The Bawdy Basket Page 13

  Margery was puzzled. ‘Rougher methods?’

  ‘Farewell.’

  He was soon riding out of Shoreditch at a steady canter, vowing to use whatever means it took to retain Hoode’s services for Westfield’s Men. Unlike his book holder, he was completely unscrupulous and would devote all his energies to the removal of Avice Radley from the playwright’s life. Before he could achieve that end, he needed to know more about the lady who threatened to undermine the stability of the company that he led so proudly. In order to do that, he required unwitting assistance from Hoode. When he entered the city through Bishopsgate, he turned his horse in the direction of his friend’s lodging, clattering along thoroughfares that had been baked hard by the hot summer. London was already wide awake, streets crowded, markets teeming with customers, but Hoode would not rise until it was time to leave for the morning’s rehearsal at the Queen’s Head. Firethorn reached the house, saw that the shutters on his window were still locked, and dismounted. He had timed his arrival well. A narrow lane, some thirty yards away, provided an ideal hiding place from which to watch the house.

  Edmund Hoode was a creature of habit. Whenever he was in love – a not uncommon situation for someone so full of random affection – he would spend half the night sighing outside his lady’s bedchamber, then return in the morning to blow a kiss up to her window on his way to Gracechurch Street. It had happened so many times before that a pattern had been established. All that Firethorn had to do was to follow. It irked him that he had been kept in the dark about Avice Radley. Hoode had divulged nothing about her apart from her name and her determination to rescue him from the squalor of London and the precariousness of his profession so that they could live together in rural bliss. He had been very careful to give no indication of where she lived and, in spite of Nicholas Bracewell’s efforts at persuasion, had fled so swiftly after the performance of Love’s Sacrifice that nobody had been able to see where he went. Firethorn was taking a first important step in the campaign against Avice Radley.

  ‘Know thy enemy,’ he said to himself. ‘Track her to her lair.’

  Firethorn did not have long to wait. Ten minutes after he took up his position, he saw Hoode’s face appear at the open window as the shutters were flung back. Smiling happily, the playwright inhaled the fetid air of the city as if it were the scent from a flower garden. He soon descended to the ground floor to let himself out of the house and saunter along the road. Firethorn led his horse by the rein in the wake of his friend. He had no fears that Hoode would turn round to see him. The man had eyes for no one but his beloved and it was an image of her that floated entrancingly before him. It was clear from the start that he was taking no direct route to the Queen’s Head. After snaking his way through a warren of back streets, Hoode came out into a wide road with a ribbon of houses along both sides. Firethorn trailed him until he stopped outside one of the largest dwellings and gazed up.

  ‘Good morning, Avice,’ said Hoode, blowing a kiss.

  His arrival was not unexpected. At the very moment when he made his gesture of affection, shutters opened in the bedchamber at the front of the house and Avice Radley appeared in a long blue gown. Beaming graciously, she waved a greeting to Hoode that made him tremble with ecstasy. It was minutes before he could drag himself away to fulfil his obligations at the Queen’s Head. Firethorn did not immediately pursue him. Even after the woman had withdrawn, he stared up at the window in disbelief. Avice Radley had a statuesque beauty that took him quite by surprise. She was a woman of noble mien allied to considerable physical charms. She embodied all the qualities he found most attractive in the female sex, her widowhood suggesting an experience that tempted him even more. Firethorn no longer wondered how Avice Radley had ensnared his playwright. It was an upsurge of envy that now filled his breast.

  ‘Why choose Edmund,’ he murmured, ‘when you could be mine?’

  Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive at the Queen’s Head. By the time that Thomas Skillen and George Dart rolled into the inn yard, the book holder had enquired after the landlord’s health, conversed affably with Sybil Marwood, swept some horse dung from the inn yard, wheeled out the barrels on which the stage was to be set and unlocked the room where they stored their scenery and properties. Westfield’s Men performed six days a week, their location within the city making it impossible for them to stage plays on Sunday because of an edict against such a practice. No such legal technicality hindered the two Shoreditch playhouses, the Theatre and the Curtain, nor the popular Rose in Bankside, all three being outside City jurisdiction. While their rivals at the Queen’s Head were forced to rest on the Sabbath, they could present their work to large audiences. Few plays had more than occasional consecutive performances at any of the London playhouses. Variety of fare was required and it was not unusual for Westfield’s Men to offer six entirely different dramas in a week. If high standards were to be maintained, daily rehearsals took on especial importance.

  George Dart was still only half-awake when he trotted up to Nicholas.

  ‘What do we play today?’ he asked.

  ‘You should know that, George.’

  ‘I think it is Love’s Sacrifice.’

  ‘That was yesterday’s offering,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Then it must be Black Antonio.’

  ‘Not until tomorrow.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Dart, rubbing his eyes. ‘My brain is addled today.’

  ‘It is always addled,’ complained Skillen, cuffing him around the ear. ‘Get more sleep, lad. I’ll not have you confusing one play with another. Today, we rehearse a bright comedy for a bright afternoon. Cupid’s Folly will be seen here.’

  Dart grinned. ‘I like the play. It makes me laugh so.’

  ‘Then you’ll know what scenery we need,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Every last piece.’

  ‘Fetch it, George.’ Dart ran off and Nicholas turned to the old man. ‘You are too hard on him, Thomas. A word of praise would not come amiss.’

  ‘Let him deserve it first,’ said Skillen.

  ‘He held the book well in my place, remember. Did you commend him for it?’

  Skillen chuckled. ‘In a way, Nick. I did not box his ears for the whole afternoon. That’s the highest praise I can offer to George Dart. To spare him punishment.’

  The actors were beginning to drift in. Most of them were on foot but a few, such as Barnaby Gill, wearing one of his most lurid suits, were mounted. Nicholas noted the general lack of enthusiasm among the troupe. Owen Elias was sullen, James Ingram was dejected and Rowland Carr looked as if he was overcome with a secret sorrow. Even Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most able of the apprentices, a boy whose angelic features were almost invariably touched with a smile, seemed jaded. The person who had caused the pervading gloom was blithely unaware of the effect he was having on the others. Grinning broadly, Edmund Hoode bounded up to scatter greetings to all and sundry. He was met with cold stares and muttered resentment. Nicholas alone gave him a warm welcome.

  ‘Have you had time to reflect on what I said, Edmund?’

  ‘When?’ asked Hoode.

  ‘Yesterday. After the performance, we had a brief talk.’

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘It made little impact if you cannot even recall it,’ said Nicholas resignedly, ‘so my question answers itself. You have not given any thought to my argument.’

  ‘I did, Nick, but only to dismiss it once again.’

  ‘Can no appeal reach you?’

  ‘Not while I tread in Elysium.’

  ‘It is not in your character to be so indifferent to your fellows.’

  ‘I am not indifferent,’ said Hoode, distributing a smile around the others. ‘I love them all dearly but I am the happy prisoner of a greater love that has determined my whole future. Share my joy, Nick. Wish me well in my marriage.’

  ‘I’ll be the first to do so,’ promised Nicholas. ‘You will be a dutiful husband. But I am sorry that you have to divorce twen
ty people in order to wed one. Is there no means by which we may all keep our mutual vows?’

  ‘None, I fear. The die is cast.’

  ‘We’ll talk further, Edmund.’

  ‘To no avail.’

  Hoode went off to speak to Barnaby Gill, who was even more morose than usual. Nicholas was left to supervise the construction of the stage and the disposition of the scenery for the beginning of Cupid’s Folly. Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, was standing by in case his skills were needed to make a few repairs. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, was bringing the costumes out. Peter Digby and the other musicians were tuning their instruments in readiness. Every member of Westfield’s Men was there except its leader. When he finally made his entrance, Lawrence Firethorn was in no mood for delay. Something had put new spirit into him. Cantering into the yard, he reined in his horse, leapt down from the saddle, tossed the reins to George Dart and glared around at his discontented company.

  ‘Wherefore this Stygian gloom?’ he yelled. ‘Anybody would think that the landlord had recovered from his illness. We’ve work to do, my friends. Let’s about it straight. Come lads,’ he exhorted. ‘Strong hearts and honest endeavour are all that’s needed here. Show me what you can do.’

  Firethorn’s vitality helped to lift the company out of its melancholy. Nicholas admired the way that he moved among them, soothing, encouraging and setting a positive example for the others to follow. Smiles reappeared and friendly badinage started once more. Firethorn was leading from the front. When the rehearsal began, he did not hold back in his customary way to save his full power for the audience that afternoon. Showing all his comic gifts, he committed himself totally to the play and released the deeper chords in Cupid’s Folly as well as its abiding humour. Everyone responded to his call. Barnaby Gill was supreme, dancing and clowning his way through the piece with effortless skill. Owen Elias, too, seemed to have been reborn as an actor, matching Firethorn himself for sheer volume and comic intensity. James Ingram’s was another inspired performance and the apprentices brought a new sharpness to the female characters. Instead of dominating the play, Edmund Hoode was all but rendered invisible by the display around him. It was almost as if the company was getting its revenge on its disloyal playwright, consigning him to insignificance in a play whose title was an appropriate comment on his latest romance.

  At the end of the rehearsal, the company dispersed in search of refreshment. Firethorn waited until Hoode had departed before he drifted across to Nicholas. The actor-manager grinned broadly and stroked his beard.

  ‘Our troubles may be over, Nick,’ he said.

  ‘You can convince Edmund to stay with us?’

  ‘I prefer to work on the lady herself.’

  ‘Mistress Radley?’

  ‘She holds our lovesick author in thrall. Persuade her and we free Edmund.’

  ‘Tread with care,’ advised Nicholas.

  ‘This romance throws us all into jeopardy. I’ll nip it in the bud.’

  ‘That may prove a hard task.’

  ‘Trust me, Nick,’ said Firethorn confidently. ‘I have a plan.’

  Without elaborating on his scheme, Firethorn went off to join the others for a light meal before the performance that afternoon. Nicholas was mystified, wondering what had transformed the actor-manager’s mood. After giving some last orders to Skillen and Dart, he moved off to take a short break himself. Before he could enter the inn, however, he was confronted by a curious figure in colourful attire. The newcomer’s face was lined with grief. Over his arm, he was carrying a large basket, filled to the brim with wares that Nicholas felt he recognised.

  ‘They told me I would find Nicholas Bracewell here,’ said the man.

  ‘He stands before you.’

  ‘Thank heaven, sir! My name is Lightfoot.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Nicholas, smiling at the tumbler. ‘You are Moll Comfrey’s friend. I thought that might be her basket that you carry.’

  ‘It is all she had to leave.’

  ‘Leave? She has surely not quit London?’

  ‘London, and every other place besides, sir,’ said Lightfoot. ‘Poor Moll is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ cried Nicholas in alarm.

  ‘She was murdered as she lay. Some villain squeezed every last breath out of her. And the worst of it is,’ he went on, tears forming in his eyes, ‘we were sitting no more than five yards away.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Ned Pellow, the pieman, and his wife. All three of us were outside the booth, talking happily until well after midnight. When we took to our beds, Ned looked in on Moll and saw her sleeping soundly, as he thought. She was very tired last night and laid her head down early.’ Lightfoot brushed a tear from his cheek. ‘It was only when they tried to wake her this morning that they learnt she had been killed.’

  ‘How could they be sure it was a case of murder?’

  ‘By the marks upon her, sir. Moll had bruises on her neck, her arms and her shoulders, as if she had been held down while some fiend smothered her. The blanket that did the foul deed lay beside her. It did not belong to Ned Pellow.’ He bit his lip to hold back his anguish. ‘If only she had cried out. We could have gone to her aid.’

  Nicholas was shocked by the news, not merely because the witness who might have cleared Gerard Quilter’s name had been summarily removed. He had liked Moll Comfrey. His acquaintance with her had been fleeting but he had seen enough to note her honesty, her courage and her uncomplaining acceptance of her lot. She was a remarkable young woman and far too healthy to have died a natural death. It was horrifying to think that her life could be snuffed out so easily like a candle. He was bound to wonder if her murder was linked to the evidence she had been brave enough to give.

  ‘What action has been taken, Lightfoot?’ he asked.

  ‘Constables were summoned,’ replied the tumbler. ‘They took statements from us all then had the body removed to the mortuary. I could not bear to look on her as the cart took Moll away. She was such a dear friend to me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Moll told us how much you had helped her.’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone who asked for so little out of life.’

  ‘Have you taken these sad tidings to Master Quilter?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why not? You know where he lodges. This affects him more than me.’

  ‘That is why I went first to his house,’ explained Lightfoot, ‘but he was not there and his landlady had no idea of his whereabouts. Then I remembered what Moll had said about Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She felt that you trusted her, sir. You spoke up for her before the magistrate. What really touched her was that you offered to find her a room where she might stay.’

  ‘I would gladly have done so.’

  Lightfoot held up the basket. ‘That’s why I brought it to you, sir.’

  ‘I’ve no need for a basket.’

  ‘It’s what is inside that you should see.’ Putting the basket on the ground, he rummaged among its contents. ‘I found it quite by accident when I looked to see if any of Moll’s wares had been stolen. It was tucked away at the bottom.’

  ‘What was, Lightfoot?’

  ‘This, sir.’

  He extracted a letter and handed it over. Nicholas glanced at the name and address on the front of the missive. He was puzzled.

  ‘Did you not think to deliver it to the man whose name it bears?’ he asked.

  Lightfoot was shamefaced. ‘If I’d been able to read it, I might have done.’

  ‘The letter is addressed to a lawyer, here in London.’

  ‘A lawyer,’ echoed the tumbler. ‘Moll had no dealings with such men. It was all she could do to scrape a bare living. Nobody in her trade could afford a lawyer. One thing is certain, sir,’ he added, ‘Moll did not write that letter herself. The open road is all the schooling we’ve had. Reading and writing are not for the likes of us.’

  Nicholas was decisive. ‘I’ll see it delivered to the r
ight hands,’ he promised, ‘and I’ll inform Master Quilter of the tragedy that has occurred. I’ll want to visit Smithfield myself to see where the crime actually happened. Will you be there, Lightfoot?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Look for me at Ned Pellow’s booth. I’ll not be far away.’

  ‘Good. We may need your help.’

  ‘You can have more than that,’ vowed Lightfoot, straightening his shoulders. ‘I’ll not leave the city until we’ve caught the killer. I owe it to Moll to find the rogue. Count on me for whatever you need, sir. Lightfoot is yours.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Moll saw this coming. That’s the tragedy of it, sir. When we got to Smithfield, she smelt the stink of calamity in the air. Moll said the place was cursed,’ he went on, picking up the basket again. ‘Her friend had been hanged there and a witch had been burnt nearby. To my eternal shame,’ he admitted, ‘I didn’t believe her, sir. Moll was right. There was a curse and she has become its victim.’

  Frank Quilter’s zeal was undiminished. Having spent most of the morning keeping Bevis Millburne’s house under surveillance, he had, seeing nothing of value, transferred his attentions to the home of Cyril Paramore, the other man whose testimony had helped to send his father to the gallows. Quilter was not sure what he could expect to find out but he stayed at his post regardless. His vigil was eventually rewarded. As he watched from his vantage point in the Black Unicorn, he saw a plump, red-faced man arrive on horseback. From the description that Nicholas Bracewell had given him of the merchant, he guessed that it was Millburne. What interested him was that Paramore opened the front door himself in order to greet his friend. The younger man was far more relaxed than when Quilter had last seen him, dashing away from his home. As they went into the house, both of them were smiling broadly. Convinced that they were confederates in the plot to incriminate his father, Quilter was tempted to rush across the road to confront the men. Discretion held him back. Then he caught sight of another horseman and hurried out of the tavern in surprise.