The Bawdy Basket Read online

  Henry Cleaton defied all his expectations. When he was introduced to the lawyer, Nicholas Bracewell expected to find a worthy, studious man in the dull garb of his profession, careful in speech and obsessed with the need for caution. Instead, he was looking at a jovial individual of fifty with a shock of red hair that matched the colour of his cheeks, and a stocky frame in a blue doublet. There was a faintly bucolic air about Cleaton. His office was small and cluttered, making its occupant seem even larger. Chuckling to himself, the lawyer cleared piles of documents off a chair and a stool so that his visitors could sit down. He glanced at Nicholas.

  ‘Frank tells me how helpful you have been to him,’ he said.

  ‘Nick has been a godsend,’ affirmed Quilter. ‘Without him, I’d be lost.’

  ‘At a time like this, you need a reliable friend.’

  ‘I’m happy to lend my assistance,’ said Nicholas. ‘I do not know the full details of the case but I am persuaded that a terrible injustice has taken place.’

  Cleaton’s face clouded. ‘It is monstrous!’ he declared. ‘Gerard Quilter was the most inoffensive of men. He would not kill a fly, still less a human being. Those who sent him to the gallows committed a heinous crime and they must answer for it.’ His manner softened as he appraised Nicholas. ‘So you are the famous book holder, are you? I have oftentimes been in the gallery at the Queen’s Head to watch the company at work. They are always well-drilled.’

  Nicholas was modest. ‘That is Master Firethorn’s doing rather than mine.’

  ‘Do not listen to him,’ said Quilter. ‘Nick is the true power behind the throne. If a play runs smoothly, it is usually because of his control behind the scenes. That reminds me,’ he added, turning to his friend. ‘How did Black Antonio fare this afternoon?’

  ‘Very poorly, Frank.’

  ‘I am surprised to hear that,’ said Cleaton. ‘When I last saw the piece, it was acted with a vigour that set my old heart racing. What was amiss today?’

  ‘The actors’ minds were elsewhere,’ explained Nicholas. ‘They were slow and lacklustre. The audience let them know it. We rallied towards the end but, in truth, it was not an occasion in which we could take pride.’

  The performance had, in fact, verged on chaos but Lawrence Firethorn had saved the day with his brilliant account of the main character. Alone of the other actors, Edmund Hoode had managed to shine in a supporting role, attesting his excellence on the eve of his departure and reminding everyone of what they would be losing when he went. Nicholas had stayed long enough to see everything cleared away before joining Quilter at the lawyer’s office. He warmed to Cleaton on sight. The man had a bristling intelligence.

  ‘Enquiries have been made,’ said the lawyer, reaching for a document on his table. ‘I have spent the whole day asking questions and chasing down the answers like a dog after a rabbit. We have made progress, gentlemen.’

  ‘Good,’ said Quilter.

  ‘What have you found out, sir?’ asked Nicholas.

  Cleaton read from the paper before him. ‘Firstly, that a certain Adam Haygarth became a justice of the peace as a result of the direct intercession of Sir Eliard Slaney. There’s no doubting it. Haygarth is Sir Eliard’s creature in every way.’

  ‘Then he must have told him about the new evidence that came forward.’

  ‘Yes, Nick,’ said Quilter, ‘and thereby prompted the murder of Moll Comfrey. The man is beneath contempt. He ran to his master like the cur he is. What hope have we for justice if rogues such as Adam Haygarth administer it?’

  ‘Not everyone in the law is so devoid of honesty,’ promised Cleaton. ‘There are still a few of us who believe in the ideals that brought us to the profession. One of those ideals is to root out injustice wherever we find it and there is no more appalling example of it than here. But there’s more,’ he went on, looking down again. ‘Haygarth is also a friend of Bevis Millburne, close enough to be invited to his wedding, I am told. And he must be acquainted with Cyril Paramore too, because the latter works with Sir Eliard at all times.’

  ‘In short,’ said Nicholas, ‘all four men are confederates.’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘Your enquiries prove it beyond any contention, Master Cleaton.’

  ‘True, sir,’ replied the lawyer. ‘I’ve unearthed several links between the four of them. What I cannot prove as yet, however, is that they were instruments in the death of Frank’s father.’

  ‘They were!’ asserted Quilter.

  ‘I know and I am as eager as you to proclaim it to the world. But the law requires more evidence, Frank. Trial for murder is a most serious business. To overturn a verdict will take much more than we have at our disposal.’

  ‘Moll Comfrey was the decisive witness,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why she had to be silenced so abruptly. Sir Eliard Slaney is a ruthless man.’

  Cleaton gave them a warning nod. ‘You would do well to remember that. When he becomes aware of what you are doing, your own lives may be at risk.’

  ‘That will not stop us,’ said Quilter boldly.

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but it does mean that we should be more circumspect, Frank. I was followed home last night and Anne tells me that someone was watching the house earlier. I spy a connection with Sir Eliard.’

  ‘Everything seems to be connected with him somehow,’ said Cleaton, studying the document in front of him. ‘The paper trail leads directly to his house in Bishopsgate.’

  He listed all that he had found out about the relationship between Sir Eliard Slaney and the other three men. Nicholas and Quilter were duly impressed with the amount of information he had gathered in such a short time. There was, however, a significant omission.

  ‘What did you learn about Vincent Webbe?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Precious little, I fear,’ replied the lawyer. ‘My energies were taken up with the enquiries I made in other directions. All that I discovered about Master Webbe is where his widow now lives.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘It is not the most salubrious part of London.’

  Quilter was positive. ‘Wherever it is, I’ll visit her.’

  ‘No, Frank,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is work for me. Vincent Webbe hated your father. The name of Quilter will bar the door against you. Let me call on the widow. We’ll go first to the fair to seek out Lightfoot, then I’ll go on to speak to the lady. She’ll not suspect me. I’ll say I was a friend of her husband. Then I’ll draw her out. Leave her to me, Frank,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll find out much more on my own.’

  When the visitor gave her name, Avice Radley’s surprise turned to incredulity. The last person she expected to come to her house was Margery Firethorn. During the social niceties, they weighed each other up. Margery was struck by the other’s handsome features and by her rich attire. By the same token, Avice Radley was impressed by her comely appearance. Margery’s crimson gown had actually been donated to the company and been worn by one of the female characters in a number of plays but it was far more striking on its present owner. A mutual respect was established between the two women at once. Both had great self-possession. As she took her seat, Margery knew that she would have to use reason instead of bluster against her hostess.

  ‘I do not need to tell you what has brought me here,’ she began. ‘Edmund Hoode is a good friend of mine and I would hate to see him abandon the company.’

  ‘Save your breath,’ said Avice politely. ‘Edmund’s future has been decided.’

  ‘In so short a time?’

  ‘The moment we met, I knew that I wanted to marry him.’

  Margery smiled appreciatively. ‘I can see why he feels the same about you, Mistress Radley. But must marriage and the playhouse be worlds apart? Why cannot Edmund enjoy both?’

  ‘Because he has no wish to do so.’

  ‘Have you given him the choice?’

  ‘That is a private matter.’

  ‘Not when it affects the lives of so many others, my husband among them.’

  ‘Ma
ster Firethorn has already made that point to me.’

  ‘It can bear repetition.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Avice. ‘It is good of you to call but I have to say I think less of Master Firethorn for delegating this work to his wife. Because he failed to prevail upon me himself, he has sent you to approach me afresh.’

  ‘That is not the case at all,’ retorted Margery. ‘I come strictly of my own volition. Were Lawrence to hear of this visit, he would be exceedingly angry. I am not allowed to meddle in the affairs of Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Then why do you do so?’

  ‘Because the quality of their work is at stake.’

  ‘There are other playwrights in London.’

  ‘None so fruitful as Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘What of young Lucius Kindell?’ asked Avice. ‘Edmund speaks well of him.’

  ‘And so he should, Mistress Radley. They worked together on The Insatiate Duke and Lucius has written two tragedies of his own. His time will surely come,’ said Margery, ‘but he is no substitute for the master himself.’

  ‘Other companies have no difficulty in finding plays. Look at Banbury’s Men. They are always announcing the performance of a new work.’

  ‘Yes,’ argued Margery, ‘and as soon as they find a talented author, they bind him hand and foot with contracts so that he can write for nobody but them. Banbury’s Men have tried to lure Edmund away time and again. Has he told you that?’

  ‘Naturally. We have no secrets from each other.’

  ‘Then you will know how much joy and satisfaction he gets from his work.’

  ‘The joy has gone, Mistress Firethorn,’ said the other sadly, ‘and the satisfaction has fallen away. Edmund seeks new pleasures. I thank God that he has chosen to do so exclusively in my company.’

  Margery could see that she was making little impact. Avice Radley was not susceptible to any form of persuasion. There was a quiet certainty about her that was forbidding. Margery decided to change her tack.

  ‘I must thank you for one thing,’ she said effusively.

  ‘Thank me?’

  ‘You have brought some happiness into Edmund’s life at long last. He has been led such a merry dance by Cupid in the past that we feared he might perish from unrequited love.’ She smiled benignly. ‘It is heartening to see that he has finally found someone who understands his true worth.’

  ‘I adore him,’ said Avice quietly. ‘He is a complete man to me.’

  ‘What first drew your attention to him?’

  ‘His plays. When I saw The Merchant of Calais, I was captivated. It had such a keen understanding of human nature. And such sublime verse,’ she went on. ‘I went home that afternoon with my head spinning.’

  ‘What else have you seen of Edmund’s?’

  ‘Almost everything that he has written. I watched in wonder until I felt compelled to send him a letter of appreciation. From that single action, so foreign to my character, all else has flowed.’

  ‘When you enjoyed his work so much, why prevent others from like pleasure?’

  ‘But that is not what I am doing,’ Avice reminded her. ‘Those same dramas that delighted me are the property of Westfield’s Men. They can be performed whenever Master Firethorn chooses. Edmund bequeaths them with his blessing.’

  ‘And lays down his pen for good.’

  ‘No, Mistress Firethorn. He wishes to employ it in a worthier cause. Henceforth, he will devote himself to sonnets and shun the cruder arts of the playhouse.’

  ‘It was those cruder arts that enslaved you,’ said Margery pointedly.

  Avice Radley acknowledged the fact with a smile. She admired Margery for what she was trying to do and touched by her obvious fondness for Edmund Hoode. But that did not sway her in the least. She sought to give her visitor an explanation.

  ‘When did you meet Lawrence Firethorn?’ she asked.

  ‘Many years ago.’

  ‘Can you recall the moment when you first set eyes on him?’

  ‘Vividly,’ said Margery with a nostalgic grin. ‘I watched a performance of Pompey the Great and he was every inch the hero in the title. When he stepped out onstage, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I feared that I would never stop trembling. And the beauty of it is,’ she confided, ‘there are still times when Lawrence has the same effect on me. I married a titan of the stage.’

  ‘So will I,’ said Avice. ‘You found love at first sight and I did likewise.’

  ‘Yes, but I did not try to tear my husband away from his work.’

  ‘There’s no tearing with Edmund. He comes of his own free will.’

  ‘Leaving the company he serves in ruin.’

  ‘Come now,’ said Avice, clicking her tongue. ‘Do not be so disloyal to your husband. No troupe that is led by Lawrence Firethorn will ever be in ruins. He can bring the meanest play to life. And he has such able men around him, attracted by his brilliance. The loss of Edmund will soon be repaired.’

  ‘I beg leave to doubt that. But it is not only Edmund’s departure that is so disturbing,’ said Margery. ‘It is the nature of that departure. Lawrence tells me that he means to cut himself off from Westfield’s Men within a week.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘How can he be so callous?’

  ‘Edmund’s intention had been to remain until the end of September.’

  ‘What changed his mind, Mistress Radley?’

  There was a pause. ‘I can see that your husband has omitted certain facts.’

  ‘Ah!’ sighed Margery as she began to understand. ‘So that is what happened, was it? In the interests of his company, Lawrence attempted to work on your emotions himself. Do not expect me to be shocked,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘It is no more than he does every time he struts upon a stage. That, after all, is how he ambushed me and I am sure that there were other young ladies in the audience who were equally entranced. I was fortunate to be chosen.’

  ‘So am I, Mistress Firethorn.’

  ‘Yet, by your own account, you did the choosing.’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘Your wrote to Edmund. But for that, he would have been quite unaware of your existence. Let us be honest here, shall we? You were the huntress.’

  ‘We were drawn ineluctably together.’

  ‘After he had read the contents of your letter.’

  ‘I had to declare myself by some means,’ said the other defensively. ‘Had I not reached out for Edmund, I would have remained a face in the crowd to him. Instead, he has turned my grief into ecstasy.’ He voice softened to a whisper. ‘Tell me, Mistress Firethorn. Have you ever mourned the death of someone close to you?’

  ‘Many times,’ replied Margery. ‘I lost both parents, a brother and two sisters. My first child was stillborn. I, too, have been acquainted with grief.’

  ‘Then you will know the feeling of despair that grips you. When my husband died, he left me with nothing but dear memories. There were no children to help me bear the agony of his passing, no brothers or sisters on either side of the family to share my misery. I became a recluse,’ she confessed. ‘And I might still be locked away if a friend had not insisted that I visit the Queen’s Head with her. No spectator ever went less willingly to a play, yet I left that inn yard in high spirits. That was the effect that Edmund Hoode’s play had on me. It brought me back to life.’

  ‘A play is only as good as the actors who perform it,’ said Margery, quoting one of her husband’s favourite maxims. ‘What brought you back to life was the work of a whole company, not simply the genius of the author. You should be sufficiently grateful to Westfield’s Men to let them keep their playwright.’

  ‘Edmund no longer wishes to stay.’

  ‘Thanks to your influence.’

  ‘Not at all. Were he so wedded to the notion, I’d live with him in London and let him stay at the Queen’s Head. But he is adamant,’ said Avice with an invincible smile. ‘Edmund Hoode is determined to break off all ties with Westfield’s
Men. No power on earth can stop him.’

  Bartholomew Fair was at its height. The people of London and those from much further afield came to buy, sell, haggle, steal, eat, drink, fight, frolic, be entertained and generally enjoy the holiday atmosphere. The clamour was ear-splitting, the colours dazzling and the compound of smells so powerful that they reached out well beyond Smithfield. Peddlers and stall holders vied for the attention of the seething masses. Those enticed into various booths could see a cow with six legs, a dwarf with three eyes, a giant horse that seemed to talk and sundry other freaks of nature. A performing bear drew gasps of wonder from the onlookers. Drunken men sought the company of prostitutes, drunken women fell to brawling. Among the most popular characters at the fair were Luke Furness, the blacksmith, who took time off from shoeing horses to draw teeth with amazing dexterity; Ursula the Pig Woman, a vast, ugly, foul-tongued creature with a face that bore an amazing resemblance to that of the pig being roasted outside her booth; and Ned Pellow, the pieman, massive, bearded and obliging, renowned for the quality of his food and for the affability of his manner.

  Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter had to wait in the queue until they had a chance to speak to him. While the beaming Pellow was selling his pies, his hairy wife was bringing out fresh supplies from inside the booth. They gave off a tempting odour.

  ‘Good day, my friends,’ said Pellow, recognising them. ‘Can I offer you some of my pies to take away your hunger?’

  ‘Another time, Ned,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are looking for Lightfoot.’

  ‘Then you must head for the ring. That is where he performs.’

  ‘The ring?’

  ‘Follow the noise, sirs. It will lead you there.’

  They took his advice. Above the tumult was an occasional burst of cheering and applause. Nicholas and Quilter pushed their way through the crowd until they reached an open area between the stalls. A series of stakes had been driven into the ground in a rough circle so that a rope could be tied to them. The large crowd that pressed against the rope yelled and laughed as Puppy the Wrestler, a mountain of flesh with a bare chest, lifted his latest challenger high in the air before dashing him to the ground. While anxious friends tried to revive the fallen man, Puppy walked around the ring with an arrogant strut, hands held high in triumph, waiting for the next foolish hero to step over the rope and try his strength. Lightfoot did not hesitate. The brief time between wrestling bouts was his opportunity to earn money. He cartwheeled around the ring with such speed that he provoked spontaneous clapping. Concluding with a dozen somersaults, he landed on his feet, doffed his cap to take in the applause then used it to collect money from his audience. When he drew level with them, Nicholas dropped a coin into the hat then indicated that he wished to speak to the tumbler. As soon as Puppy was grappling with his next victim, Lightfoot slipped out of the ring and took the newcomers aside.