He was a man of moderate height and square build, wearing a black doublet and hose which was offset by a lawn ruff and by the ostrich feather in his black soft-crowned hat. His black Spanish cape had a red lining. Neat, compact and dignified, he was in his late thirties. His voice was remarkably deep and had a slight Northern tang to it.
‘May I have a word alone?’ the visitor said, giving his request the force of a command. ‘It is needful.’
‘Let’s stand aside.’
Nicholas moved him a few yards away so that Nathan Curtis could resume his work. The carpenter’s hammer was deafening and the stink of fresh horse dung was pungent. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, the visitor waved a dismissive arm.
‘I’ll not stay here in the middle of the yard like some idle ostler complaining about the price of hay. I desire some private conference.’
Nicholas stood his ground. ‘What is your business with me?’
‘The deadliest kind.’
‘Who are you, sir?’
‘Raphael Parsons.’
Nicholas was at once surprised and curious. The name explained the histrionic air about the man. Parsons moved with grace and spoke in almost declamatory fashion. His black beard and moustache were well trimmed and there was a studied arrogance in his expression. He was accustomed to being obeyed.
‘Come with me,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘This is indoor work.’
‘We have a chamber at hand.’
The book holder led him to the room which was used as the wardrobe by Westfield’s Men. Raphael Parsons ran an expert eye over the racks of costumes, feeling some of the material between his fingers and grunting his approval. Nicholas closed the door behind him.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.
‘James Ingram advised me to call here.’
‘You have spoken with James, then?’
‘Briefly. Geoffrey, our porter, put me in touch with him. I wanted to see if your account confirms, in every particular, what Ingram alleges.’
‘My account?’
‘Of what you found at the Blackfriars Theatre. My dear friend and partner, Cyril Fulbeck, hanged by the neck.’ Parsons relaxed slightly and even managed a thin smile. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I have long wanted an opportunity to meet Nicholas Bracewell. Your fame runs before you, sir.’
‘Fame?’
‘You have a reputation, sir.’
‘I am merely a book holder, Master Parsons.’
‘Your modesty is a credit to your character but it betrays your true worth. You talk to a man of the theatre. I know that a book holder must hold a whole company together and nobody does that better than you. I have sat in your galleries a dozen times and marvelled at your work.’ His face hardened. ‘Though it is perhaps as well that I was not at the Queen’s Head when Applegarth’s latest piece of vomit was spewed out on your stage.’
‘The Misfortunes of Marriage is a fine play.’
‘It swinged us soundly, I hear.’
‘There was some gentle mockery of boy actors.’
‘Jonas Applegarth could not be gentle if he tried,’ said Parsons vehemently. ‘He tore our work to shreds and questioned our right to exist. Boy actors were innocent lambs beneath his slashing knife. It was unforgivable. Applegarth will pay dearly for his attack.’
‘In what way?’
‘You will see, sir. You will see.’
‘Do you make threats against our author?’
‘Let him watch his back, that is all I say.’
‘Take care,’ warned Nicholas, looking him hard in the eye. ‘Touch any member of this company and you will have to deal with me.’
‘Proof positive!’ said Parsons with a disarming smile. ‘You are no mere book holder. You are the true guardian of Westfield’s Men. Its very essence, some say.’
‘I stand by my friends.’
‘Why, so do I, sir. And that is why I came here this morning. Away with that mound of offal known as Jonas Applegarth! Let’s talk of a sweeter gentleman, and one whose death cries out for retribution. Cyril Fulbeck.’
‘Ask what you will, Master Parsons.’
‘Describe the scene in your own terms. When you and James Ingram entered the theatre, what exactly did you see?’
‘I will tell you.…’
Nicholas reconstructed the events with care, as much for his own benefit as for that of his visitor. He wanted to sift every detail in the hope that it might contain a clue that had so far eluded him. Raphael Parsons was a patient audience. When he had heard the full tale, he stroked his beard pensively. There was a long pause.
‘Well?’ said Nicholas.
‘Your version accords with that given by Ingram.’
‘And so it should.’
‘There is a difference, however,’ noted Parsons. ‘Your account is longer and more accurate. You are the more reliable witness, but that was to be expected.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you never met Cyril Fulbeck until that grim moment. What you saw was an old man dangling from a rope. James Ingram, we must remember, was looking at someone he revered, and was thus too shocked to observe all the detail which you just listed.’
‘That is understandable.’
‘Also,’ said Parsons drily, ‘you are older and wiser than Ingram, and far more closely acquainted with the horrors that man can afflict on man. You have looked on violent death before.’
‘All too often, alas.’
‘It has sharpened your judgement.’ Parsons stroked his beard as he ruminated afresh. When he spoke again, his tone was pleasant. ‘You have answered my enquiries willingly and honestly. I am most grateful to you for that. Allow me to return the compliment. I am sure that you have questions you wish to put to me.’
Astonished by the offer, Nicholas was nevertheless quick to take advantage of it. His interrogation was direct.
‘Where were you at the time of the murder?’ he said.
‘At the house of a friend in Ireland Yard.’
‘Close by the theatre, then?’
‘Within a stone’s throw.’
‘When did you last see your partner?’
‘An hour or so before his death, it seems,’ said Parsons with a sad shake of his head. ‘Had I known that Cyril was in such danger, I would never have stirred from his side. I blame myself for leaving him so defenceless.’ He bit his lip. ‘And the manner of my departure only serves to increase my guilt.’
‘Your departure?’
‘We had an argument. Strong words were exchanged.’
‘On what subject?’
‘What else but the Blackfriars Theatre? Cyril admired the plays I put upon the stage but criticised the means by which they got there. He thought I was too strict with my young charges.’
‘How did you reply?’
‘Roundly, I fear.’
‘Was he upset by the altercation?’
‘I did not stay to ask. I marched out of the building.’ He clicked his tongue in self-reproach. ‘Can you see what a weight on my conscience it now is? We parted in anger before but we soon became friends again. Not this time. A length of rope strangled any hope of reconciliation between us. Cyril went to his death with our quarrel unresolved. That cuts me to the quick.’
Nicholas was impressed by the readiness of his answers and by his apparent candour. Parsons seemed genuinely hurt by the demise of his friend and business partner. Here was a new and more compassionate side to the man. Others had spoken of a bully and a disciplinarian, and Nicholas had seen the odd glint of belligerence, but he had also discerned a sensitive streak. When Raphael Parsons offered his hand, he shook it without reservation.
‘I must take my leave,’ said the visitor.
‘Let me teach you another way out.’