The Bawdy Basket Read online

  What made The Duke of Verona so special was that it was attended by none of the usual problems. There had been no doubts, no uncertainties, no descent into black pessimism. The physical effort of writing had not left him with his habitual pallor and bloodshot eyes. Instead of approaching each session at his table with trepidation, he could not wait to get back to work. The Duke of Verona filled him with an elation he had not known since he secured his first commission from Westfield’s Men. It was a comedy with dark undertones and moments of wild farce. Hoode brought such enthusiasm to the play that it seemed to write itself. He was in the grip of an obsession. It made for difficulties with his fellows because he was always rushing away from them after a performance, but he knew that they would forgive him when they saw the masterpiece that he would shortly deliver. The end justified the means. Edmund Hoode would go to any lengths to finish The Duke of Verona.

  As he strolled along, he was rehearsing the next scene in his mind, inventing speeches that would roll off the tongue, and which combined poetry with meaning in the most effective way. So preoccupied was he with the duologue between the Duke and his intended bride that he did not realise that he was being followed at a discreet distance by a well-dressed youth. When he got to his lodgings, Hoode did not toss even a casual glance over his shoulder. He simply went straight into the house, clattered up the stairs and let himself into his room. The Duke of Verona awaited him, scattered across the table on dozens of sheets of parchment, patient, welcoming and inspiring. Hoode did not hesitate. Lowering himself onto his stool, he took up his pen and sharpened it with a knife before dipping it into the inkhorn. The first bold words of the new scene dropped onto the page.

  ‘Master Hoode!’

  He did not even hear his landlady’s voice outside the door.

  ‘I have a letter for you, sir!’ she called.

  When there was no response, she knocked on the door before opening it.

  ‘Excuse this interruption, Master Hoode,’ she said.

  It was only when her shadow fell across his table that he became aware of her presence. Because she was a pleasant and amenable woman, Hoode enjoyed a warm relationship with his landlady. Understanding the nature of his work, she knew that he hated to be disturbed. He was angry that she had done so, all the more since the creative impulse was at its most urgent. Before he could scold her, however, she thrust the letter into his hands and backed away.

  ‘The young man said that it was very important, sir,’ she explained, ‘or I would not have dared to come into your room like this.’

  ‘Young man?’ he said.

  ‘He called a moment ago. You must have heard him knock.’

  ‘I heard nothing.’

  ‘But he pounded so hard on my front door.’

  ‘When I am writing a play, I would not hear the report of a cannon. I thought that you appreciated that. Isolation is vital for a dramatist,’ he said pointedly. ‘I place myself beyond knocks on the door and missives that claim to be important.’

  ‘Of course, Master Hoode,’ she said penitently. ‘Forgive me, sir, I beg you.’

  Backing out of the room, she closed the door behind her as silently as she could. He was sorry that he had had to chide her but The Duke of Verona had prior claims. Tossing the letter aside, he bent over his table once more, intending to resume at the point where he had stopped. But the spell had been broken. Instead of streaming from his pen, words came out haltingly. They lacked fluency and bite. Soaring poetry was now reduced to dull prose. Witty repartee was replaced by stale humour.

  Hoode was too kind a man to blame it solely on his landlady. She had only done what the messenger had requested and the letter might, after all, be important. As long as it lay unopened, it would be an irritating distraction, something that lay at the back of his mind to impede his creative endeavour. Once read, it could be cast aside. Hoode picked it up, glanced at the seal then inhaled the bewitching aroma of perfume that rose from the letter. When he opened it out, he found himself looking at neat calligraphy. The contents were startling. His eyes widened in surprise as he read the missive. It brought him to the verge of a blush. A beatific smile settled on his face. When he read it through for the second time, his heart began to beat audibly. Hoode let out an involuntary laugh. The third reading was slower and more indulgent, giving him time to relish the honeyed phrases.

  He reached for his pen but it was not to continue work on the play. He was drafting a reply to the letter. The Duke of Verona was completely forgotten now.

  Chapter Two

  Anne Hendrik knew him well enough to be able to gauge his moods with some precision. When he fell silent for long periods, she sensed that Nicholas Bracewell was nursing a private sorrow. If he broke that silence with inconsequential chatter, she realised that he was grieving on behalf of someone else. She had learnt from experience not to probe for details. Nicholas would only yield them up when he was ready to do so. Over a frugal breakfast at her house in Bankside, he talked intermittently about the weather, the rising cost of crossing the Thames by boat and the approach of Bartholomew Fair. She decided that he was introducing trivial subjects as a prelude to more serious conversation. Anne bided her time. The attractive widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she now ran the business, in the adjoining premises, that Jacob Hendrik had started when he first came to London as an exile. In the early days, she had taken in a lodger to defray her expenses and found in Nicholas Bracewell the soundest investment she had ever made. Their friendship had matured into something as close as marriage without any of the legal complications or drawbacks associated with holy matrimony. Mutual love and understanding made for a deep but unspoken commitment.

  Nicholas finished his meal and pushed his platter away. He sought for the words to explain his behaviour in recent days. Anne waited patiently.

  ‘I feel that I owe you an apology,’ he said at length.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My manner has been somewhat abstracted.’

  ‘So has mine, Nick,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I have been so immersed in my work of late that I have been less attentive to you. If an apology is called for, it should surely come from me.’

  ‘No, Anne. Mine is the graver fault.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Hear me out,’ he asked, reaching across the table to take her hand. ‘Something has been troubling me but I have been unable to confide in you because I was sworn to secrecy. The events of this afternoon absolve me of that oath.’

  ‘This afternoon? Westfield’s Men perform Mirth and Madness, do they not?’

  ‘Indeed, they do – but I will not be at the Queen’s Head to help them.’

  Anne was astonished. ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘At a more tragic performance. No mirth of any kind is involved, though there is a degree of judicial madness. I’ll be at Smithfield to witness a public execution.’

  ‘An execution? What could possibly take you there?’

  ‘Loyalty to a friend. I go but to lend support to poor Frank Quilter.’

  ‘But he should be acting onstage in Gracechurch Street.’

  ‘Not when his father plays the title role in Smithfield.’

  She was horrified. ‘His father is to be executed? For what crime?’

  ‘That of murder,’ he replied solemnly, ‘though Frank is convinced of his innocence. He believes that his father has been falsely accused. Having heard the evidence, I am inclined to take the same view.’

  ‘Who was the victim?’

  ‘A man called Vincent Webbe. He and Frank’s father, Gerard Quilter, were old and bitter enemies, it seems. At a chance encounter, their tempers got the better of their common sense and a brawl resulted. Gerard Quilter confesses as much. What he denies is that he killed Vincent Webbe during that brawl. His defence is simple. The victim was stabbed to death yet Gerard Quilter carried no weapon about him.’

  ‘How, then, was he convicted?’

  ‘On the word of two men who claim to have witnessed the b
rawl.’

  ‘Did they see Master Quilter wield a dagger?’

  ‘So they avouch.’

  ‘What manner of man is Frank’s father?’

  ‘I’ve never met him, Anne,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but if he is anything like his son, I take him to be honest and industrious. Gerard Quilter was a mercer in the city before he retired to the country. That argues wealth and position. Why throw it all away with the thrust of a dagger?’

  ‘Yet he does concede that he took part in the brawl?’

  ‘Only to protect himself. It was Vincent Webbe who struck first.’

  Anne now understood. Nicholas took the responsibilities of friendship seriously and there was a double obligation in this case. Frank Quilter and he were fellows in the same company, bound together by professional ties. In helping the young actor through the ordeal of the execution, Nicholas was providing the moral support that he would have offered to any member of Westfield’s Men.

  ‘How will they cope without you, Nick?’ she asked.

  ‘Indifferently, I hope,’ he said with a grin, ‘for then they will know my true worth.’ His face clouded. ‘But it’s no time for levity. The company will manage because they have done so before. Necessity is a wise teacher. Lawrence Firethorn was not happy to release either of us. He only did so because Mirth and Madness is a play we have staged so often that it is proof against any disaster – even with George Dart holding the book in my stead.’

  ‘George Dart? I spy danger there.’

  ‘Give the lad his due, Anne. It is only when he ventures onstage that George is a menace. Behind the scenes, he is keen and conscientious. He’ll not let us down.’

  ‘What of Frank Quilter?’

  ‘Ask me when this afternoon’s trial is over.’

  ‘Would it not be better for him to avoid the distress by staying away?’

  ‘I suggested that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he felt that it would be a betrayal of his father. Frank believes that there ought to be one person in the crowd who is aware of the condemned man’s innocence.’

  ‘Two, if you include yourself.’

  ‘I do, Anne. I am not merely aiding a friend at a time of crisis. My thoughts are with Westfield’s Men. Frank Quilter is a brilliant young actor. We need his talent to shine for us, and it will not do that if he is fretting about his father. That’s my embassy,’ he explained. ‘To take him back to the company in the right state of mind. It’s a most difficult assignment and I’m not sure that I shall succeed.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘If anyone can succeed, Nick, you can.’

  ‘Thank you. Am I forgiven, then?’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  ‘I hate to keep secrets from you.’

  ‘You were forced to do so.’

  He nodded. ‘I fear that I was. I only confided in Lawrence Firethorn to save Frank from his rebuke. This business has haunted Frank and sullied his work onstage.’

  ‘That is hardly surprising.’

  ‘What concerns me is how the rest of the company will respond.’

  ‘Are they aware of the situation?’

  ‘All of London is aware of it today. It can be hidden no more.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men will surely rally behind Frank.’

  ‘I hope so, Anne,’ he said, pulling his hand gently away, ‘but I have my doubts. Frank and I may believe in the innocence of his father but will the others? All they will see is an actor whose father has faced the disgrace of a public execution. Some of that disgrace will rub off on Frank himself. He may come in for harsh treatment.’

  As they gathered for rehearsal at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street that morning, it was the sole topic of conversation. Everyone knew about the execution of Gerard Quilter and all of them had an opinion. Barnaby Gill’s was unequivocal.

  ‘I say that he should be banned from the company!’ he argued.

  ‘Do not be so hasty,’ said Lawrence Firethorn.

  ‘We must not have a criminal in our ranks.’

  ‘Frank is no criminal. It’s Gerard Quilter who goes to his death this day.’

  ‘Like father, like son.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘Is it, Lawrence?’ asked Gill, jabbing a finger at him. ‘It’s what everyone else in the company feels. Frank Quilter is tainted. His father’s crime is of so heinous a nature that Frank will never outlive it.’

  ‘Only if the man is guilty of the murder.’

  ‘Why else should they hang him?’

  ‘Frank contends that his father is innocent.’

  ‘Pah!’ sneered Gill. ‘What son will ever admit that his father is a ruthless killer? The fact remains that the man was arrested, charged and convicted in a court of law. He must now pay the ultimate penalty and I, for one,’ said Gill with emphasis, ‘will shed no tears for the villain.’

  ‘Do you have no sympathy for Frank?’ asked Owen Elias.

  ‘Not a jot!’

  ‘Well, I do, Barnaby, and with good cause. When I talked about an execution in Frank’s hearing the other day, I had no notion of this afternoon’s event. No wonder he fled from the taproom in disgust.’ The Welshman shook his head sadly. ‘It was cruel of me to dwell on such details in front of him. My only excuse is that I did not know the truth at the time.’

  ‘None of us did, Owen,’ said Gill. ‘Except Nicholas, of course. He has been privy to the information from the start and should be sharply reprimanded for keeping it to himself.’

  ‘But he did not,’ confessed Firethorn. ‘He confided in me.’

  Gill was astonished. ‘You knew, Lawrence?’

  ‘Only a few days ago.’

  ‘Yet you said nothing to the rest of us?’

  ‘I was asked to remain silent.’

  ‘To what end?’ demanded Gill. ‘The news should have been divulged to us. By delaying it, all you did was to increase the force of the blow. The company is in a state of shock to learn that it has a killer in its midst.’

  ‘The son of a putative killer.’

  ‘He must bear the sins of his father.’

  ‘Not if the man is falsely accused.’

  ‘The law does not make mistakes.’

  ‘I hate to say it,’ added Elias, ‘but I agree with Barnaby for once. From all accounts, the evidence against the prisoner was clear and decisive. Two witnesses saw him stab the victim repeatedly. Gerard Quilter deserves to die.’

  ‘And his son deserves to be expelled,’ said Gill.

  ‘I would not go that far, Barnaby.’

  ‘No more would I,’ said Firethorn. ‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of the case, Frank Quilter is a valuable member of the company. I wish to keep him with us.’

  Gill was adamant. ‘Impossible!’

  ‘Give him the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘He’ll corrupt the whole lot of us.’

  ‘Enough of such wild talk!’ snapped Firethorn.

  ‘It’s not wild, Lawrence,’ said Elias with a sigh. ‘What Barnaby says is what most of our fellows think. Actors are superstitious by nature, as you well know. They will feel uneasy at the idea of playing alongside a man with Frank’s pedigree.’

  ‘As an actor, his pedigree is almost faultless.’

  ‘We judge him first as a man.’

  ‘Owen speaks well,’ said Gill. ‘Put a rotten apple in the barrel and the rest will soon decay. There’s no remedy for it, Lawrence. Frank must go forthwith.’

  Firethorn stiffened. ‘That’s a decision that only I will make.’

  ‘It has already been made by the company.’

  ‘I fear that it has,’ admitted Elias. ‘There’s a lot of bad feeling against Frank Quilter. I do not share it myself but I would be a liar if I denied that it was there.’

  Firethorn scratched his beard. Accustomed to dominating his company, he hated to be thrown on the defensive, especially when it was Barnaby Gill who was gaining a temporary advantage over him. When he had first learnt of the execution, he had been sh
aken by the intelligence, afraid of the consequences of keeping Quilter in the company. What reassured him was the ardour with which Nicholas Bracewell proclaimed the innocence of the condemned man. He was tempted to accept that Gerard Quilter might, after all, be the victim of rough justice. Having taken soundings from the other actors, however, he was beginning to revise that opinion. Disapproval of Frank Quilter was widespread and vocal. Even the more compassionate members of the troupe, like Owen Elias and James Ingram, believed in the guilt of the prisoner. Unable to make up his mind, or to subdue Gill in open debate, Firethorn did what he always did in such circumstances. He summoned his book holder.

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’ he called. ‘A word in your ear!’

  ‘It is Nicholas who should have whispered a word in our ear,’ complained Gill.

  ‘He had his reasons,’ said Elias.

  Nicholas strolled across to the three men. They were standing in the inn yard while their makeshift stage was being erected. Unable to attend during the performance itself, the book holder was there for the morning rehearsal to shepherd George Dart through the intricacies of his role as a substitute. When he saw the expressions on their faces, Nicholas knew what his fellows had been talking about.

  ‘Tell them what you told me, Nick,’ encouraged Firethorn.

  Gill was petulant. ‘We’ve heard enough already and it comes far too late.’

  ‘The company is restive,’ said Elias gently. ‘We need guidance.’

  ‘Then do not look for it from Nicholas,’ said Gill with a dismissive gesture. ‘He is but a hired man. The decision must be left to the sharers.’

  ‘What decision?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘The eviction of Frank Quilter from Westfield’s Men.’