The Bawdy Basket Read online

  Dressed in the unfamiliar garb of a country gentleman, the moneylender was there to watch the play with Cyril Paramore, also in a disguise that hid his identity. When they took their seats in the gallery, they were unsettled to hear the name of Sir Eliard Slaney from so many sides. The rumours were true. Mockery was at hand. Their gaze was fixed so completely on the stage below that they did not notice the handsome woman who sat two rows in front of them. Avice Radley was there to enjoy her favourite play. It would be the last time that she would ever see it and she was going to savour every moment. When the moneylender’s name drifted into her ears, she did not take it seriously. Edmund Hoode had left his play untouched. Forced to make a critical choice, he had obeyed her instructions. She saw it as symbolic of a happy life together.

  As the yard filled and the time of performance neared, a ripple of anticipatory delight went around the galleries. Avice Radley could not understand it but Sir Eliard and his companion feared that they did. They began to wish they were not there but they were trapped in the middle of a row and were compelled to remain. It was not long before the entertainment started. A fanfare rang out to silence the throng, a flag was raised above the inn and Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue. His lilting Welsh voice reached every part of the yard with ease.

  ‘Good friends, for none but friends are gathered here,

  Ours is a tale of villainy and fear,

  Of foul corruption, usury and deceit.

  We give to you a liar, rogue and cheat,

  Who lends out money to bring men to shame

  And ruin. Sir Eliard Slimy is his name …’

  Nicholas Bracewell heard the first appreciative roar of laughter from the audience as he and Anne Hendrik approached the house. Sir Eliard Slaney had been unmasked. Nicholas went first to the quiet lane at the rear of the property to make sure that Lightfoot was in position below the designated window. Leaning idly against a wall with a rope over his shoulder, the tumbler gave him a signal to indicate that his task would not be difficult. Nicholas rejoined Anne at the front door. He, too, was in disguise, wearing the hat and sober garments of one of her Dutch employees and composing his features into an expression of timidity worthy of Preben van Loew. When a maidservant answered her knock, Anne first asked to see Sir Eliard in order to establish that he was not on the premises. Unable to speak to the master of the house, she then requested a meeting with Lady Slaney. The visitors were invited inside.

  Hearing of their arrival, Lady Slaney came bustling out of the parlour in a green velvet gown. She was torn between surprise and embarrassment.

  ‘I did not expect to see you here again,’ she said.

  ‘I felt that I had to give you an explanation, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne. She indicated Nicholas. ‘This is Jan, who works for me. I needed his protection on the journey here.’

  ‘You could have used his protection on your last visit, I fancy. My husband all but threw you from the house. I still do not understand why.’

  ‘That is why I am here.’

  ‘Sir Eliard tells me that I must find another milliner.’

  ‘May we discuss this in private, Lady Slaney?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Yes, yes. Come in.’

  Anne turned to Nicholas. ‘Wait here, Jan. I’ll not be long.’

  Lady Slaney led the way into the parlour and shut the door. Nicholas moved swiftly, knowing that Anne would not be able to distract her former client indefinitely. Making sure that he was unseen, he crossed to the stairs and went swiftly up them. Anne’s plan of the house had been accurate. He found the counting house at once and tried the door. It was locked. From inside he could hear banging noises that alarmed him. If they continued, they would certainly rouse one of the servants. But the banging suddenly stopped and was replaced by the sound of a key in the lock. There was a delay of almost a minute as it was jiggled to and fro. Nicholas began to fear that the blacksmith’s skill had let them down. If he could not get into the counting house, their hopes foundered. The illiterate tumbler would certainly not be able to find on his own the evidence that they required. To Nicholas’s relief, the lock then clicked back. When the door opened, Lightfoot was grinning in triumph.

  ‘Come in, sir,’ he whispered.

  ‘What was that noise?’ asked Nicholas, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. ‘I heard banging.’

  ‘The shutters were securely bolted. I had to force my way in.’

  ‘Did anyone below see you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Lightfoot. ‘I brought a rope to help me climb up then dropped it out of sight when I was in. I can get down again without it.’

  ‘Then do so at once. When I find what I want, I’ll drop it down to you.’

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  Lightfoot went back to the open shutters, peered down into the lane then stood back as two people walked past. When their footsteps died away, he checked that the lane was empty then lowered himself out of the window before dropping to the ground below. Nicholas, meanwhile, was searching quickly through the documents and ledgers on the table. As he leafed through some pages, his eye fell on the name of Lord Westfield and he glanced with misgiving at a list of the patron’s outstanding debts. The extent of Lord Westfield’s profligacy made his stomach lurch. But it was the biggest of the ledgers that really aroused his interest. It contained details of every penny that Sir Eliard Slaney made or spent in that year, neatly arranged in parallel columns. Nicholas flicked through the volume. As soon as he saw a record of substantial payments made to Bevis Millburne, Cyril Paramore and Adam Haygarth, he felt a surge of pleasure. Patently, they were bribes. The ledger would provide the incontrovertible evidence that they needed.

  He crossed to the window, saw Lightfoot waiting below, then dropped the ledger into the arms. A wave of the hand sent the tumbler scurrying off down the lane to the place where they had arranged to meet up again. Nicholas closed the shutters quietly, crossed to the door and removed the key from the lock so that he could use it from outside. But there was an unforeseen hazard. When he opened the door to leave, he was confronted by a tall, slim figure who barred his way. It was the man who had tried to kill him in Turnmill Street. He was brandishing another dagger. Nicholas backed into the counting house. Looking for the chance to strike, the man went after him.

  ‘We’ve met before,’ he sneered.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You crawled out of the slime in Turnmill Street.’

  ‘What are you doing in Sir Eliard’s house?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘You won’t leave it alive, my friend. I can promise you that.’

  Nicholas looked into the cold, hard, unforgiving eyes of the assassin.

  ‘You’ve killed before, I fancy,’ he said.

  ‘It’s my trade.’

  ‘Stabbing a drunken man in an alley? Squeezing the life out of a defenceless girl like Moll Comfrey? Can you take pride from such work?’

  ‘I do what I’m paid to do.’

  ‘How many other people has Sir Eliard asked you to kill?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘And was Vincent Webbe the first?’

  ‘I know who will be the next,’ said the man, lunging with the knife. ‘You.’

  Nicholas jumped back just in time but the confined space worked in his attacker’s favour. There was no means of escape. Out of the corner of his eye, Nicholas saw a pile of documents on a shelf. As the man took a menacing step closer, Nicholas reached up to sweep the documents from the shelf, sending so many pieces of paper flapping in the air that the room seemed to be filled momentarily with a flock of birds. Taking advantage of the distraction, Nicholas snatched off his hat and flung it into the man’s face before diving at him. They fell to the floor. The dagger flashed at him but Nicholas managed to grab the man’s arm and turn the point of the weapon away. They grappled fiercely. With his free hand, the man punched Nicholas hard on the side of the head and wriggled violently until he threw him off
.

  Still clinging to his arm, Nicholas unleashed punches of his own, working to the body and drawing gasps of pain from his adversary. They rolled over on the floor, struggling wildly and scattering the documents that lay there. The man punched, kicked, gouged and spat in a bid to subdue his opponent. It was when he tried to sink his teeth into Nicholas’s face that the latter found an extra reserve of energy. Flinging the man onto his back, Nicholas sat astride him and banged his hand repeatedly on the floor until he dropped the dagger. He then pounded his face with some fearsome blows, sending blood spurting from his nose.

  The man seemed to lose consciousness. Breathing heavily, Nicholas rose to his feet and looked down at him with disgust. He then bent over to pick up the dagger. Before Nicholas could do so, however, the man came back to life, grabbed the weapon and thrust at Nicholas’s stomach with vicious power. Reacting with instinct, Nicholas caught the man’s wrist and twisted it so that the point of the dagger went harmlessly past his thigh. The man did not give up, striving hard to inflict a wound so that he could regain the advantage.

  But Nicholas had the superior strength. As the dagger flailed around in the air, he bent the man’s wrist over then pushed down with sudden force. The blade was long and sharp. It went straight through the man’s chest and into his heart. All resistance ceased. Nicholas stood up and tried to catch his breath. Having come in search of evidence, he had been forced to kill the would-be assassin in self-defence. Nicholas was content. The ledger had been purloined and the murder of Moll Comfrey had been avenged.

  ‘Two birds,’ he murmured.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anne Hendrik was very conscious of how much time had passed. As she sat in the parlour with Lady Slaney, she was rapidly running out of ways to divert her. She had told the other woman how sorry she was to have offended Sir Eliard but she did not explain why the situation had occurred, pretending instead to be baffled by his outburst. She did not appeal against his judgement in any way. Anne accepted that her relationship with Lady Slaney would have to end but hoped that they could at least part as friends.

  ‘I have no reason to fall out with you,’ said Lady Slaney magnanimously.

  ‘Nor I with you, Lady Slaney. You have ever been my best customer.’

  ‘I would have been happy to go on being so.’

  ‘Perhaps you still can be in some small measure,’ said Anne, taking out a scroll of parchment. ‘This is the design that we discussed when I called here last time. I would like to offer it to you as a parting gift.’

  ‘That is very kind of you.’

  ‘Perchance, another milliner may make the hat.’

  ‘But the design is your own.’

  ‘It grew out of your instruction, Lady Slaney. I feel that it belongs with you.’

  ‘That is some compensation,’ said the other, taking the design from her to examine it. When she lifted her head, she gave Anne a curious look. ‘My husband said that you had been spying on him. Is that true?’

  ‘Why on earth should I do that?’ asked Anne, feigning innocence.

  ‘That is what I said to him.’

  ‘What was his reply?’

  ‘He told me that it was none of my business and scolded me for speaking so openly to you. I’ve never seen him in such a violent rage. He tossed my new hat across the bedchamber and he knew how much I cherished it. Why did he do that?’ she said. ‘There must be some reason for his anger.’

  ‘He misunderstood what I was doing, Lady Slaney.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  Anne shifted uneasily in her seat. Lady Slaney was a vain, limited and self-absorbed woman but she was not unintelligent. There was more than a hint of suspicion in the older woman’s eye. She glanced towards the door.

  ‘Why did you come today, Mistress Hendrik?’ she asked.

  ‘To offer my apology.’

  ‘You could have sent that by means of a letter.’

  ‘I wanted to give you the design on which we worked.’

  ‘That, too, could have been sent by a messenger.’ Lady Slaney rose to her feet and pointed at the door. ‘Why did you bring that fellow with you?’

  ‘London is never safe for a woman on her own.’

  ‘Yes, but why choose that particular escort?’

  ‘Preben van Loew was unable to come. Jan took his place.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Lady Slaney. ‘When you brought that other Dutchman with you, he came in here with us and took part in our debate. He was the man who would have made this,’ she went on, waving the design under Anne’s nose. ‘And he made all the other hats I bought from you.’

  ‘Preben is sorry to lose your custom.’

  ‘This other fellow also works for you?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Slaney.’

  ‘Why did you leave him outside?’

  ‘So that we could speak alone,’ said Anne. ‘The subject we discussed has been very delicate. Had Jan been present, I would have been too embarrassed to raise it.’

  ‘Yet he must know the reason that you came here.’

  ‘Up to a point, Lady Slaney.’

  ‘And he has he probably been listening outside the door.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Call him in.’

  Anne gulped. ‘What?’

  ‘Call the fellow in,’ repeated Lady Slaney. ‘I wish to know what he is doing.’

  ‘Jan is waiting for me, that is all.’

  ‘Let us see, shall we?’

  She marched purposefully towards the door. Anne was dismayed, not knowing whether Nicholas would even be there and fearing the consequences if he had not yet finished his search of the counting house. She wondered how she could explain his disappearance. Lady Slaney opened the door with a flourish. Standing in the hall with his back to her was Nicholas Bracewell. Hat in hand, he turned to give her a polite smile. He looked so meek and inoffensive that nobody would have guessed that he had just been involved in a fight for his life. Having spent so much time with Anne’s employees, Nicholas even managed a passable imitation of a Dutch accent.

  ‘Vot ken I do for you, Laty Sliney?’ he asked.

  Edmund Hoode had never achieved so great an impact onstage in such a relatively small part. Dressed in the garb similar to that worn by Sir Eliard Slaney, he had been instructed by Nicholas Bracewell in how the moneylender looked and moved. The moment he appeared, there was a delighted cry of recognition from dozens of people in the gallery. Though the changes he had made to his play were relatively slight, the effects were far-reaching. A new prologue, singling out the villainy of Sir Eliard Slimy, had been learnt that morning with relish by Owen Elias, but the playwright reserved the best lines for himself. Since The Merchant of Calais was a study of love and marriage as financial transactions, the role of the moneylender was critical. Playing the title role with his accustomed vigour, Lawrence Firethorn chose love in place of monetary gain, spurning the blandishments of the unctuous creature who offered to make him rich by investing in his ventures. Slimy was not easily shaken off. He lapsed into persuasive prose.

  ‘Borrow to prosper, good sir, borrow to prosper. Marry your purse to mine and I’ll create a fortune for you. Wealth is power, and power the greatest wealth of all. On my behalf, you’ll scour each country of the world until you are a Croesus among merchants. Learn to bribe, my friend, for that’s the way to rise, as I know full well. I am quite beyond the reach of the law since I keep a handful of justices in funds. Bribe a man’s belly and you will surely command his mind. I made myself rich by frighting men out of their estates. We two shall stretch my empire into foreign lands till both of us can eat, drink, touch, taste, smell and even fornicate gold! Partners let us be!’

  The honest merchant replied with the back of his hand, knocking the moneylender to the floor and earning a burst of applause from the audience. Cursing and spitting, Sir Eliard Slimy crept away. Avice Radley did not join in the clapping. She was too shocked by what she saw as an act of defiance against her. The Merchant
of Calais was not the play that she remembered so fondly. In emphasising the role of the moneylender, Hoode had sharpened its edge but lost some of its romantic magic. What outraged her was the fact that he had disobeyed her. Having agreed to abide by her wishes, he had done the very thing that she had forbidden. Hoode had chosen Westfield’s Men instead of her and that rankled. A wedge had been driven between them.

  Seated behind her, Sir Eliard Slaney was throbbing with fury. The portrait of him onstage was so accurate and unflattering that he winced every time the moneylender came out onstage. Until that afternoon, he had never understood the extent of his unpopularity. Sections of the audience bayed with joy at his humiliation. Cyril Paramore was highly embarrassed by the attack on his master, fearing that someone might recognise them at any moment and turn the scorn of the spectators directly at them.

  Behind his hand, Sir Eliard hissed a question at his companion.

  ‘Who wrote this play, Cyril?’

  ‘His name is Edmund Hoode,’ said Paramore. ‘Insult is added to injury because he acts the part of the moneylender himself. Sue him for seditious libel, Sir Eliard.’

  ‘The law is too tardy a revenger. I’ll set Martin on to him.’

  ‘You’ll have him killed?’

  ‘This calumny deserves no less,’ said Sir Eliard. ‘This cunning playwright will not live to throw his taunts at me again. I’ll have Martin stab him to death and make him die slowly and in agony.’

  ‘Shall I fetch Martin for you?’

  ‘There is no need. He stays at my house. I like him there when I am away for any length of time. Martin and his dagger are a better guard than any dog.’ He gave a grim chuckle. ‘We’ll see how well this Edmund Hoode can mock me with his tongue cut out.’