The Bawdy Basket Read online

  ‘Information, Nick?’ asked Firethorn. ‘What sort of information?’

  Nicholas did not wish to discuss their investigation in such a public place and was spared the awkwardness of having to do so by the appearance of Edmund Hoode. The playwright burst into the taproom with uncharacteristic urgency and glared around until he spotted Firethorn. Teeth gritted, he stamped across to the actor-manager.

  ‘I have just come from Mistress Radley’s house,’ he said. ‘She tells me that you had the audacity to call on her earlier, Lawrence.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Firethorn. ‘I just happened to be passing and felt it only a courtesy to introduce myself.’

  ‘How did you even know where she dwelt?’

  ‘That is neither here nor there, Edmund.’

  ‘Lawrence tells us that he prevailed upon your inamorata, Edmund,’ said Gill, seeing a chance to embarrass Firethorn. ‘As a result of his persuasion, he assured us, Mistress Radley would make you change your mind.’

  ‘And so she did, Barnaby,’ said Hoode grimly. ‘I have considered afresh.’

  ‘There!’ shouted Firethorn in triumph. ‘I knew that I could bring it off.’

  ‘All that you have brought off is our friendship, Lawrence. How dare you interfere in this way! I did not think that even you would sink so low. But it has forced me to change my mind,’ Hoode said with emphasis. ‘When I announced my decision to leave, I offered to remain until the end of next month. In view of your appalling behaviour today, Lawrence, I will alter my date of departure.’

  Firethorn was hopeful. ‘You’ll stay much longer?’

  ‘No,’ affirmed Hoode. ‘Westfield’s Men will lose me at the end of this month.’

  Chapter Eight

  When he left the Queen’s Head later that evening, Nicholas Bracewell was in a state of considerable disquiet. The ride home on the borrowed horse gave him an opportunity to reflect on Edmund Hoode’s impassioned declaration. The playwright had revoked his earlier promise to remain with the company until the end of September. Instead, shocked by the crude attempt to woo Avice Radley away from him, and in defiance of his contractual obligations, he was now planning to leave Westfield’s Men in less than a week. The decision had shaken them. Hoode was one of the most placid and undemonstrative of men, not given to rash pronouncements. Nicholas had often heard him moan about the perils of life in the theatre but his friend had never before threatened to bring his career with the troupe to such a premature end. Yet he was patently in earnest. At the end of August, they could no longer call on his services.

  Nicholas blamed himself as much as anyone else. Revolted and annoyed by Lawrence Firethorn’s failed seduction of Avice Radley, he nevertheless took some responsibility for the predicament in which they found themselves. Nicholas had always been much more than simply the book holder with Westfield’s Men. A number of other duties fell to him, one of which was to keep an eye on members of the company in order to spot any potential sources of trouble. Since he enjoyed the confidence of his fellows, he was uniquely placed to listen to complaints, offer advice, quell anxieties, subdue any discord and spread contentment. Problems that actors would never dare raise with Lawrence Firethorn were taken to Nicholas Bracewell and, more often than not, solved before the actor-manager even caught wind of them. Edmund Hoode had turned to the book holder a number of times in the past and the outcome had always been fruitful.

  Apparently, those days were over. Nicholas’s powers of persuasion had been wholly ineffective. Hoode had ignored the appeal he had made on behalf of the company and, outraged by Firethorn’s actions, was walking out on them almost immediately. Having made his announcement at the Queen’s Head, the playwright had turned on his heel and stalked off before anyone could stop him. Firethorn, Owen Elias and James Ingram had been stunned. Because he and Hoode had always been so close, Nicholas felt the pain of being spurned. Westfield’s Men were about to lose a gifted author, a talented actor and a leading sharer but Nicholas was also forfeiting a friendship that was very dear to him. He felt a sense of profound guilt. In devoting so much attention to Francis Quilter’s plight, he had not shown sufficient interest in Hoode’s private life. During his many previous romantic entanglements, his friend had invariably confided in him, using Nicholas first as a mirror in which to admire his own happiness and, then, when the romance withered on the vine, as it inevitably did, seeking his companionship for the sympathy and understanding that he needed.

  A rift had opened up between them and Nicholas was bound to put some of the blame on himself. As a result of Firethorn’s clumsy and inglorious attempt to steal his lady away from beneath his nose, Hoode had widened that rift even more. Nicholas could not reason with him. In the playwright’s eyes, he was no more than part of a world that had to be abandoned once and for all. It was a sad comment on their long friendship. Nicholas hoped that there might yet be some way to retrieve the situation. When word of Hoode’s imminent departure spread among the company, they would be devastated. The new play on which he had laboured so hard, and in which he had such faith, would never even be finished. Instead of being able to offer Hoode’s masterpiece, Westfield’s Men would have to fall back on older material, pieces that had been staled by over-use and lacked the appeal of novelty.

  So much had changed in such a short time. That was what disturbed Nicholas. At the beginning of the week, fortune seemed to favour them. They presented an exciting play to a packed audience at the Queen’s Head and reaped the many benefits of having their difficult landlord struck down by illness. Company spirit was high. Hoode was totally committed to his new work. All seemed well. Crises swiftly ensued. The execution of Gerard Quilter was a black cloud over Westfield’s Men and the sudden infatuation of their playwright was a torrential downpour that would leave them bedraggled. When they next stepped out onstage, the actors would be thoroughly depressed. It was worrying. Nicholas knew that a poor performance on the following afternoon would be accorded little respect by their spectators. If they felt they were getting anything less than their money’s worth, they would mock, jeer, protest aloud and even hurl things at the cast. A dark tragedy like Black Antonio would be severely handicapped if the actors spent some of their time dodging apple cores and other missiles. The company’s reputation would suffer and their takings would dwindle. It was a daunting prospect.

  Although he did not regret helping Quilter to exonerate his father, Nicholas was the first to admit that it was diverting some of his energies from his work. The sooner that a gross miscarriage of justice was exposed, the sooner he could concentrate more fully on his other duties. What puzzled him was the speed of Hoode’s change of direction. Avice Radley had clearly made a tremendous impact on him. If Nicholas had gained anything out of the visit to the Queen’s Head, it was an increased respect for the lady. Evidently, she had repelled the attentions of Lawrence Firethorn with robustness and that indicated strength of character. Westfield’s Men were now the victims of that strength of character. When she pursued a course of action, she did so with iron determination. To have achieved what she had done in a matter of days, he judged, Avice Radley must indeed be a remarkable woman. Nicholas wondered if he would ever get to meet her.

  He had reached the fringes of Bankside before he realised that he was being followed. As he rode his horse at a trot down a narrow lane, he heard another set of hooves clacking over the hard surface behind him. Whenever he turned a corner, the other rider pursued him. The sense of danger that was ever present in a notorious area like Bankside was intensified. Night was falling and shadows were darkening. Thieves were on the prowl. Nicholas kept one hand on the hilt of his dagger. When he urged his horse into a brisker trot, he heard the answering hoofbeats behind him. They seemed to be getting closer yet, when he looked behind him, there was nobody there. His phantom stalker had vanished. Certain that he was still being trailed, Nicholas pressed on until he reached Anne Hendrik’s house. He dismounted to stable the horse then ambled round to the front of the
house. As he paused at the door, he was even more conscious of being under surveillance yet the street appeared to be completely empty. It was eerie.

  Anne was waiting for him. There was a hint of fear in her eyes.

  ‘Is he still there?’ she asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who was watching.’

  ‘I saw nobody,’ he said.

  ‘Neither did I at first, Nick. But I felt that someone was out there earlier this evening. I peeped out half-a-dozen times but there was no one in sight. And then,’ she went on with a shiver, ‘I caught a glimpse of him, sitting astride a horse on the corner of Smock Alley, staring at the house. When he saw me, he disappeared down the alley at once. It shook me, Nick. I haven’t dared to step outside the front door since.’

  ‘What time did you see him, Anne?’

  ‘All of two hours or more ago.’

  ‘Can you describe the fellow?’

  ‘Not in any detail,’ she replied. ‘I only saw him for an instant. He wore a black cloak and a hat pulled down over his face. I was frightened.’

  Nicholas gave her a reassuring squeeze before going back to the door. Opening it swiftly, he darted out and looked up and down the street before running diagonally across to Smock Alley. Long and narrow, it knifed its way in a straight line between the tenements that stretched on down to the river. The alley was too dark for Nicholas to see anything at all but he heard the distant clatter of hooves as a horseman sped away. Neither he nor Anne had been mistaken. For some reason, they were being watched. Nicholas could still feel the sense of menace in the air.

  Adam Haygarth enjoyed his moment of power on the bench. As he sat in judgement on his fellow men, he became brusque, imperious and uncompromising. Mercy was never allowed to influence any sentence that he imposed. Those who came before him, and whose guilt was established, could expect the severest treatment. He closed the day’s session by sentencing a woman to a term of imprisonment for the crime of stealing bread in order to feed her starving children. Sweeping her heart-rending pleas aside, he ordered that she be taken out by force. Haygarth glowed with satisfaction. Having spent so long wishing to become a justice of the peace, he was relishing every second of it now. The Clerk of the Court then handed him a letter that had just been delivered. Its contents soon wiped the complacent smile from Haygarth’s face. Calling for his horse, he left court at an undignified speed.

  A summons from Sir Eliard Slaney had to be obeyed. Haygarth rode at a canter until he reached the house. He was still panting for breath as he was shown into the parlour by a manservant. Seated at a table, Sir Eliard glanced up at him.

  ‘Why this delay?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘The court was in session, Sir Eliard.’

  ‘You should have declared an adjournment.’

  ‘Is it that serious?’

  ‘It could be,’ said Sir Eliard, rising to his feet. ‘We have a problem, it seems.’

  ‘Of what nature?’

  ‘I am not certain yet, Adam. That’s why I needed to speak to you. Tell me about Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell, man!’ snapped the other. ‘One of the people who brought Moll Comfrey to your house to make her statement.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Haygarth, nervously stroking his beard. ‘I remember him. A sturdy fellow with an intelligence I would not have expected from a man in his occupation. He is the book holder with Westfield’s Men and a friend of Francis Quilter. Of the two, Nicholas Bracewell was by far the more capable, with a knowledge of the law exceeding that of Gerard Quilter’s son.’ He gave a shrug. ‘That is all I can tell you about him, except that he struck me as an obstinate fellow, far too resolute for my liking. Why do you ask about him, Sir Eliard?’

  ‘He lodges with my wife’s milliner.’

  ‘Is that a reason to take an interest in him?’

  ‘Yes, Adam,’ said Sir Eliard. ‘Because the lady in question, one Anne Hendrik, has taken a sudden interest in me. She was here only yesterday, interrogating my wife, probing away to find out why I had attended the execution at Smithfield. That is hardly the kind of question a milliner puts to a customer.’

  Haygarth was anxious. ‘Someone has set her on.’

  ‘Exactly, my friend. We do not need to look far to name him.’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘The inquisitive milliner had the gall to ask my wife how well I knew Gerard Quilter and whether or not the man had ever been to my house.’

  ‘Saints preserve us!’ cried Haygarth.

  ‘In other words,’ said Sir Eliard, moving across to him, ‘Nicholas Bracewell has somehow stumbled on the fact that I am involved in this business. Now, how could he possibly do that, Adam? I hope that you did not let anything slip when you met him.’

  ‘No, Sir Eliard!’

  ‘It will go hard with you, if you did.’

  ‘Your name was never mentioned, I swear it!’

  ‘I helped to secure you a place on the bench,’ warned Sir Eliard, ‘but I can just as easily have you unseated. I thought I could rely on your discretion.’

  ‘You can, Sir Eliard,’ said Haygarth, starting to tremble.

  ‘What did you say when they brought that bawdy basket to you?’

  ‘As little as possible. I simply examined the girl then pointed out that the law moves slowly and that they must not expect a speedy response. My intention was to send them on their way so that I could come here post-haste.’

  ‘Were you followed, by any chance?’

  ‘No question of that, Sir Eliard. I waited until they had gone off in the other direction before I even left the house. Besides,’ he said, ‘I rode hell for leather and they were only on foot. There is no way that they could have known my destination.’

  ‘They have linked my name to the crime somehow.’

  ‘Not through me, Sir Eliard, I assure you.’

  Haygarth was quivering with apprehension, fearing his host’s displeasure as much as the consequences of what he had just been told. Sir Eliard studied him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The visitor squirmed under his gaze.

  ‘Very well,’ decided Sir Eliard. ‘I accept that you were not responsible for leading Nicholas Bracewell to my door but somebody was. I wish to know his identity.’

  ‘Then look no further than Francis Quilter.’

  ‘Quilter?’

  ‘He must have been aware of the enmity between you and his father. Is it not likely that your name was mentioned to Nicholas Bracewell at some stage? That fellow has a quick brain. He’d wish to find out more about you.’

  ‘And did so through the agency of his landlady,’ said Sir Eliard with disgust. ‘It was the second day in succession that the milliner came in search of information about me. I love my wife dearly but Rebecca is not the most reticent of women. She is inclined to boast and that breeds carelessness of discourse.’

  ‘How much did she tell this Anne Hendrik?’

  ‘Enough to convince me that the milliner was here with a purpose. I had her house in Bankside watched yesterday,’ he explained. ‘And I had Nicholas Bracewell followed home from the Queen’s Head where he spent the evening with his fellows. You can imagine how I felt when I learnt that he lived under the same roof as the milliner.’

  ‘This is unsettling news, Sir Eliard.’

  ‘It shows the importance of discretion.’

  ‘I have been as close as the grave.’

  ‘Would that my wife had been so as well! However,’ said Sir Eliard, strolling around the room to relieve his tension, ‘I interrupted them before anything too ruinous was divulged. Needless to say, my wife has been ordered to dismiss her milliner.’

  ‘It is the lodger that we need to worry about, Sir Eliard.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘What is to be done?’

  ‘In the first instance, I have alerted Bevis and Cyril to the situation. They need to be on their guard in case anyone comes asking questions abo
ut them. They were the witnesses at the trial. Francis Quilter is bound to turn his attention to them.’

  ‘They are staunch men. They’ll not let us down.’

  ‘Nor must you, Adam,’ cautioned the other. ‘I’ll not tolerate any sign of weakness. You must stand four-square with us.’

  ‘That goes without saying, Sir Eliard.’

  ‘Betray me and I’ll carve the sentence on your heart.’

  Haygarth shuddered. ‘You will have no cause to do that.’

  ‘Describe him to me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell. All that you have told me is that he is sturdy and resolute. What of his age, his height, his colouring, his attire, his bearing?’

  ‘Well,’ recalled Haygarth, ‘he’ll not see thirty years again, Sir Eliard. He is a tall man, something of your own height, with fair hair and beard. In his own way, I suppose, he is handsome enough. Francis Quilter was in doublet and hose but Nicholas Bracewell wore a buff jerkin. He bore himself well,’ he said. ‘In short, he was a fine, upstanding fellow, more able to control his temper than Master Quilter.’

  Sir Eliard was thoughtful. ‘It has to be the same man,’ he decided.

  ‘The same man?’

  ‘Your description tallies with that given to me by Bevis Millburne. On the night of the execution, we celebrated at the Golden Fleece. A stranger arrived to see Bevis and congratulate him on his part in the trial. He left before Bevis could find out his name but I am certain it must be Nicholas Bracewell. This is upsetting,’ said Sir Eliard, chewing his lip. ‘Since he saw Bevis at the Golden Fleece, the chances are that he noticed me as well. Small wonder that he is poking about in my affairs.’

  ‘What are we to do about him, Sir Eliard?’

  ‘I think that you predicted his future accurately, Adam.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other with a ghost of a smile. ‘You said that you were as close as the grave. There’s nothing as close as that, is there? Graves seal up everything tidily. Gerard Quilter learnt that and so did Moll Comfrey. I think it may be time for Nicholas Bracewell to make the same discovery.’