his seat. The four men were in the parlour of Firethorn’s house in Old Street. Everyone in Shoreditch was aware of the fact because it intruded stridently on their eardrums and they were not sure if they found Firethorn’s deep bellow or Gill’s high-pitched wail the more tiresome. Regular acrimony in the parlour had one domestic compensation. It dusted the room so thoroughly that the servant did not need to brush the cobwebs from the beams or sweep the beetles out of corners. Every creature that could walk, crawl or fly vacated the premises at once. Even the mice in the thatch fled to a quieter refuge.

‘I thought it might be a moment for more refreshment.’

Margery Firethorn came sailing into the room with a wooden tray in her hands and a benign smile on her handsome face. Her entry was perfectly timed to break the tension and allow the combatants to cool off. As she set a plate of warm cakes and a fresh pitcher of wine in front of them, she caught Nicholas’s eye and gave him an affectionate wink. He replied with a quiet grin of thanks. Not for the first time, a woman who could rant and rail as loud as her husband on occasion had imposed a welcome stillness with a show of gentle hospitality.

While Gill reached for the wine, Firethorn grabbed a cake to pop into his mouth. He munched it happily and the crumbs found a temporary lodging in his black beard.

‘Thank you, my dove,’ he cooed.

‘We are most grateful,’ added Edmund Hoode, replenishing his own cup and taking a deep sip. ‘Nectar!’

‘Do you have need of anything else?’ she said.

‘No,’ grunted Gill.

‘We will call if we do, my angel,’ said her husband, blowing her a fond kiss.

‘I’ll stay within earshot, Lawrence.’

Hoode nodded ruefully. ‘All of London does that!’

Margery let out a rich cackle and went back into the kitchen. Her intervention had taken the sting out of the discussion. Anger subsided and reason slowly returned. Firethorn was soon ready to draw the others into the debate.

‘What is your opinion, Nick?’ he asked.

‘It matters not,’ said Gill, testily. ‘This is a question to be decided by we three sharers, not by one of the hired men. Nicholas is a competent book holder, I grant you, but he does not rank with us.’

‘No,’ said Hoode, coming to the defence. ‘He ranks far higher. His wisdom and loyalty have rescued us from damnation more times than I can count. Lawrence seeks his counsel and so do I. Speak up, Nick.’

‘Yours is the more important voice here, Edmund.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes,’ observed Nicholas. ‘This touches you more directly than any of us. The argument thus far has simply been about a new play.’

‘A masterpiece!’ affirmed Firethorn.

‘A monstrosity!’ countered Gill.

‘It is only right that players should dispute the merits of a drama,’ continued Nicholas tactfully, ‘but you may be more concerned with the character of the dramatist.’

Edmund Hoode winced slightly. He had been doing his best to separate the play from the playwright because the very name of Jonas Applegarth could set his teeth on edge. It was not a case of naked envy. Hood admired the other’s work immensely and was the first to admit that Applegarth was the superior poet. In terms of literary talent, the latter could outshine anyone in London, but there were other aspects of Jonas Applegarth that were far less appealing. Edmund Hoode made an effort to draw a veil over them.

‘ The Misfortunes of Marriage is a fine play,’ he said with unfeigned enthusiasm. ‘It is comedy with a satirical edge and far exceeds anything that my wilting pen could produce. The Queen’s Head will not have seen a more riotous afternoon than Applegarth’s play will offer.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I believe that we should put personal considerations aside and stage the play. There is pure genius in The Misfortunes of Marriage .’