‘But they might have entered by another means.’
‘Not into the theatre, sir. The main entrance is up the winding staircase. The only other way to reach the stage is by the back stairs and the back door is kept locked.’
‘Who has a key to that door?’
‘Only three of us, sir. Myself, Master Parsons and Master Fulbeck. We are very careful to keep the building locked and guarded at all times. Thieves would else come in.’
‘Or murderers,’ thought Nicholas. ‘I saw no keys upon Master Fulbeck. Where did he carry them?’
‘Always at his belt.’
‘Habitually?’
‘He was never without them.’
‘The keys are not at his belt now.’
‘Then they have been stolen!’ cried Geoffrey.
‘And used to make an escape through the back door,’ said Ingram, trying to think it through. ‘That would explain how someone got out, but how did he get into the theatre in the first place?’
‘Perhaps he was hiding in here all along,’ suggested Nicholas, scanning the galleries. ‘There are places where a patient assassin might lie in wait. The rooms above the stage itself would be an ideal refuge.’
‘Nobody was here!’ insisted the old man, defending himself against what he saw as a slur on his competence. ‘I walk around the whole building first thing in the morning and I do the same at night when I secure it. A mouse could not sneak in without my knowing it.’
Indignation had helped to rally the porter and he had stopped wheezing. He was soon well enough to get up and walk. After a few last questions, Nicholas sent him off to fetch constables in order that he could have a word alone with James Ingram.
They knelt by the body in the middle of the stage. Nicholas drew back the cloak to reveal the staring eyes. Ingram blenched and lowered his own lids in a moment of silent prayer. Nicholas then indicated the bloodstains.
‘He has a wound on the back of his head. I believe he was struck from behind by his assailant so that he was unconscious when the rope was placed around his neck. He may only have revived when it was too late.’
‘Could he not have called out for help?’
‘To whom?’ said Nicholas. ‘The porter was too far away and there was nobody else in the building. The murderer knew that. In case of interruption, he killed his prey sooner than the rope alone could have done.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He grabbed Master Fulbeck by the legs and swung on him with his full weight.’ He lifted the other end of the cloak. ‘You see the tear in his cassock and the wrinkles in his stockings? A buckle snapped and one shoe was pulled off.’
Ingram was aghast. ‘He helped to throttle him?’
‘No question. It might otherwise have been a lingering death. Our only comfort is that it speeded up a dreadful execution and shortened the agony.’
‘Who could do such a thing to sweet Master Fulbeck?’
‘Someone who did not think him quite so sweet, James. I mean to track the villain down, however long it takes me. This is heinous work and the killer must answer for it.’
‘How will you find him, Nick? Where will you start to look? You have no clues to guide you. The murderer vanished into thin air. I caught no glimpse of him when I ran to the window.’ He shrugged his shoulders in despair. ‘It is hopeless. You have no notion whom you seek.’
‘Yes, I do. A Laughing Hangman.’
***
Anne Hendrik was not expecting any visitors to her Bankside house that evening, and she was consequently surprised when there was a knock on the front door. Her servant answered it and the sound of Nicholas Bracewell’s voice filtered into the parlour. Putting her embroidery aside, Anne rose to greet him with spontaneous pleasure.
‘Nick!’
‘I am sorry to disturb you so late.’
‘You are more than welcome.’
‘Thank you, Anne.’
She offered both hands and he squeezed them gently. That moment alone redeemed in his mind an otherwise grim evening. For the first time in a year, he was back in the house he had shared with her, and it was both exciting and unnerving. Thrilled to be within those walls again, he was painfully aware of the parting that had taken place between the two of them in that same parlour. Nostalgia touched them both deeply and bathed their mutual wounds.
The silence and the mood were shattered by an urgent banging on the door. The servant opened it to admit an eager Ambrose Robinson. Blundering straight into the parlour, he grabbed Nicholas by the arm.
‘Have you brought news of Philip?’
‘Master Ambrose-’
‘I saw you as you walked past my shop,’ explained the butcher. ‘Even in the shadows, I could not mistake you. Those broad shoulders and that long stride could belong only to our Nicholas Bracewell. Have you been to Blackfriars?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it! What transpired?’
‘If you will calm down, I will tell you.’
‘Did you see Philip? Have they agreed to release him?’
‘Stop badgering him, Ambrose,’ said Anne. ‘Take a seat and let Nick explain in his own time.’
Robinson accepted the rebuke with his ingratiating smile and moved to a stool. Anne resumed her own seat and Nicholas remained standing to pass on his tidings. The note of oily familiarity in ‘our Nicholas Bracewell’ still grated on his ear. After one short meeting, Robinson was presuming a bond of friendship that would never exist between them. The book holder was brief.
‘I went to Blackfriars this evening in the hope of speaking with Cyril Fulbeck, but that is no longer possible. Master Fulbeck is dead.’
‘Dead?’ repeated Anne. ‘Was his illness that severe?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘God in Heaven!’
She was utterly shocked, but Ambrose Robinson took an almost perverse delight in the news. As Nicholas gave the two of them full details of what had happened, the butcher came close to smirking. Anne Hendrik offered wholehearted sympathy to the victim, but her neighbour saw it only as a form of crude justice.
‘Fulbeck deserved it,’ he grunted.
‘Ambrose!’ exclaimed Anne in reproach.
‘No man deserves such an end,’ said Nicholas.
‘He stole Philip away from me.’
‘Cyril Fulbeck’s death may make it far more difficult to gain your son’s release. By common report, he was a gentle and well-loved Master of the Chapel. His assistant will now take over his duties, but the theatre will be entirely in the hands of Raphael Parsons. He is the one from whom we must wrest your son, and he will be far less amenable than the man whose murder brings you such cruel pleasure. Your joyful response is both premature and in poor taste.’
Robinson was far less abashed by Nicholas’s strictures than by the glances of disapproval from Anne Hendrik. For her sake, he mumbled an apology, but his eye still had some truculence in it when it met the book holder’s. Every time the name of Cyril Fulbeck was mentioned, the butcher sat there in quiet exaltation.
‘What will happen next?’ asked Anne.
‘The law will take its course,’ said Nicholas, ‘though not with any great speed, I fear. Constables were summoned to the scene and they made examination of the corpse. James Ingram and I helped all we could, then gave sworn statements to the magistrate. The search for the killer has started.’
‘I hope and pray that they catch him,’ said Anne.
‘We will,’ vowed Nicholas.
‘Are there sufficient clues that point to a murderer?’
‘Not as yet, but they will emerge.’
‘Poor man!’ sighed Anne. ‘Did he have a family?’
‘Only the choir. All twenty of them will mourn him. Eight vicars choral and twelve choirboys.’
‘Philip will not shed a tear,’ promised Robinson.
‘He may have more compassion than his father.’
‘And more tact, Ambrose,’ chided Anne. ‘Show a proper respect for the deceased. Your attitude is unseemly.’
‘Then you are right to tax me with it,’ said the butcher with a surge of regret. ‘I do not mean to upset you in any way, Anne, but you know my situation. If someone takes your son away, it is difficult to feel anything but hostility towards him. That is only natural but it is also unworthy, as you point out. I accept your correction. Forgive me.’