The Bawdy Basket Read online

  ‘You have bought Frank some time, then?’

  ‘Yes, Anne,’ he said. ‘He has time to recover and time to conduct his search.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The real killer of Vincent Webbe.’

  ‘Is there no question of his father’s guilt?’

  ‘None at all. Gerard Quilter went to his death like a wronged man, not like a skulking criminal. Frank talked so fondly of his father. He was a kind man, a gentle soul who avoided violence of any kind.’

  ‘How, then, did he become embroiled in a fight?’

  ‘That is one of the many things we have to find out, Anne. We have picked up the trail already. This evening, I accosted one of the witnesses from the trial.’

  She was fascinated by his account of the visit to the Golden Fleece. Knowing him to be such a sound judge of character, she took his estimate of Bevis Millburne at face value. Anne was revolted at the idea that anyone could attend a public execution for pleasure before rushing off to sup in style at a tavern.

  ‘What sort of man would do such a thing, Nick?’ she asked.

  ‘It wounded Frank to the quick.’

  ‘I am not surprised,’ she said. ‘You mentioned that Master Millburne shared a table with three other people. Was the other witness, Master Paramore, among them?’

  ‘No, Anne. But then he is out of the country at present. That was something I gleaned from Bevis Millburne. Whom the two younger men at his table were, I have no idea, but I did hear the name of his other companion.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘Sir Eliard Slaney.’

  ‘The moneylender?’

  He was surprised. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Yes, Nick.’

  ‘So had Frank Quilter,’ he said, ‘though nothing good about the fellow had come to his ears. By all accounts, Sir Eliard Slaney is a thorough scoundrel. What do you know of the fellow, Anne?’

  ‘Only what his wife has told me.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Lady Slaney is a client of mine. As it happens, I am making a hat for her at this very moment. She is one of our best customers.’

  Chapter Four

  A long and gruelling night had left Francis Quilter pale and drawn. Plagued by memories of his father’s execution and spurred on by thoughts of revenge, he had been unable to steal even a moment’s sleep. Instead, he tossed restlessly on his bed or paced up and down the narrow room. His brain was in such turmoil that it threatened to burst his skull apart. When he could no longer bear the pain, he quit his lodging and hurried to the parish church, spending an hour on his knees in humble supplication. It took its toll on him. By the time he met Nicholas Bracewell, early the next morning, he bore little resemblance to the handsome actor who attracted so much female admiration whenever he appeared onstage with Westfield’s Men. His friend did not recognise him at first. Nicholas peered more closely at him.

  ‘Is it you, Frank?’ he asked.

  ‘Good morrow, Nick.’

  ‘A better day for me than for you, it seems. What ails you?’

  ‘Grief has dressed me in its ghostly garb.’

  ‘Then we must find some means to allay that grief.’

  ‘A hopeless task, unless you bring my father back to me.’

  ‘His reputation can at least be restored.’

  They met in Thames Street, close to the busy wharf where vessels returned as they sailed up the estuary from the English Channel. Quilter was early but Nicholas had nevertheless been there some time before him.

  ‘We might have enjoyed an hour or two more in bed, Frank,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no enjoyment of sleep for me.’

  ‘I’ve made enquiry. No ship is due from France until late afternoon at least. It will be several hours before Cyril Paramore sets foot on dry land again.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for him,’ vowed Quilter.

  ‘Try to rest beforehand.’

  ‘No rest for me until this business is concluded.’

  ‘You will need to show patience,’ warned Nicholas. ‘It will take time.’

  ‘However long it takes, I’ll not falter.’

  ‘I make the like commitment.’

  ‘Thank you, Nick,’ said Quilter, embracing him. ‘You are a true friend. I fear that I leant too heavily on your kindness yesterday. It must have been near midnight when you finally got back to Bankside.’

  ‘One day was indeed about to slip into another.’

  ‘Anne will blame me for keeping you out so late.’

  ‘There was no word of reproach from Anne,’ said Nicholas fondly. ‘She was waiting up for me last night. Anne is a willing convert to your cause. She appreciates the anguish you have been through and wishes to lend her own help.’

  ‘Sympathy is welcome from any source, but I cannot see how Anne can help.’

  ‘That is because you have only met her as my friend. You have not seen her manage her business affairs in the adjoining house. She employs four hatmakers and a bright apprentice. Her late husband would be proud of the way she has made his enterprise grow.’

  ‘How does this advantage me, Nick?’

  ‘Anne is able to reach places denied to us.’

  ‘Places?’

  ‘The home of Sir Eliard Slaney, for instance.’

  Quilter was astonished. ‘Anne is an acquaintance of his?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but she knows his wife, Rebecca, very well. Lady Slaney is a woman of discernment. She’ll not buy a hat from anyone but Anne Hendrik. Now do you see how she may render some assistance?’

  ‘I begin to, Nick.’

  ‘When I saw Master Millburne last night, he and Sir Eliard Slaney seemed to be the closest of friends. Why was Sir Eliard present at such a celebration?’

  ‘To gloat over the death of my father.’

  ‘Why so? What did the moneylender have against him? Was there a falling out between the two men? Did your father have any dealings with Sir Eliard Slaney?’

  ‘None, to my knowledge. But he always spat out the man’s name with disgust.’

  ‘Anne may be able to find out why.’

  ‘I would not have her put herself in danger on my account.’

  ‘From what I hear,’ said Nicholas, ‘she will have little difficulty in securing answers to her questions. Lady Slaney never ceases to prattle about her husband and his wealth. She takes every opportunity to boast of her good fortune.’

  ‘What sort of hats does Anne make for her?’

  ‘Ones that catch the eye, Frank. No expense is spared to achieve ostentation. It seems that Lady Slaney has a vanity that would rival that of Barnaby Gill.’

  Quilter smiled wearily. ‘Barnaby’s attire certainly demands attention.’

  ‘He likes to be noticed.’

  ‘Lady Slaney and he are birds of a feather.’

  ‘Not quite, I think. Barnaby Gill has no parallel.’

  ‘Forget him for the moment,’ said Quilter. ‘My interest is in Anne’s customer. This is a stroke of fortune, Nick. Any information we can gain about Sir Eliard, or about his friendship with Bevis Millburne, will be valuable. I beg of you to thank Anne most sincerely on my behalf.’

  ‘I have already done so.’

  ‘Good. But what does the day hold for you?’

  ‘First, I’ll share a breakfast with a certain Frank Quilter.’

  ‘No, Nick. I’ll not stir from here until Cyril Paramore’s ship docks.’

  ‘You cannot wait on an empty stomach,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Come, there are ordinaries aplenty in Thames Street. We’ll choose one that is but a stone’s throw away.’

  ‘Well, if you wish,’ said Quilter with reluctant acquiescence. ‘But I’ll want to be back here at my post before long.’

  ‘So you shall, I promise you. I must away to the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘What play do you stage this afternoon?’

  ‘Love’s Sacrifice.’

  ‘The work of Edmund
Hoode, is it not?’

  ‘None other, Frank. The title is one that pertains closely to its author.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘When you know Edmund better, you will understand. No man has made sacrifices to love so often and so recklessly. He still bears the scars. My fear is that another sacrifice is in the wind.’ He put an arm on Quilter’s shoulder. ‘Let’s away.’

  ‘What’s this about another sacrifice?’

  ‘The signs are all too evident.’

  ‘I thought that Edmund was absorbed with his new play.’

  ‘So did we all,’ said Nicholas, ‘but his behaviour tells another tale. I’ll talk to you about Edmund while we eat. He is truly a martyr to Dan Cupid.’

  ‘Oh, treason of the blood! This news will kill us all!’

  Lawrence Firethorn was so furious that the veins stood out on his forehead like whipcord and his cheeks turned a fiery red. It seemed as if flames would shoot out from his nostrils at any minute. Stamping a foot, he waved both arms wildly in the air.

  ‘This is rank lunacy, Edmund!’ he yelled.

  ‘It is a considered decision,’ replied Hoode.

  ‘I see no consideration of me, or of the company, or of our patron. All that I see is an act of gross betrayal. Where is your sense of loyalty, man?’

  ‘It lies exhausted.’

  ‘I’ll not believe what I am hearing!’

  ‘You hear the plain truth, Lawrence.’

  ‘Then it is not Edmund Hoode that speaks to me,’ said Firethorn. ‘It is some sprite, some devil, some cunning counterfeit, sent here in his place to vex and torment us. You may look like the fellow we know and revere, but you do not sound like him.’

  Hoode smiled serenely. ‘I am in love,’ he announced.

  ‘Heaven preserve us! Now you do sound like Edmund.’

  They were at the Queen’s Head and Firethorn’s voice was booming around the inn yard, disturbing the horses in the stables, waking any travellers still abed in the hostelry and keeping other members of the company at bay. When their manager was in a temper, sharers and hired men alike tried to stay well out of his way. Barnaby Gill had no such trepidation. Attired with his usual flamboyance, he rode into the yard and he saw what appeared to be the familiar sight of Firethorn in full flow as he upbraided Hoode for some minor solecism. He dismounted, handed the reins to George Dart and strode across to the two men without realising the gravity of the situation. Doffing his hat, Gill gave them a mocking bow.

  ‘Good morrow, gentleman,’ he said. ‘At each other’s throats so soon?’

  Firethorn glowered. ‘It is all I can do to hold back from slitting Edmund’s.’

  ‘Are you still jealous because he outshone you in Mirth and Madness?’

  ‘No, Barnaby. I was the first to acknowledge his superiority in the play. But, having helped to save us on one day, he threatens us with extinction on the next.’

  ‘You exaggerate, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

  ‘Let Barnaby be the judge of that,’ retorted Firethorn, turning to the newcomer. ‘Edmund has been slaving for weeks at his new play and was so enamoured of it that he pronounced it the finest piece he had ever written. It is all but finished, Barnaby, yet he has put down his pen and resolved never to take it up again in our name.’

  ‘But he must,’ said Gill sharply. ‘Edmund has a contract with us.’

  ‘Contracts can be revoked,’ argued Hoode.

  ‘I’ll hear no talk of revocation,’ growled Firethorn. ‘By heavens, Edmund, you’ll finish that accursed play if I have to stand over you with a sword and dagger.’

  ‘I’ll not be moved, Lawrence.’

  ‘Can you be serious?’ demanded Gill, seeing the implications.

  ‘The decision has already been made, Barnaby.’

  ‘Without even consulting your fellows?’

  ‘It was the only way.’

  ‘Are you saying that you’ll never write a play for us again?’

  ‘That yoke has finally been lifted from my shoulders.’

  Gill blenched. ‘But your work – along with my own, of course – is one of the crowning glories of Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘You waste your breath in praising him, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’ve told him a dozen times how much we rely on his genius and he shrugs the compliment off as if it were without meaning.’

  ‘It is now, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘I need no compliments from you.’

  ‘You cannot simply walk out on the company.’

  ‘I understand that and I will honour some of my obligations. It would be wrong to do otherwise. Count on me to take my role in Love’s Sacrifice this afternoon, and in every play we stage from now until the end of next month. That will give you time to seek a replacement for Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘There is no replacement for you!’ howled Firethorn.

  ‘I agree,’ said Gill. ‘Lose you and we lose the best of our drama.’

  Hoode was magnanimous. ‘I bequeath you all my plays.’

  ‘We need you to write new ones, Edmund. Novelty is ever in request. As one piece drops out of fashion, we must have fresh material at hand.’

  ‘London is full of eager playwrights.’

  ‘Eager for success, perhaps,’ said Firethorn, ‘yet lacking the talent to achieve it. We’ve plenty of authors who can write one, even two, plays of merit but there it stops. No dramatist has your scope and endurance, Edmund. Will you take it from us?’

  ‘Forever.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Gill in dismay.

  Firethorn was sour. ‘Can’t you guess, Barnaby?’

  ‘Surely not a mere woman?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ replied Hoode proudly. ‘She is much more than that.’

  ‘You would put a female before the future of the company?’ said Gill with utter disgust. ‘I abhor the whole gender. I cannot understand why any man should let a woman near him. To squander an occupation at the request of one of those undeserving creatures beggars belief. You are bewitched, Edmund.’

  ‘I am, I am, Barnaby. And happily so.’

  ‘Then you’d do well to remember what happens to witches.’

  ‘Well-spoken,’ said Firethorn, taking over once more. ‘Barnaby gives us a timely reminder. Yesterday, at Smithfield, a foul witch was burnt at the stake. Had the decision been in my hands, Edmund, this sorceress of yours would have burnt beside her.’

  ‘She is no sorceress,’ said Hoode. ‘She has ethereal qualities.’

  ‘Well, they are not in demand among Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘I am sorry to leave you, Lawrence, but I go to a better life.’

  ‘How can you say that when you are taking a leap into the unknown?’

  ‘I take it without the slightest hesitation.’

  ‘For whom?’ asked Gill. ‘Does this enchantress have a name?’

  ‘She does, Barnaby. She is Mistress Avice Radley.’

  ‘How long has this foolish romance simmered? A fortnight? A month? A year?’

  ‘Two days.’

  ‘Two days!’ echoed Gill in disbelief.

  ‘The most wonderful two days of my life.’

  ‘And the worst of ours, it seems,’ added Firethorn. ‘Would you really turn your back on us for the sake of a woman you have known but two days? Merciful heaven! You could not even learn to fondle her paps properly in so short a time, let alone get to know the rest of her body with requisite thoroughness. It takes at least a decade to understand a woman’s true character. I learn new things about Margery every day.’

  ‘Yet you married her without the slightest fear.’

  Firethorn’s face darkened. ‘Fear came soon afterwards, I assure you.’

  ‘That will not be the case with me.’

  ‘Stop him, Lawrence,’ cried Gill, puce with anger. ‘He must not be allowed to break his contract like this, especially for some simpering dame with a pretty face. Does she know the havoc she is creating? My whole career is at stake here. I rely on Edmund to tailor roles t
o my particular needs. I’ll not have him whisked away from me.’

  ‘No more will I,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘However many lawyers it takes, we’ll hold you to your contract. Be warned, Edmund. Defy us and we’ll take you to court.’

  ‘Proceed, then, if you must,’ said Hoode.

  ‘You’ll not only lose the case, you’ll be faced with a crippling fine that you cannot afford to pay.’ He wagged a finger in Hoode’s face. ‘Do you wish to invite financial ruin?’

  ‘That will not occur,’ said Hoode blithely. ‘Avice is a wealthy woman. She has promised to meet any costs that are incurred. Regardless of your protests, we mean to be together soon.’

  ‘Sharing a cell in Bedlam,’ sneered Gill.

  ‘Tasting a love and freedom I have never known, Barnaby. Scoff, if you will,’ he went on as both men sniggered, ‘but I am resolved. Avice, too, is resolute. If it is the only way to secure Edmund Hoode, she is prepared to buy the Queen’s Head outright.’ He grinned inanely at them. ‘Now, do you see what a paragon among women I have found?’

  Bartholomew Fair was an annual event, held on the broad acres of Smithfield, and mixing commerce with entertainment so skilfully that visitors came flocking from far afield. It had been founded almost five hundred years earlier by Rahere, jester to King Henry I. The story went that Rahere had been taken ill during a pilgrimage to Rome, reflected on the errors of his ways and became determined to amend his character. Accordingly, he founded a priory and hospice dedicated to St Bartholomew. The fair that was held for three days from the eve of St Bartholomew’s Day, late in August, was the greatest cloth fair in England. Even when he became Prior, the reformed jester, Rahere, still acted as Lord of the Fair and frequently performed his juggling tricks for the amusement of the crowd. The influence of the Church over the event had long since declined but the spirit of Rahere survived. Jugglers, dancers, clowns, acrobats, puppeteers, wrestlers, strong men, freaks and performing bears were just as much a part of the fair as the hundreds of stall holders who came to sell their wares.

  Though there were still two days to go, some of the participants had already started to converge on London and a number of booths were being erected. Among the early arrivals was Moll Comfrey, a pert young peddler whose large basket was filled to the brim with pins, needles, combs, brushes, assorted trinkets and rolls of material of every kind and colour. Hanging from the basket were sundry ballads and pinned to her skirt were dozens of other bits of material that could be used to patch clothing. Her frail appearance belied her robust health. Moll walked long distances between fairs and markets, in all weathers, and carried her heavy basket with practised ease. Her occupation had given her a strength and tenacity that were not visible. What people saw on first acquaintance was a pretty girl of no more than seventeen or eighteen years with fair curls poking out from beneath her bonnet. There was an air of battered innocence about her that made her stand out in a crowd.