The Bawdy Basket Page 22

  ‘Let me travel with you,’ pleaded Lightfoot. ‘As you say, it may well have been the same man who smothered poor Moll to death. I long to meet the rogue. Puppy has taught me all of a wrestler’s tricks, sir. Even without a weapon, I’ll get the better of him.’

  ‘I yearn for second encounter with him myself.’

  ‘Let’s go abroad together, sir.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Your place is here, earning your living. It may be months before you find crowds as large as this. I promise to call on you when we need you.’

  ‘But there must be something I can do.’

  ‘There is, Lightfoot. Take me to Hermat. We’ll try his memory with this hat.’

  The tumbler led the way through the press to a large booth. Hanging outside was a sign announcing that Hermat was the Most Amazing Sight Ever Seen On Earth, a claim that was supported by some crude but vivid drawings. Further temptation was offered by the stentorian voice of a tall figure in a red uniform who stood on a box outside the booth and urged people to view Nature’s Greatest Outrage with their own eyes. A small queue had formed outside. The man in red was relieving them of a penny before allowing them into the booth. Lightfoot went across to speak to him. When the situation was explained to him, the man told those in the queue that there would be a short break before anyone else was admitted then he took Nicholas and his companion to the rear of the booth so that they could enter through a flap.

  ‘Wait here,’ said the man. ‘I’ll fetch Hermat.’

  He disappeared and left them standing in the area where Hermat and his manager obviously slept. Two truckle beds lay on the ground. A rope had been stretched between two poles so that a series of garish costumes could be hung to it. When he saw the way that the garments had been cut, Nicholas wondered what sort of human being could actually get into them. The answer came in the form of Hermat, who stepped in to join them from the main part of the booth. Lightfoot greeted the newcomer as a friend but it took Nicholas a moment to adjust to Hermat’s appearance. It was truly startling. The face was essentially that of a woman, oval-shaped, smooth-skinned and strikingly beautiful, yet the chin had a pointed beard whose raven colour matched the luxuriant hair. The shoulders had a man’s muscularity yet the one large breast, half-exposed on the left side of the chest, was palpably a female organ. From top to toe, Hermat’s body was a confused mixture of male and female, a fact that was cleverly accentuated by the spectacular costume that was worn.

  Nicholas cleared his throat, introduced himself then explained the purpose of his visit. He offered the hat that he had retrieved in Turnmill Street. Hermat took it from him and held it between long tapering fingers whose nails had been painted with a purple dye. The voice that came was deep and gruff.

  ‘It could be the same one, my friend,’ said Hermat.

  ‘How close were you to the man?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Almost close enough to touch him. The shape of the hat is the same but I cannot be sure of its colour. Yet it had a feather, just like this. I remember that.’

  ‘Was the fellow moving swiftly?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hermat. ‘He was young and lithe. He was leaving Smithfield as if he wanted to get away as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir. Look at me. When you spend your life being stared at in the way that I am, you do not stir abroad often. When you do go out, it is usually at night and you keep to the darkest shadows. But I saw the fellow clearly,’ insisted Hermat, ‘even though it was only for a few seconds. He was tall, slim, wearing a hat and cloak. When I first noticed him, he was carrying a bundle to his chest.’

  ‘We think it may have been the blanket,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘It was used to smother Moll Comfrey,’ added Lightfoot.

  ‘Yes, I was sorry to hear about your friend,’ said Hermat softly. ‘Though I talk like a man, I weep like a woman. I cried for an hour when they told me that the poor girl was murdered. Is there any hope of catching the rogue?’

  Nicholas gave a confident nod. ‘We believe so.’

  ‘Your evidence has been very helpful, Hermat,’ said Lightfoot.

  ‘It is little enough.’ A look of fear came into the green eyes. ‘I’ll not have to appear in court, will I? Spare me that, Lightfoot. It would be cruel.’ He indicated his body. ‘I cannot speak in public like this.’

  ‘Nor will it be necessary,’ Nicholas assured him. ‘We merely wanted you to inspect the man’s hat, that is all. And to ask if you recall any other details, however small, from that night.’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘Think, Hermat,’ urged Lightfoot. ‘Use your brains.’

  Hermat gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I sometimes wonder if I have any brains. When I was born, as you see, God could not decide what to make of me. I am partly a man yet I am unable to attest my manhood in the most obvious way. I am partly a woman yet I never dare to look in a mirror as women are supposed to do. What am I to be called?’

  ‘A friend,’ said Nicholas, ‘with valuable evidence.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And there is nothing awry with your faculties.’

  Hermat fell silent as a memory rustled. A great deal of concentration was needed before the memory finally took on shape. Nicholas observed how feminine the face looked in repose. The man’s voice destroyed the illusion.

  ‘Did I mention the smell?’ asked Hermat.

  ‘Smell?’ repeated Lightfoot.

  ‘Yes. When I saw him the second time, there was this sweet smell.’

  Expecting reassuring news, Bevis Millburne was shocked by what he heard. He flew into a panic and strode up and down the room like an animal in a cage.

  ‘You told me that we would be safe, Sir Eliard,’ he cried.

  ‘We shall be, Bevis.’

  ‘Then how has it come about that this Nicholas Bracewell still lives?’

  ‘He is more able than we thought.’

  ‘Able to put us all in prison.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘That is what it is beginning to feel like, Sir Eliard.’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘He and Francis Quilter get closer and closer.’

  ‘Quiet!’ howled Sir Eliard, tiring of his friend’s wild alarm. ‘Sit down and listen, man. For you have nothing to say that has the slightest use to us.’ Millburne lowered himself onto a chair. ‘That is better,’ continued the other in a quieter voice. ‘Remember this, Bevis. There is more than one way to bring the business to a satisfactory end. When one means fails, we simply try another.’

  ‘Gerard Quilter’s son is the one to fear. He is driven by revenge.’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell is the more dangerous man.’

  ‘Have them both killed.’

  ‘It is not as easy as that,’ said Sir Eliard. ‘They have been forewarned and are on their guard. My man was lucky to escape in Turnmill Street. He has no wish to take on Nicholas Bracewell again.’

  ‘Then let him relieve us of Francis Quilter.’

  ‘No, Bevis. We disable him in another way.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By taking away his lieutenant.’

  ‘We tried to do that with a dagger.’

  ‘There’s a different means,’ said Sir Eliard. ‘Both men are contracted to Westfield’s Men, a company that performs at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street. Their makeshift playhouse is not far from my house yet I have never been there. Antics on a stage have always offended me. Cyril Paramore, however, admires the troupe.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I set him on to find out what he could about them.’

  ‘Will this help our cause, Sir Eliard?’

  ‘It already has. Cyril has discovered the most important fact of all. I’ll let him tell you about it when he comes. Meanwhile,’ he said, crossing to a table, ‘I suggest that you enjoy a glass of Canary wine and stop worrying.’

  ‘I am bound to worry,’ said Millburne. ‘I perjur
ed myself for you.’

  ‘And were well-rewarded for your assistance.’

  ‘No amount of money can buy peace of mind.’

  Sir Eliard smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, it can,’ he said complacently. He poured two glasses of wine then handed one to his visitor. ‘Be patient. Cyril will be here at any moment and he will bring glad tidings.’

  ‘They have been in short supply of late.’

  Sir Eliard Slaney ignored him and sipped his wine. They were in the parlour of the house in Bishopsgate. Millburne glanced enviously around, knowing that he could never afford the expensive plate that was on display nor the items of furniture that had been commissioned from famous craftsmen. The room could have graced a palace. Envy slowly turned to solace. The house was a glowing tribute to Sir Eliard’s success. Whatever his friend touched, Millburne knew, seemed to turn to gold. It was foolish to doubt his host. A man who could acquire such wealth and wield such power was beyond the reach of the law. They had nothing to fear. Once he had accepted that fact, Millburne began to enjoy his drink.

  Cyril Paramore soon joined them. When he was admitted to the house, he made his way to the parlour and exchanged greetings with his friends. Sir Eliard poured the newcomer some wine then invited him to sit down. Paramore was beaming.

  ‘I hear that you have good news, Cyril,’ said Millburne.

  ‘Excellent news,’ replied Paramore.

  ‘Tell him,’ instructed Sir Eliard. ‘Put a smile back on his face.’

  Paramore set his drink aside to reach inside his doublet. Drawing out a document, he scanned it through before speaking. Millburne tapped a foot impatiently.

  ‘Well, well?’ he demanded.

  ‘What do you know of Lord Westfield?’ asked Paramore.

  ‘Nothing beyond the fact that he is the patron of a theatre company.’

  ‘It is only one of his indulgences.’

  ‘Indulgences, Cyril?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Paramore. ‘Lord Westfield is a sybarite. He adores fine things. He likes fine food, fine wine, fine clothes, fine women. Fine everything, in fact. Westfield’s Men are merely another suit of gorgeous clothing for him to wear in public. He uses them to dazzle the eye. There is one problem, however.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Fine things come at fine prices,’ said Sir Eliard.

  ‘And that disgusting old epicurean does not have the money to pay for them,’ resumed Paramore. ‘He is in debt up to his neck. Yet the more he owes, the more he goes on spending. The fellow lives entirely on credit.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Millburne peevishly. ‘Most of the nobility are short of money. They borrow to survive. Lord Westfield’s problems are his own concern. They hardly serve our purpose.’

  ‘But they do, Bevis.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ insisted Sir Eliard, raising his glass. ‘They most certainly do.’

  Millburne was baffled. ‘How?’

  ‘Observe, my friend. I will give you a lesson in the art of destruction.’

  When he called at the house late that afternoon, Nicholas Bracewell was surprised and pleased to see that Francis Quilter had a visitor. Owen Elias was ensconced in the one comfortable chair in the room. The Welshman got up to greet the newcomer warmly.

  ‘What are you doing here, Owen?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘I came to offer my help,’ replied Elias. ‘When we first heard about what happened to Frank’s father, I was among those who felt that the name of Quilter might tarnish the name of the company. I am heartily ashamed of such thoughts now.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘You did, Nick. You were so convinced of the innocence of Gerard Quilter that I began to entertain doubts. Frank has been telling me just how much evidence the pair of you have gathered. It is damning,’ said Elias. ‘Let me fight alongside you under your banner. One more pair of hands can surely be put to some use.’

  ‘And one more pair of eyes,’ said Quilter. ‘I am very grateful, Owen.’

  ‘Employ me as you will.’

  ‘Then first know what I have learnt today at Smithfield,’ said Nicholas.

  Quilter was eager for news. ‘Did you show him the hat, Nick?’

  ‘Yes, and Hermat thinks it may well be the one.’

  ‘Hermat?’ echoed Elias. ‘Is that the hermaphrodite that Frank mentioned?’

  ‘It is. Hermat is a curious individual,’ recalled Nicholas, ‘though it will cost you a penny to enter the booth if you wish to judge for yourself. He, or she, not only saw the murderer on the night that Moll Comfrey was killed, he, or she, may have recognised the hat. One thing more emerged from my visit.’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Quilter.

  ‘Hermat remembered a smell, Frank. When the man flitted past him that night, there was a sweet odour that he had never sniffed before. Bartholomew Fair is known for smells of a very different kind, none of them pleasing to the nostrils. This one was rather special.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Hermat did not expect to find it on a man.’

  Elias was intrigued. ‘A woman’s perfume?’

  ‘It was something rather similar,’ said Nicholas. ‘When he realised what it might have been, Lightfoot ran to fetch it from Moll’s basket and Hermat agreed that that was what he had smelt.’

  ‘What was it, Nick?’

  ‘A piece of soap that gave off a powerful scent. It was like a keepsake to her. The one thing she owned that Moll would never have sold. According to Lightfoot, she always slept with it gripped tight in her hand. It sweetened the air for her. During the struggle, the assassin must have rubbed up against it and gathered some of its odour on his clothing.’

  Quilter was dubious. ‘Enough for someone to detect the aroma?’

  ‘Not any of us, Frank,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘especially when the encounter was so brief. But Hermat is not like any ordinary human being, as you can bear witness. Many things may be lacking or deformed in that weird body but Hermat’s senses are far keener than ours. That delicate nose picked up a scent that none of us would even have known was there.’

  ‘Then it is proof positive that the man he saw was indeed the killer.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Elias. ‘And he may well have been the same villain who tried to stab Nick in Turnmill Street. You should have taken me there with you,’ he chided, turning to Nicholas. ‘I know every inch of that place.’ He gave a coarse chuckle. ‘And one or two beauties in that street know every inch of Owen Elias.’

  ‘I’ll wager that he was the same man,’ decided Nicholas. ‘Since he disposed of Moll with such ease, he would surely have been hired again by Sir Eliard Slaney.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘A bawdy basket, a tumbler and a hermaphrodite. It is a peculiar chain that leads to Sir Eliard.’

  ‘Do not forget the blacksmith,’ said Quilter.

  ‘Luke Furness?’

  ‘He identified Justice Haygarth for us.’

  ‘I remember him well,’ said Nicholas. ‘And I recall those huge muscles of his. I’d sooner have the blacksmith shoe my horse than pull out my teeth. There’ll be a lot of sore mouths in London when Luke Furness rides away.’

  ‘Sore ears are what we endure at the Queen’s Head,’ complained Elias with a grimace. ‘Lawrence has been yelling at us all. This threat has made Lawrence even testier than Edmund is. Lawrence will deafen the whole lot of us.’

  ‘We will be gravely weakened if Edmund Hoode leaves us,’ said Quilter sadly. ‘It is so unlike him to take such precipitate action. What moved him to do so?’

  ‘Lawrence paid a visit to Edmund’s beloved in order to use his charms on her.’

  ‘In vain,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was a ruinous course of action and the company is suffering as a consequence. Edmund will not even speak to him now.’

  ‘He should have sent me to woo the lady.’

  ‘No, Owen. Nobody should have gone. It was a cruel undertaking.’

  ‘Anything is worth trying, if it keeps Edmund by our side.’<
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  ‘I disagree,’ said Nicholas sternly. ‘We have no right to besiege Mistress Radley.’

  Quilter heaved a sigh. ‘I know that my name has embarrassed the company in recent days,’ he said, ‘but at least I am innocent of one charge. Edmund’s departure is entirely his own decision.’

  ‘He must be stopped,’ asserted Elias.

  Nicholas was precise. ‘Only by fair means, Owen, not by foul.’

  ‘You are the one person who might win him back, Nick,’ said Quilter, ‘but all of your spare time is taken up with my family troubles.’

  ‘Yours is the greater need, Frank. If your father’s name is not cleared of shame, you face a whole life in disgrace. It is true that I’ve neglected Edmund,’ he said with regret, ‘and I feel the pangs of guilt. It spurs me on to complete our investigation as soon as we can so that I may turn my attention to Edmund.’

  Elias thumped his chest. ‘I offer my heart, my hand and my sword.’

  ‘All three are welcome.’

  ‘What is the next move?’

  Nicholas pursed his lips and stroked his beard meditatively.

  ‘I fancy that may come from Sir Eliard Slaney,’ he said at length.

  Barnaby Gill was not pleased to be called to the Queen’s Head that evening. He had intended to seek pleasures in a tavern that was more to his taste but the summons had an urgency that could not be ignored. Dressed in his finery, he arrived to find Lawrence Firethorn, brooding alone at a table in the corner. Gill sauntered across to him.

  ‘All that I can give you is five minutes,’ he declared loftily.

  ‘You’ll stay five hours when you hear what I have to say, Barnaby.’

  ‘I have business elsewhere.’

  ‘Let the boy drop his breeches for someone else tonight.’

  ‘That is a disgusting remark!’

  ‘Mend your ways,’ said Firethorn, ‘and I’ll not be able to make it.’ He grabbed Gill by the wrist before the latter could flounce off. ‘Sit down, Barnaby. This is no time for us to fall out. With all your faults, you love Westfield’s Men as much as any of us and will do anything to secure its future. That is why I called you here.’