‘That is certainly true,’ said Nicholas, thinking of Lawrence Firethorn’s blistering tirades. ‘But you forget that I sailed around the globe with Sir Francis Drake. Modest language has no place aboard a ship. Men speak in the roundest of terms. Your gibes are holy scripture beside the profanities of seafarers. Rail against the theatre as much as you wish, Master Hay. Simply give me the instruction that I seek.’
‘In what particular?’
‘Describe the first Blackfriars Theatre.’
‘A species of Hell!’
Nicholas laughed. ‘I wish to know something of its appearance and dimensions. Did it have secret passages leading to it or an underground vault beneath it? What changes were made when it was refurbished? Describe, if you will, all possible ways into the building.’
‘You have first to get into the precinct.’
‘Of course.’
‘Five acres of land is all that is left of the original monastic community. They form the liberty of Blackfriars. It preserves its ancient right of sanctuary. Do you know what other privilege is bestowed upon them?’
‘Only too well,’ said Nicholas enviously. ‘They are within the city walls yet free from city jurisdiction. We have no such freedom. While we at the Queen’s Head must perforce observe the Sabbath and forego performance, the Blackfriars Theatre is able to stage its plays on the Lord’s Day with impunity. That is a most important liberty.’
‘The theatre is only a small part of the whole. It shares the precinct with the fine houses of respectable families. The whole area is walled and its four gates are locked each night by the porter. Blackfriars is an address of note. You will know, I am sure, that many of its inhabitants fought hard to prevent a theatre from being re-opened on the site.’
‘I believe that a petition was drawn up.’
‘Drawn up and willingly signed. It kept the boards clear of actors for an interval. Then Cyril Fulbeck made his shameful arrangement with Raphael Parsons.’
‘Is that how the Master of the Chapel described it?’ said Nicholas. ‘As a shameful arrangement?’
‘I intrude my own prejudices once more,’ said Hay with a note of apology. ‘That is not good, not right, not scholarly. Henceforth, I’ll keep to particulars. What is it you seek? Dimensions and alterations? You will not lack for detail here, Master Bracewell. I will tell you all.’
Caleb Hay fulfilled his boast. He took his guest on a guided tour of Blackfriars, measuring out each wall, noting each doorway, indicating everything of even moderate significance and generally painting such a vivid picture in words that Nicholas saw the remains of the monastery rising before his eyes. It was uncanny. The older man tried to speak with deliberate calm but a more passionate note crept in from time to time. Here was someone who cared so deeply for the glorious past of London that he still lived in it.
Nicholas absorbed the salient details and thanked him.
‘I will speak further, if you wish,’ offered his host.
‘You have told me all I need to know, Master Hay.’
‘Pray God that it may help you! If I thought that my knowledge of this flower of cities could somehow lead you to the devils who committed this unspeakable act, I would give you a different lecture on the history of Blackfriars every day of the week.’
‘You have been most generous with your time.’
‘Call on me again,’ said Hay. ‘I am desirous to know how well your enquiries go. Cyril Fulbeck was as decent a man as any in Christendom. Pursue his killers.’
‘I will do so,’ promised Nicholas, ‘but I think that only one person is involved here. A perverse creature who takes delight in his villainy.’
He thought for a moment of the body swinging helplessly on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre. The Master of the Chapel had been given no chance to resist as the breath of life was squeezed out of him inch by inch. It was a brutal death and it sent a chilling message. Nicholas would not easily forget the pallid horror on the face of the victim. Nor could he erase from his mind the glee of the murderer. That was what appalled him the most. The sound filled his ears so completely and so painfully that he had to shake his head to escape the callous mockery of the Laughing Hangman.
***
Too much drink and too little conversation had left Edmund Hoode in a state of maudlin confusion. Seated alone in a corner of the taproom at the Queen’s Head, he was oblivious to the raucous jollity all around him. He sipped, he meditated, he sank ever deeper into bewilderment. Hoode was not sure whether he should be devastated by the tidings from Lawrence Firethorn or inspired by the message from Rose Marwood, and so he shifted with speed between despair and hope until they blended in his mind. A look of inebriated perplexity settled on his moonlike face.
A friendly arm descended upon his shoulder.
‘Come, Edmund,’ said a lilting voice. ‘Time to leave.’
‘What’s that?’ he murmured.
‘You need help to get home. Lean on me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because those legs of yours would not take you more than seven yards towards Silver Street.’
To prove his point, Owen Elias hoisted him up, then let go of him. Hoode swayed violently, steadied himself on edge of the table, then felt a surge of confidence. He took three bold strides across the floor before losing his balance and pitching forward. The Welshman caught him just in time.
‘Let’s do it my way,’ he said jovially. ‘Otherwise, you must crawl back to your lodging on all fours.’
‘You are a true friend, Owen.’
‘I know that you would do the same for me.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ mumbled the other.
It was an unlikely eventuality. Hoode was frequently overcome by alcohol, grief or unrequited love, and sometimes by a lethal combination of all three. Elias, by contrast, could carouse endlessly without lapsing into anything more than merriment or music, rarely gave way to sorrow, and led a career of cheerful lechery among the womenfolk of London. Half-carrying the drooping poet, he came out into the night and headed slowly towards Cripplegate Ward.
‘What is her name, Edmund?’ he asked.
‘Name?’
‘Your heart is heavy, my friend. I can feel the full weight pressing down on me. It is an all too familiar burden. Who is she this time?’
‘I do not know, Owen.’
‘A lady without a name?’
‘Without a name, a face or substance of any kind.’
‘An invisible creature?’
‘To all intents.’
‘Explain.’
To provide anything as logical as an explanation placed an enormous strain on Hoode’s shattered senses, but he did his best. As he ambled along, supported by his friend, he tried to piece together the events of a day which had both destroyed and resurrected him. No sooner had his new play been evicted than an anonymous tenant moved into his heart. He pulled out the flower which he had slipped under his doublet. Crushed and forlorn, it yet retained the fragrance of its message. Elias noted the irony of the situation.
‘You have lost one Rose and gained another,’ he observed. ‘Two, if we count the landlord’s comely daughter. Rose Marwood is a rose in full bloom. It is a source of great regret to me that even my skilful hands have not been able to pluck her from the stem. Her parents are entwined around the girl like prickly thorns. They have drawn blood from my lustful fingers on more than one occasion.’
‘Leave we Rose Marwood to her own devices,’ said Hoode. ‘She was only the messenger here, and my concern is with the message itself. Or rather, with the lady who sent it.’
‘Your inamorata.’
‘If such she be, Owen.’
‘No question of that. You hold the certain testimony of her love in your grasp.’
‘I hold a rose, it is true,’ said Hoode gloomily. ‘But was it sent by a female hand?’