The Bawdy Basket

Chapter Ten

Edmund Hoode was enjoying a contentment that he had never known before. Events had moved so swiftly that he was in a state of pleasant bewilderment. A short while ago, he had never even heard of Avice Radley yet now he could not imagine life without her. To his glazed and adoring eyes, she was the epitome of beauty, a woman who possessed all of the female virtues yet who was, miraculously, within reach of his undeserving hands. During their brief romance, he had moved through every stage of infatuation until he had attained the deep joy of lasting togetherness. Alone of all the women in his past, she loved him in the way that he wanted to be loved, admiring him for himself as well as for his talents and intent on creating a protected world in which they could grow even closer. Hoode put something of his devotion to her in the first sonnet that he had produced. Gazing soulfully at her, he recited the closing couplet.

‘And yet, I own, I think my love so pure,

In thy sweet arms, I stand at heaven’s door.’

Avice Radley was enthralled. She gave him a kiss of gratitude on the cheek.

‘Thank you, Edmund,’ she said. ‘The sonnet was beautiful.’

‘It needs more work on it yet.’

‘I would not change a single syllable.’

‘It is too rough-hewn.’

‘Not to my way of thinking.’

‘I had thought to weave your name into the sonnet,’ he confessed, ‘but neither Avice nor Radley lend themselves to pretty rhymes. “Sadly” and “badly” have no place in any poem that celebrates you.’

She smiled. ‘You may find room for “madly” on another occasion.’

‘That word rhymes with Edmund Hoode,’ he declared, ‘for I have been in the grip of a divine madness ever since we met.’

‘It was so with me. When I wrote that letter to you, I gave way to a madness.’

‘Then we are both happy lunatics, shut away in a private Bedlam.’

‘Throw away the key,’ she said, ‘for I can think of no finer place to be.’

They were sitting beside each other in the parlour of Avice Radley’s house. Hoode’s cheek was still glowing warmly from the kiss that she had bestowed upon it. Wanting to place his lips on her own cheek, he lacked the courage to lean impulsively forward so he kissed her hand instead. She stroked his arm with her fingertips until he was tingling all over. Sufficiently emboldened, Hoode was about to embrace her when there was a knock at the front door. He moved back guiltily.

‘Are you expecting a visitor?’ he asked.

‘No, Edmund. I want nobody to disturb us.’

His voice hardened. ‘I hope that it is not Lawrence Firethorn again.’

‘If it is, he will not be admitted across the threshold.’

‘He will try anything to lure me back again.’

‘You are mine now,’ she avowed.

There was a tap on the door then it opened to reveal the maidservant.

‘A gentleman is asking for Master Hoode,’ she said.

‘Tell him I am not here,’ he replied.

‘No,’ said Avice, overruling him. ‘Let us at least hear his name.’

‘It is Nicholas Bracewell,’ said the maidservant, ‘and he sends his apologies for disturbing you at this hour.’

Avice saw the indecision in Hoode’s face. She suspected that he would refuse to see anyone else from Westfield’s Men but he had spoken so warmly of its book holder that she sensed a close friendship between them. The visitor could represent no danger to her. From what she heard of him, Nicholas Bracewell would hardly seek to pay his attentions to her as Lawrence Firethorn had tried to do, nor could he divert Hoode from his chosen path while she was beside him. Though she was annoyed by the intrusion, she was also curious to meet a man of whom she had heard so much praise.

‘Show him in,’ she said to the maidservant.

Seconds later, Nicholas entered the room. After introductions had been made, he reiterated his apologies for disturbing them. Avice Radley was very impressed by his appearance and by his manner. Hoode, however, was extremely wary.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.

‘Lawrence Firethorn gave me this address,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I went first to your lodging and, since you were not there, hoped that I might track you down here.’

‘You have come on a fruitless errand, Nick. My answer remains the same as the one I gave to George Dart earlier. I am no longer at Lawrence’s beck and call.’

‘I understand that, Edmund.’

‘Then take the message back to him.’

‘But I have not come at his behest,’ said Nicholas. ‘Had it been left to him, I would not be here at all for he assured me that it would be a waste of time. I like to think that I know you rather better than he.’

Hoode raised a warning hand. ‘I’ll not be persuaded, Nick.’

‘Our decision is inviolable,’ said Avice. ‘Nothing can change it.’

‘I respect your decision, Mistress Radley,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘I am not here in the vain hope of retaining Edmund’s services for Westfield’s Men. Mine is a much simpler request.’

‘In that case,’ decided Hoode, ‘speak on.’

‘You did promise to stay with us until the end of the month.’

‘That is so.’

‘While you are there, we still have a right to call on you.’

‘That was the undertaking I gave to Lawrence. I’ll play the parts assigned to me and do so to the best of my ability. It is the least I can offer to the company.’

‘Do you know what we perform on Tuesday, Edmund?’

‘The Merchant of Calais.’

‘My choice of all his plays,’ said Avice, clapping her hands together. She appraised Nicholas. ‘And I believe that you had a hand in its invention.’

Nicholas was modest. ‘Edmund is the sole author, I assure you.’

‘Come, Nick,’ said the playwright graciously. ‘You were my inspiration.’

‘Providing inspiration is not the same as writing the piece.’

‘Writing is impossible without a creative spark and it was you who gave me that.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Nicholas, pleased to hear the warmth in his friend’s voice. ‘It is also my favourite of your plays, Edmund, because it carries so many echoes of my own family. I am glad that you think I have some claim to its authorship because that is what has brought me here today.’

‘What exactly do you wish Edmund to do?’ asked Avice.

‘Honour his contract with the company.’

‘In what way?’

‘He is not only obliged to take part in whatever we perform,’ said Nicholas, ‘he is also required to improve or make alterations to existing plays. That’s my embassy. I want some important changes made in The Merchant of Calais.’

‘But why, Nick?’ wondered Hoode.

‘Because it may be the one way to rescue the company from extinction.’

‘You see how easily it is done, Adam?’ he asked. ‘So much for the power of money.’

‘Or lack of money, Sir Eliard.’

‘Those who live on credit must face a day of reckoning.’

Haygarth gave a brittle laugh. ‘It is now at hand for Lord Westfield.’

They were in the upstairs room that Sir Eliard Slaney used as his counting house. The oak shelves that lined the walls were filled with ledgers and piles of documents. More tomes and sheaves of paper lay on the table. Sir Eliard was sitting in his high-backed chair while his visitor remained standing. Though he was pleased to hear the news, Justice Haygarth was not entirely persuaded that it would solve their problem.

‘Will this cunning device work, Sir Eliard?’

‘It has already worked, Adam,’ replied the moneylender. ‘Once I learnt that Lord Westfield was heavily in debt, I saw the way to bring his company down. Nicholas Bracewell will have no time to bother us while he is fighting to save his beloved company.’

‘What of Francis Quilter?’

‘He is no threat to us on his own. Besides, he has a contract with the troupe as well. If they call on all their reserves, they may summon him back to their bosom.’

‘But what happens then?’

‘They struggle in vain to survive,’ said Sir Eliard, gloating happily. ‘When I bring their patron down, they will fall apart. Nicholas Bracewell will have been taught the consequences of meddling with me. He’ll not trouble us further.’

‘I fear that he might.’

‘He’ll be too busy trying to find employment elsewhere.’

‘He’ll want revenge. So will Francis Quilter.’

‘They’ve no means to achieve it, Adam.’

‘They have great determination.’

‘That will be taken up with the battle to keep Westfield’s Men in existence. By the time that is over,’ said Sir Eliard airily, ‘they’ll have no stomach left to measure their strength against me. In any case, the trail will have gone cold. I’ll make sure of that.’

Haygarth grinned. ‘You have thought of everything, Sir Eliard.’

‘That is a precept of mine.’

‘I would never have believed that you could bring the company to its knees.’

‘We have Cyril to applaud there. The irony is that he admires Westfield’s Men and would rather see them flourish than decline. He and his wife have watched them perform at the Queen’s Head. But he appreciates the need for our safety.’

‘It is paramount,’ said Haygarth.

‘That is why he gathered the necessary facts so quickly.’ Sir Eliard leafed through some of the papers on his table. ‘Here they are. Outstanding bills that show the full extent of Lord Westfield’s debts. He has borrowed from almost every moneylender in the city apart from me.’ He cackled dryly. ‘I have the sense to charge higher interest than they do. I also make sure that I only lend to people who can be made to pay. That is the beauty of these transactions, Adam. I made a profit before I even started.’

‘How, Sir Eliard?’

‘By offering to settle a debt while paying only half of the principle. They could not wait to take my money. Cash in hand is better than the promise of twice that amount if you know that the promise will never be honoured.’ He squinted up at his visitor. ‘We are in twin professions, Adam. The law and the lending of money have a kinship. In order to get the best results, we have to be merciless. Lord Westfield is like so many of his kind. He is an extravagant man without the money to sustain that extravagance. As long as there are enough fools to supply him with credit, he’ll continue his prodigal ways.’

‘Not any more, it seems.’

‘No, Adam. Even as we speak, Cyril is still calling on some of his creditors. Well,’ he said, spreading his arms. ‘It is Sunday, is it not? Are we not enjoined to give on the Sabbath? I have been more than liberal in the way I have dispersed my funds.’

‘Only to gain a higher return, Sir Eliard.’

‘Usury is an art.’

‘Nobody practises it with such consummate skill.’

‘That is what Nicholas Bracewell and his company will find out. They will be wiped from the face of London. Their patron will be disgraced and forced to surrender much of his property to me.’ He cackled again. ‘Is this not cleverly done, Adam?’

‘It has the lustre of brilliance.’

Sir Eliard preened himself. ‘What a joyous time it is proving to be!’ he said. ‘I send a hated enemy to the gallows at Smithfield and then, when his son has the gall to pursue me in the name of justice, I destroy the company he belongs to and make a handsome profit into the bargain.’

‘There have been moments of apprehension,’ Haygarth reminded him.

‘Trivialities that were brushed aside.’

‘Moll Comfrey was more than a triviality, Sir Eliard.’

‘She was a bawdy basket of no account.’

‘Her evidence could have put us all behind bars.’

‘Only if it had been heard and believed.’

‘She was a serious threat to us.’

‘That is why I had her silenced.’

‘You swore that you’d have Nicholas Bracewell silenced as well.’

‘He deserved the same fate.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘He was not such easy game as the girl,’ admitted Sir Eliard. ‘But he will be utterly silenced now. We’ll hear no more from him while his company is in peril.’

‘Is he aware of what you have done?’

‘He will be very soon, Adam.’ He held up the sheaf of papers. ‘When I had enough power in my grasp, I sent Lord Westfield a courteous letter, warning him that I would need repayment of all outstanding debts within a month. It was such a pleasure to ruin his Sunday for him,’ he added with a grin. ‘I daresay that he will have passed on the tidings to Westfield’s Men by now.’

‘What will they do, Sir Eliard?’

‘The only thing they can do.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Shake in their shoes as Armageddon approaches.’

Nicholas Bracewell was succinct. He gave them a concise but lucid description of the fate that confronted Westfield’s Men. He also explained why he believed that Gerard Quilter had been the victim of a cruel miscarriage of justice. Nicholas awaited their reaction. There was a guarded sympathy in Avice Radley’s face but Edmund Hoode was frankly outraged.

‘God’s mercy!’ he cried. ‘This knavish moneylender would destroy us?’

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘If we do not stop him, Sir Eliard Slaney will demolish all that Westfield’s Men stand for, including the excellence of Edmund Hoode’s plays.’

‘This is brutal vengeance indeed.’

‘That is why it must be resisted.’

‘I agree, Nick. We should fight to the death.’

‘But it is no longer your battle, Edmund,’ said Avice, putting a hand on his arm. ‘I am truly sorry to learn that the company may disappear. It has given me so much pleasure and, in bringing you into my life, it has earned my undying thanks. But you are bidding the company farewell.’

‘Not until the end of the month, Avice.’

‘That’s but a matter of days.’

‘Those few days may yet redeem the situation,’ argued Nicholas. ‘If Edmund follows my advice, we may still pluck ourselves from this disaster.’

‘Teach me how, Nick,’ said Hoode.

‘There is no point,’ challenged Avice.

‘Yes, there is.’

‘Let them manage on their own.’

‘They will do that when the month is up, Avice. Until then, it is only fair that I should do all that I can to help my fellows.’

‘Thank you, Edmund,’ said Nicholas. ‘All that I request is the use of your time.’

Avice grew prickly. ‘Edmund’s time is devoted to me, sir.’

‘And rightly so, Mistress Radley. But did you not claim earlier that The Merchant of Calais was your choice of all his plays?’

‘I did. Its theme touches my heart.’

‘Would you not be proud, then, if that play — the one you most admire — were the means by which Westfield’s Men remained upon the stage to perform the rest of Edmund Hoode’s work? Think on it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Two hours upon the boards next Tuesday could decide our whole future.’

‘I fail to see how,’ she said.

‘Nor I, Nick,’ added Hoode.

‘Then let me explain,’ said Nicholas. ‘In the past few days I have learnt a great deal about Sir Eliard Slaney. He is a callous, unscrupulous, vindictive man who has forced many people into ruin and revelled in their plight. But he is also protective of his reputation. He’ll not have his name besmirched. Many people hate him but they are too frightened to put that hatred into words. Gerard Quilter had the courage to stand up to him in court and draw some blood from Sir Eliard. He paid dearly for that.’

‘So it appears,’ said Hoode.

Avice nudged him. ‘Do not get involved in this, Edmund.’

‘These are my fellows, Avice.’

‘You are taking leave of them to be with me.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Hoode, ‘and I do so without regret. But I cannot desert them until this ogre has been vanquished. Go on, Nick,’ he urged. ‘Instruct me.’

‘Think of the characters in The Merchant of Calais,’ said Nicholas. ‘Is there not one who reminds you, if only slightly, of Sir Eliard Slaney?’

‘There is Pierre Lefeaux, who supplies the loans to the merchants.’

‘Exactly!’

‘But he is French and nowhere near as rapacious as this moneylender of ours.’

‘That is why I need to call on your pen,’ said Nicholas. ‘We change his nation from France to England, then we alter his name from Pierre Lefeaux to something more akin to that of our man.’

‘Sir Peter Lefoe, perhaps?’

‘We can be more precise than that, Edmund. And more insulting. Our audience will contain many people who know Sir Eliard by repute, and some who may have suffered at his hands. They will long to see him pilloried onstage.’

‘What name would you suggest?’

‘Sir Eliard Slimy.’

Hoode laughed. ‘You have it, Nick! I’ll play the part myself.’

‘Then you must look and dress the way that he does, Edmund. I can help you there for I have seen the fellow. And the character must become more gross and disgusting,’ he insisted, ‘so that they are watching the real Sir Eliard upon stage.’

‘He’ll sue you for seditious libel,’ protested Avice.

‘That is our intent,’ replied Nicholas. ‘But before he can do that, he has to see and hear what The Merchant of Calais contains. If we let it be known that Sir Eliard is to be mocked and vilified at the Queen’s Head on Tuesday, the one person who will certainly be in the gallery is the moneylender himself.’

‘What will be achieved by that?’

‘His disgrace, Avice,’ said Hoode. ‘I’ll paint such a hideous portrait of him onstage that he’ll be ridiculed by all that see it.’

‘To what end?’ she asked sharply. ‘As the author of the piece, it is you who’ll be arraigned, Edmund. Bear that in mind. When we live together in the country, my wealth is at your disposal but I’ll not pay any damages imposed upon you in court.’

Hoode was shocked. ‘Avice! You promised that we would share everything.’

‘Within certain limits.’

‘There was no talk of limits earlier.’

‘There was no possibility that you would go to prison then,’ she pointed out. ‘And that could easily happen if you write defamatory speeches about this man. What use are you to me if you are incarcerated in a cell?’

‘I looked for more understanding from you than this,’ said Hoode.

‘Edmund will not be taken to court,’ said Nicholas. ‘The changes to his play are but a device to ensure that Sir Eliard is out of his house on Tuesday afternoon. That is where the real evidence lies,’ he went on. ‘Locked away in his counting house. While he is enduring the gibes and the raillery at the Queen’s Head, we will be gathering the information that will send him and his confederates where they belong. In short, Edmund will have helped to lift the dire threat that hangs over the company.’

‘By heaven, I’ll do it, Nick!’ exclaimed Hoode.

‘Slow down,’ said Avice. ‘I am not sure that I agree.’

‘It is my bounden duty to help.’

‘Not when it may land you into trouble with the law.’

‘That will not happen, Avice. You heard what Nick said.’

‘I heard what he proposed,’ she replied, ‘but I am not convinced that you will meet with success. What if the evidence that is sought is not inside Sir Eliard’s house? The whole project then collapses around your ears. And there’s another point,’ she stressed. ‘You cannot solve one crime by committing another. Break into someone’s property and you break the law.’

‘It is a justified breach, Mistress Radley,’ said Nicholas.

‘No judge will view it that way.’

‘It is to expose a corrupt judge that we must do it.’

‘I’ll not condone a criminal act.’

‘I do not ask you to do so,’ said Nicholas, trying to mollify her. ‘This is a matter between Edmund and us. It need not concern you.’

She became proprietary. ‘Everything about Edmund concerns me.’

‘Then please support him in a worthy cause.’

‘Nick is right,’ said Hoode, excited by the notion. ‘This way answers all. We not only expose Sir Eliard Slaney onstage for the avaricious snake that he is, we clear the name of a man who was unjustly executed.’

‘I do not accept that he was.’

‘Avice!’

‘It is all guesswork and hearsay.’

‘There was no guesswork involved when they tried to kill me,’ said Nicholas bluntly. ‘Why did Sir Eliard order my death if he had nothing to hide? Here is the dagger that was commissioned for the purpose,’ he said, pulling it from his belt. ‘Sir Eliard already has to answer for the murders of Vincent Webbe and Moll Comfrey. My name came close to being added to the list of his victims.’

‘The evidence is overwhelming,’ pleaded Hoode. ‘You must accept it, Avice.’

‘All I accept is the promise you made in your sonnet.’

‘Nothing will change that.’

‘It will, if you ignore my counsel.’

‘What counsel?’

‘Keep clear of this whole business, Edmund,’ she decreed. ‘There are too many hidden dangers. I’ll not have you putting yourself at risk like this.’

‘Would you prefer me to let Westfield’s Men perish?’

‘Dismiss them from your mind.’

‘That’s heartless!’

‘It is politic,’ she said coldly. ‘Let me put it more plainly. A decision confronts you and you must think hard before you make it.’

‘Loyalty requires that I go to their aid.’

‘I demand that you do not.’

Hoode was upset. ‘You would make such an unjust demand of me?’

‘You swore to be mine and mine alone,’ she insisted. ‘All that I do is to test the strength of that vow. Choose between Westfield’s Men and me. You cannot have both.’

Lawrence Firethorn was still in a somnolent mood when he arrived home that evening. He felt like a condemned man awaiting execution. Lord Westfield was on the verge of bankruptcy, the company that bore his name was facing destruction and, during its final days, it would be hounded by the disagreeable landlord who had risen from his sick bed at the Queen’s Head. Of more immediate significance for Firethorn was the fact that his wife was in a state of hostility, brought on by his bungled attempt to entice Avice Radley. Professional ruin was allied to marital strife. When he reached Shoreditch, he went into the house with foreboding.

Alone in the parlour, Margery gave him a frosty reception.

‘So, sir,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘you have dared to show yourself again.’

‘Do not chastise me further, my love. I have enough to bear, as it is.’

‘Why? Have you been repulsed again by Mistress Radley?’

‘That harpy is the least of my worries,’ he moaned.

‘You did not think her a harpy when you tried to board her.’

He held up a hand. ‘Please, Margery. Spare me more pain.’

‘You spared me none when you called upon the lady,’ she said. ‘How did you think I felt when I learnt that my husband cared so little for his marriage vows that he sought to prey on someone whom he had never even met before?’

‘Circumstance forced me to act as I did.’

‘The presence of a beautiful woman is all the circumstance you need.’

He attempted gallantry. ‘None is more beautiful than the one who stands before me now,’ he said with a tired smile.

‘Leave off, Lawrence. I’ll have none of your false compliments.’

‘They come from the heart.’

‘What of the compliments you paid to Mistress Radley?’

‘Forget the woman.’

‘All that your wooing did was to turn her more strongly against the company.’

‘There is no company,’ he cried. ‘Westfield’s Men live on borrowed time. And not because of anything that Mistress Radley has done. She is irrelevant now. It is our patron who will bring us crashing down.’

‘Lord Westfield? What’s amiss with him?’

‘Had you been speaking to me earlier, I might have told you. Our patron sent a letter that made all our other troubles seem slight. That is why I fled the house so swiftly,’ he explained. ‘I needed to share the misery with my fellows.’

Margery was disturbed. ‘What misery? Why this talk of borrowed time?’

‘My words were chosen with care, Margery. It is borrowed time because borrowing lies at the base of it. In brief, my love, Lord Westfield has borrowed us out of existence. The company will suffocate under the weight of his debts.’

Firethorn told her about the threat from Sir Eliard Slaney but said nothing about the evidence that Nicholas Bracewell had been helping to gather about the moneylender. He saw no point in confusing his wife with unnecessary detail or in relating a tale of injustice that he did not fully understand himself. What concerned Margery was the future of Westfield’s Men because it would have a direct impact on her family. She listened with growing horror, her antagonism changing slowly to sympathy.

‘So that is why you quit the house so speedily,’ she said. ‘I thought that you simply wanted to get away from your wife.’

‘No, my love. I longed to stay here and be reconciled.’

‘I nourished that same hope.’

‘Then you kept it well-concealed.’

‘Why did you not tell me that the letter was from Lord Westfield?’

‘Conversation with you was fraught with much pain. Besides,’ he said, ‘I had to see Barnaby and the others as soon as possible. There was no time for delay.’

‘Who is this moneylender?’ she asked. ‘And why does he treat Lord Westfield so ruthlessly? Is some personal grudge involved here?’

‘It matters not, Margery. The simple truth is that our patron is called upon to pay money that he does not possess.’

‘Could he not borrow it from elsewhere?’

‘Nobody else will advance him credit,’ said Firethorn. ‘He has exhausted the purses of his friends and the patience of every usurer in London. The one sensible thing that Lord Westfield did in the past was to avoid Sir Eliard Slaney, because he is the most egregious member of his trade. Now — God save him! — he’s been delivered up to the rogue and Sir Eliard means to destroy him.’

‘Can nothing be done to fend this man off?’

‘Nothing short of running him through with a sword.’

‘What did the others suggest?’

‘Barnaby merely wrung his hands in despair.’

‘And Edmund?’

‘He refused even to meet with us.’

‘Refused?’ she said in amazement. ‘When the company is about to disappear?’

‘At the end of the month, he is about to disappear from the company. Edmund feels that he no longer has a stake in our future.’

‘That is monstrous!’

‘Behold the work of Mistress Radley!’

‘Is Edmund so utterly under her spell that he has no speck of loyalty? What did Nicholas make of this tragedy?’ she asked. ‘If anyone can find a remedy, it will be him.’

Firethorn shook his head. ‘Even he is bereft of a solution this time, my love. Nick has a plan but it requires the help of Edmund Hoode. That traitor has already shunned us. My guess is that he’ll not even open the door to Nick Bracewell.’

‘But he must, Lawrence. They are dear friends.’

‘Not since Mistress Radley showed her evil face,’ he said bitterly. ‘All friendship ended there. She is his only friend now. We have been discarded. Nick will try his best to reason with Edmund but his visit will be futile. Truly, we are lost.’

Anne Hendrik was frankly appalled. Having waited up for Nicholas, she was shocked by his description of the meeting at Avice Radley’s house. Nicholas sank down into a chair with a sigh of resignation. He was deeply wounded by what he saw as the sudden end of his friendship with Edmund Hoode.

‘What has happened to Edmund?’ she asked.

‘He is in love, Anne.’

‘Can love cause such pain to those who were closest to him?’

‘Mistress Radley is a potent lady,’ said Nicholas. ‘And there is no denying that she has great charms. She is also a person of some wealth. If he married her, Edmund will never have to work for a living again.’

‘Would he let her buy him so easily?’

‘She, too, acts out of love. It may be a possessive love but there’s no doubting the strength of it. In her own way,’ he said defensively, ‘Mistress Radley thinks that she is protecting Edmund from trouble. My plan, I must admit, involves a risk but it is one that Edmund would cheerfully have taken in the past.’

‘Yet now he will not even listen to you.’

‘Oh, he listened, Anne. He even agreed to help. Then a choice was imposed upon him and his resolve crumbled. When the final decision was made, Westfield’s Men were outweighed in the balance by Mistress Radley.’

‘What will you do, Nick?’

‘Look for some other means to achieve my end.’

‘Sir Eliard so rarely leaves his house,’ she said anxiously. ‘His wife tells me that he spends every day in his counting house, working to increase his wealth and extend his power. Master Paramore is often there with him.’

‘We must find some other way to lure them out.’

‘That still leaves the problem of how you gain entry.’

‘I was hoping that you might be able to help me there, Anne.’

‘Me?’

‘Who better?’ he said. ‘You’ve been to the house a number of times. And though your dealings were with Lady Slaney, you must have seen the other occupants of the house. How many servants do they keep?’

‘Six. Two men and four women.’

‘One of those men must drive Sir Eliard’s coach. Get his master out of the house, and we lose him as well. That means we only have one man to contend with.’

‘He is the cook and stays in the kitchen.’

‘That’s cheering news. How much of the house have you seen?’

‘The better part of it, Nick,’ she said. ‘Lady Slaney could not resist showing it off to me. I have even been into their bedchamber.’

‘What about the counting house?’

‘That has always been closed to me.’

‘But you know exactly where it is?’

‘Yes, it is upstairs.’

‘Could you draw me a plan of the house?’ he asked. ‘I know how deftly you hold a pen while you design a hat for your customers. Will you put it to some other use?’

‘Gladly, if it will help.’

‘It may be our salvation.’

‘Before I do so, Nick, there is something that you should know.’

‘Go on.’

‘Sir Eliard is a cautious man,’ she explained. ‘Having made so much money, he makes sure that he keeps it. Whenever he is away from his counting house, the room is kept locked. Lady Slaney made a point of telling me that.’

‘I expected no less, Anne. It is a problem but we’ll surmount it somehow.’

She was about to move off. ‘I’ll fetch pen and paper.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, rising to kiss her. ‘Edmund might let me down but you are always there to offer support. Would that he had your constancy!’

‘Is there no hope that he may change his mind?’

‘None, alas.’

‘Petition him when he is alone, Nick.’

‘That will not serve our turn,’ he said. ‘Edmund is never on his own. Even when he is apart from her, Mistress Radley occupies his mind. She has given her orders and he has obeyed them. There’s no more to be said. Edmund, alas, is gone.’

Crouched over the table in his lodging, Edmund Hoode worked by the light of a candle. Though it was well past midnight, he was determined not to give up until he had written another sonnet to Avice Radley. It would be filled with love and tinged with contrition, fourteen closely-woven lines that embodied everything he felt about her and regretted the upset he had caused by offering to go to the aid of Westfield’s Men. He told himself that she was right. If a break with his past had to be made, it should be complete. Hoode had worn himself out in the service of the company. It was unfair of them to expect any more from him. As he read through the halting lines on the page, he knew that this was the direction in which he would turn his talents. Mellifluous poetry was of more account than the verse drama that he habitually produced. A sonnet to Avice Radley was worth more than a five-act play that appealed to more vulgar palates.

Yet his brain deceived him. Knowing full well what he wanted to say, he could not find the words that expressed his desire nor the rhymes and rhythms that gave the poem its shape. Six pages, covered in abandoned attempts, had already been cast aside. When he scanned the seventh, it too failed to inspire him. The sonnet was dull and insipid. Instead of praising his beloved, it demeaned her with its blatant inadequacy. Tossing the parchment aside, he found a fresh piece so that he could start anew, intending to celebrate his love in high-flown language that would melt her heart. But something else appeared on the blank page before him. It was the face of Nicholas Bracewell, hurt, sad and uncomprehending. Behind him were the others with whom he had shared such joy and success in the past. Lawrence Firethorn looked deeply wounded, Barnaby Gill was overcome with grief, Owen Elias was pulsing with anger, James Ingram was puzzled and all the other members of Westfield’s Men — down to the hapless George Dart — wore expressions that ranged from fury to utter astonishment.

Hoode had betrayed them in the most signal way. It was one thing to resign his place in the company. To walk away when he was in a position to secure their continued existence was quite another. Avice Radley might admire from the gallery what she had seen of Westfield’s Men but she knew nothing of the inner working of a theatre company. During the rehearsal and performance of a play, hearts were bonded and minds were linked in perpetuity. The playhouse bred a comradeship that was unlike any other. A week earlier, he would have died for men like Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn, knowing that they would willingly have made the supreme sacrifice for him. Yet he could not even bring himself to make a few changes to a play that might never have been finished had it not been for the help of the book holder. Hoode writhed with guilt.

When his thoughts turned to Avice Radley again, the remorse faded. In pursuit of her, he believed, everything was permissible. A new and better life beckoned. The sooner he shuffled off the old one, the better. He decided to say as much in the opening line of the sonnet. Dipping his quill into the ink, he wrote the first thing that sprang to mind then paused to admire it. Hoode could not believe his eyes. Having thought of nothing but his beloved, he had somehow committed to paper four words that had no bearing on her.

The Merchant of Calais.

‘This must be some mistake Cyril,’ he said angrily. ‘They would not dare to attack me.’

‘I heard it voiced abroad this very morning, Sir Eliard.’

‘There is to be a satire on me?’

‘Westfield’s Men are striking back at you.’

‘I’ll take out an action for seditious libel.’

‘You may still be held up to ridicule,’ said Cyril Paramore. ‘Laughter is a cruel weapon. It leaves wounds that last a long time.’

Paramore called at the house in Bishopsgate to report what he had heard. He found his master in his counting house, estimating how much he had gained from his latest seizure of property. The smile of satisfaction was soon rubbed from Sir Eliard’s face. He smacked the table with a palm.

‘This must be stopped!’

‘On what grounds, Sir Eliard?’

‘The ones that you have just given me. I am to be held up for mockery.’

‘So it is rumoured,’ said Paramore, ‘but we have no proof.’

‘Go to the Queen’s Head and secure it. Then we’ll prevent this scurrilous play from ever being presented.’

‘But it is not scurrilous, Sir Eliard. The Merchant of Calais has been licensed by the Master of the Revels and performed with success before. I have seen the piece and could recommend it warmly.’

Sir Eliard glared at him. ‘You’d recommend a play that attacks your employer?’

‘No, no. That is not what I said.’

‘Then what do you say?’

‘We can only be sure that libel takes place if we see the performance tomorrow.’

‘Am I to sit there and suffer the gibes of the audience?’

‘Send me on your behalf, Sir Eliard.’

‘But you have already seen the play.’

‘I am given to understand that parts of it have been rewritten,’ said Paramore, ‘so there will be enough novelty to retain my interest.’

‘Is that all this defamation of me will do?’ asked Sir Eliard, eyes aflame. ‘Retain your interest? You should be as outraged as I. Nobody works as closely with me as you, Cyril. An assault on my reputation is an assault on you as well.’

‘I know that, Sir Eliard. And I apologise.’

‘Tell me about this play.’

‘It concerns an English merchant, late of Calais.’

‘Is there a moneylender in the story?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Paramore, searching his memory. ‘I believe there is but his part in the action is quite small. He is a villainous Frenchman.’

‘Is this the character who will counterfeit me?’

Paramore shrugged. ‘There is only one way to find out, Sir Eliard. Shall I go to the Queen’s Head tomorrow? I’ll give you a full account of what happens.’

Sir Eliard Slaney pondered, his ire mingling with a strange curiosity.

‘We’ll go together in disguise,’ he decided. ‘I want to see this play for myself. If they have the audacity to put me on the stage, Westfield’s Men will turn to dust sooner than they imagine.’

On the third day, Bartholomew Fair was as vibrant as ever. Additional visitors poured into London from the surrounding areas and those who had already tasted the delights of Smithfield returned there once more. There was always something new to buy or see. Horse trading was especially busy but no part of the fair lacked its surging crowd. The performing bear was at his best, the Strongest Man in England did feats of wonder before his paying audience and the extraordinary Hermat drew the longest queues of all. Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter were among the mass of visitors late afternoon. Dodging some scavenging dogs, they made their way to the ring and singled out Lightfoot for a quiet word.

‘Your time has come,’ Nicholas told him.

‘You need my help?’ asked the tumbler eagerly.

‘Your help and your agility.’

‘Take me with you, sir.’

‘Tomorrow afternoon is when I’ll call on you, Lightfoot.’

‘You’ll find me waiting.’

‘Let me go with you, Nick,’ urged Quilter. ‘It was I who set you out on this trail and I who should be there at the finish.’

‘We are well short of any finish, Frank,’ said Nicholas. ‘If I am to be absent, you are needed at the Queen’s Head to do my office. Though your face may be recognised onstage, none but the players will see you behind the scenes.’

‘I’m no book holder.’

‘I’m no thief but necessity compels me to take up that occupation.’

‘Thievery?’ said Lightfoot. ‘Is that what we are about?’

‘Do you have any objection?’

The tumbler chortled. ‘None at all, sir. You’ve come to the right person. If I did not have a quick hand, I’d long ago have starved.’

‘We will not so much steal as borrow,’ explained Nicholas.

‘That’s the excuse I always give myself, sir.’

‘Do not forget the lock,’ prompted Quilter. ‘That is highly important.’

Nicholas gave a nod. ‘I know. It stands between us and success.’ He turned to Lightfoot. ‘Do you have any skill in picking locks, my friend?’

‘No, sir,’ said the tumbler. ‘I never mastered that art.’

‘Do you know anyone who has?’

‘Yes, sir. And so do you.’

‘Do we?’

‘Luke Furness the blacksmith is your man,’ replied Lightfoot. ‘He makes locks, keys, bolts and other means of safeguarding property. If you pay him enough,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘he’ll give you a key that will open almost any door.’

‘We’ll pay him anything,’ announced Quilter. ‘Let’s to him straight.’

There was a buzz of expectation in the yard at the Queen’s Head. It was a long time since The Merchant of Calais had been performed there and its reputation drew a large audience. Many of those who stood in the pit had never heard of Sir Eliard Slaney but it was a name that most people in the galleries knew and, in some cases, had learnt to dread. The rumour that the moneylender was about to be ridiculed onstage had spread quickly, adding a spice and promise to the occasion. Moneylenders were universally loathed, none more so than Sir Eliard. Usury was forbidden by law under a statute that had been in existence for over twenty years, because the profession was declared to be against Christian precepts. Notwithstanding this, loans were still made openly with a maximum of ten per cent interest permitted. Sir Eliard Slaney was known to charge much more.

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.