‘I feel the weight of it around my neck.’
‘He has enriched us all beyond measure. Westfield’s Men must respond accordingly.’ Firethorn bestowed an affectionate smile on his friend before hitting him with his decision. ‘That is why we play The Misfortunes of Marriage at The Rose.’
Hoode gulped. ‘The Rose?’
‘Ten days hence.’
‘But my new play was to have graced The Rose!’
‘And so it will, Edmund. In time, in time.’
‘We so rarely seize upon the chance to work at the theatre. It may be months before The Faithful Shepherd travels to Bankside.’
‘A good play is like a good wine, old friend. It improves with age. Store it until a fitter time.’
‘Why cannot Jonas do that with his play?’
‘Because it has already been uncorked. It has already been tasted. You saw that audience yesterday. Drunk with joy at the play and doubly drunk with my performance as Sir Marcus Coldbed. They clamour for more. We must slake their thirst.’
‘But not at The Rose, surely?’
‘Where better?’
‘Lawrence, you promised.’
‘And I will keep that promise-in due course.’
‘The Faithful Shepherd stands first in line.’
‘Jonas Applegarth leaps over it.’
‘That is unjust.’
‘Theatre mixes pain with its plaudits.’
‘This is cruel in the extreme.’
‘Is it not a greater cruelty to deny our patrons what they demand? We serve a fickle public, Edmund. Soon, they may cast The Misfortunes of Marriage away as worthless trash. At this moment, however, it is the talk of London. Lord Westfield himself was so entranced with the piece, he’ll not rest until everyone at Court has been told about it. He insists that it take pride of place at The Rose.’
‘Lord Westfield insists?’
‘That was my understanding,’ lied Firethorn, using the one argument that Hoode could not defeat. ‘Who am I to flout the express wishes of our generous patron?’
Hoode sagged. ‘Then am I truly lost.’
‘Your day will come again.’
‘Will I live to enjoy it, though?’
Firethorn chuckled. ‘I knew that you would accept this unwonted check with fortitude. Be not afraid of Jonas Applegarth. He has not come to displace you in any way. Edmund Hoode is what he has always been to Westfield’s Men. Our faithful shepherd.’
‘Then why let a wolf into the fold?’
‘We keep him well muzzled.’
‘Look to your lambs. His claws can still kill.’
‘It is decided.’
Lawrence Firethorn tossed his cloak over his shoulder and strode off towards the tiring-house, leaving Hoode speechless with indignation. A play over which he had laboured devotedly for months had been pushed contemptuously aside. It was an honour to have any work staged at a fine playhouse like The Rose, and The Faithful Shepherd was written specifically for that theatre. Jonas Applegarth had robbed him of that honour. Hoode had one more reason to resent the obese interloper.
He was distraught. He felt completely estranged from Westfield’s Men. It was as if members of his own family had turned him out of the house in favour of a newcomer. Hoode contemplated suicide. Had he been standing on London Bridge, he would certainly have jumped off it, howling the name of Applegarth with defiance before hitting the cold water and drowning with alacrity.
While he was at the very nadir of his career, Fate stepped in to save him. It came in the shape of Rose Marwood, the landlord’s daughter, a vivacious young woman with long dark hair and a readiness to please. How two parents as physically repellent as Alexander and Sybil Marwood could produce such an attractive creature between them he did not know, but it often exercised his mind. It was rather as if two gargoyles had copulated in order to produce a statute of a Madonna.
Hoode had once conceived a foolish passion for her that led only to humiliation, and so he tended to keep clear of the landlord’s daughter. Rose’s shining face was now an embarrassment to him.
‘I have a message for you, Master Hoode,’ she said.
‘For me?’
‘Put it into his hands, I was told.’
‘By whom?’
‘The lady who gave it to me.’
‘Lady? What lady?’
‘She would not tell me her name, sir.’
Rose handed over the missive and gave a little curtsey.
‘Can you describe this lady to me?’ he said.
‘I saw her for only a moment, sir. She said that I was to give the letter to you in person. It is a gift.’
‘Gift?’
‘From her mistress.’
Rose giggled, showed two exquisite dimples in her cheeks, and bounded off towards the taproom. Hoode was intrigued. He broke the seal on the letter and opened it to find a red rose pressed inside. Only three words had been written in an elegant hand, but they clutched at his very soul.
“To my love…”
***
Jonas Applegarth scratched his head as he quaffed his beer. The empty tankard was slammed back down on the table by way of a signal and it was soon filled by a serving-man.
‘Who could wish to kill Cyril Fulbeck?’ he wondered.
‘That is what we must find out,’ said Nicholas.
‘I’d happily have hanged his partner, Raphael Parsons. If ever a man invited a noose, it is that rogue. But not that shuffling Master of the Chapel. He was a harmless fellow.’
‘Everyone speaks well of him.’
‘He was a dear man and a gifted teacher,’ said James Ingram. ‘Cyril Fulbeck was the epitome of goodness.’
‘Then why ally himself to such a villain as Parsons?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Nor I,’ added Nicholas, ‘but the talk is that the two men did not agree. Geoffrey, the porter, often heard arguments between them.’
‘There is your murderer, then,’ decided Applegarth. ‘Look no further than Raphael Parsons. He stands to gain most from Fulbeck’s death.’
‘He must be suspect, assuredly,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I would not accuse him without further evidence. Indeed, one clue suggests he may be innocent of the crime.’
‘What is that, Nick?’ asked Ingram.
‘The key to the back door of Blackfriars Theatre.’
‘But Master Parsons has such a key. He, and only he, had the means to gain entrance privily. Unless you believe that old Geoffrey was involved in some way. His key fits that same lock.’
‘We may exclude him straight,’ said Nicholas. ‘You saw the way he cried when he beheld the dead man. He was as shocked as we. The porter has no part in this.’
‘You spoke of Parsons’s innocence,’ noted Applegarth.
‘A suggestion of innocence,’ corrected the book holder. ‘If Raphael Parsons had a key that admitted him to the back door of the theatre, why did he steal Master Fulbeck’s keys in order to get out again?’
‘To prevent us from following him,’ said Ingram.
‘But we were unexpected visitors, and the keys had been stolen from the dead man’s belt before we arrived.’
‘I have it,’ announced Applegarth. ‘This Parsons is too devious and cowardly a man to do the deed himself. He hired a confederate, let him into the building and locked the door after him before quitting the scene. The killer stole the other keys to effect his escape.’
‘This was no confederate,’ affirmed Nicholas.
‘How do you know?’ said Ingram.
‘You heard that man, James. He was no assassin, paid to kill a complete stranger. He knew Cyril Fulbeck and gloried in his death. The Laughing Hangman would never have delegated to another a task which gave him so much pleasure. He was connected in some way to the Master of the Chapel.’
‘As his business partner,’ asserted Applegarth.
‘Master Parsons may be only one of many possibilities.’
‘I’ll help you to draw up a list,’ offered Ingram.
‘Thank you, James.’
It was early evening and they had moved to the taproom of the Queen’s Head after the performance of The History of King John. The play had been a moderate success but seemed flat by comparison with The Misfortunes of Marriage. Jonas Applegarth had snored through the last two acts. Exhilarated at the thought that his own play would now be seen at The Rose, he was already working on refinements to the text. Considering himself now part of the troupe, he was ready to sit through their other work out of loyalty even if it bored him into slumber.