‘Could you always tell the hand of a scrivener?’
‘Of course.’
‘How?’
‘By the neatness of his calligraphy,’ he said. ‘And by a dozen other smaller signs. Why do you ask?’
‘I read some letters from a boy to his father on a matter of some consequence. I took them at face value and the father is eager for me to do so. But I now suspect that the lad did not write them at all.’
‘Bring one to me and I’ll tell you for sure.’
‘If I can contrive it, I will.’
‘How old is the boy?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Then we have a certain guide,’ said Hay blithely. ‘I’ve taught many lads of that age to hold a pen. I know what an eleven-year-old hand can do.’ He cocked his head to one side to peer at Nicholas. ‘But is this not a trivial affair for so serious as man as yourself? When my wife told me you were here, I thought you’d come for more advice to help you catch the man who murdered Cyril Fulbeck.’
‘There is a connection.’
‘I fail to see it.’
‘The boy is a chorister in the Chapel Royal. Against the express wishes of his father, he was taken there by deed of impressment at the behest of Master Fulbeck.’
‘I begin to understand.’
‘What distresses him most is that his son spends much of his time at Blackfriars as a child actor. The father is demanding his release, but to no avail.’
Hay’s face darkened. ‘Then we have one suspect before us. What father would not feel ready to commit a murder in such a case? Might not this same parent be the fellow who killed Cyril Fulbeck?’
‘He might well be,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but I think that it is unlikely. And I am certain that he is not guilty of the other hanging.’
‘There has been a second?’ gasped the old man.
‘This morning. At the Queen’s Head.’
‘What poor wretch has died this time?’
‘Jonas Applegarth.’
‘Ah!’ His tone became neutral. ‘The playwright. I will not speak harshly of any man on his way to the grave. But I cannot pity him so readily as I do the Master of the Chapel. And this Applegarth was hanged, you say?’
‘In the same manner. By the same hand.’
‘But why? What is the link between them?’
‘It is there somewhere.’
‘One was a saint, the other a sinner.’
‘Our hangman treated them with equal savagery.’
‘The animal must be caught!’
Hay moved away and rested a hand against the wall while he stared into the empty fireplace. He was lost in contemplation for a few minutes. Nicholas waited. His host eventually looked over at him.
‘I am sorry, I am sorry. My mind wandered.’
‘It is gruesome news. Anyone would be jolted.’
‘How else may I help you, sir?’
‘Does your history of London touch on its inns?’
‘In full detail,’ said Hay, brightening. ‘They are one of the splendours of the city and I give them their due.’
‘Will the Queen’s Head be mentioned?’
‘It would be a crime to omit it. The history of that inn would fill a book on its own. Such a landmark in Gracechurch Street. Do you know when it was first built?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I would love to hear.’
Caleb Hay launched himself into another impromptu lecture, taking his guest on a tour through almost two hundred years. His account faltered when he reached the point where Westfield’s Men entered the action, and Nicholas cut him short.
‘That was astonishing,’ he complimented. ‘I have worked at the Queen’s Head for years but you have revealed aspects of it which I have never even noticed.’
‘The scholar’s eye.’
‘You certainly have that. It showed in your sketch of Blackfriars. That has been a godsend to me.’ Nicholas walked to the door and threw a casual remark over his shoulder. ‘It is strange that you did not mention your personal interest in the precinct.’
‘Personal interest?’
‘Your wife grew up there, I believe.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Hay with a chuckle, ‘that is true but hardly germane. Her father was a bookseller there, but he died years ago. How did you come by this intelligence?’
‘From your wife herself. We met in Ireland Yard.’
‘She was visiting old friends.’
‘So she informed me.’
Caleb Hay opened the door to usher him out. He gave Nicholas an encouraging pat on his arm.
‘Work hard to catch Cyril Fulbeck’s killer.’
‘He also murdered Jonas Applegarth.’
‘You must sing the Requiem Mass for him. I will not. The Master of the Chapel is the loss I suffer. He was a dear friend. Do you know why?’ He gave another chuckle. ‘Here is something else that slipped my old mind. Cyril Fulbeck not only assisted my researches in Blackfriars. He rendered me a more important service than that.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes,’ said Hay, easing him out into the street. ‘He once had me released from prison.’
Nicholas found the door closed politely in his face.
***
Anne Hendrik went through into the adjoining premises to check that all doors were securely locked. The shop was kept in meticulous condition because Preben van Loew believed that cleanliness was next to godliness and that an ordered workplace was a Christian virtue. He would certainly have closed the shutters and bolted the doors before leaving, but Anne still felt the need to see for herself. In the wake of the thefts from her property, she had become more conscious of the need to protect both house and shop.
When she went back through into her parlour, she saw that her servant had admitted a visitor. Ambrose Robinson was in his best apparel. His hands had been thoroughly scrubbed to rid of them of the smell of his trade. His expression was apologetic, his manner docile.
Anne was not pleased to see him but she suppressed her feelings behind a smile of welcome. She indicated the basket of flowers standing on a table.
‘Thank you, Ambrose. A kind thought.’
‘It was the least I could do.’
‘Their fragrance fills the room.’
‘And so does yours!’ he said with heavy-handed gallantry. ‘You are a flower among women.’
Anne shuddered inwardly. She hoped that she had heard the last of his clumsy compliments but he was back again with more. Robinson inclined his head penitentially.
‘I have come from church,’ he said.
‘At this hour?’
‘I went to pray for forgiveness. On my knees, I can think more clearly. I saw the error of my deeds. After the way I left this house, I have no right to be allowed back into it. You should bar the door against me.’
‘Let us forget what happened,’ she suggested.
‘I cannot do that, Anne. My disgrace is too heavy to be shrugged off so easily. I sought forgiveness in church but I also appealed for guidance. My ignorance is profound. I blunder through life. I revile myself for the way that I hurt those I cherish most. When my intentions are good, why are my actions often so bad?’
He sounded quite sincere but she remained on her guard.
‘You will find me a changed man,’ he promised.
‘In what way?’
‘I will be a true friend and not an angry suitor. I offer you my humblest apologies, Anne. Please accept them.’
‘I do.’ There was a pause. ‘With thanks.’
‘And I will say the same to Nick Bracewell.’
‘Why?’
‘For mistrusting him. For abusing the man behind his back when I should be overcome with gratitude. What does Ambrose Robinson mean to him? Nothing! Why should he care about my dear son, Philip? No reason! Yet he has undertaken to help me with a free heart. That is kindness indeed.’
‘Nick responded to my entreaty.’
‘There is my chiefest source of shame,’ he said, lifting his eyes to look at her. ‘You, Anne. You took me to him. You engaged Nick Bracewell on my behalf. You did all this, then had to suffer my foul abuse of your friend.’