He was still lying there, moaning softly and idly composing his own obituary, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a letter, protruding from beneath the pillow, clearly left by Cecily Gilbourne. His heart lifted. He was not, after all, an abandoned lover in a draughty bedchamber. She had penned her gratitude in glowing terms before stealing away and affirmed her love. That thought made him open the letter with fumbling enthusiasm, only to drop it instantly in alarm.
Cecily was a laconic correspondent. One word decorated the page and it struck an inexplicable terror into him:
“Tonight.”
***
Royal command had delayed the funeral of Cyril Fulbeck until that morning. It was no insignificant event. The Master of the Chapel was a loved and revered member of the royal household and the Queen insisted on paying her personal respects to him. Since she only returned from Greenwich Palace on Saturday evening, the obsequies could not take place until the following day.
It was a moving ceremony, conducted with due solemnity by the Bishop of London and held in the Chapel which Fulbeck had served with such exceptional dedication. The choir were in fine voice as they bade farewell to their mentor and Philip Robinson was allowed the privilege of a solo. The funeral oration paid tribute to the work and character of the deceased while tactfully omitting any reference to the manner of his death. Silent tears lubricated the whole service, and when the coffin was borne out, even Her Majesty was seen to lift a gloved hand to her cheek.
Yet still the murder remained unsolved. Pressure from above was strong and the official investigation was as thorough as it could be, but little evidence had been unearthed as yet and the Queen let it be known that she was displeased. Now that his body had been laid to rest, Cyril Fulbeck deserved to be avenged in the most prompt way. Additional men were assigned to help with the search for his killer.
Raphael Parsons kept his head bent and his thoughts to himself throughout the funeral. When the burial had taken place, he waited until the congregation left in strict order of precedence before slipping away in the direction of Blackfriars. When he reached the theatre, he was annoyed to see a sturdy figure waiting for him.
‘I am glad I have caught you,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Pray excuse me, sir. I am too busy to talk.’
‘But there is no performance here today.’
‘Sadly, no,’ said Parsons.
‘Even you would not expect to stage a play only hours after the funeral of the Master of the Chapel.’
‘I most certainly would. Sentiment and commerce must be kept apart. We cannot let the former dictate the latter. I was sorry to see my old friend laid in his grave, but I would not, from choice, let it affect the entertainment here.’
‘Is that not like dancing on a man’s tomb?’
‘Not in my opinion.’
‘Do you take no account of your actors?’
‘Actors exist to act.’
‘They have feelings, Master Parsons,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Senses, emotions, loyalties. That is especially true of your young company. Their hearts were not hacked from the same flint as your own. I’ll wager they did not want to tread the boards today.’
‘I’d have made them!’
‘They would have hated you for it. Westfield’s Men did not think twice about performance yesterday. When we discovered the body of Jonas Applegarth, the play cancelled itself. Not a member of the company could have been forced upon that scaffold.’
‘I’d have willingly taken their place,’ volunteered the manager. ‘Applegarth dead! I’d have danced a jig all afternoon to mark the occasion!’
Nicholas smarted. ‘Where were you when he was killed?’ he said. ‘With your friend in Ireland Yard?’
‘What is that to you?’
‘I wondered if you would use the same lie twice.’
‘I never used it once,’ retorted the other. ‘Yesterday morning, when that blessed hangman was testing Applegarth’s weight, I was here at Blackfriars.’
‘At dawn?’
‘My day starts early.’
‘Was any else here with you?’
‘Not for an hour or so,’ admitted Parsons. ‘But then Geoffrey, the porter, arrived. He’ll vouch for me.’
‘I am only interested in the exact time when Jonas Applegarth was murdered,’ said Nicholas. ‘You have a story but no witness to its credence. It is so with the death of Cyril Fulbeck. You claim to be in Ireland Yard when that occurred. But nobody there will speak up for you.’
Parsons bridled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have asked them all.’
‘The devil take you!’
‘Most residents did not even know who Raphael Parsons was.’
‘You had the gall to intrude on my privacy?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘By what right?’
‘Simple curiosity,’ said Nicholas easily, ‘and the urge to catch a foul murderer. Whoever killed Cyril Fulbeck used the same villainy on Jonas Applegarth. If he was not in Ireland Yard when he claims, he may not have been at the Blackfriars Theatre when he alleges. Do you follow my reasoning?’
‘Hell and damnation!’
Parsons lashed out a hand to strike Nicholas but the book holder was far too quick. He seized the manager’s wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, then pushed him to the ground. Parsons cursed aloud. Rolling over, he got slowly and painfully to his feet, dusting himself off and regarding Nicholas with growling hostility.
‘Let us begin again,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where were you when Cyril Fulbeck was hanged by the neck?’
‘In Ireland Yard.’
‘That lie will not serve.’
‘Ireland Yard!’ repeated Parsons through gritted teeth.
‘Then why will nobody come forward?’
‘Why do you think, man?’
‘Tell me.’
Parsons looked around furtively to make sure that they were not overheard, then glared at Nicholas. After much agonising, he decided that the only way to get rid of his visitor was to tell him a measure of the truth.
‘My dear friend in Ireland Yard is not in a position to acknowledge my friendship,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘She is married.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do not ask me to give you her name and address, for that is too great a betrayal. Just accept that I was with the lady at the time when Cyril Fulbeck was hanged.’ He glanced in the direction of Ireland Yard. ‘She would also swear that I was with her at dawn yesterday morning. Her husband is a merchant and travelling to Holland. Do I need to say more?’
Nicholas shook his head. He knew the man was telling the truth now. It absolved him of both murders and took away the one obvious link between Fulbeck and Applegarth. Parsons argued with the one and fulminated against the other. He gave more detail of his relationship with both men.
‘That was what we were quarrelling about only hours before he was killed,’ he said. ‘Cyril found out about her. He read me a sermon on the virtues of marriage and the evils of adultery. Was I a fit person to be put in charge of his choristers when I was committing a dreadful sin? Would not my mere presence corrupt their young minds? Arrant nonsense!’
‘What did you say?’ asked Nicholas.
‘What any man would have said. In round terms, I told him not to meddle in my affairs. What I do between the sheets, when I do it, and with whom, is my affair. I called him a vestal virgin and stormed out of the theatre.’
‘Before going straight to Ireland Yard?’
Parsons grinned. ‘I felt in need of consolation.’ The rancour returned. ‘As for your second accusation, I can rebut that as well. I hated Jonas Applegarth but I did not hang him. I was enjoying other pleasures at the time.’
‘Why did you detest him so?’ asked Nicholas.