The Bawdy Basket Read online

  ‘I hoped that you would come,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have any news for us, Lightfoot?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘I believe so, sir.’

  Quilter was eager. ‘Well? What have you discovered?’

  ‘I spoke to Hermat.’

  ‘And what did he tell you?’

  Lightfoot laughed. ‘He told me nothing, sir. Or rather, only half of what I heard came directly from him.’

  ‘Stop talking in riddles,’ complained Quilter.

  ‘Lightfoot does not mean to confuse you, Frank,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘though I daresay that you would be confused if you met Hermat for he and she are a study in confusion.’ Quilter looked bewildered. ‘You obviously did not read the sign as we passed it. Hermat is half-man and half-woman. A veritable hermaphrodite.’

  ‘That is so,’ said Lightfoot. ‘You can view him in his booth for a penny.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘If you offer him more, he will show you something in private that will amaze your eyes and make you marvel at the mystery of creation.’

  Quilter was impatient. ‘Another mystery has brought us here.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘My father was executed less than fifty yards from where we stand.’

  ‘Moll met her death even closer to us than that,’ said Lightfoot solemnly. ‘I am sorry to jest. It is not really a cause for laughter. Thus it stands,’ he said, pausing as another roar went up from Puppy’s admirers. ‘Two nights ago, when it was dark enough to venture out, Hermat decided to take a walk. Night is his friend. It is the only time when nobody stares at him.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘He swears that he saw a figure lurking outside Ned Pellow’s booth. A tall, thin man, who scurried away when Hermat approached.’

  ‘What time would this be, Lightfoot?’

  ‘Around midnight,’ replied the tumbler. ‘Hermat thought no more of it. A fair such as this is always haunted by strangers. The man could easily have been a scavenger, looking for scraps from the pieman. Hermat would probably have forgotten all about it.’

  ‘What jogged his memory?’

  ‘He saw the fellow again, sir, later on.’

  ‘In the same place?’

  ‘No, some way distant,’ said Lightfoot. ‘He was hurrying off with his head down as if leaving Smithfield altogether. Whether he sees like a man or like a woman, I do not know, but Hermat has sharp eyes. Even in the gloom, he knew that it was the same man. There was only one difference.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘He was no longer carrying anything. When Hermat first spied him, he says that the man was holding something close to his chest.’ Lightfoot demonstrated with his hands. ‘Something big enough to be noticed. Yet it was gone when they next met.’

  ‘A blanket!’

  ‘That was my thinking,’ said Lightfoot. ‘The murder weapon.’

  Cyril Paramore was so distressed by the news that his lower lip began to twitch violently.

  ‘These are fearful tidings for all of us, Sir Eliard,’ he said.

  ‘That is why we must work together.’

  ‘How did they know that you were implicated?’

  ‘They picked up my scent,’ said Sir Eliard rancorously, ‘and they must be shaken off. I thought at first that Adam Haygarth might unwittingly have provided them with a clue but he denies it hotly.’

  ‘He is in this as deep as any of us.’

  ‘I reminded him of that, Cyril.’

  ‘Does Bevis know what has transpired?’

  ‘He galloped over here on receipt of my letter. Bevis was even more upset than you, especially when I explained what must have happened.’

  ‘And what was that, Sir Eliard?’

  They were in the parlour at the house in Bishopsgate. Paramore was white with fear. That fear was in no way allayed when Sir Eliard told him about the celebratory supper at the Golden Fleece and the interruption by a stranger who sought to speak with Bevis Millburne. Paramore reached the same conclusion.

  ‘It was this fellow, Nicholas Bracewell!’

  ‘He saw us crowing over the execution of Gerard Quilter.’

  ‘Thank heaven that I was not at the table!’

  ‘Stop thinking of yourself, Cyril,’ ordered Sir Eliard. ‘If one of us is arraigned, the other three will not escape. I did not summon you hear to listen to your selfishness. I had enough vain bleating from Bevis. You are here for a purpose.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Find out all you can about Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘The troupe at the Queen’s Head?’

  ‘Francis Quilter acts with the company and Nicholas Bracewell is its book holder. See what standing they have among their fellows. Investigate the company itself.’

  ‘I have already done that, Sir Eliard,’ said the other. ‘I know that you abjure the playhouse but we admire the troupe. My wife and I have been privileged to watch them perform on three or four occasions.’

  Sir Eliard turned on him. ‘There’s no privilege in watching two of their number perform,’ he snarled. ‘They will get no applause from me for their antics. What I need to know is how Gerard Quilter’s son and his friend can find the time to bother us. Are they working alone or do they have assistance from their fellows? Be careful,’ he advised. ‘Move with stealth. But find out everything there is to know about Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘We already know the worst thing about them.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘They employ this cunning fellow called Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘At the moment,’ said Sir Eliard with a sly grin. ‘But his contract may soon be terminated. By tomorrow, Westfield’s Men will be looking for a new book holder.’

  Nicholas Bracewell approached Turnmill Street with a caution born of experience. It was at the heart of a district that was notorious for brothels, gaming houses, violence, danger, squalor and abiding degradation. Bankside, too, had a reputation for drunkenness and debauchery but the inhabitants of Turnmill Street and its adjacent lanes, yards and alleys were even more mired in corruption, crime and licentiousness. Thieves, ruffians, pickpockets, forgers, prostitutes, gamblers, vagabonds, masterless men, discharged soldiers without pensions to sustain them, boisterous sailors and all kinds of other unseemly individuals congregated in the area. The fact that Vincent Webbe’s widow now lived there showed how desperate her condition must be. Nicholas felt a surge of sympathy for the woman. At one time, when her husband was in partnership with Gerard Quilter, they must have lived in style at a prestigious address. Now, widowed and poverty-stricken, she was reduced to renting a room in one of the vilest parts of London.

  Striding up the main street, Nicholas passed Jacob’s Well Court, Bowling Alley, Hercules Yard and Cock Alley, home of the infamous Cock Tavern, where vices of every description could be purchased by customers who later found that they had also bought disease in the wake of pleasure. Beggars and ragged children lurked on every corner. Drunken men lurched out of taverns to relieve themselves against the nearest wall or to spew up the contents of their stomachs on ground that was already covered with excrement and refuse. The stench was revolting, the sense of depravity was oppressive. Nicholas walked on until he reached Slaughterhouse Yard, a place that advertised its presence by the most noisome reek of all. Holding his breath, he sought out the address he had been given. He knocked on the door and waited. A woman’s head appeared through the shutters above.

  ‘What do you want?’ she croaked.

  ‘I am looking for Elizabeth Webbe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was a friend of her husband, Vincent,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘I came to pay my respects to his widow. Is she within?’

  ‘I am Bess Webbe,’ she admitted. ‘Wait there, sir.’

  She withdrew from the window and Nicholas heard her descending the stairs. When the door opened a few inches, she examined him with suspicion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes large and staring. Elizabeth Webbe was st
ill in her forties but time had dealt harshly with her appearance. Her hair was white, her skin like parchment.

  ‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘You will not know the name because it is some years since Vincent and I met. I have recently returned to London and was horrified to learn what happened to him.’

  ‘Cruel murder, sir,’ she moaned. ‘Cruel murder.’

  ‘I am anxious to know more. A lawyer gave me your address.’ He looked up at the hovel. ‘I am sorry to find you in such a mean dwelling. You deserve better.’

  ‘We had better, sir.’

  ‘I know. Vincent was a prosperous man.’

  ‘It was Master Quilter who brought him down.’

  ‘Gerard Quilter?’ asked Nicholas, feigning surprise.

  ‘Brought him down then stabbed him to death.’

  It took him a few minutes to convince her that he had come in good faith. She invited him in, embarrassed by the state of her lodging and making continual apologies as they ascended the stairs. The room in which she lived with her two daughters was small, dark and evil-smelling. It contained little beyond a few sticks of furniture and the bed in which all three of them obviously slept. She indicated a stool and he sat down.

  ‘My girls are both out,’ she explained. ‘They are too young to work but they pick up what they can from kind strangers. We have such limited means, sir.’

  ‘Then I hope you will accept a gift from me,’ he said, putting some money into her hand out of genuine concern for her, but also in order to win her confidence. ‘Vincent would have done the same for my wife had he found her in the same distress.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Bracewell. You are very generous.’

  ‘All that I have heard is that your husband was killed. You tell me that Gerard Quilter was the murderer. That astonishes me for he was such a gentle soul.’

  ‘He was not gentle when he turned Vincent out!’ she protested.

  ‘When did that happen?’

  Elizabeth Webbe was an embittered woman who told her story with her eyes flashing angrily. It was evident from the start that she had accepted her husband’s version of events without reservation. There was no mention of the embezzlement that had led to the dissolution of the partnership with Gerard Quilter. In her opinion, the latter was wholly to blame. Nor did she refer to Vincent Webbe’s drinking habits. All that she would admit was that he became truculent at times but even that she managed to excuse. Her account of the murder was substantially that which had been given in court.

  ‘Two witnesses saw him thrust his dagger into my husband,’ she said.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘On the night that he went to the Mercers’ Hall.’

  ‘Why did he go there when he was no longer a member of the guild?’

  ‘It was at the suggestion of someone else, sir.’

  ‘Who?’ pressed Nicholas.

  ‘He was a man who loaned Vincent some money.’

  ‘Sir Eliard Slaney, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, searching her memory, ‘that could be the name. Vincent could not repay him so he was advised to ask his old partner for funds. Master Quilter was ever a soft-hearted man and Vincent felt that he was owed money for the sake of past favours. But he was spurned, sir,’ she cried. ‘Master Quilter not only cursed him, he set about Vincent with his cane.’

  ‘There was a brawl, then?’

  ‘Several people saw it.’

  ‘And your husband was stabbed in the course of the fight?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It must have been later. Master Quilter was too cunning to do it with so many people nearby. He bided his time and killed Vincent in a yard behind the Mercers’ Hall. Two men chanced to pass,’ she continued, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘They thought they had merely seen an affray. It was only when the body was discovered the next day that they knew they had witnessed a murder.’

  ‘When did you first learn of the crime?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘The day after Vincent left for the Mercers’ Hall.’

  ‘Were you not worried when he failed to return for the night?’

  She shook her head. ‘It was not unusual for him to be away for a couple of days at a time,’ she confessed. ‘We sometimes did not see him for a week. Vincent was always looking for ways to get established again. He had to search for opportunities.’

  ‘What happened when you learnt of his death?’

  ‘I was distraught, sir. So were our daughters. We cried and cried.’

  ‘And you are certain that Gerard Quilter was the culprit?’

  ‘Who else could it have been?’ she said sharply. ‘The crime was witnessed by two honest, upright men. Master Quilter admitted there had been a brawl with my husband. What he did not admit was that he later took his revenge.’ She let out a hoarse cackle. ‘But we had our own revenge on him this week,’ she sneered. ‘All three of us went to Smithfield to watch him being hanged for his crime.’

  Nicholas glanced around. ‘Were you living here at the time of the murder?’

  ‘No, sir. We had our own house then, but it was taken away when Vincent died. I was turned out with my daughters and we had to fend for ourselves.’

  ‘Who could have been so cruel as to do that?’

  ‘The moneylender, Sir Eliard Slaney.’

  ‘Did you ever meet the man?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I saw his bailiffs. They threw us out without mercy. I had no idea that Vincent had borrowed so much money. It was a grievous shock.’

  ‘Yet you had heard Sir Eliard’s name before?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘How did your husband speak it?’

  ‘As if it were a foul disease,’ she said. ‘Vincent wished that he had never met the fellow. He feared that Sir Eliard would be the ruin of him. He was so angered by the demands for money that he went to Sir Eliard’s house and caused a commotion. My husband had a temper when he was roused.’

  ‘Could no lawyer save your house from being possessed?’

  ‘Lawyers cost money, sir, and we were left penniless.’

  Nicholas felt sorry for the woman but he was glad that he had made the effort to see her. She would never have divulged the same information to Francis Quilter. Nicholas believed that she might have given him the explanation that he needed. Thanking her for what she had told him, Nicholas took his leave and stepped out into the yard in time to see some frightened sheep being herded into the slaughterhouse. The scene was emblematic of the whole area. Turnmill Street was a slaughterhouse in itself, butchering the lives, reputations and self-respect of all who came there. Elizabeth Webbe had once been the wife of a prosperous mercer with an assured place in society. She was now one more terrified animal, penned up in readiness for destruction.

  Brooding on what he had heard, Nicholas headed back in the direction of Cow Cross. His instincts remained alert, however. When he walked past Fleur de Luce Yard, he caught a hint of sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Nicholas turned just in time. A tall, slim, sinewy man came out of the shadows to lunge at him with a dagger. Nicholas caught his wrist and twisted the weapon away, using his other hand to get a grip on the man’s throat. A fierce struggle ensued. His assailant was young and strong but he had met his match in Nicholas. Instead of taking his victim by surprise, he found himself rammed so hard against a wall that all the breath was knocked out of him. The dagger fell to the floor and Nicholas kicked it away. He then snatched off the man’s hat to reveal a thin, swarthy face that was half-covered with a straggly beard.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Nicholas.

  By way of reply, the man spat in his eyes to blind him temporarily. Bringing up a knee into his captor’s groin, he pushed Nicholas away as the latter doubled up in pain. Without pausing to pick up his dagger, the man fled. It had all happened so quickly that Nicholas was still bewildered. By the time he recovered enough to go in pursuit, the man was mounting the horse he had tethered in the adjoining lane. He kicked the animal
into a canter and rode off. He would never be caught now. Nicholas walked back to retrieve the dagger and the abandoned hat. He chided himself for letting his attacker escape. One thought was uppermost in his mind. The man was free to strike again.

  Chapter Nine

  Francis Quilter was deeply upset by news of the attempt on his friend’s life. It was one more dreadful setback for them. When he talked to Nicholas Bracewell that evening, he was overcome with guilt.

  ‘You should have let me go with you, Nick,’ he said.

  ‘I survived.’

  ‘But you could just as easily have been stabbed to death.’

  ‘Not if I remain alert, Frank. I have been to Turnmill Street before and know its dangers well. It’s a place where you need eyes in the back of your head.’ He held up the hat and the dagger that he had collected. ‘In any case, I got the better of the encounter. My attacker had to run away, unarmed and bare-headed. I fancy that he took away a few bruises as well.’

  ‘My concern is solely for you, Nick. I put you in jeopardy.’

  ‘Not with intention.’

  ‘It matters not,’ said Quilter. ‘Simply by helping me you have become a marked man. Moll Comfrey has already perished in my name. Now they have turned their attention to you. Consider your own safety and let me deal with this business on my own forthwith.’