The Bawdy Basket

Chapter Three

Margery Firethorn was a motherly woman of generous proportions, with wide hips, a thickening waist and a surging bosom. As befitted the wife of a famous actor, she had a decidedly theatrical air herself and, in the heat of argument, could match her husband for sheer power, strutting and ranting to such effect that she might have been treading the boards at the Queen’s Head before a large audience. In point of fact, Lawrence Firethorn was the sole spectator of her towering rages, stirring performances that he would not inflict on any man, however much he hated him, and which, in the interests of domestic harmony, he did his best to avoid at all costs.

Still handsome, and with an appetite for pleasure equal to his own, Margery was a loyal, long-suffering wife who ran their home in Shoreditch with bustling efficiency, brought up their children in a Christian manner, nurtured the company’s apprentices and coped with the multiple problems of sharing her life with the wayward genius who led Westfield’s Men. Those unwise enough to cross Margery felt the lacerating sharpness of her tongue, but there was one person who invariably brought out her softer side. When he called at the house that evening, she wrapped him in a warm embrace.

‘Nicholas!’ she said with delight. ‘What brings you to Old Street?’

‘The pleasure of seeing you, Margery,’ he said gallantly.

‘Fetch yourself in. Lawrence did not tell me that you were expected.’

‘I called in hope of a private word with him.’

‘Then your arrival is timely. He has just returned home.’

Closing the door behind her, she led Nicholas Bracewell into the parlour with a girlish giggle of delight. Firethorn was in parental mood for once, balancing a son on each knee while one of them read a passage from the Bible. When he saw his visitor, he ruffled the boys’ hair, told one of them that his reading was improving then sent both lads on their way. Margery followed them into the kitchen to get some refreshments. Firethorn waved Nicholas to a chair then sat on the edge of his own.

‘Thank heaven!’ he said. ‘I need you mightily, Nick.’

‘How did the play fare this afternoon?’

‘It was a disgrace. Owen Elias blundered his way around the stage, James Ingram forgot more lines than he remembered and I was worse than the pair of them put together. The rest of the company was woefully slothful. I tell you, Nick,’ he continued, rolling his eyes, ‘I was ashamed to put such a half-baked dish before an audience. The only person who distinguished himself was Edmund Hoode.’

‘What of George Dart?’

‘A poor substitute for Nicholas Bracewell, but the lad worked well.’

‘I knew that he would.’

‘Mirth and Madness was a foolish choice,’ said Firethorn, sitting back in his chair. ‘No man can play comedy with a heavy heart.’

‘It sounds as if Edmund contrived to do so.’

‘We’ll come to him in a moment, Nick. First, tell me your news.’

‘It was as frightful as you would expect,’ said Nicholas. ‘I hope I do not have to see such pitiful sights again, or hear such obscene taunts from a crowd.’

‘We were the ones deserving of obscene taunts today.’

‘They would have been mild beside the scorn and derision at Smithfield.’

Nicholas gave him a brief account of the executions, omitting some of the more gory aspects and playing down the effect on him and on Francis Quilter. Stroking his beard with the backs of his fingers, Firethorn listened attentively. When his visitor had finished, his host heaved a deep sigh.

‘You and Frank were not the only ones to witness an execution today,’ he confessed. ‘Our audience was present at one as well. Mirth and Madness was butchered to death by Westfield’s Men. I’ll warrant that you can guess why.’

‘Unease about Frank’s position in the company?’

‘That was only a minor cause, Nick. This afternoon’s disaster arose mainly from another source. It concerns the future of our book holder.’ A pleading note came into his voice. ‘You surely cannot mean to leave us.’

‘I stand by my word. If Frank is evicted, I go with him.’

‘But where would the company be without Nicholas Bracewell?’

Margery came sailing in from the kitchen with a tray that bore two cups of Canary wine and some honey cakes. She arrived in time to catch her husband’s last remark and it put an expression of disbelief on her face.

‘Westfield’s Men without Nicholas?’ she cried. ‘That would be like the River Thames without water — empty and meaningless. What’s all this talk of losing Nicholas?’

‘A mere jest, my love,’ said Firethorn, patting her affectionately on the rump. ‘It was in bad taste and I withdraw it forthwith.’

‘I should hope so, Lawrence,’ she warned, putting the tray on the table. ‘When you find a jewel among men, you do not throw him heedlessly away. Hold on to your book holder with both hands, do you hear? By heavens!’ she exclaimed, face reddening with indignation. ‘The very notion makes every part about me quiver. I’ll not stand for it. Let me be blunt, Lawrence. Lose Nicholas and you lose my love. It is as simple as that.’

She handed them a cup of wine each then pressed a honey cake upon Nicholas while studiously ignoring her husband. Tossing her head to indicate her displeasure, she swept out of the room. Firethorn took a long sip of wine.

‘You see my dilemma, Nick,’ he asked. ‘If you desert us, the marital bed will turn to ice. Can you not see what harm you will bring to this house?’

‘Not of my own choosing.’

‘What Margery says is what the rest of the company believe. Except for Barnaby, of course,’ he added, ‘but his voice will always dissent. You are our guardian angel. When they heard that you might be leaving us, our fellows were stricken with remorse. The results were on display this afternoon at the Queen’s Head.’

‘How does the company feel about Frank Quilter?’

Firethorn paused. ‘Uncertainly.’

‘Would they welcome him back?’

‘Not without reservations,’ admitted the actor.

‘Then my own place with Westfield’s Men is in jeopardy.’

‘Do not be so rash, Nick! Would you turn your back so easily on our years of fellowship and achievement? Think of all we have been through, all that we have accomplished together.’

‘I do think about it,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘I weighed it carefully in the balance. Truly, it would break my heart to leave the company, but I could not stay if it turned on one of its number at a time when his condition is so piteous. All I ask for Frank is simple justice. It was denied his father but it must not be held back from him.’

‘I agree, I agree.’

‘Yet you declared that there was no place for him in Westfield’s Men.’

‘You misheard me, Nick,’ said Firethorn, renouncing his earlier decision. ‘What I was trying to do was to protect Frank from further ignominy.’

‘By taking his occupation away from him?’

‘No, by removing him from the public gaze. Murder has strong lungs. At present, it is bellowing the name of Quilter throughout London. Some of those raucous knaves you saw at Smithfield will seek their amusement at the Queen’s Head tomorrow. They will be part of our audience. What will happen if they discover that Gerard Quilter’s son is in the company?’ He drank more wine. ‘They will turn their abuse on him and we will all suffer as a result.’

‘That is not what you were saying this morning,’ observed Nicholas.

‘It is what I am saying now.’

‘Then you still mean to expel Frank?’

‘No, dear heart. I’d stop well short of that. The plan I’d commend to the others is that we simply rest him for a while, until his name no longer excites unruly elements. When the tumult dies down,’ he said with a persuasive smile, ‘we invite him back to grace our stage. This was my intent all along.’

‘Then it accords with my own suggestion,’ said Nicholas, grateful that Firethorn had been forced to change his mind. ‘Frank is resolved to clear his father’s name. Give him leave of absence to do so by releasing him from his contract, and, when he returns, the family name will be a source of pride once more.’

‘And you’ll stay with us?’

‘All the gunpowder in London would not shift me.’

‘Wonderful!’ said Firethorn, slapping his thigh.

‘But I’ll hear no disparagement of Frank Quilter,’ Nicholas cautioned. ‘Those who traduce him behind his back will have to answer to me.’

Firethorn rose quickly from his seat. ‘They’ll feel my wrath first, Nick,’ he promised, grabbing a honey cake to slip into his mouth before washing it down with the remainder of the wine. ‘I’ll ban the very mention of his name.’

‘There is no need for that.’

‘Great minds think alike. I knew that we could make common cause.’

Nicholas sampled his own wine before nibbling at the honey cake. He was pleased with the compromise that had been reached, especially as it had required little advocacy on his part. Margery’s intervention had been crucial. She had applied the kind of pressure that her husband was powerless to resist. Nicholas was glad that he had confronted the actor in his own home rather than in the crowded taproom at the Queen’s Head. He recalled an earlier remark made by his host.

‘You made mention of Edmund a while ago.’

‘Why, so I did.’

‘And you say that he alone burgeoned on the stage?’

‘He put the rest of us to shame, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Edmund was burning with zeal during the performance today. He was happier than I have ever seen him. I thought at first his elation sprang from the progress he was making on his new play.’

‘And it was not?’

‘Alas, no. When I asked him about the piece, he looked at me as if he did not understand what I was talking about. His mind was miles away.’

‘Oh dear!’ sighed Nicholas. ‘That can only mean one thing.’

Firethorn grimaced. ‘Who is the poor creature this time?’

Avice Radley was a comely woman in her late twenties with a buxom figure and a face of quiet loveliness. Still in the dress she wore to the play, she sat on a high-backed chair in the parlour of the house and composed herself for what she believed would be a significant encounter in her life. When the front door was opened to admit the visitor, she heard the sound of voices then footsteps echoed across the oak boards. There was a knock on the door before her maidservant entered. After ushering Edmund Hoode into the room, the girl withdrew as swiftly as she had been ordered. Avice Radley smiled. There was a long silence while the two of them appraised each other. Hoode was transfixed, staring at his admirer with mingled awe and hope. The vision he had glimpsed in the upper gallery at the Queen’s Head now took on corporeal shape and additional lustre. His nostrils detected the same perfume that had enchanted him when it arose from her first letter. Hoode was enraptured.

For her part, Avice Radley was in no way disappointed. The dramatist whose plays she had watched and whose acting she had applauded could never be described as handsome, but his features were so pleasant and his manner so willing that his outward defects became invisible. After receipt of her invitation, Hoode had repaired to his lodging to put on his finest doublet and hose. Remembering that he had not yet doffed his hat, he whisked it off with a flourish and gave a low bow. She smiled again.

‘Thank you for coming, Master Hoode,’ she said.

‘Nothing would have kept me away, dear lady.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Apart from sudden death.’

‘No wife, no mistress, perhaps?’ she probed. ‘No family obligations?’

‘I live quite alone.’

‘Then what sustains you?’

‘My work,’ he said. ‘But even that is put aside for you, dear lady.’

‘Good.’

She indicated a chair and he lowered himself onto it, putting his hat on the table.

‘I feel at a disadvantage,’ he said nervously. ‘While you know much about me, I have precious little information about you beyond the fact that you hold a pen with the most graceful hand, and write words that could charm a bird out of a tree.’

She laughed. ‘Are birds able to read, then?’

‘This one is,’ he said, a hand on his breast. ‘When your first letter came, I dashed off a reply before I realised that I knew neither your name nor your address.’ He glanced around the room. ‘One of those omissions has now been repaired.’

‘Not exactly, sir. I only keep this house in the city for those few occasions when I visit London. My principal dwelling is in Hertfordshire, near St Albans.’

‘You own two houses, then?’

‘Both inherited from my late husband.’

‘I see.’

Hoode’s guess had been confirmed. As soon as he came into the room, he sensed that she was a widow. She was far too attractive not to have married, yet was so patently full of Christian goodness that adultery would never even have been a remote option, let alone a temptation. Also, when he scrutinised her face, he saw traces of sadness around the eyes and mouth. Evidently, she was a woman who had known grief.

‘I am sorry to learn of his death,’ he said softly.

‘It was a bitter blow. He was the kindest man in the world, Master Hoode, but none of us can choose the time when we are called. I mourned him for two years,’ she confided. ‘Now it is time to live my own life again.’

‘I would be honoured to be part of it, dear lady.’

‘Then first, know my name.’

‘The letter “A” must stand for “angel”, must it not?’

‘You flatter me, Master Hoode.’

‘Not as much as you flatter me, I assure you.’

‘My name is Avice Radley, so another mystery is solved.’

‘That leaves only the greatest mystery of all, Mistress Radley,’ he said. ‘Why should someone like you take an interest in a humble author like myself?’

‘There is nothing humble about your work, sir, I assure you. It is the glory of the stage. And so were you this afternoon,’ she went on. ‘You made the other actors look like buffoons beside you. When we quit the inn yard, it was your name that was on the lips of the audience. I was thrilled that I might chance to meet you.’

‘It was so with me.’

‘You are a magician with words, Master Hoode.’

‘Then we are two of a kind,’ he said with a disarming smile, ‘for your letters entranced me. I have never met anyone who could conjure up such sweet phrases and delightful conceits.’

‘It is good to hear that we have something in common already.’

‘And much else besides, I venture to hope.’

‘I share that wish, Master Hoode.’

‘Be so bold as to call me “Edmund”, for I feel that we have stepped over the barrier that separates acquaintance from friendship.’

‘Very well, Edmund. That contents me.’

He waited for a similar concession on her side but it did not come. Avice Radley was too conventional to allow ready access to her Christian name so early in a friendship. He admired her for that. It was a right that he would have to earn. Hoode sat there and luxuriated in her presence. The opulence of the house and the quality of her apparel suggested a considerable degree of wealth. Her voice was an indication of her character. Soft and melodious, it spoke of intelligence, tolerance and decency. Avice Radley was obviously not one of the many rich, widowed, promiscuous women who haunted the playhouses regularly in search of random lovers. She was highly selective and her choice had fallen on him. Her poise faltered for a second.

‘I am in uncharted territory, Edmund,’ she confessed.

‘How so?’

‘I have never done anything like this before.’

‘I suspected as much.’

‘Was my invitation too impulsive and unseemly?’

‘Far from it, Mistress Radley,’ he said, raising a palm. ‘I too am somewhat adrift here. This is a situation in which I do not find myself every day.’

‘Merely once a week, then?’ she teased.

He became impassioned. ‘No, dear lady. Someone like you will only come along once in a lifetime!’ He checked himself and offered an apologetic smile. ‘Forgive me. I am a trifle overwhelmed at my good fortune.’

‘But you hardly know me, Edmund.’

‘I know enough to see that you are an answer to a prayer.’

She was touched by his rejoinder. It restored her aplomb. She studied him for a long time, remembering the pleasure he had given her in various ways on the stage at the Queen’s Head. What surprised her most was his remarkable modesty. He had none of the vanity and ostentation that went hand-in-glove with his chosen profession. Edmund Hoode was a man entirely without airs and graces.

‘You carry your talent so lightly, Edmund.’

‘It is not a heavy burden.’

‘Burden?’ she repeated. ‘Do you see it as a load that you must bear?’

‘Sometimes, Mistress Radley.’

‘Yet you said earlier that you live for your work.’

‘Only because I have to honour my contract.’

‘Do you not enjoy writing plays?’

‘It is too vexing a business to permit enjoyment,’ he said. ‘Sweat and suffering are my constant companions when I sit at my table. Scenes have to be beaten out of my brain like horseshoes upon an anvil. Uncertainty ever sits on my shoulder. The only play I have worked on with any semblance of pleasure is the latest one.’

‘And what is that called?’

He needed a moment to remember the title. ‘The Duke of Verona.’

‘Does it bring you a sense of fulfilment?’ she asked.

‘I thought it did, Mistress Radley. Now I have my doubts.’

‘What of your work as a player?’

‘That is always secondary. There is a certain satisfaction in the applause that we receive but I am conscious that the spectators are rarely acclaiming me. I can never rival the magnificence of a Lawrence Firethorn, or the inspired clowning of Barnaby Gill, or even the skills of lesser mortal like Owen Elias.’

‘You outshone all three of them in Mirth and Madness.’

‘That was due to their weakness on the day rather than to any superior strength on my part. Besides,’ he acknowledged, ‘I did not eclipse Barnaby. He was in fine form this afternoon and reminded the audience that we were playing a comedy.’

‘I saw nobody onstage but you, Edmund.’

‘Then I am glad I was worthy of your indulgence.’

She looked at him quizzically. ‘Writing plays can be onerous, then?’

‘Onerous and unrewarding.’

‘And you do not take yourself too seriously as an actor?’

‘It would be dishonest to do so.’

‘Wherein, then, does the pleasure lie?’

‘In the fellowship of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Is it enough to make you forget the pain of composition?’

‘Most of the time, Mistress Radley.’

‘And on other occasions?’ she pressed.

‘I am close to despair,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘When a play of mine does not work onstage, or when a performance I give carries no conviction, I wonder what I am doing in the company. I feel as if I am a species of trickster.’

‘That is not what I see, Edmund. You are the soul of honesty.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Are you not happy with Westfield’s Men?’

‘Life in the theatre is never without its torments.’

‘Does that mean that you would consider renouncing it?’

He shrugged. ‘How, then, would I feed and clothe myself?’

‘By doing what you really want to do,’ she urged. ‘By responding to the impulses within your breast. Tell me, Edmund. If you could choose to spend the rest of your life doing one thing, what would it be?’

‘That is an easy question.’

‘Tell me your answer.’

‘I would write sonnets.’

‘Sonnets?’

‘In praise of you, Mistress Radley.’

She was deeply moved. Bringing a hand to her mouth, she looked at him with even more intensity. Hoode thought he saw the hint of a tear in her eye. At a stroke, their relationship became markedly closer.

‘I think it is time that you called me “Avice”,’ she said.

Nicholas Bracewell did not waste any time. When he left Shoreditch, he walked swiftly back to the city and called on Francis Quilter at his lodging in Silver Street. The latter was relieved to hear that he had been granted temporary leave of absence from the company while he pursued his investigation. Though he still had obligations of his own to Westfield’s Men, Nicholas pledged his help. They began their enquiries at once. It was the testimony of two witnesses that had brought about Gerard Quilter’s downfall. His son had managed to find the address of one of the men, a merchant name Bevis Millburne. On their way to the house, Nicholas asked for more detail about the case.

‘Why did your father hate this Vincent Webbe so?’ he asked.

‘Because the rogue betrayed him.’

‘In what way?’

‘They were partners at one time, Nick,’ explained Quilter, ‘and my father grew to like and trust Master Webbe. The trust was badly misplaced. He discovered that his partner was guilty of embezzlement. Vincent Webbe denied it hotly, but there could be no doubt of his villainy.’

‘Was his crime prosecuted?’

‘Alas, no. My father was too soft-hearted to pursue the business. Out of kindness to the man’s wife and family, he drew back from that step. I think it was a mistake to let the malefactor escape scot-free. He should have been sent to prison for what he did.’

‘Vincent Webbe should have been grateful to your father.’

‘Any other man would have been,’ agreed Quilter, ‘but he never forgave my father for finding him out. The dissolution of their partnership left him in severe straits. While my father prospered, Master Webbe’s fortunes declined rapidly.’

‘He had only himself to blame for that, Frank.’

‘That was not how he viewed it. He preferred to blame my father.’

‘The enmity was clearly very strong between the two.’

‘And it seemed to grow with time,’ said Quilter. ‘It was one of the reasons that my father retired early. While he stayed in London, there was always the fear of a chance meeting with his partner. I was there on one occasion when their paths did cross. It was not a pleasant event, Nick.’

‘What happened?’

‘Master Webbe had taken drink. No sooner did he set eyes on my father than he began to rant and roar, accusing him of ruining his life and throwing his family into destitution. My father was a mild man but even he was provoked. Had I not pulled him away, I fear that he might have exchanged blows with the man.’

‘But the provocation was all on Master Webbe’s side?’

‘His language was revolting, Nick.’

‘Was he armed?’

‘Only with a vicious tongue.’

‘What of your father?’

‘He never walks abroad with a weapon.’

‘How long did this feud between them last?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Three years or more.’

‘And your father took care to avoid his erstwhile partner?’

‘Every possible care.’

They turned a corner and lengthened their stride. It took them some time to reach Cornhill but they had so much to discuss on the way that it seemed like only a matter of seconds before they reached the abode of Bevis Millburne. The house had an impressive facade. Its owner was clearly a man of wealth. When they knocked on the front door, it was opened by a servant in neat attire. He told them that his master was not at home. They offered to return later but he assured them that it might be several hours before his master came back as he was at supper with friends. Nicholas managed to wheedle out of him the name of the tavern where Millburne had gone. Leaving the grand house, the friends turned their steps towards the Golden Fleece, a place frequented by the gentry and known for its excellent food and high prices. As it came into sight, Nicholas turned to his companion.

‘Wait outside for me, Frank,’ he suggested.

‘Why?’

‘Because your face might be recognised in there. Your father was seen at his worst today but the family resemblance was still unmistakable. I would not have you go in there to stir up abuse and ridicule.’

‘I’ll endure anything on my father’s behalf.’

‘Then do so by adding discretion to your boldness,’ advised Nicholas. ‘Why should a man like Bevis Millburne desert his house and family to sup with friends on this particular today? Could it be that he is celebrating the gruesome event that we witnessed at Smithfield?’ As Quilter started, he put a hand on his arm. ‘You are rightly aroused but you’ll achieve nothing with anger. Let me go in alone to sound the man out. He’ll not suspect me of having any link with your family.’

‘Lure him out so that I may question him as well.’

‘No, Frank.’

‘I’ll beat the truth out of the knave!’

‘Threats accomplish far less than subtler interrogation.’

With great reluctance, Quilter accepted his friend’s counsel. Nicholas stationed him on the other side of the street before crossing to enter the Golden Fleece. It was a large, low, well-appointed establishment, filled with a mixed aroma of ale, tobacco, roasted meat, fresh herbs and delicate perfume. The atmosphere was boisterous. Gallants and their ladies supped at the various tables. Larger parties were catered for in private rooms. Nicholas bought a tankard of ale and fell into conversation with the landlord, an amiable man of middle years with a florid complexion.

‘You’re a stranger to the Golden Fleece, I think, sir,’ he remarked.

‘I did dine here once before,’ claimed Nicholas, ‘on the recommendation of a friend. He spoke highly of your venison and he was not deceiving me.’

‘I am glad that we did not disappoint you.’

‘I had hoped to see him here this evening. He was headed this way.’

‘What is his name, sir?’

‘Millburne, my friend. Master Bevis Millburne.’

‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ said the landlord jovially. ‘He sups with companions in the next room. Sir Eliard Slaney among them. They are in high spirits today. Shall I tell him that you are here?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I prefer to surprise him.’

The landlord soon moved off to serve other customers. Sidling across to the adjoining room, Nicholas peeped in. Guests occupied the four tables, eating their food, downing their wine and indulging in loud banter. Unable to pick his man out, Nicholas lurked and listened to scraps of conversation from the various tables. Eventually, he heard the name of Bevis mentioned in the far corner. It belonged to a sleek, portly man in his forties with a large wart on his left cheek that vibrated visibly whenever he laughed. Millburne had three companions. Two were somewhat younger and, judging by their deferential manner, might be employed by Millburne. The fourth man was older and had an air of distinction about him. Nicholas decided that it must be the aforementioned Sir Eliard Slaney, a wiry individual with watchful eyes set into a face the colour of parchment. Wearing immaculate apparel, he had a whole array of expensive rings on both hands.

Nicholas summoned one of the servingmen, asked him to deliver a message, then slipped him a coin. He withdrew to the next room and waited. Bevis Millburne eventually waddled out, eyes blinking with curiosity. Nicholas closed on him.

‘Master Millburne?’ he enquired.

‘Are you the fellow who asked to speak with me?’

‘I am, sir, merely to congratulate you.’

‘On what?’

‘Your performance in court, Master Millburne. I was there when that villain, Gerard Quilter, was tried. Your evidence helped to send the fiend to his death.’

‘I did what any honest man would have done,’ boasted the other.

‘You and Master Paramore, both,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, Cyril did his part in court. But what’s your interest, sir?’

‘I was at the execution today and saw the condemned man hanged for his crime. Though, I must admit, I was surprised to go to Smithfield for such a pleasure when the gallows stand at Tyburn. Why not there?’

Millburne chuckled. ‘Being hanged beside a witch inflicted greater shame on the fellow. It could not have been arranged better. I thought it a most satisfying affair.’

‘You were at Smithfield yourself, then?’

‘I would not have missed the spectacle for the world.’

‘Is that what you are celebrating now?’

‘What is it to you?’ asked Millburne, growing suspicious. ‘Who are you and why do you drag me away from my friends?’

Nicholas held up both hands in a calming gesture. ‘I simply wished to thank you, Master Millburne,’ he said with a bland smile. ‘You helped justice to take its course. But I am sorry to have taken you away from your celebration. I’ll let you get back to Master Paramore and the others.’

‘Cyril Paramore is not here.’

‘Not here to enjoy your day of triumph?’

‘His ship does not return from France until tomorrow,’ he said, staring intently at Nicholas. ‘Look, why all these questions? You have not even given me a name. What’s your purpose in coming here like this? Who are you, fellow?’

‘A grateful friend,’ said Nicholas, backing away.

And before he could be detained, he slipped quickly out of the front door of the tavern. Quilter was waiting impatiently for him across the road. He came forward.

‘Was he there, Nick?’

‘As large as life.’

‘Did you speak with him?’

‘Briefly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I left before I aroused his suspicion too much.’

‘What did you learn?’

‘What I expected, Frank. He was celebrating this afternoon’s event with friends.’

‘Was that lying knave, Cyril Paramore, among them?’

‘No, we will talk to him tomorrow.’

Quilter’s hopes rose. ‘You know where he lives?’

‘No,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but I am certain where he will be. And we’ll be there to meet him. My conversation with Master Millburne was short but highly instructive. I take him to be just the sort of unprincipled rogue you suspect. We may judge his accomplice tomorrow.’

‘When?’

‘When he disembarks from his ship. He is returning from France.’

‘Is there nothing we can do meanwhile, Nick?’

‘Try to get a good night’s sleep.’

‘There’ll be no rest for me tonight,’ said Quilter. ‘My thoughts will be with my father. I doubt if I shall ever sleep soundly again until we clear his name.’

‘We have made a start, Frank.’

‘Why break off now? One of the men who sent him to the gallows is filling his belly at the Golden Fleece. He is glorying in my father’s death. I’ll not allow it. Let’s drag the villain into the street and cudgel a confession out of him.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, restraining him with an arm. ‘Once your identity is known, my own disguise is weakened. We must move privily to gather evidence, Frank. Show our hand too soon and we forewarn both Bevis Millburne and Cyril Paramore.’

Quilter was rancorous. ‘They are the ones who deserve to be hanged.’

‘Then let’s find the rope that will do the office. But we must be cunning in our search. Master Millburne is a person of standing. He has important friends. One of them sups with him this evening.’

‘What’s the fellow’s name?’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney.’ Quilter snorted with contempt. ‘You know the man, I see.’

‘Only through my father’s eyes, Nick.’

‘And what did they see?’

‘One of the meanest rascals in the whole of London.’

Owen Elias was strolling jauntily along Cheapside when he spotted his friend coming towards him. He waved cheerily but there was no acknowledgement. Head down, eyes dreamily searching the ground, Edmund Hoode was oblivious to all around him. His face was ignited by a smile, his body animated by a deep inner joy. If the Welshman had not blocked his passage as he tried to go by, Hoode would have gone straight past. He came out of his reverie.

‘Owen!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well met, old friend.’

‘Well met, indeed!’ replied the other. ‘Thank heaven you are accosted by me and not by some lurking thief. Keep your wits about you, man. You are such a ready target when you amble along like that. A blind man with one arm could have robbed you and you’d have been none the wiser.’

‘Nobody could deprive me of my most precious gift.’

‘That does not mean you should toss your purse away so idly.’

‘Money is only money, Owen.’

‘Therein lies its attraction. It buys food, drink and the company of fair ladies.’

‘Some ladies spurn the notion of payment.’

‘Well, I have never met such a creature, Edmund,’ said the other cynically. ‘Women are all one to me. You may hire their bodies for a night or, if you marry them, you will have to pay in perpetuity. That is why I spread my charm amongst those already wed. A mistress who gives herself for love needs far less expenditure when she has a husband to buy at her command. Choose a married woman for sport, Edmund. Your purse will profit.’

‘It is far better to be chosen than to choose, Owen.’

‘On that point, we do agree. Though there is some deceit involved,’ conceded Elias. ‘When I pursue a woman, I always convince her that it was her idea and that she set the trap for me. It’s the shortest way to happiness.’

‘I have found my own route there.’

Elias laughed. ‘How many times have we heard that vain boast?’

‘Do not mock me, Owen.’

‘Then do not set yourself up for mockery. The only women you ever find were put on this earth to break your heart. Your whole life is one long, desperate, lovesick sigh. But enough of that,’ said Elias, turning to a more serious matter. ‘Have you seen Nick since this afternoon?’

‘No, why should I see him?’

‘Because he is the best friend you have. Do you know a better reason?’

Hoode simpered. ‘I have been otherwise engaged this evening.’

‘Did you spare no thought for Nick and Frank Quilter?’ he prodded the other man in the chest. ‘Shame on you, Edmund! I can see from your face that you gave neither of them a moment’s consideration.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because they went through an ordeal today. So did our audience, of course,’ he added, ‘because we gave them poor fare on stage this afternoon. Nick and Frank were part of a different audience. They watched a public execution at Smithfield.’

‘Did they?’ asked Hoode, as if hearing about it for the first time.

‘You know they did, Edmund.’

‘I vaguely recall something to that effect.’

‘The company was buzzing with the news.’

‘My thoughts were some way distant, Owen. Why did Nick and Frank desert us in order to watch an execution? Their place was at the Queen’s Head with us.’

‘Would you have been there if your father was being hanged?’

Hoode was startled. ‘Nick’s father was the condemned man?’

‘No, you idiot!’ shouted Elias. ‘It was Gerard Quilter who went to his death today on a charge of murder. Have you not been listening to your fellows? They spent the whole rehearsal calling for Frank’s removal from the company. Barnaby thinks we will be in bad odour with our audiences if we let the son of a killer remain in Westfield’s Men. I am unsure. I have been having second thoughts on the matter.’

‘Why?’

‘Frank alleges that his father was an innocent man. Nick supports his cry.’

‘He was hanged unjustly, then?’

‘Who knows?’ said Elias. ‘The fact remains that the two of them went through a terrible ordeal at Smithfield this afternoon. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the case, my heart goes out to both of them.’

‘So does mine,’ agreed Hoode. ‘What a hideous predicament to be in.’

‘It lands us in a quandary. Do we keep Frank or spurn him altogether?’

‘I’ve no opinion on the subject.’

‘You must have, Edmund. It’s the duty of every sharer.’

‘I’ll be guided by Lawrence.’

‘I fancy that Nick Bracewell will be the better guide. I’ll side with him.’

‘That might be the wiser course.’

Hoode was obviously shocked to be reminded about the execution but Elias did not get the impression that it engaged his interest at any profound level. The playwright was still partly diverted by other concerns. Elias believed that he could guess what they were. His voice became a confidential whisper.

‘How does your new play prosper, Edmund?’

‘Slowly. Very slowly.’

‘They say that it may be your masterpiece.’

‘I entertained that delusion myself at one time.’

‘Your faith in the piece has slackened, then?’

‘It has all but disappeared, Owen.’

‘You always say that when a new play nears completion.’

‘I can summon up no interest in the paltry work.’

‘That, too, is a familiar cry,’ said Elias with a grin. ‘This bodes well. When you begin to lose heart, it means the piece is far better than you expected. I hope there is a part worthy of my talents, Edmund. What is the piece called?’

‘No matter.’

‘But I wish to know. You have kept it from us too long already. Come, Edmund, this play has been your mistress for well over a month now. You’ve fled from us day after day in order to take your pleasure from her loins. Give me some hint of what lies in store for us,’ he begged. ‘Tell me the title.’

Hoode was only half-listening. His mind had already strayed back to the meeting he had just enjoyed with Avice Radley. It had not merely changed his opinion of himself, it had altered his whole perspective on his work. The play on which he had expended so much patient labour held none of its former appeal for him. Indeed, the whole notion of working with a theatre company seemed rather frivolous now. The truth had to be faced. He had alighted on something infinitely better.

‘The title, man!’ repeated Elias. ‘What is the title of your masterpiece?’

As the beautiful face of Avice Radley arose before him, Hoode beamed.

‘The Queen of my Heart,’ he said.

It was late when he arrived back. Nicholas Bracewell had spent hours with his friend as he tried to still the demons that plagued Quilter. It was a forlorn exercise. While he had managed to bend him to reason, Nicholas could not lift him out of despair or wipe away the memories of a testing afternoon. After arranging to meet Quilter early the next day, Nicholas set off for Bankside. The long walk gave him ample time to reflect on the events of the day and the details of the case. Gathering evidence to vindicate Gerard Quilter would be no simple task. His brief encounter with Bevis Millburne had taught him enough about the man to provoke his suspicion, yet there was a big problem. Millburne was no practised liar, hauled off the streets and paid to incriminate someone else in a court of law. He was a wealthy merchant, a responsible citizen whose voice would be respected. It was unlikely that any bribe could make such a man perjure himself. What motive, then, had driven him to accuse Gerard Quilter of murder?

Cyril Paramore too, he suspected, would be a man of means who was beyond the reach of a bribe. Why had he borne witness against the prisoner? Were he and Millburne friends of the dead man, driven by lust for revenge? Or were they sworn enemies of Gerard Quilter himself, only too willing to implicate him in a murder he did not commit? It was baffling. What did weigh heavily with Nicholas was the fact that Millburne had attended the execution then celebrated the event at the Golden Fleece. Witnesses in murder trials were not usually impelled by such feelings. Once they had given their evidence, they let the law take its course. Bevis Millburne, however, had gained obvious satisfaction from the hanging of Gerard Quilter. It was not only a perverse joy that he was exhibiting. During his exchange with the man, Nicholas thought he noticed a sense of relief, as if a danger had been passed.

He was still asking questions of himself as he crossed London Bridge but answers proved elusive. Nicholas plunged into the teeming streets of Bankside. Uneasy by day, the area was hazardous at night, filled, as it was, with taverns, brothels, gaming houses and tenements that attracted all manner of low-life. Drunken revellers lurched out of inns, prostitutes blatantly tried to lure clients, thieves and pickpockets were constantly on the alert for fresh prey and brawls were common sights. Nicholas’s broad shoulders and brisk gait deterred all attackers. Even in the half-dark, few men were brave enough to tackle such a sturdy fellow. He walked with impunity past petty villains and roaring drunkards. Bankside held no fears for him. It was his home.

Anne Hendrik had waited up for him. She had a light supper in readiness.

‘Welcome back!’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.

‘It is good to see the end of this day, Anne.’

‘Was it so distressing?’

‘My distress lay in the sight of another’s. Anne,’ he said, ‘today was nothing but a torture chamber for Frank Quilter. I thought he would never survive it.’

‘Did he hold up?’

‘Bravely.’

‘No small thanks to you, I dare venture.’

‘There was little I could do beyond bearing him company.’

Nicholas sat at the table and picked at the supper she had prepared for him. He told her little about the execution itself, suppressing its viler aspects completely. Anne was pleased to hear about his visit to Lawrence Firethorn.

‘You have bought Frank some time, then?’

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

‘For what?’

‘The real killer of Vincent Webbe.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It wounded Frank to the quick.’

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

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

‘And who was that?’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney.’

‘The moneylender?’

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

‘Yes, Nick.’

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

‘Only what his wife has told me.’

‘His wife?’

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