‘The time is not convenient.’
‘Then we will wait.’
Nicholas and his companion folded their arms and stood there patiently. They would not easily be dismissed. The manager clicked his tongue in exasperation before snapping his fingers to dismiss the actors. They scampered off into the tiring-house. Nicholas looked after them.
‘Was Philip Robinson in your cast?’ he asked.
‘He was,’ said Parsons. ‘He played Mariana herself.’
‘The boy can carry a leading role?’
‘Exceeding well. His plaintive songs moved all who heard him sing. But you did not come here to discuss the talents of my actors. I see that by your faces.’
‘We are here on Master Fulbeck’s behalf,’ said Ingram.
‘There is something you did not tell me?’
‘It is the other way around,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We have questions to put to you.’
‘To what end?’
‘The arrest and conviction of a killer. A Laughing Hangman, who turned your stage into a gallows. You and I and James here, each working on his own, would never track him down. But if we pool our knowledge, if we share opinion and conjecture, we may perchance succeed.’
‘I do not need your help,’ said Parsons sharply.
‘You know the murderer, then?’
‘Not yet, Master Bracewell.’
‘Then how do you propose to root him out?’
‘By cunning, sir. Alone and unaided.’
‘We came by Ireland Yard,’ said Ingram, pointedly.
‘So?’
‘That was where you claimed to be when Master Fulbeck was dangling from a noose in here.’
‘You doubt my word?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘We would simply like to know which house you visited,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘Your host would confirm the time of your arrival and departure.’
‘Damn your impudence, sir!’
‘What number in Ireland Yard?’
‘I’ll not be harried like this,’ warned Parsons. ‘Where I went that day was and will remain my business. I am not under scrutiny here. Do you dare to suggest that I was implicated in the crime in some way? Cyril Fulbeck was my partner. I worshipped the man.’
‘Yet argued with him constantly.’
‘That was in the nature of things.’
‘Why did you open the theatre today?’ said Ingram.
‘Because a play had been advertised.’
‘The murder of Master Fulbeck notwithstanding?’
‘He would have sanctioned the performance.’
‘I beg leave to question that.’
Parsons was blunt. ‘Our beloved Master of the Chapel may have died but life goes on.’
‘With no decent interval for mourning?’
‘This theatre itself is his memorial.’
‘And your source of income,’ observed Nicholas.
‘That, too.’
‘Therein lies the true reason for performance.’
‘I run this theatre the way that I choose!’
‘No,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘The way that you have to run it, Master Parsons. By cramming in every performance that you possibly can and by working your actors like oxen in the field. That is why you staged Mariana’s Revels today. Not by way of a memorial to Cyril Fulbeck. You wanted the money.’
‘The theatre has expenses.’
‘Is that why you wrangled with your partner?’
‘Leave off this, sir!’
‘Did you argue over profit?’
‘I’ll not account to you or anyone else for what I do within these four walls!’ yelled Parsons, waving his arms. ‘Blackfriars is my theatre. I live for this place.’
‘Master Fulbeck died for it.’
Anger building, Parsons looked from one to the other. ‘Envy drives you both on,’ he sneered. ‘I see that now. Blackfriars is without peer. We offer our patrons a real playhouse, not an innyard smelling of dung and stale beer. Here they sit in comfort to watch the best plays in London, protected from the rain and wind, marvelling at our skill and our invention. Westfield’s Men are vagabonds beside my Chapel Boys.’
‘We pay our actors,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do you pay yours?’
‘I’ll hear no more of this!’
‘Answer me but one thing.’
‘Away with you both or I’ll summon a constable!’
‘Master Fulbeck’s keys.’
‘What of them?’
‘Have they ever been found?’
Raphael Parsons made them wait for a reply, his eyes flicking around the theatre before finally settling on Nicholas with a defiant glare.
‘They have not been found.’
‘So they are still in the possession of the murderer?’
‘We may presume as much.’
‘Beware, Master Parsons,’ said Nicholas. ‘He can gain access to this theatre again by means of those keys.’
The manager was unperturbed. He walked to the door and opened it for them to leave. The visitors exchanged a nod. To remain any longer would be a waste of time. Nicholas felt that they had learned far more from the manner of his answers than from anything that Raphael Parsons had said. When he questioned the two friends earlier, the theatre manager had been calm and plausible. Cornered by surprise on his own territory, he was resentful and uncooperative.
As they walked to the door, Parsons stopped them.
‘Come tomorrow and pay to gain entrance,’ he suggested.
‘Why?’ said Nicholas.
‘Because you will not only see a fine play finely acted on a stage fit to bear it. You will witness our revenge.’
‘Against whom?’
‘Master Foulmouth himself. Jonas Applegarth.’
‘What do you play tomorrow?’
‘Alexander the Great. An old play on an old theme but with a Prologue newly minted to cut the monstrous Applegarth down to human size. Westfield’s Men are soundly whipped as well. They who attack Blackfriars will suffer reprisals.’ He wagged an admonitory finger. ‘Deliver that message to your lewd playwright. We’ll destroy his reputation entire. We’ll hang him from the roof-beam with a rope of rhyming couplets and strangle the life out of his disgusting carcass!’
Easing them through the door, he closed it firmly behind them. They heard a key turning in the lock. As they descended the stairs, Ingram glanced over his shoulder.
‘Master Parsons has grown testy,’ he said.
‘We came unannounced into his domain and caught him on the raw. He has a malignant streak, no question of that. I would not care to be one of his young actors.’
‘Nor I, Nick. It was never thus in my day.’
‘You were trained as well as any of our apprentices.’
‘And shown great kindness. Times have changed.’
The porter was waiting at the foot of the staircase to detain Ingram in conversation. Nicholas drifted out of the building and retraced the steps he had taken when in pursuit of the murderer on the earlier visit. Pausing at the rear of the theatre, he looked at the various avenues of escape which the man could have taken. If he had run fast, he might have been clear of the precinct before Nicholas reached the spot where he was now standing. Or he might have gone to ground in any one of the nearby streets and alleyways.
By way of experiment, Nicholas broke into a trot and dodged around a few corners. When he came to a halt, he saw that he was standing in Ireland Yard. He studied the houses with interest before he walked back towards the theatre. As he strolled past it, the rear door was unlocked and a dozen or more figures emerged. Wearing white surplices over black cassocks, they lined up in pairs and march away in step, the choirboys at the front and the vicars choral behind them.
‘Philip!’ called Nicholas.
One of the boys turned in surprise to look at him. The resemblance to Ambrose Robinson was clear. His bright young face was puzzled by the salutation. The boy was pushed gently from behind by another chorister and the procession wended on its way. Nicholas was impressed by the sense of order and assurance about them. Philip Robinson was an integral part of the whole. He did not look like an unwilling prisoner. Nicholas watched him until the column vanished out of sight.