Nicholas was succinct. Firethorn frowned.
‘What was Jonas doing here so early?’ he wondered.
‘Answering your summons.’
‘My what?’
‘You were the only person who could get him to the Queen’s Head at the crack of dawn. The murderer knew that and set his trap accordingly.’
‘Trap?’
‘Here is the bait,’ said Nicholas.
He handed over the letter which he had found in pocket of the dead man. His companion read the scribbled words.
If you would remain with Westfield’s Men, meet me at the Queen’s Head at dawn.…Lawrence Firethorn.
‘I never sent this!’ protested the actor-manager.
‘Jonas believed that you did.’
‘This is not my summons.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is a death warrant.’
***
Anne Hendrik was at once saddened and relieved by her exchange with Ambrose Robinson on the previous evening. She was sorry to wound the feelings of someone who was already suffering a degree of emotional pain. A powerful man in a brutal profession, he was nevertheless remarkably sensitive and she had been touched that he felt able to reveal this side of his character to her. At the same time, however, she did not want her friendship to be misinterpreted. His unwelcome proposal had forced her to be more open with him about her own affections, and that brought a measure of relief. She may have hurt him but at least he would not pester her again.
‘What time is he coming?’
‘At noon, Preben.’
‘Do you wish me to be there?’
‘I shall insist,’ she said, pleasantly. ‘I would never dream of taking on a new apprentice without your full approval.’
‘Where does the boy’s family come from?’
‘Amsterdam.’
‘That is recommendation enough.’
Preben van Loew was, as usual, first to arrive at work. Anne came in from her adjacent house to discuss plans for the day. She took a full and active part in the running of the business. The old Dutchman and his colleagues might make the hats, but it was Anne who often designed them and she was solely responsible for gathering all the orders and for ensuring delivery. When demand was especially pressing, she had even been known to take up needle and thread herself.
By the time her other employees drifted in, the discussion with Preben van Loew had ended. Her first task was to buy some new material for the shop. She went back into her house and put on her own hat before she was ready to leave. A dull thud at her front door made her turn. A figure flitted past her window but far too quickly to be identified. She was mystified.
Anne crossed to the door and opened it tentatively. There was nobody there. Something then brushed against her dress. It was a large bunch of flowers in a wicker basket. She picked it up to inhale their fragrance. The scent was quite enchanting. Anne was moved by the unexpected present and she wondered who could have bestowed it on her.
The sender soon declared himself. Stepping around the corner of the street, Ambrose Robinson waved cheerily to her. His expression was apologetic and the flowers were clearly meant as some kind of peace offering. Accepting them as such, Anne replied with a grateful flick of her hand and a token smile. He grinned broadly before ducking out of sight again. She put the basket of flowers on a table without pausing to consider for a moment the real significance of the gift that she was taking into her house.
***
That was nobly done, Nick. No man could have handled it better.’
‘I wanted to be the one to break the sad tidings.’
‘Thank heaven that you were!’
‘Your presence was a help, Owen.’
‘I said almost nothing.’
‘You were there. That was enough. Mistress Applegarth drew strength from your sympathy.’
‘It was your compassion which sustained her. You delivered the roughest news in the most gentle way. She will ever be grateful to you for that.’
Owen Elias and Nicholas Bracewell had just left the home of Jonas Applegarth. It had fallen to the book holder to inform her that she was now a widow, and he had done so by suppressing all the gruesome details of her husband’s death. Neighbours had been brought in to sit with the woman until other members of the family could arrive to share the burden of the tragedy.
‘She is a brave woman,’ observed Owen. ‘She bore up well throughout that ordeal. It was almost as if she were expecting something like this to happen.’
‘I think she was. Jonas seemed to court destruction.’
‘Yes, Nick. The wonder is not that he is dead but that he lived for so long.’
Nicholas looked back at the house with deep sadness. ‘Jonas Applegarth was a playwright of distinction-we have not seen a finer at the Queen’s Head-but his talent was marred by a perversity in his nature. His work won him friends, yet he thrived on making enemies.’
‘One, in particular!’
‘I fear so.’
‘Let’s after him straight,’ urged Elias. ‘Now that we have done our duty by his widow, we must seek revenge. We know who the murderer was.’
‘Do we?’
‘Hugh Naismith. Late of Banbury’s Men.’
‘I think not.’
‘He has been stalking Jonas for days. You were there when Naismith hurled a dagger at him. And I dare swear that he followed us here last night.’
‘That does not make him our man, Owen.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he would not go to all the trouble of setting up a gallows at the Queen’s Head when he could dispatch his victim more easily with sword or dagger. You forget something.’
‘What is that?’
‘Naismith was injured in his duel with Jonas. How could a man with his arm in a sling haul up so heavy a load over a beam? It is not possible.’
‘It is if he had a confederate.’
‘I heard one Laughing Hangman, Owen, not two.’
‘Naismith had cause and means to kill Jonas.’
‘Granted,’ said Nicholas. ‘But what cause and means did he have to murder Cyril Fulbeck at the Blackfriars Theatre?’
‘The cause is plain enough, Nick.’
‘Is it?’
‘Fulbeck put those Chapel Children back on the stage to take the bread out of the mouths of honest actors. I am one with Hugh Naismith there. I’d happily wring the necks of those infant players myself and the man who put them there.’
‘You are wrong, Owen.’
‘It has to be Naismith.’
‘Never!’
‘Your reason?’
‘He was too obvious an enemy,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Jonas would be on his guard as soon as he saw the man. Naismith might have forged a letter to lure him to the Queen’s Head, but how did he entice him into our storeroom? The person who killed him was a man he did not fear. Remember the Master of the Chapel.’
‘Cyril Fulbeck?’
‘He also let someone get close enough to strike. A stranger would never have gained entry to Blackfriars.’
‘Then Naismith was not a stranger to him.’
‘He has no part in this, Owen.’
‘But he does,’ insisted the Welshman. ‘You saw a dagger aimed at Jonas’s back. Did that come out of thin air?’
‘No, it was thrown by an enemy. But not by our hangman.’
‘There are two villains here?’
‘Most certainly,’ said Nicholas, thinking it through. ‘One of them haunts the shadows and strikes from behind. The other is a more calculating killer. Why was Master Fulbeck hanged on his own stage? Why did Jonas have to be enticed to the Queen’s Head? There is method here, Owen. And it is way beyond anything that Hugh Naismith could devise.’
Elias nodded reluctantly. ‘You begin to persuade me. Haply, he is not our man.’ His ire stirred again. ‘But that does not rule him out as the street assassin. Naismith trailed Jonas and hurled that dagger at him.’
‘That may yet be true.’
‘It is, Nick. Let’s track him down and beat a confession out of him. Attempted murder must not go unpunished.’
‘Nor shall it. But you must pursue Naismith alone.’