Caleb Hay went to a box on the table. Taking a large iron ring from his belt, he selected one of the keys and opened the box. Nicholas was first handed a sheet of parchment. His interest quickened as he studied the sketch of the Blackfriars Theatre.
‘Forgive my crude handiwork,’ said Hay. ‘As you see, I am no artist, but it may give you some idea of the shape and size of the building. It is yours to scrutinise at will.’
‘Thank you. This will be a great help.’
‘Every exit is clearly marked.’
The sketch was simple but drawn roughly to scale. It enabled Nicholas to see exactly where he had been when he heard the Laughing Hangman and why it had taken him so long to reach the door at the rear of the building. Names of the adjacent streets had been added in a neat hand.
Caleb Hay produced a second item from the box.
‘I can take more pride in this,’ he said with a mild chuckle. ‘You asked about the petition that was drawn up to prevent a theatre being re-opened in Blackfriars. This is not the document itself but an exact copy. It must remain in my keeping but you are welcome to over-glance it, if you wish.’
‘Please,’ said Nicholas, taking the document from him. ‘I am most grateful to you. Anything which pertains to Blackfriars is of interest to me.’
He read the petition with attention to its detaiclass="underline"
To the right honorable the Lords and others of her Majesties most honorable Privy Counsell-Humbly shewing and beseeching your honors, the inhabitants of the precinct of Blackfryers, London, that whereas one Burbage hath lately bought certaine roomes in the said precinct neere adjoyning unto the houses of the right honorable, the Lord Chamberlaine and the Lord of Hunsdon, which roomes the said Burbage is now altering and meaneth very shortly to convert and turne the same into a comon playhouse, which will grow to be a very great annoyance and trouble.…
The complaints against public theatre were all too familiar to Nicholas. They were voiced every week by members of the City authorities and by outraged Puritans, who sought to curb the activities of Westfield’s Men. The Blackfriars petition was signed by thirty-one prominent residents of the precinct, starting with Lord Hunsdon, who, ironically, was the patron of his own troupe-Lord Chamberlain’s Men-but who drew the line at having a playhouse on his doorstep. Nicholas ran his eye down the other names, which included the dowager Lady Russell and a respected printer, Richard Field.
‘Is it not strongly and carefully worded?’ said Hay.
‘Indeed, it is.’
‘It represents my own view on the theatre. I was mightily relieved when the petition was accepted by the Privy Council.’
‘With such names to sustain it, the plea could hardly be denied,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was only a temporary measure. A public playhouse may have been kept out of Blackfriars, but a private theatre was re-opened.’
‘Alack the day!’
‘The audiences who flock there will disagree.’
‘No doubt,’ said Hay, taking the document back and locking it in the box. ‘This petition belongs to history.’
Nicholas moved to the door. ‘You have been most kind. This drawing of Blackfriars will make a difficult task much easier.’
‘Catch him! Catch this vile murderer.’
‘I will bend all my efforts to do so.’
‘Keep the name of Raphael Parsons firmly in mind.’
‘You have evidence against him, Master Hay?’
‘Nothing that would support his arrest,’ confessed the other. ‘But I have a feeling in my old bones that he is involved in this crime in some way. He is a man without scruple or remorse. Keep watch on him. From what I hear about this Master Parsons, he would be a ready hangman.’
***
Raphael Parsons endured the rehearsal for as long as he could but the lackluster performance and the recurring errors were too much for him to bear.
‘Stop!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll stand no more of this ordeal! It is a disgrace to our reputation!’
The young actors on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the second act. Even a play as well tried as Mariana’s Revels seemed to be beyond their scope. Their diction was muted, their gesture without conviction and their movement sluggish. A drama which required a lightness of touch was accorded a leaden treatment. Parsons was livid.
‘This is shameful!’ he snarled. ‘I would not dare to put such a miserable account of the play before a crew of drunken sailors, let alone in front of a paying audience. Where is your art, sirs? Where is your self-respect? Where is your pride in our work? We laboured hard to make the Children of the Chapel Royal a company of distinction. Will you betray all that we have struggled to create?’
The cast stood there with heads bowed while the manager harangued them. Some shook with trepidation, others shed tears, all were plunged into the deepest melancholy. Parsons came striding down the hall to bang on the edge of the stage with his fist.
‘Why are you doing this to me!’ he demanded.
The youngest member of the company was its spokesman.
‘We are grieving, sir,’ said Philip Robinson meekly.
‘That performance was enough to make anyone grieve!’
‘Master Fulbeck is ever in our minds.’
Nods of agreement came from several of the cast and more eyes moistened. Philip Robinson’s own face was glistening with tears. Short, slim and pale, he wore the costume of Mariana as if it were a set of chains. Features which had a feminine prettiness when animated were now dull and plain. His body sagged. His voice was a pathetic bleat.
‘We are too full of sadness, sir,’ he said.
The manager’s first impulse was to supplant the sadness with naked fear. It would not be the first time that he had instilled terror into his company in order to raise the level of their performance. Instinct held him back. These were unique circumstances, calling for a different approach. Instead of excoriating his juvenile players, therefore, he opted for a show of compassion.
Clambering upon the stage, he beckoned them closer.
‘We all mourn him,’ he said softly. ‘And rightly so. The cruel manner of his death makes it an intolerable loss. Master Fulbeck was the only true begetter of this theatre. Though the Chapel Royal was his first love, he came to take an equal delight in your work here at Blackfriars. Hold to that thought. We do not play Mariana’s Revels for our own benefit or even for the entertainment of our spectators. We stage it in remembrance of Cyril Fulbeck, late Master of the Chapel. Will you honour his name with a jaded performance?’
‘No, Master Parsons,’ said Philip boldly.
‘Shall we close the theatre and turn people away? Is that what he would have wanted? Or shall we continue the noble work which he first started here? Cyril Fulbeck died in and for this theatre. The place to celebrate his memory is here on this very stage with a play which he held dear.’
‘Yes!’ called a voice at the back.
‘We must play on!’ added another.
‘Under your instruction,’ said Philip Robinson.
‘So it will be,’ decided Parsons, watching their spirits revive. ‘But let us do it with no show of sadness or despair. Mariana’s Revels is a joyful play. Speak its lines with passion. Dance its measures with vigour. Sing its songs with elation. Tell us why, Philip.’
‘They were written by Master Fulbeck himself.’
‘Even so. Most of them fall to Mariana to sing. Give them full voice, my boy. Treat them like hymns of praise!’
‘Yes, sir!’
The rehearsal started again with a new gusto. For all his youth and inexperience, Philip Robinson led the Chapel Children like a boy on a mission, taking his first solo and offering it up to Heaven in the certainty that it would be heard and applauded by the man who had composed it for him.