The study was on the first floor of the house in Thames Street. Around all four walls were oak shelves heavily laden with books, documents, maps and manuscripts. Two long tables occupied most of the space and they were covered with more books and rolls of parchment. Quill pens lay sharpened in a little wooden box. Ink stood ready in a large well. The whole room smelled of musty scholarship.
Caleb Hay sat beneath the sagging beams and pored over a medieval document with intense concentration. He used a magnifying glass to help him translate the minuscule Latin script. His eyes sparkled with fascination as he took a privileged walk through the past of his beloved London. So absorbed was he in his research that he did not hear the respectful tap on the door of his study. His wife had to bang more loudly before she caught his attention.
Bristling with annoyance, he glared at the door.
‘What is it?’ he snapped.
‘Can you spare a minute, Caleb?’ she asked tentatively.
‘No!’
‘He said that it was important.’
‘I’ve told you a hundred times, Joan. My work must not be interrupted. For any reason.’
‘But you have a visitor.’
‘Send him on his way.’
‘He is too persistent, husband.’
‘I’ll see nobody.’
‘He claims to be a friend of yours.’
‘Friends know better than to disturb my studies. They only come to my house by invitation, and that rarely. Persistent, you say? Who is this rogue?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘Give him a dusty answer and bid him farewell,’ Caleb said abruptly. ‘No, tarry a while,’ he added, as curiosity began to grapple with irritation. ‘Nicholas Bracewell, is it? What does he want with me? Did he state his business?’
‘No, Caleb.’
‘But he told you that it was important?’
‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘He is a most polite and courteous gentleman, but resolved on talking to you.’
Caleb Hay glanced down at his work. Pursing his lips, he shook his head in mild anger before finally relenting.
‘Ask him to stay. I’ll come down anon.’
‘Thank you!’
Waiting in the parlour below, Nicholas Bracewell heard the relief in her voice. Joan Hay was a submissive wife, eager to avoid her husband’s displeasure. The mild-mannered historian whom Nicholas knew was evidently a more despotic creature within his own home.
She came clattering down the stairs to rejoin the visitor. A short, slim, timorous woman in a plain dress, she gave him a nervous smile of apology and relayed the message before bowing out again. Nicholas listened to the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back in the study. A key turned in a stout lock and the door creaked open. It was immediately closed and locked. Feet padded down the wooden steps.
Caleb Hay shuffled in with an irritated politeness.
‘Well met, Master Bracewell!’
‘I am sorry to break in upon your studies.’
‘A matter of some significance must have brought you.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It concerns Blackfriars.’
‘Go on, sir.’
‘I need you to tell me something of its recent past.’
‘This is hardly the moment for a lesson in history,’ said his host with quiet outrage. ‘Have you dragged me away from my desk to purvey a few anecdotes about a friary?’
‘With good reason, Master Hay.’
‘And what may that be?’
‘It touches on a murder lately carried out there.’
‘A murder?’
‘The victim was Cyril Fulbeck.’
‘Cyril Fulbeck?’ echoed Hay incredulously. ‘The Master of the Chapel has been murdered? How? When?’
‘He was hanged on the stage of the Blackfriars Theatre but yesterday.’
‘Dear God! Can this be true? Cyril Fulbeck was a true Christian. The soul of kindness. Who could have wrought such villainy upon him?’ He grasped Nicholas by the arm. ‘Have the rogues been caught? This heinous crime must be answered.’
‘So it will be, Master Hay. With your help.’
‘It is at your disposal, sir.’
His host waved Nicholas to a seat and sat beside him. Caleb Hay swung between agitation and sorrow. He pressed for more detail and Nicholas recounted the facts. The older man shook his head in disbelief.
‘Cyril Fulbeck!’ he sighed. ‘I spoke with him not ten days ago. A gracious gentleman in every way.’
‘You know him well, then?’
‘Tolerably well. He gave me the kindest assistance in my work. The Master of the Chapel is a person of consequence. Through him, I gained access to many documents that would else have lain beyond my reach. He could not have been more helpful, nor I more grateful for that help.’
‘How did you find him at that last meeting?’
‘Not in the best of health, alas. Ailing badly.’
‘I speak of his mood.’
‘Sombre. Sombre and full of remorse. He seemed much oppressed by the cares of his office.’
‘Did he confide the reasons?’
‘No, no,’ said Hay firmly. ‘Nor did I seek them. It was not my place to meddle in his private affairs. I am a scholar and not a father-confessor.’
‘What dealings did you have with Raphael Parsons?’
‘None whatsoever-thank heaven!’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Common report has him a most unprepossessing fellow. I wonder that Cyril Fulbeck allowed the man near him. I had no call to make the acquaintance of Master Parsons. If you seek intelligence about him, look elsewhere for it.’
‘Tell me about Blackfriars,’ said Nicholas.
Hay brightened. ‘Ah! Now, there, I am on firm ground. I can teach you all that may be taught on that subject. A Dominican House was first founded in London in 1221 at a site in Chancery Lane. Some fifty years or more later, Robert Fitzwalter gave them Baynard’s Castle and Montfichet Tower on the river, enabling them to build a much larger monastery. King Edward I, of blessed memory, offered his patronage, and the House became rich and influential as a result.’
‘I am more interested in recent events there.’
‘They can only be judged aright if set against the ancient traditions of Blackfriars,’ insisted Hay with a pedagogic zeal. ‘Parliament first met there in 1311. It was later used as a repository for records relating to matters of state. Later still-in the years 1343, 1370, 1376 and 1378, to be exact-it was the meeting place of the Court of Chancery. Parliaments and Privy Councils were often convened there. Visiting dignitaries from foreign lands stayed there as honoured guests. In our own century,’ he said, sniffing noisily in disapproval, ‘a court sat in Blackfriars to hear the divorce case against that worthy lady, Catherine of Aragon. In that same fateful year of 1529, Parliament met there to bring a Bill of Attainder against Cardinal Wolsey.’
‘All this is fascinating,’ said Nicholas patiently, ‘but not entirely relevant to my inquiry.’
‘But you need to understand the greatness of the House in order to appreciate how ruinously it has dwindled. Before the suppression of the Religious, it was a major presence in the city. But now…’
‘Largely demolished.’
‘And the Dominicans expelled.’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘To make way for members of your profession.’
‘The playhouse was not built until some years later.’
‘In 1576, to be precise. Consecrated ground, used as a scaffold for lewd performance. By children, no less! Sweet choristers, whose voices should have been uplifted in praise of their Maker.’ He became sharply self-critical. ‘But I go beyond the bounds of my purpose here. An antiquarian must report the progress of events without making undue comment upon them. What is done is done. Who cares one way or the other what Caleb Hay may think about the Children of the Chapel?’
‘I do,’ said Nicholas.
‘You are too indulgent, my friend,’ said the other with a smile. ‘When I fulminate against plays and players, you take the blows on your back with Stoic resignation and never offer me a buffeting in return.’
‘I admire plain speaking.’
‘My guilt is unassuaged. You do not deserve to have my trenchant opinions thrust upon you. I console myself with the thought that a man of the theatre must hear harsher tongues than mine in the course of his working day.’