While the audience was profoundly moved, Nicholas was shocked. The winch used to lower Philip Robinson was the one which had hauled Cyril Fulbeck up to his death.
An ovation greeted the cast as they came out to take their bows and several spectators rose to their feet in salute. When they began to file out of the theatre, nothing but praise was heard on every side. Nicholas waited until he reached the Great Yard before he accosted James Ingram.
‘Nick!’ Ingram said. ‘I did not look to find you here.’
‘It was a temptation too big to resist.’
‘They acquitted themselves well, I feel, though they would fare better with a better play. Boys make wonderful goddesses but sorry soldiers.’
‘Why did you come?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Out of interest.’
‘Interest or envy?’
‘Both, Nick.’
‘There is certainly much to interest.’
‘But even more to envy. Just think what we could do with that winding-gear at the Queen’s Head. And that scenery! Jonas was so wrong in his attack on the children’s companies. So wrong and so vilely unfair.’
‘What did you think of the reply?’
‘In the Prologue?’
‘Was not that vilely unfair?’
‘No,’ said Ingram evenly. ‘Jonas deserved it.’
Before Nicholas could discuss it further, the actor wheeled away and was soon lost in the crowd. It was abrupt behavior for a man who was unfailingly polite as a rule. The book holder was not left alone for long.
‘I see that we have a spy in our midst.’
‘Merely another spectator.’
‘Our spectators do not come to sneer.’
‘Nor more did I. There was much to admire.’
‘I cannot say the same of Westfield’s Men.’
Raphael Parsons was circling the Great Yard to garner praise and eavesdrop on opinion. He gazed around with a proprietary air and spoke to Nicholas over his shoulder.
‘I wonder that you could spare the time, sir.’
‘You advised me to come.’
‘Not with any expectation of a response,’ said Parsons. ‘Should you not have been at the Queen’s Head this afternoon to prop up that rabble of actors?’
‘I should have been there, it is true.’
‘Then why did you choose Blackfriars instead? And why did you not bring Jonas Applegarth with you so that we could throw his insults back in his teeth?’
‘Jonas, I fear, is dead.’
Parsons turned to him in surprise. It quickly shaded into a pleasure that was fringed with disappointment.
‘Then the rogue has escaped me, has he?’
‘Not by design,’ said Nicholas. ‘Jonas was murdered at the Queen’s Head early this morning. Hanged from a beam.’
‘Hanged? Was there a rope strong enough?’
‘A rope strong enough and a killer determined enough. We have seen his handiwork here at Blackfriars.’
Parsons blinked. ‘You believe it to be the same man?’
‘I am convinced of it.’
‘Then he is enemy and friend in one.’
‘How so?’
‘I hate him for what he did to Cyril Fulbeck but I love him for the way he dealt with Jonas Applegarth.’
‘You dealt cruelly enough with him yourself.’
‘He invited it.’
‘The dead invite respect.’
‘True,’ said Parsons. ‘But when I commissioned that Prologue to Alexander the Great, I thought he would be alive to hear of it. How was I to know that he would be dead?’
‘And if you had known?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you had been made aware of his death,’ said Nicholas, ‘would you have removed that offensive attack in your Prologue?’
Parsons grinned. ‘By no means. I’d have called for a few more couplets to celebrate the happy event.’
Nicholas struggled to control a powerful urge to strike him. The manager stood his ground, almost inciting some form of violence so that he could bring an action for assault against the book holder. A former lawyer would assuredly win any legal battle and penalise him severely. Nicholas held back. Delight danced in the other man’s eyes. He was taking such pleasure in the death of Jonas Applegarth that Nicholas began to wonder if he might not have been directly involved in it. The egregious manager certainly hated the playwright enough to kill him. Had the surprise he expressed at the news been real or feigned?
Still grinning broadly, Parsons moved away to collect more congratulations from members of the audience. There was a blend of arrogance and obsequiousness about him which was unpleasant to watch. He was alternately boasting and bowing with mock humility. When a generous compliment was paid to him by a lady, Parsons let out a high laugh of gratitude. It made Nicholas prick up his ears. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have heard that sound before.
Speculation was not enough. It was time to support it with evidence, and he was in the correct place to begin the search. The audience was fast dispersing and Ireland Yard was all but empty when he reached it. Starting at the first house on the left, he knocked hard and waited for the servant to open the door.
‘Is Master Parsons at home?’ he asked politely.
‘There is no Master Parsons here, sir.’
‘Does Raphael Parsons not live at this address?’
‘I have never heard the name.’
It was a painstaking process, but Nicholas stuck to his task until he had been to every house. Several of the residents did not even know him. Of those who did, a number were resentful of the fact that he ran a theatre in the precinct and thus disturbed their peace. Nicholas found no close friends of Raphael Parsons. Where, then, had the man been at the time when Cyril Fulbeck was killed?
He was deep in meditation when a figure came around the corner towards him. He threw the woman a half-glance and let her go past before he realised that he knew her.
‘Mistress Hay!’ he called.
‘Oh,’ she said, turning around. ‘Good-day, sir.’
He could see from her expression that she did not recognise him, largely because she was too shy to look at his face properly. He walked over to her.
‘I am Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I called at your house to speak to your husband.’
She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I remember now.’
‘Have you been to the play at the theatre?’
‘God forbid, sir!’
‘Then what are you doing in Blackfriars?’ he asked.
‘Visiting old friends. I was born and brought up here.’
‘In the precinct?’
‘Around the corner,’ she explained, pointing a hand. ‘My father was a bookseller. That is how Caleb and I…how my dear husband and I first met. He came into the shop to buy books and prints.’ A timid enthusiasm flickered. ‘He is such a learned man. Nobody in London knows as much about the history of the city as my husband. I am married to a genius. How many women can say that, sir?’
‘Very few, Mistress Hay. Your husband has been kind and helpful to me. I am grateful.’
Anxiety pinched her. ‘I must return home now. He will be expecting me back. I must be there for him.’
‘Your father was a bookseller, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What name?’
‘Mompesson. Andrew Mompesson. I must go.’
‘Adieu!’
Nicholas waved her off and watched her shuffle along with her shoulders hunched and her head down. Joan Hay was a woman whose whole purpose in life was to obey her husband’s bidding. A bookseller’s daughter was an ideal helpmeet for him.
‘Mompesson,’ repeated Nicholas. ‘Andrew Mompesson.’
He had a vague feeling that he knew the name.
***
Hugh Naismith used his free arm to lift the tankard and drain the last of his ale. It was good to be back in the Elephant again and to share in the banter with his old friends from Banbury’s Men, even though he was no longer a member of the company. His wounded arm would heal in time and he would be fit for employment again. Meanwhile, he could cadge a few drinks from Ned Meares and his other fellows.