‘Ask of him why he detested me? For that is how it began. We admired his plays greatly and invited him to write one for the Chapel Children. And what did he do?’
‘Reject the offer and rail at you.’
‘Then continue that railing in The Misfortunes of Marriage. We work hard here in Blackfriars and have problems enough to contend with. Why should that bloated knave be allowed to sneer at everything we did? It was unjust. Applegarth simply had to be put down somehow.’
‘With a knife in his back?’
‘That was one way,’ said the manager calmly. ‘I prefer to stab him in the chest with a Prologue.’
Nicholas studied him for a moment with quiet contempt. There was nothing more to be gained from the confrontation, yet he found it difficult to walk away. The manager might have proved that he was not the Laughing Hangman, but Nicholas still felt that the man had some blood on his hands. Had he planned the murders and left a confederate to commit them? His work at Blackfriars was a testimony to his theatrical skills. Could not those same skills be used to stage two hangings?
Parsons taunted him. ‘Have you done with me?’ he said.
‘For the moment.’
‘Good. I must prepare for my rehearsal.’
‘On the day of the funeral?’
‘They’ve taken the performance from me. I’ll not be robbed of a rehearsal as well. The boys are coming here after Evensong.’
‘Why are you making them do this?’
‘I am not,’ said Parsons. ‘They requested it. Ask them, if you do not believe me. You are welcome to watch us, for we only rehearse a few scenes. The boys are rightly upset by the funeral. They want to push it out of their minds for a couple of hours.’ He peered at Nicholas. ‘Have you never lost yourself in work to escape your thoughts?’
***
Evensong filled the whole building with the most beauteous sound, climbing up into the vaulted roof and penetrating every corner of the chancel and the nave before seeping down into the dank crypt to swirl around the ears of the dead. Ambrose Robinson was oblivious to it all. He knew that Anne Hendrik would be in the congregation but he did not even try to catch a glimpse of her, still less attempt to sit beside her. She now belonged to his past.
When he looked at the choir, he did not see the upturned faces of the boys as they offered their praise up to God. What he noted was the absence of his son from his accustomed position in the stalls. Evensong had always been an occasion of great joy to him when Philip Robinson’s voice was an essential part of it. Without him, the service had become an ordeal for his father.
Nor did the sermon offer any comfort or inspiration. The meaningless drone of the vicar’s voice was a grim reminder of another service at the same place of worship. When Robinson’s wife was buried there, the vicar had consoled him with the simple statement that it was the will of God. Philip Robinson’s enforced departure to the Chapel Royal was also characterised by the vicar as the will of God, and the butcher was certain that he would describe the loss of Anne Hendrik in the same way.
One bereavement was enough to bear. Three were quite insupportable. Wife, son and potential second wife. He had lost them all and was now left with an existence that was both empty and pointless. The vicar might counsel resignation but Robinson refused to accept that counsel any more. He would not simply lie down and let the stone wheels of Fate roll over him time and again. He would get up and fight.
With the service still in progress, therefore, he rose from his seat and marched up the aisle before the surprised eyes of the other parishioners. A gust of wind blew in as he opened the west door. Robinson did not hear the rustle of complaint that ran up and down the benches and pews. His mind was on more unholy matters than Evensong.
When he reached his shop, he let himself in and stood in front of his bench. He surveyed the weaponry which hung from the ceiling on iron hooks. Knives, skewers, cleavers and axes were kept clean and sharp at all times. It was a matter of pride with him. Everything was in readiness for the morrow, but some butchery was now called for on the Sabbath. Ambrose Robinson selected a cleaver and examined its blade with his thumb. It was honed to perfection.
He set off on the long walk towards redemption.
***
Nicholas Bracewell decided to avail himself of the chance to watch the evening rehearsal at Blackfriars and he timed his return to the theatre accordingly. He was halfway across the Great Yard before he noticed Caleb Hay. Tucked away in the far corner, the old man was scanning the buildings with a small telescope. Nicholas walked across to him.
‘Good-even, good sir!’ he called. ‘Is your eyesight grown so bad that you need a telescope to see something that is right in front of you?’
‘You mistake me,’ said Hay with a chuckle. ‘What I look at is the distant past. You see only the vestigial remains of Blackfriars. I was trying to map out, in my mind’s eye, the full extent of the old monastery. Then I may draw my plan.’
‘I would be most interested to see it.’
‘In time, sir. All in good time.’
Nicholas remembered something. ‘I am glad we have met,’ he said. ‘Andrew Mompesson. Was not he your father-in-law?’
‘Indeed, he was. A sterling fellow and a bookseller of high repute. He taught me much.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘And he entrusted me with the best volume on his shelves when he gave me the hand of his daughter.’
Nicholas smiled, but he was not sure that Hay would make such a gallant remark about his wife in the woman’s presence. Joan Hay had the look of someone who had been starved of compliments for a considerable time.
‘It is an unusual name,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why it stuck in my mind. Andrew Mompesson. He was among the signatories on that petition against the opening of a public theatre in Blackfriars.’
‘Your memory serves you well. My father-in-law helped to draw up that petition. He allowed me to make a fair copy of it, which is what I was able to show you.’
‘Did he live to see the present theatre opened?’
‘Mercifully, no,’ said Hay. ‘It would have broken his heart. The precinct was still unsullied by a playhouse when he died. No sound of drums and trumpets disturbed his peace. No swarming crowds went past his front door seven days a week. No actors mocked the spirit of Blackfriars with their blasphemy and lewd behaviour. He died happy. How many of us will be able to say that?’
‘Not many.’
‘Not poor Cyril Fulbeck, certainly. God rest his soul!’ Head to one side, he looked up at Nicholas. ‘Is that what has brought you here once more? The hunt for his murderer?’
‘Yes, Master Hay.’
‘And are you any closer to catching him?’
‘I believe so.’
‘That is excellent news.’
‘It is only a matter of time now.’
‘You deserve great credit for taking this task upon yourself when the Master of the Chapel meant nothing to you.’ He heaved a sigh of regret. ‘If only I had strength enough for it. Cyril Fulbeck was kind to me. I have many reasons to avenge his death but lack the means to do so.’
‘But for him, you might still be incarcerated.’
A hollow laugh. ‘That is more than possible.’
‘Which prison did they lock you in?’
‘The Clink.’
The approach of feet deflected their attention to the other side of the yard. Choristers from the Chapel Royal were processing towards the theatre with their heads bowed in reverential silence. Philip Robinson was at the front of the column as it wended its way in through the main door. Caleb Hay was duly horrified.
‘There surely cannot be a performance this evening!’
‘A short rehearsal only.’
‘On the Sabbath? In the wake of a funeral?’
‘Raphael Parsons is allowing me to watch them.’
‘Then I will take myself away,’ said the old man as he put his telescope into his pocket. ‘This is no place for me. Choristers making a foul spectacle of themselves upon a stage! Sanctity and sin are one under the instruction of Raphael Parsons. There’s your killer, sir. That man will murder the Sabbath itself.’