The Bawdy Basket

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.’

It was only when they were clear of the house that Anne Hendrik noticed the blood on his sleeve. She became alarmed. Nicholas Bracewell gave her a reassuring smile.

‘It does not belong to me, Anne,’ he said.

‘Then how is it spattered on your arm?’

‘Let’s meet with Lightfoot then I’ll tell you both.’

The tumbler was waiting for them in an alley off Gracechurch Street. Nicholas introduced him to Anne. Lightfoot was polite and deferential. As he handed over the ledger, his sharp eyes caught sight of the blood as well.

‘You injured yourself, sir,’ he said.

‘I collected a few bruises,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I shed no blood. After you left the counting house, I was cornered by the man who ambushed me in Turnmill Street …’

He told them what had happened, giving few details of the fight itself but explaining that the only way to escape alive was to kill his attacker. Anne was horrified that he might have been stabbed to death while she was talking downstairs to Lady Slaney. Lightfoot was pleased yet envious.

‘If only he had come in when I was there,’ he said wistfully. ‘I’d have strangled the life out of him. He was the villain who smothered poor Moll.’

‘He also confessed to the murder of Vincent Webbe,’ said Nicholas.

Anne shuddered. ‘And the attempted murder of Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘He’ll do no more mischief with his dagger, Anne.’

‘But what of the consequences? They’ll come looking for you, Nick.’

‘I killed in self-defence.’

‘How will you prove it? Your word may not save you from arrest.’

‘There’ll be no pursuit of me,’ he said confidently, tapping the ledger. ‘The only arrests will be caused by this. There’s evidence in this book to bring Sir Eliard and his confederates to justice. One of them has already met his fate.’

‘What will they do when the body is discovered?’ asked Lightfoot.

‘That will not happen for a little while. I fancy that Sir Eliard is still at the Queen’s Head with at least another hour of the play to watch. It will take him a while to make his way out through that crowd,’ decided Nicholas. ‘By the time he unlocks his counting house, I will already have set the wheels of the law in motion.’

‘Shall I come with you, sir?’

‘No, Lightfoot. I have another task for you.’

The tumbler grinned. ‘Will I have the chance to fight?’

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You’ll have to push your way through the crush on London Bridge as you escort Mistress Hendrik to her house in Bankside.’ Lightfoot was disappointed. ‘Anne did valuable work this afternoon. But for her, we would never have got into the house and seized this ledger. About it straight. I’ll take this evidence to the lawyer. We can then finish the work that The Merchant of Calais has started.’

The applause that filled the yard at the Queen’s Head was long and loud. For once in their lives, neither Lawrence Firethorn nor Barnaby Gill minded that someone in a lesser role collected the biggest cheer. Edmund Hoode’s performance as Sir Eliard Slimy had been comically sinister to those who did not know the real moneylender, and hilarious to those who did. When he came out to take his bow, he was acclaimed. His had been a sublime exercise in theatrical assassination and the galleries revelled in it. Of the other actors, only Firethorn and Gill knew the significance of Hoode’s work. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, the precarious situation on Westfield’s Men was kept from the rest of the company lest it breed gloom and listlessness. Nicholas’s own absence was explained away in terms of sickness and Francis Quilter proved a highly competent deputy for him. There was a buoyant atmosphere among the players and it was translated to the stage. The Merchant of Calais had never been performed with such zest.

During his first and last visit to the Queen’s Head, Sir Eliard Slaney had been stretched repeatedly on the rack of satire. He had not realised the sheer power of the theatre to rouse an audience to such a pitch. All around him spectators were quoting some of the choicer lines about the moneylender. Sir Eliard had never been the object of such scorn and derision before. As he and Cyril Paramore made their way towards the stairs, they kept their heads down in shame. It was only when they reached the waiting coach that Sir Eliard was able to show his fury.

‘Why did they do this to me?’ he snarled.

‘I fear that you provoked them, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore.

‘Oh, I’ll provoke them, mark my words. I’ll provoke them out of existence. I’ll have the company sued for seditious libel and the playwright sliced to bits in front of me. Sir Eliard Slimy, indeed!’ he said. ‘Edmund Hoode will pay for that.’

Paramore knew better than to interrupt his master. He let him rant wildly all the way back to the house in Bishopsgate. When they entered the house, Sir Eliard was still fuming. His wife came out of the parlour to greet him and saw him for the first time in disguise. She was puzzled.

‘Why do you wear that attire, Eliard?’ she wondered.

‘Do not bother me, Rebecca,’ he replied. ‘Keep out of my way.’

‘Have I displeased you?’

‘You displease me now by badgering me.’

‘I only sought to welcome my husband to his home.’

‘Where’s Martin?’ he demanded.

‘I’ve not seen him all afternoon.’

‘He must still be here. Martin! Martin!’ he yelled, walking around the ground floor of the house. ‘Where are you, man? Martin!’

‘Shall I look for him?’ she asked obligingly.

‘Out of my way, Rebecca.’ He pushed her aside and ascended the stairs with Paramore at his heels. ‘Martin! Martin, are you here? I’ve work for you.’ When he came to the counting house, he took out a key and inserted it into the lock. ‘I ordered him to stay here. Where is the fellow?’

As he opened the door, he almost tripped over the dead man. Sir Eliard gaped and Paramore gave a yell of surprise. It was obvious that Martin would never be able to serve his master again. Sir Eliard was the first to recover. Stepping over the corpse, he went to the table and scrabbled among his papers. He let out a cry of pain.

‘My ledger!’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone has taken my ledger!’

Henry Cleaton chortled his way through the ledger like a man who has just stumbled on a treasure chest. Names that meant nothing to Nicholas Bracewell drew a chuckle of recognition from the lawyer. He pointed with a stubby finger.

‘This name may be the most damning indictment of all,’ he said.

Nicholas read it out. ‘Archibald Froggatt? I do not know the man.’

‘Count yourself lucky, then. Justice Froggatt was one of the most bloodthirsty judges ever to preside at a trial. He was the man who sent Gerard Quilter to his death. That is why this payment from Sir Eliard Slaney is so revealing.’

‘Five hundred pounds!’

‘To abuse the law costs a high price,’ said Cleaton, ‘and Justice Froggatt abused it mightily. He not only sent an innocent man to the gallows, he added more agony by having him hanged at Smithfield in the company of a witch. I’ll wager that it was Adam Haygarth who was the interlocutor here. He dangled the money before the judge.’ He indicated another amount on the page. ‘Justice Haygarth was well-rewarded for his work, as you see.’ Cleaton slapped the ledger. ‘By all, this is wonderful! We’ve evidence enough to put a dozen men behind bars. How did you come by the book?’

‘Let us just say that it fell into my hands,’ said Nicholas discreetly.

‘Frank Quilter will be overjoyed at this.’

‘He never believed that his father could be guilty.’

‘No more did I,’ said Cleaton. ‘This ledger vindicates him completely.’

They were in the lawyer’s office. Cleaton had examined the entries in the ledger with painstaking care. It was a written confession of the sins and stratagems of Sir Eliard Slaney. The evidence that the lawyer himself had gathered was given full confirmation. Picking up the ledger, he rose to his feet.

‘I need to show this to someone else,’ he said.

‘Make sure that he is not one of Sir Eliard’s creatures.’

‘This ledger will go to a higher authority than anyone listed here. Even the bribes of Sir Eliard could not corrupt this man. When the evidence is scrutinised, there’ll be sudden justice. I would expect arrests to be made within days.’

‘I’ll not wait until that long,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor will Frank. He’ll meet me as soon as the performance is over. We mean to call the first of the villains to account this very afternoon. We’ll attack Sir Eliard at his weakest point.’

‘And where is that?’

‘Bevis Millburne.’

Edmund Hoode was in a state of ambivalence. Exhilarated by the performance that afternoon, he was having regrets about the way that he had altered his play. There was no doubting its success. Time and again, the target had been hit with unerring accuracy. If his contribution helped to salvage the future of Westfield’s Men, he would be happy. Yet an act of betrayal was involved and that left him feeling pangs of guilt. In order to aid his fellows, he had disobeyed Avice Radley’s decree and done so without forewarning her. It was a double blow for her since she would have been there to watch her favourite play. Expecting to take pleasure in it, she would have been jolted by the changes made and shocked to see Hoode impersonating a man whom she had expressly banned from appearing as a character in the play. Conflicting emotions troubled Hoode as he arrived at her house. When he knocked the door, it was with great trepidation.

The maidservant invited him in and conducted him to the parlour. Avice Radley was seated at the table, composing a letter. She did not even look up as he entered. Hoode studied her in profile, admiring once again the sculptured beauty and the natural poise. He was overwhelmed with remorse at having upset her and wanted to fling himself abjectly at her feet. But something held him back. When he cleared his throat, she put her quill aside and turned to look at him.

‘So, Edmund,’ she said, her voice icily calm. ‘It is you.’

‘I told you that I would come as soon as I could.’

‘The wonder is that you dared to come at all.’

‘Avice!’ he protested. ‘You promised that I could treat this house as my own.’

‘I am glad that you raise the subject of promises,’ she rejoined. ‘Was it not in this very room that you promised to abide by my wishes? I asked you to let Westfield’s Men fight their own battles, you agreed. You gave me your solemn word.’

‘I know.’

‘Yet the promise carried no weight.’

‘It did, it did.’

‘I see none.’

‘Permit me to explain,’ he begged.

‘I saw your explanation at the Queen’s Head this afternoon,’ she said. ‘You dragged me there to enforce my discomfiture.’

‘No, Avice!’

‘It was degrading. You did not even have the courtesy to warn me in advance.’

‘Had I done that, you would have talked me out of it.’

‘I thought that I already had done so, Edmund.’

‘So did I,’ he admitted.

‘What, then, changed your mind?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Was it sheer malice? Or rebellion against me?’

‘Neither of those things, Avice.’

‘Were you telling me that your love had gone away?’ she pressed. ‘Is that the reason you turned on me so? I did not think you could be so fickle, Edmund.’

‘But I am not fickle. I remain as constant as ever.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘As constant as you were this afternoon?’

‘Forgive me. It was not intended as an insult to you.’

‘That is how it was received.’

‘I shower you with my apologies, Avice,’ he said effusively, ‘and I will do anything to get myself into your good graces again.’

‘Then do so by leaving me.’

He shuddered. ‘Leaving you? Am I to be given no right of appeal?’

‘You gave me none, Edmund. Had I known what mischief you planned upon that stage today, I would have appealed with all my might. I did not take you for a vengeful man but I see that I was mistaken.’

‘The only vengeance was directed at Sir Eliard Slaney.’

‘It is time to bid farewell,’ she said levelly.

‘No,’ he cried, moving across to her. ‘You do not understand. At least, let me tell you how it came about. For the sake of the love you once bore me, hear me out.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Very well, sir. Be brief.’

‘I did bow to your wishes, Avice, it is true. When I saw your strength of purpose, I sent Nick Bracewell away from here with a cracked heart. He, of all, men had the right to call on my friendship yet I turned my back on him. It made me sad to do so.’

‘There was no sadness when you consented to quit the company.’

‘No, there was only joy and relief.’

‘Did it so quickly vanish?’

‘It is still there,’ he insisted. ‘My feelings for you have not altered in any degree. But you must allow for other claims upon my time. Westfield’s Men nurtured me, taught me, made me what I am. Those long years could not so easily be forgotten, Avice. When I left here on Sunday, I was fired with the notion of penning another sonnet in praise of you. My mind was filled with sweet phrases and pretty conceits.’

‘I heard neither at the Queen’s Head today.’

‘That is because an older loyalty dictated my hand,’ he said. ‘I tried to write for you but found myself composing a new prologue to The Merchant of Calais. ’Tis all done now, Avice. My debt to the company has been discharged. I am yours alone.’

‘For how long, Edmund?’

‘For all eternity.’

‘And how long will that last?’ she asked scornfully. ‘Until the company next call upon you? Until you feel the need again to disregard my orders? You swore to love and honour me for all eternity once before. Its span was a matter of days.’

‘Only because of circumstance.’

‘I fondly imagined that I was the only circumstance in your life.’

‘You were, you are, and ever more will be.’

‘Leave off your protestations, sir. They are too hollow.’

‘I acted with the best of intentions, Avice.’

‘Yet you achieved the worst of results,’ she said coldly. ‘You rebuffed me, treated my wishes with open contempt and showed yourself unworthy of my love.’

‘Is there no way that I can earn it back again?’ he pleaded.

‘None, sir.’

‘Avice!’

‘The damage is done, Edmund. It cannot be repaired.’

‘Would you rather I had let Westfield’s Men fade out of existence?’

‘Yes,’ she said angrily. ‘The first time I made trial of your love, it failed. And there is nothing I abhor so much as failure, unless it be rank disobedience. You were guilty of both, Edmund, and are no longer welcome in my house.’

Hoode’s dreams suddenly went up in smoke and all that he was left with was an acrid smell in his nostrils. Still mouthing his apologies, he backed his way out and opened the front door. He walked away from Avice Radley in a daze. Hoode did not blame her for what she had done. He had brought her ire down on himself. When he was offered the one chance of marital bliss that he was ever likely to get, he had deliberately cast it away. Westfield’s Men had been given priority — if only fleetingly — over Avice Radley and she would not endure it. Love had cooled, vows of fidelity were discarded. He was completely numbed by the interview with her. It was several minutes before he realised that his feet were taking him towards the Queen’s Head. One love had perished but another remained. Rejected by Avice Radley, he would be given a hero’s welcome by Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill. They did not expect perfection. They and the others loved him for his weaknesses as much as for his strengths. He began to smile. There was a world elsewhere and it was one in which he could be himself.

When Nicholas Bracewell met up with his friend, Francis Quilter had a familiar figure with him. Armed and eager, Owen Elias did not wish to miss out on what he suspected would be some violent action.

‘Something is afoot, Nick,’ he said. ‘Do not deny it. There has to be a reason why Edmund hurled those thunderbolts at Sir Eliard Slaney today. When I saw Frank sneaking away, I went after him.’

‘I could not shake him off,’ said Quilter.

Nicholas smiled. ‘We may have employment for him.’

‘Sword or dagger?’ asked Elias.

‘Wait and see.’

‘And why are you dressed like a Dutch hatmaker? Do you work for Anne now?’

‘I did this afternoon, Owen.’

Nicholas fell in beside them and explained what had transpired. Quilter was thrilled that the crucial evidence had been obtained and that the would-be assassin had been killed with his own dagger. Though he regretted he had not been there to help Nicholas, the Welshman was fascinated by all that he heard and understood why The Merchant of Calais had been slanted in a particular direction that afternoon. The fact that Sir Eliard had bought up all of their patron’s debts made him seethe with rage.

‘Destroy us out of spite?’ he roared. ‘Let me get my hands on the rogue.’

‘The law will do that,’ said Nicholas.

‘He deserves to be hanged from the nearest tree. When they learn what he tried to do, the whole company will dance around him with glee.’

‘Let us confront him, Nick,’ said Quilter.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We will save him until the last. I think we should strike at one of his lieutenants first. A confession from him will speed up retribution.’

‘From whom?’

‘You will soon guess when we pass the Golden Fleece.’

‘Bevis Millburne?’

‘Yes, Frank. One of the men who sent your father to his grave and who now enjoys the proceeds of that crime. He is a liar and a knave. I talked to the man. I do not take him to be brave and steadfast under questioning.’

‘I’ll question the rogue with the point of my dagger,’ said Elias.

‘It may not come to that, Owen.’

When they reached the house, Nicholas sent the Welshman around to the rear before he and Quilter went up to the front door. Their knock brought a manservant to the threshold. He refused to admit them until he had gained permission from his master. Quilter was too impatient to wait. Shoving the man aside, he stepped into the hall and yelled at the top of his voice.

‘Bevis Millburne! The son of Gerard Quilter would have words with you!’

The anxious face of Millburne appeared at the door of the parlour, took one look at the two visitors then vanished. They heard a key turning in the lock. When Quilter put his shoulder to the door, he could not budge it.

‘Come, Frank,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s see what fish Owen has caught.’

They left by the front door and made their way to the back of the property. Elias was as good as his work. Eyes popping and chest heaving, Millburne was pinned against a wall with a dagger at his throat. When his friends approached, the Welshmen pricked his captive’s skin enough to draw blood. Millburne yelped.

‘You chose the right man, Nick,’ said Elias genially. ‘Master Millburne could not be more obliging. When I offered to trim his beard for him, he promised to tell us all that we wished to know.’

‘Did you give false evidence against my father?’ demanded Quilter.

Millburne looked hunted. Elias flicked the knife to open another small cut.

‘Give the gentleman his answer, Master Millburne,’ he said.

‘We have Sir Eliard’s ledger in our possession,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is a record of payments to you and all the others involved in the conspiracy. Admit your crime now and it might buy you some leniency.’

‘Yes,’ added Elias. ‘I’ll only cut off one of your ears.’

‘Did you lie at my father’s trial?’ said Quilter, inches from Millburne’s face.

The captive’s resolution crumbled. Surrounded by three strong men, faced with the information that Sir Eliard’s payment to him could be verified and realising that the forces of law and order would descend on them all with a vengeance, he did what he always did in a crisis and tried to blame others.

‘I did perjure myself, sirs,’ he admitted, ‘but only under duress. Sir Eliard forced me to do it even though my senses rebelled against the notion. He and Cyril Paramore are the real culprits. Believe me, sirs, they worked on me until I consented.’

Nicholas was satisfied. ‘Let’s take him before a magistrate,’ he said.

‘Which one?’ asked Quilter with a grim chuckle. ‘Justice Haygarth?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need to collect him on the way.’

Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill rarely spent much time alone. While they worked together with surpassing brilliance onstage, they were less than friendly towards each other when they left it. The mutual antagonism went deeper than professional envy. Their private lives occupied such different worlds and their attitudes towards their fellow men were at such variance that they could find nothing to share with pleasure. It was all the more surprising, then, that the two of them sat apart from the rest of the company, deep in conversation and, apparently, in close agreement for once. Everyone else contributed to the boisterous atmosphere in the taproom but the two principal actors were solemn. Over a cup apiece of Canary wine, they brooded on their future.

‘When will you tell them, Lawrence?’ asked Gill.

‘I hope that we may never have to do so.’

‘The other sharers deserve to know the truth.’

‘They have known the truth about Lord Westfield for long enough,’ said Firethorn. ‘Our patron is a pleasure-seeker, a man so riddled with bad debts that, were he a vessel, he’d have sunk to the bed of the ocean by now.’

‘The likelihood is that he will take the rest of us with him.’

‘Not if Nick Bracewell’s plan has worked.’

‘It is too risky.’

‘We did our share, Barnaby. We traduced that despicable moneylender, as we were bid. If the fellow was in the gallery, his ears would have been burnt off with shame. Edmund was a most slimy Sir Eliard.’

‘And that’s the other thing, Lawrence.’

‘What is?’

‘Nicholas may save us from bankruptcy but even he cannot keep Edmund.’

‘No,’ sighed Firethorn. ‘We must resign ourselves to his loss.’

Gill pulled a face. ‘Then we head for the wilderness.’

Alexander Marwood emerged from the crowd to push his emaciated face at them. Pallid and wasted, he looked as if he had risen from his deathbed to haunt them. He wagged a skeletal finger with indignation.

‘You’ll bring the law down around my ears,’ he complained.

‘Then sell finer wine and better ale,’ said Firethorn.

‘I speak of your play, sir. It was an outrage.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No, Master Firethorn. I never watch your performances. Plays are an abomination. When I lay sick in bed, I was forced to listen to some of them and that was enough of an ordeal. Now you inflict this new threat on me.’

‘What threat?’ asked Gill.

‘Prosecution.’

Firethorn snorted. ‘You should have been prosecuted for ugliness years ago.’

‘Everyone is talking of the way that you mocked Sir Eliard Slaney today.’

‘It was no more than the rogue deserved.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ said Marwood, ‘but he is a powerful man. Nobody with any sense dares to cross Sir Eliard or they will suffer for it. When he hears what you’ve done, he’ll bring an action against the company for seditious libel. Since you perform in my yard, papers will be served on me as well.’

‘Prison is the best place for you.’

‘Do not sneer, Master Firethorn. I’ll demand restitution.’

‘Demand all you will,’ said Firethorn. ‘You’ll not get a penny for us.’

‘The Queen’s Head must not suffer.’

‘It has been suffering since the day you became its landlord.’

‘Bah!’

Marwood turned on his heel and scuttled off, muttering loudly. Firethorn and Hoode were even more subdued now. Threatened by the loss of their playwright and the disappearance of their patron, they had Marwood’s unending laments to cope with as well. They were just about to sink into a deeper misery when Edmund Hoode arrived.

‘What?’ he said affably. ‘Sitting apart from your fellows?’

‘Barnaby and I had business to discuss,’ said Firethorn.

‘Is there room at your table for me?’

‘For the few days that you are here,’ said Gill maliciously. ‘Though I am not sure that I wish to drink with a man who has treated us so harshly.’

‘Did I treat you harshly on that stage today?’ asked Hoode.

Gill was honest. ‘No, you did not, Edmund. You were supreme.’

‘You are honoured,’ said Firethorn. ‘Barnaby would never confess that of me.’

‘I never have good cause to admit your superiority.’

‘You have it every time we tread the boards together.’

‘Then why I have never noticed it, Lawrence?’

Hoode laughed. ‘Shame on the pair of you! I am back with you for two seconds and you fall to quarrelling. I swear I’ve never heard you agree about anything.’

‘We agree about you betrayal,’ retorted Gill.

‘Barnaby is right,’ said Firethorn seriously. ‘We are of the same mind there.’

‘And would this unprecedented harmony remain if I came back?’ said Hoode.

‘Do not tease us, Edmund. You’ve made your decision clear.’

‘It has been changed.’

Firethorn was startled. ‘By whom?’

‘By me, Lawrence.’

‘Not by Mistress Radley?’

‘No,’ said Hoode. ‘I thought that Avice was responsible until I saw that I had decided for myself. I provoked her. In making those alterations to The Merchant of Calais, I so offended her that she dismissed me from her house. I am rejected.’

‘So you come crawling back to us, do you?’ said Gill.

‘I never really left you, Barnaby. Do you not see? When the company’s future was in the balance, what did I choose? A life of idle luxury in the country or the exigencies of the playhouse? Without knowing it,’ he explained, ‘I put the company first. In doing what I did this afternoon, I knew that I would estrange a woman whom I loved. It was almost as if I willingly divorced Avice from my heart.’

‘Do you really wish to stay with us, Edmund?’ asked a delighted Firethorn.

‘If you will have me.’

‘Only if you bind yourself to us more firmly this time.’ warned Gill.

‘Impose no conditions on him, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn, rising to embrace the playwright. ‘Edmund has come home. This is the best news we’ve had since the landlord was taken sick. Our playwright is not only back, he has been rejected by a woman yet again. In short, he is the Edmund Hoode that we know and love.’

‘Rejected I may be,’ said Hoode, ‘but not abashed. That is the wonder of it. Lesser women have thrown me aside and left me in the pit of despondency. But this repulse brings nothing but relief. Avice sought a perfection that I could never attain and who would share his days with a wife who will always be disappointed in him? This is my true home,’ he went on, gazing around the taproom. ‘I am never happier than when I am with my fellows. In the name of Lord Westfield, I vow to march on.’

Gill was pessimistic. ‘If, that is, we are allowed to march anywhere.’

‘True,’ said Firethorn. ‘Our future is still in doubt.’

‘Is there no hope of redemption?’ asked Hoode.

‘Yes, Edmund. His name is Nick Bracewell.’

The capitulation of Bevis Millburne made things much easier for them. When they dragged him in front of Justice Haygarth, the magistrate could only splutter impotently. He was questioned relentlessly by Nicholas Bracewell, threatened by a bellicose Owen Elias and forced to defend his actions in front of the man whose father he had conspired to send to his death. With a gibbering Millburne before him, Haygarth soon gave up all pretence of being able to defend his actions. He admitted that he had suborned Justice Froggatt with money given to him by Sir Eliard Slaney and furnished them with fresh details of the moneylender’s villainy. Nicholas and his friends took the two men before a trustworthy magistrate and both culprits made full statements about their part in the conspiracy. Grateful to the self-appointed constables, the magistrate was especially pleased to be able to dispatch Adam Haygarth into custody, telling him that those who manipulated the law for their own selfish ends deserved to suffer its worst torments.

‘Where now, Nick?’ asked Elias, keen for more action.

‘I think we shall pay a visit to Master Paramore,’ said Nicholas.

‘Will he confess as easily as the others?’

‘No, Owen. He’s made a sterner stuff. He’ll deny everything.’

‘Good,’ said Elias. ‘I’ll have the pleasure of jogging his memory.’

‘So will I,’ added Quilter.

They hurried through the streets towards Paramore’s house, suffused with joy at the notion of being able to expose such a gross miscarriage of justice. It looked as if the stigma would be at last lifted from the name of Quilter. Enthusiasm lent wings to their heels. However, they met with resistance this time. Millburne and Haygarth had been caught off guard and compelled to admit everything. That was not the case with Cyril Paramore. Having witnessed the grisly scene at the house in Bishopsgate, he knew the danger he was in and was taking steps to avoid it. When the three friends arrived at the house, Paramore was mounting his horse to flee the city.

‘There he is!’ shouted Quilter, breaking into a run. ‘Stop him!’

‘Leave him to me,’ said Elias, drawing his sword.

But neither of them was able to stop the horseman. As they ran towards him, Paramore kicked his mount into a canter. Quilter was pushed back and Elias was buffeted to the ground by the animal’s flank. Nicholas stood his ground in the middle of the street. Whisking off his hat, he waved it violently to and fro in front of the horse’s face. It gave a loud neigh, skidded to a halt then rose up crazily on its back legs. Nicholas dodged its flailing hooves to pull Paramore from the saddle. Quilter and Elias rushed up to grab the man between them and drag him roughly to his feet. Holding the bridle, Nicholas calmed the horse with soothing words.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Paramore. ‘Unhand me, sirs.’

‘Not until we’ve talked to you,’ said Elias. He indicated his companion. ‘This is Frank Quilter. I believe that you knew his father.’

‘I knew him well enough to send him to the gallows. He was a murderer.’

‘My father was an innocent man,’ asserted Quilter.

‘Completely innocent,’ said Nicholas, still holding the horse. ‘We already have the testimony of Bevis Millburne and Justice Haygarth. Both named you as their accomplice, Master Paramore.’

‘Then they are liars.’

‘Liars and rogues,’ said Quilter. ‘Just like you.’

Paramore was defiant. ‘You have no proof.’

‘We have Sir Eliard’s ledger in our possession,’ said Nicholas, ‘and that proves everything. Your name appears in it alongside those of the others who took part in the conspiracy. Justice Froggatt received the largest bribe, I see.’

Paramore studied him with a mixture of disgust and apprehension. Remembering the corpse he had seen at Sir Eliard’s house, he began to understand what might have happened. His lip curled in a sneer.

‘You must be Nicholas Bracewell,’ he decided.

‘The very same, sir.’

‘Martin should have killed you in Turnmill Street.’

‘He tried once too often to stab me with his dagger,’ said Nicholas. ‘I was obliged to take it off him.’

‘You murdered him! I saw the body for myself.’

‘I killed in self-defence. He was armed and I was not.’

‘You’re a thief,’ said Paramore, struggling vainly to shake off the two men. ‘You broke into Sir Eliard’s house and stole his property.’

‘Lady Slaney invited me in,’ explained Nicholas. ‘I merely took advantage of my presence in the house to borrow the ledger and settle an old score with a hired assassin.’

Elias was impatient. ‘Shall I knock the truth out of him, Nick?’

‘I admit nothing,’ said Paramore boldly.

‘Then you need some encouragement, my friend.’

‘Leave him, Owen,’ ordered Nicholas. ‘We’ll return his horse to the stable then take him before the magistrate. He can join his friends in prison.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias, pinching the man’s sleeve. ‘He wears fine clothes now but they’ll be soiled after a night or two in a filthy cell. Take a last look at the daylight, Master Paramore. You’ll not be seeing it again for a long time.’

‘We’ve caught the underlings, Nick,’ said Quilter. ‘What about the man who paid them all? When do we collect him?’

‘As soon as we’ve bestowed this fellow where he belongs,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do not worry, Frank. Sir Eliard will not get away.’

Cyril Paramore’s harsh laughter echoed down the street.

The quick brain that had helped Sir Eliard Slaney to amass his wealth did not let him down. When his wife told him of her visitors that afternoon, he guessed immediately that Anne Hendrik had brought Nicholas Bracewell into the house. It was the only way to explain the death of Martin and the theft of the incriminating ledger. Sir Eliard’s reaction was swift. Within ten minutes, he and his wife were climbing into their coach with a number of hastily assembled belongings around them. Lady Slaney complained bitterly that she had had to leave most of her precious hats behind. Clutching his strongbox, her husband ordered her to be quiet.

‘You have done enough damage already, Rebecca,’ he said ruefully.

His wife was bewildered. ‘What is going on?’ she asked.

‘We are quitting the house for good.’

‘But why?’

‘I’ll explain in due course.’

‘Where are we going, Eliard?’

‘Far away,’ he said. ‘To the one place they would not think of finding us.’

Henry Cleaton had underestimated the power of his own profession to move speedily. No sooner had the Lord Chief Justice heard the lawyer’s tale and seen the evidence in the ledger than he dispatched mounted officers to arrest Sir Eliard Slaney. They arrived too late. Perplexed servants told them how their master had fled the house with everything that he could grab. The officers were still pressing for details as Nicholas Bracewell and the others arrived. When they heard what had happened, the newcomers understood the meaning of Cyril Paramore’s laughter. He knew of Sir Eliard’s flight.

‘I blame myself,’ said Nicholas bitterly. ‘We gave him too much time.’

Quilter sighed. ‘That’s what I feared, Nick.’

‘I thought we needed to round up the others first. Their confessions rip away any hope Sir Eliard has of defence. When we caught them, we tightened the noose around his neck. That was my reasoning.’

‘No matter. We simply run him to ground.’

Elias turned to one of the officers. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘To Oxford, it seems,’ replied the man. ‘The servants told us he has a house there. Sir Eliard and his wife travel by coach. That means they’ll leave by Ludgate. We’ll go after them and try to catch them up.’

‘Wait!’ advised Nicholas. ‘First, search the house.’

‘Yes,’ said Quilter. ‘That way you may be sure the bird has flown. You do not wish to gallop off on the road to Oxford if Sir Eliard and his wife are hiding here.’

‘That is not the only reason to go inside, Frank.’ Nicholas spoke to the officer. ‘Look in the counting house, my friend. You’ll find a body there. I can shed light on how the man came to die.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the officer.

He led his companions into the house to begin the search.

‘Why did you tell him that, Nick?’ asked Quilter. ‘It will only delay us.’

‘Come,’ urged Elias. ‘Let’s borrow horses and ride after the coach. We’ll find it long before these fellows.’

‘I’m sure that we would, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but to no advantage. I do not believe that Sir Eliard and his wife are inside it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he is too guileful to be caught like that. If he told the servants that he was heading for Oxford, that is the one place he will avoid. I’ll wager that he sent his coach through Ludgate to decoy us.’

‘He will surely need it himself,’ said Quilter.

‘I think not.’

‘How else could he and his wife travel?’

Nicholas pondered. He recalled the boasts that Anne Hendrik had endured from Lady Slaney. Her customer talked in fulsome terms about her husband’s properties. He owned a number of houses. To which of his expensive rabbit holes would Sir Eliard run?

Nicholas clocked his fingers.

‘Owen,’ he said.

‘Yes, Nick,’ replied the Welshman.

‘I must stay here to speak with the officers. A dead body must be explained. I’ve nothing to fear if I tell the truth. You must go to the quayside.’

‘Why?’

‘Find out which ships sail this evening.’

‘Is that how the devil is escaping?’

‘I believe that it may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘Hurry — and wait for us there.’

Elias nodded and set off down the street at a brisk pace. Quilter was mystified.

‘Are they fleeing the country, then?’ he asked in alarm.

‘It’s possible.’

‘Then that black-hearted rogue will outrun justice.’

‘No, Frank. We’ll catch him yet, I promise you.’

‘Will we?’

‘If the company will release us both for long enough.’

‘I’ll chase Sir Eliard to the ends of the earth.’

‘We’ll not need to go quite that far,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘There is one question I must ask, however. How good a sailor are you?’

Lord Westfield was in great pain. His head was pounding, his stomach aching and his gout at its most agonising. Alone in the parlour of his London house, he sat in a chair with his foot propped up on a stool. Ordinarily, he saw himself as a leader of fashion but he was not wearing any of his ostentatious apparel today. He had chosen a long gown for comfort and had taken off the shoe from his throbbing foot. A cup of wine stood within reach on the table. His physician had forbidden him to drink any more alcohol but it was the only thing that gave him any relief from the pain. Nothing, however, could still the turbulence in his mind. Whenever he contemplated the future, a rush of panic overtook him. It was the end. After years of unbridled extravagance, he was finally confronted with the reckoning. He could no longer borrow from one person in order to pay off another and gain a temporary respite. All his debts were in the hands of one man and they were being called in. Lord Westfield was compelled to face the truth. During his long years of overindulgence, he had been committing financial suicide.

A manservant knocked before entering the room with a tentative step.

‘You have a visitor, my lord,’ he said.

‘Send him away,’ replied the old man irritably. ‘I’ll receive nobody today.’

‘The gentleman was most insistent.’

‘I, too, am insistent. Whose house is this? His or mine?’

Another spasm of pain shot through him as he realised the truthful answer to the question. The house, like everything in it, was not his at all. It had been borrowed from a friend to whom he had promised to pay a rent that never actually appeared. The servant was still hovering. Lord Westfield glared at him.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said with a token bow. ‘I’ll send Master Firethorn away.’

Interest was sparked. ‘Master Firethorn? You say that Lawrence Firethorn is here? Why did you not tell me so, man?’

‘Is he to come or go, my lord?’

‘Send him in, but warn him of my condition.’

‘I will.’

The man gave another token bow and withdrew. Lord Westfield sat up in his chair and tried to adjust his gown. When his visitor was shown in, the old man even contrived a weary smile of welcome. Firethorn practised his most obsequious bow.

‘My lord,’ he said.

‘You find me in torment, Master Firethorn.’

‘Is there anything that I may do to relieve it?’

‘Nothing, sir. If my foot does not hurt, my stomach does. When that pain abates, my head begins to split. Mostly, however, all three afflictions plague me at once.’ He peered at his visitor. ‘I am a poor host.’

‘Not at all, my lord.’

‘And an even poorer patron. Poverty-stricken, in fact.’

‘That is what I have come to discuss,’ said Firethorn.

‘Has the company been informed?’

‘Not yet, my lord. I have only confided in certain of the sharers. Tidings like that would dampen the most ardent spirits. I spared my fellows the shock.’

‘The longer it is delayed, the worse it will be.’

‘That is one way of looking at it.’

‘It is the only way, Master Firethorn.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘No more of Westfield’s Men? That’s like saying there’s to be no more fine wine or pretty ladies. A precious adornment is about to vanish and my name will vanish with it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Do you know why I wanted my own theatre company?’

‘You’ve told me many times,’ said Firethorn tactfully.

‘It can bear repetition,’ said the other. ‘I wanted to bring some harmless pleasure to the capital. I wanted Westfield’s Men to be a cipher for joyous entertainment.’

‘And so it has been, my lord.’

‘Until now. All that will go. And I’ll be quite forgotten as a patron.’

‘Never,’ said Firethorn. ‘You’ll live on forever in our hearts.’

‘Hearts, alas, cannot contrive to pay bills.’

‘They can if they are stout enough.’ Firethorn beamed. ‘Let me explain, my lord. I’m no physician but I may at least be able to medicine your mind. Your plight is not as desperate as you fear.’

‘But it is,’ croaked the old man. ‘Sir Eliard Slaney demands a settlement of all my debts within a calendar month. If he gave me a decade, I could not settle them. Not without borrowing heavily from someone else.’

‘That loan is forthcoming.’

‘How? The players could never raise such a sum.’

‘It will not have to be raised. Thus it stands.’

Firethorn gave him a summary of recent events surrounding the company. When he explained why the moneylender had turned with such venom on them, he gave his patron an insight into just how corrupt and vindictive the man was. Lord Westfield was entranced. The pain in his foot gradually eased, the ache in his stomach faded away and the pounding in his head became a gentle throb. Firethorn’s news lifted his spirits completely. He smacked his palms together in appreciation.

‘Heaven forfend! This book holder of yours is a hero.’

‘Nick Bracewell sets a high value on friendship, my lord,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is why he risked his life to help Frank Quilter in his extremity. Their efforts have been richly rewarded — and you will reap some of those rewards.’

‘Is it true? Sir Eliard Slaney put to flight?’

‘Ignominiously.’

‘What of his loans?’

‘He is in no position to call them in.’

‘This grows better and better.’

‘His papers have been confiscated by order of the Lord Chief Justice and all his dealings suspended. In short, my lord,’ continued Firethorn, rubbing his hands, ‘you are released from your debts and Westfield’s Men are reprieved from their death sentence.’

‘These are wondrous tidings,’ shouted the patron, unwisely trying to stand on his tender foot. He winced at the pain then shrugged it off. ‘Sir Eliard routed and his vile confederates jailed? I could not have wished for more.’

‘Nor I, my lord.’

‘Except, of course, the capture of the rogue himself.’

‘That will soon take place.’

‘But you told me that he had sailed out of the country.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘Nick Bracewell has gone after him,’ he said.

‘What — across the sea?’

‘Nick is something of a sailor himself. They have hired a boat. He and Frank Quilter will not let Sir Eliard get away.’

Lady Rebecca Slaney was unrecognisable from the woman who had presided over the splendid house in Bishopsgate. Deprived of her wardrobe, separated from her collection of hats, hustled out of her home and forced to run like a fugitive, she had endured a testing voyage to France. Three lonely days on the coast had followed while they waited for a vessel to take them to their destination. The strain of it all transformed her appearance. Her attire was stained by travel, her hair dishevelled and her face lined with fatigue. No matter how much she pleaded with her husband, she was given only a partial explanation of why they had had to leave London so suddenly. When they finally secured a passage from France, she tried to question him once more. They were standing on deck as the ship scudded across a calm sea. Lady Slaney was dispirited.

‘Are we never to go back to England?’ she said with consternation.

‘It was time for us to leave, Rebecca.’

‘What of the property that we left behind?’

‘Think no more of that,’ he said. ‘It belongs to another life.’

She was desolate. ‘Have I lost everything?’

‘Be brave, my love. We have more than enough.’ He patted the strongbox that had never left his side. ‘This will buy us contentment for the rest of our lives.’

‘But contentment comes from our position in society and we have none. A week ago, you promised me that we would be presented at Court. Yet now we are hiding like wanted felons.’

‘That’s not true, Rebecca,’ he rejoined. ‘Wait until we get to the house. It was ever your favourite of all the properties we owned.’

‘Only because we could come and go as we pleased,’ she argued. ‘This time, it seems, we come to stay with no prospect of escape.’

‘Bear with me.’

‘How can I when you will not be honest with your wife?’

‘Look,’ said Sir Eliard, pointing. ‘There is a sight to gladden your heart.’

But it failed to arouse any gladness in his jaded companion. As a rule, Lady Slaney was thrilled when she got her first glimpse of Jersey. It was a place that always inspired her. This time, however, she barely gave it a glance. Instead of gazing with pleasure at the magnificent Elizabeth Castle that dominated the bay of Saint Helier from its high eminence, she averted her eyes. The beautiful island with its mild climate and its rich soil had lost its appeal for her. Their house was no longer one of her prized possessions. It was a place of refuge. In England, they had lived in exquisite style. On Jersey, they would be in exile.

Rocks, reefs and currents made navigation difficult around the island. It seemed an age before the helmsman steered them safely into the harbour. Further humiliation awaited Lady Slaney. When she disembarked in London, a coach would be waiting to take them home. Here, because no letter of warning had been sent ahead, there was nobody to welcome them or to drive them in comfort to their house. They had to make do with a horse and cart that rattled noisily along and seemed intent on exploring the deepest potholes on the road. The passengers were bounced and bumped for almost a mile until they turned into the drive of their splendid residence. Sheltered by trees, the house was set at the heart of an estate of thirty acres. It was an imposing mansion with a superfluity of glass that made it dazzle in the sunlight. Sir Eliard emitted a laugh of relief and his wife rallied for the first time.

Spotting them through the window, the steward came rushing out to greet them.

‘Your rooms will soon be ready, Sir Eliard,’ he said.

The moneylender was puzzled. ‘But you were not expecting us.’

‘Not until a short while ago.’

‘You had wind of our arrival?’

‘Yes, Sir Eliard,’ said the man. ‘The visitors told us that you had landed.’

‘Visitors?’

‘They came a short while ago. That is why we had no time to harness the horses. You arrived before I could dispatch the coachman.

‘Who are these visitors?’

‘They gave no names, Sir Eliard.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Waiting for you inside.’

Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter stood at one of the windows and watched them approach. They felt sorry for Lady Slaney when they saw the look of dismay on her face but they had no sympathy for her husband. Angered by the news that his whereabouts were known, Sir Eliard came striding towards the house with his cane in his hand. The visitors drew back from the window and returned to their seats. Above their heads were matching portraits of the owners of the house. Lady Slaney’s haughty expression was complemented by the arrogant pose of Sir Eliard. Judging by their appearance, they might have been the rulers of the island.

When he burst into the parlour, Sir Eliard had regained his imperious tone.

‘Who, in God’s name, are you, sirs?’ he demanded.

He paled as he recognised the features of Gerard Quilter in the latter’s son. When his eyes flicked to the other visitor, he guessed that it must be Nicholas Bracewell. He needed a few moments to recover his composure.

‘You are trespassing on my property,’ he said.

‘That is open to debate, Sir Eliard,’ returned Nicholas. ‘As a result of information that we placed in the hands of a lawyer, all your property has been sequestered.’

‘Nobody can touch me here.’

‘We can,’ said Quilter, standing up. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then you will realise why I am here.’

‘You and Nicholas Bracewell,’ said Sir Eliard with measured contempt. He looked at Nicholas. ‘Have you come to Jersey in flight from the law?’

Nicholas rose to his feet. ‘That was your prerogative, Sir Eliard.’

‘You are a murderer and a thief. You got into my house under false pretences and broke into my counting house by force.’

‘A key was used to open the door.’

‘However you gained access, you violated the law.’

‘So did your assassin when he tried to kill me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do not dare to stand upon legality, Sir Eliard. We know that you corrupted Justice Froggatt at the trial.’

‘Yes,’ said Quilter with bitterness. ‘It was not enough for you to pay two of your friends to bear false witness against my father, you made that weasel of a magistrate, Adam Haygarth, bribe the judge with five hundred pounds. Justice Haygarth swore as much on the Bible when we dragged him before an honest member of his profession.’

Sir Eliard became sullen. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘Your wife is too free with her boasts,’ said Nicholas. ‘She told her milliner a dozen times how much she treasured this house on Jersey. I guessed that you’d be here.’

‘No other ship was due for France for days.’

‘That’s why we came in our own vessel. We arrived yesterday. Hearing that no ships had come, we bided our time at the harbour. When we saw you leaving the vessel today, we came on ahead to warn your servants.’

‘Nick sailed with Drake,’ explained Quilter proudly. ‘A voyage to Jersey was no test of seamanship for a man who has circumnavigated the globe. We hired a fishing boat, Sir Eliard. Its stink was vile but no worse than the one inside this house.’

Tired and flustered, Lady Slaney came into the room and saw the visitors. Though Nicholas was now in his more usual garb, she recognised him at once as the man who had called on her in the company of Anne Hendrik.

‘That was him, Eliard,’ she said, pointing. ‘The Dutchman of whom I spoke.’

‘He is no more a Dutchman than you or I, Rebecca,’ said her husband.

‘Who is he and what is he doing in our house?’

‘Leave this to me.’

‘I do not trust the fellow.’

‘Step outside a moment.’

He ushered her out of the room and spoke in an undertone to his steward. The man nodded then escorted Lady Slaney away. Servants were unloading the luggage from the cart. When one of them carried in the strongbox, Sir Eliard took it from him and brought it into the parlour. He set it down on the table.

‘I am sorry that your visit is so brief,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lady Slaney may stay here but you will have to come back with us to England.’

‘No less a person than the Lord Chief Justice wishes to see you,’ said Quilter. ‘He does not look kindly on those who spread corruption in the courts. You will have to bid farewell to your wife.’

‘Need it come to this?’ asked Sir Eliard with a sly smile. ‘I understand your resentment, Master Quilter, and I can see that you have your father’s resolve. He and I fell out, alas. He was like a burr that stuck to me wherever I went. I had to brush him off.’ He took out a key. ‘There is no way that I can bring your father back, but I can offer recompense for his loss.’ He unlocked the strongbox and opened the lid. ‘I can make you rich, Master Quilter, richer than you ever imagined.’

‘Keep your money!’ retorted Quilter.

‘Let me go and both of you can live in luxury hereafter.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Ten times the amount in your strongbox would not tempt us. Besides, Sir Eliard, the money is no longer yours to give. Your property is confiscated. Officers will soon arrive from England to take this house and all its contents into the possession of the Crown. Your strongbox will sail back with them.’

‘Would you take me by force?’ asked Sir Eliard.

Quilter drew his sword. ‘Gladly. Give me the excuse to do so.’

‘You are foolish men. You turned down the chance to gain from this enterprise.’

‘Your arrest is the only gain that I seek.’

‘It will not be effected by you, Master Quilter.’

Sir Eliard snapped his fingers and the steward reappeared with one of the manservants. Both were armed with muskets and looked as if they knew how to use the weapons. They moved swiftly into position to cover the visitors.

Sir Eliard smirked. ‘Be so kind as to lay down your swords, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And your daggers, while you are at it.’

Quilter turned to Nicholas for guidance. The latter gave a nod then both put their weapons on the floor. Sir Eliard waved them back a few steps so that he could pick up one of the swords. He brandished it with a malicious gleam in his eye.

‘Your boldness is your undoing,’ he told them. ‘Had you waited, you might have sailed from England with the officers and looked to take me in irons. As it is, you came too quick and unprepared.’ He indicated the other men. ‘It is a rule of mine that I always have someone at my back. That is why I have prospered so.’

‘Your prosperity is at an end, Sir Eliard,’ said Nicholas.

‘Is it? I think not. Your warning has been timely. If others are to come in search of me, they’ll not find me on the island. Lady Slaney and I will be long gone.’ He gave a cackle. ‘We’ll stay, however, to ensure that you have a decent burial. Take them out!’

His men obeyed. With a musket prodding their backs, Nicholas and Quilter were forced out of the room and along a passageway to the rear of the house. They went out into a formal garden that was neatly divided by a series of hedges and trees. Still carrying the sword, Sir Eliard led the way until he came to a secluded bower. He turned to face the prisoners, irritated that they showed no fear. He waved the sword at Nicholas.

‘I’ve half a mind to kill you myself,’ he said. ‘But for you, we’d never have been caught. My only regret is that the interfering milliner is not here to die with you. Say your prayers, sir, for you will never see the lady again.’

Nicholas had, however, seen someone over the man’s shoulder. He alerted Quilter with a nudge then took a step towards Sir Eliard. His voice was calm.

‘You wrong us, Sir Eliard,’ he said. ‘We have learnt from your example. We, too, have someone at our back. Here he comes.’

Sir Eliard and his men turned their heads to see an extraordinary sight. Hurtling towards them out of the bushes was a man who was executing a series of such rapid somersaults that it was impossible to separate his head from his feet. The prisoners took full advantage of the diversion. Nicholas quickly disarmed one of the men then felled him with a blow from the musket. Quilter wrestled with the other man until the weapon discharged its ball harmlessly into the air. Lightfoot, meanwhile, completed his performance with the most effective trick of all. When he reached the group, he put extra spring into a final somersault and kicked Sir Eliard full in the face, splitting open his nose and knocking him backwards. Nicholas was on the moneylender in a flash to snatch the sword from his hand and hold it to his throat. Having subdued the servant, Quilter recovered the loaded musket to point it at the moneylender. The long and destructive career of Sir Eliard Slaney was finally at an end. Dazed and bloodied, he could do nothing but groan with pain.

Lightfoot spread his arms to bask in applause that did not come.

‘What is wrong?’ he asked in disappointment. ‘Did nobody enjoy my tumbling?’

‘I enjoyed it, Lightfoot,’ said Quilter.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘So did I. And I can promise you one thing. Sir Eliard will remember it for the rest of his days.’

Lightfoot gave his audience a mock bow.

A new play by Edmund Hoode was always an occasion of note but the premiere of The Duke of Verona gave particular cause for celebration. The fear of extinction had been lifted from Westfield’s Men, enabling a revivified Lawrence Firethorn to blossom in the title role and encouraging Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias to shine brilliantly in supporting parts. United once more with his fellows, the playwright himself caught the eye in the small but telling role of a Turkish ambassador. Another deserter had returned. Now that his father had been exonerated and given a posthumous pardon, Francis Quilter was restored to the company and acted with a new passion. The rest of the actors were unaware of how close they had come to disaster but they followed where the leading players led. Nicholas Bracewell controlled everything with unhurried ease.

The Duke of Verona might not be a masterpiece but it was a stirring drama, containing moments of high tragedy that were offset by scenes of comic genius, and touching on themes of loyalty and betrayal. The audience at the Queen’s Head was spellbound for two hours in the afternoon sun. Anne Hendrik and Preben van Loew watched in wonderment. Lightfoot was an even more delighted spectator. Avice Radley was a wistful onlooker, admiring the quality of the play yet having grave reservations about its author. But the person who enjoyed the performance most was Lord Westfield himself, resplendent in a new suit and surrounded by an entourage that was even larger and more decadent than usual. Lord Westfield was back in his element. The closing lines of the play had a special significance for him.

‘All troubles now are gone, all dangers fled,

The noble Duke with bravery has led

The fight against his foes without surcease,

To triumph as the patron saint of peace.’

Spurred on by the words in the Epilogue, he was at his most saintly and patronising when he welcomed the members of the company to a feast in a private room at the Queen’s Head. It was a rare treat for Westfield’s Men. Their patron supported his troupe from his habitual seat in the gallery but he never mingled with them, still less did he offer them a treat of any kind. They fell on the banquet with relish. As he bit into a leg of chicken, Firethorn turned to his book holder.

‘This is all your doing, Nick,’ he said gratefully.

‘Frank Quilter started it all,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Had it not been for his burning faith in his father, I would never have ventured on this business.’

‘I am glad that you did. But you must take all the credit for Edmund’s return. Your appeal not only rescued him from Mistress Radley,’ Firethorn pointed out, ‘it gave Edmund the urge to finish the new play. You saw the result this afternoon.’

‘Another success for Westfield’s Men.’

‘Our patron revels in it. And there’s more bounty yet.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, sipping his wine. ‘We actually coaxed a smile out of that ghoulish landlord. When I told him that Lord Westfield would be gracing us with his presence at a feast, Alexander Marwood all but kissed me.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Nicholas, looking along a table that was laden with delicious food and expensive drink. ‘This celebration of ours will put a lot of money into the landlord’s purse.’

‘That is the only thing that worries me, Nick.’

‘What is?’

Firethorn waved an arm. ‘How on earth can Lord Westfield pay for all of this?’

‘With ease,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our patron will borrow the money.’

They joined in the general laughter.