The Bawdy Basket

Chapter Four

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

‘Is it you, Frank?’ he asked.

‘Good morrow, Nick.’

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

‘Grief has dressed me in its ghostly garb.’

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

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

‘His reputation can at least be restored.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Try to rest beforehand.’

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

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

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

‘I make the like commitment.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How does this advantage me, Nick?’

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

‘Places?’

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

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

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

‘I begin to, Nick.’

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

‘To gloat over the death of my father.’

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

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

‘Anne may be able to find out why.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘He likes to be noticed.’

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

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

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

‘I have already done so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What play do you stage this afternoon?’

‘Love’s Sacrifice.’

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

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

‘In what way?’

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

‘What’s this about another sacrifice?’

‘The signs are all too evident.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘It is a considered decision,’ replied Hoode.

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

‘It lies exhausted.’

‘I’ll not believe what I am hearing!’

‘You hear the plain truth, Lawrence.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You exaggerate, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

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

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

‘Contracts can be revoked,’ argued Hoode.

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

‘I’ll not be moved, Lawrence.’

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

‘The decision has already been made, Barnaby.’

‘Without even consulting your fellows?’

‘It was the only way.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘You cannot simply walk out on the company.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘London is full of eager playwrights.’

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

‘Forever.’

‘But why?’ asked Gill in dismay.

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

‘Surely not a mere woman?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I take it without the slightest hesitation.’

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

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

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

‘Two days.’

‘Two days!’ echoed Gill in disbelief.

‘The most wonderful two days of my life.’

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

‘Yet you married her without the slightest fear.’

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

‘That will not be the case with me.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sharing a cell in Bedlam,’ sneered Gill.

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

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

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

Moll was talking to one of the stall holders when a voice rang out behind her.

‘Is that you, Moll?’ asked the man.

‘Lightfoot!’ she exclaimed with a laugh, as she turned to see the figure who was somersaulting towards her over the grass. He came to a halt in front of her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘I was hoping to find you here today.’

‘We’ve found each other.’

‘You look wondrous well.’

‘I keep myself in fine fettle,’ he said. ‘Watch!’

Lightfoot did a series of cartwheels that took him in a complete circle. When he bounced upright again, he was standing directly in front of his friend. The acrobat was a cheerful man in his late twenties, slim, short and lithe. Gaudily dressed in a red doublet that sprouted a small forest of blue and yellow ribbons, he wore bright green hose that showed off the neat proportions of his legs. During his energetic display, his pink cap with its white feather somehow stayed on his head. Lightfoot had an ugly face that became instantly more appealing when he smiled.

‘Look!’ he said, pointing to the carts that were trundling towards them. ‘Three more booths to be set up. Half the fair will be up before tomorrow morning. When did you reach London?’

‘Within the hour.’

‘Thank heaven you did not come yesterday.’

‘Why?’

‘Smithfield was not a happy place to be, Moll.’

‘Not happy?’

‘Public executions were held here. A man and a woman.’

‘Then I am glad I came no earlier,’ she said with a shudder. ‘But I thought they hanged murderers at Tyburn now. I saw three dangling from the gallows when I was last in the city. The sight turned my stomach for days.’

‘Had you been here yesterday, you’d not have eaten for a week. They burnt a witch over there,’ he said, indicating the spot with an outstretched hand. ‘You can still see the ash. They tell me that people danced around the blaze for hours.’

Moll grimaced. ‘I wish you’d not told me that, Lightfoot.’

‘The woman is dead now.’

‘Yes, but her curse will remain. I felt something strange when I first stepped upon this grass,’ she said, eyes darting nervously. ‘It was like a cold wind yet the day is hot and sunny. I think it was an omen, Lightfoot. That witch has put a spell on the place.’

‘These are childish thoughts,’ he said amiably, patting her on the arm. ‘Bartholomew Fair is at hand. Three days of riot and enjoyment lie ahead. The Devil himself could not spoil our fair, let alone a dead witch.’

‘I hope that it is so.’

‘It is so, Moll. Come, let’s find a place to eat.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, brightening at once. ‘I am so glad to see you again.’

‘Then let me carry your basket for you.’

She dropped a mock curtsey. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

They fell in beside each other and set off. Moll was delighted to meet Lightfoot so soon. He was more than simply a friend. Travelling the highway for a living exposed her to all manner of dangers and Lightfoot had rescued her on more than one occasion. Whenever she was with him, she felt safe. He was a clever acrobat. Though she had seen his tricks many times, Moll never tired of watching them. Lightfoot had another virtue. He picked up news faster than anyone else she knew. If they arrived at a new fair, he would always have the latest tidings to report.

‘What was the woman’s name?’ she asked. ‘This witch that they burnt.’

‘Jane Gullet.’

‘And you say a man died with her?’

‘A murderer, hanged for his crime.’

‘Who was his victim?’

‘One Vincent Webbe, stabbed cruelly to death.’

‘Then the killer deserved to hang,’ she said. ‘What was his name?’

‘You are so full of questions today, Moll,’ he said with a laugh.

‘Only because I know that you will have the answers.’

‘It will cost you a kiss to hear the man’s name.’

‘Most men pay for my kisses.’

‘I pay with information.’

She giggled and nodded. ‘As you wish.’

‘Then first, my kiss.’

‘That must wait, Lightfoot. I want a name before you claim your reward.’

‘So be it. His name was Gerard Quilter.’

Moll stopped dead in her tracks. Her face turned white, her eyes widened in fear and she began to tremble violently. She grabbed him by the arm.

‘No!’ she protested vehemently. ‘You are mistook. Whatever it was, it could not have been that name.’

‘I heard it loud and clear.’

‘Never!’

‘The murderer was Master Gerard Quilter.’

‘Then there must be two men with the same name. Do you know anything else about him, Lightfoot? Was he old, young, tall or short? Where did he dwell? What occupation did he follow?’

‘As to his age and size,’ he replied, ‘I can tell you nothing, but I do know that he lived in the country. Before that, Gerard Quilter was a respected mercer here in the city.’ He grinned hopefully. ‘I’ve given you a name, Moll. Where is my kiss?’

But she was in no position to give it to him. After letting out a sigh of distress, she promptly fainted and ended up in a heap on the ground.

Nicholas Bracewell waited until the performance was over before he made his move. Having failed to make any headway themselves, Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill had pleaded with him to speak to their resident playwright in order to persuade him to renounce his decision to leave. Nicholas was as disturbed as they were to hear the news of Edmund Hoode’s impending departure but he did not wish to tackle him until Love’s Sacrifice was over and his duties as a book holder had been discharged. Before his friend could slip away after the performance, Nicholas took him into the little room where the properties and costumes were stored.

‘You distinguished yourself yet again, Edmund,’ he observed.

‘Thank you, Nick. I felt inspired today.’

‘Your play brought out the best in everyone.’

‘Nothing I have written is closer to my heart,’ said Hoode dreamily. ‘There are lines in the piece that turned out to foretell my own future.’

‘That is what I wish to touch upon,’ said Nicholas gently. ‘There seems to be some doubt about your future with the company.’

‘No doubt at all, Nick. I am to withdraw.’

‘When you have the success you gained the afternoon?’

‘Applause soon dies away. What is left in its wake?’

‘Satisfaction,’ argued Nicholas, ‘and the feeling that you have served the play and your fellows as best you may. Since you are the author of the piece, you had a double triumph onstage today. Does it mean nothing to you?’

‘It gave me a brief pleasure, I grant you.’

‘You said that you felt inspired.’

‘Why, yes,’ replied Hoode, ‘but not by a play we’ve given a dozen times before. Parts of it begin to stale already. What lifted my spirits was the thought that I was acting in front of my redeemer. She was there, Nick.’

‘So I understand.’

‘And before you utter another syllable, let me warn you that I am deaf to all entreaty. I know that Lawrence has set you on to me but to no avail. I am adamant.’ He tried to move off. ‘And I must not keep a lady waiting.’

‘Hold still,’ said Nicholas, blocking his path. ‘I’d hoped our friendship earned me more than minute of your time.’

‘It does, Nick, it does. You have been a rock to which I have clung many times and I’ll not forget that. When I leave Westfield’s Men, I mean to keep Nick Bracewell’s friendship.’

‘That depends on the manner in which you depart.’

‘I go for love — what better reason is there?’

‘Set it against the loyalty you owe to the company.’

‘That is what I have done.’

‘On the strength of two days’ acquaintance with a lady?’

‘You sound like Lawrence,’ said Hoode with a chuckle. ‘That rampant satyr had the gall to lecture me on the folly of falling in love so swiftly when he has done so twice a week at times. We’ve both seen him pursue a woman within the very hour that they first meet. At least, I cannot lay that charge at Barnaby’s feet.’ He smiled discreetly. ‘Only a pretty boy with a winsome smile can take his fancy.’

‘We are talking about you, Edmund, not them. Their private lives do not threaten the future of Westfield’s Men. Yours, however, does. All that I ask is that you reflect on your decision before it is too late.’

‘What blandishments has Lawrence told you to offer?’

‘None,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘I speak on my own account. It would distress me greatly to lose you as a friend and as a fellow. If you have found true love, I wish you every happiness. No man deserves it more. But must it sever your bonds with us? If you flourish onstage when your beloved is in the audience, why not continue to delight her and the other spectators?’

‘Because there is a world elsewhere.’

‘You once thought Westfield’s Men was your whole universe.’

‘It was,’ replied Hoode earnestly. ‘And I leave it with much regret. But I have achieved all that I can within the company. A new life beckons me, with new challenges and fresh delights.’ He looked sad. ‘I see that you censure me, Nick.’

‘You can hardly expect my blessing.’

‘Wherein lies my crime?’

‘You leave us at a time when we most need your talents.’

‘That argument did not carry much weight for you, as I recall.’

‘What?’ said Nicholas, taken aback.

‘It was only yesterday that you threatened to leave the company as well.’

‘Circumstances differed, Edmund.’

‘Did they? I think not. You put loyalty to a friend before your obligations to Westfield’s Men. I have done the same, Nick. The only difference is that my friend also chances to be my future wife.’

‘That is an unfair comparison,’ complained Nicholas.

‘Not in my eyes,’ said Hoode. ‘Lawrence may have thought that you could win me over but he sent the wrong ambassador. We are too alike. Both of us are ready to quit the company in the cause of a greater commitment. Westfield’s Men rely on you just as much as on me, Nick. If treachery is afoot, we are both guilty of it.’

Nicholas had no answer. There was a grain of truth in Hoode’s argument and it left him speechless. He stood aside so that the other man could leave. Nicholas was upset that his persuasive tongue had made no impact on his friend. Hoode had made impulsive decisions before but he could usually be talked out of them. This time, Nicholas sensed, the playwright was beyond the reach of cold reason. He was still brooding on his failure when Lawrence Firethorn came bustling in.

‘I’ve just seen Edmund leave,’ he said. ‘Did you change his mind?’

‘Not entirely,’ admitted Nicholas.

‘But you are our last hope. Did you wrest no concession from him?’

‘Edmund would give none.’

‘Does he still purpose to leave the company?’

Nicholas nodded. ‘I’ll speak to him again. This was not the time or place.’

‘Where and when better?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Edmund has just given a stirring performance in one of his own plays. He has experienced those unparalleled joys that drew him to the theatre in the first place. It should have left him ripe for conversion.’

‘His mind was set against it, I fear.’

‘It is not his mind that Mistress Avice Radley works upon, Nick, but his body. Let him fall into her arms again and Lord Westfield himself could not pull him safely out.’

‘We’ll need to be more subtle in our argument.’

‘No,’ decreed Firethorn. ‘Our survival is at stake. We need to be more brutal.’

Francis Quilter hardly moved from his chosen position throughout the day. Having stationed himself close to the river, he watched a whole array of vessels come and go. None hailed from France and nobody could give him confirmation that the Speedfast, the expected ship, would arrive at all that day. Contrary tides might have held it up across the Channel, other problems might have delayed its departure. Quilter grew increasingly frustrated. As afternoon declined towards evening, his spirits were ebbing slowly away. The arrival of Nicholas Bracewell revived him at once.

‘What news, Frank?’ asked the newcomer.

‘I am heartily sick of looking at the Thames. That is all the news I can offer.’

‘No sign of Master Paramore’s ship, then?’

‘Not so much of a glimpse,’ said Quilter. ‘But I’ll not be moved from this spot. I’ll sit here all night and all day tomorrow, if need be.’

‘I hope it will not come to that.’

After leaving the Queen’s Head, Nicholas had made his way back to the river. He was chastened by his interview with Edmund Hoode. It was painful to be reminded that he too had threatened to abandon the company but the fact had to be acknowledged. Now that he was back with Quilter again, he felt the compassion that led him to make the earlier decision. Fortunately, a way had been found to release the actor while retaining the services of the book holder. No such compromise could be used in Hoode’s case.

‘How did the performance fare?’ wondered Quilter.

‘It courted excellence, Frank.’

‘Who took my role?’

‘James Ingram, though with slightly less success.’

‘I doubt that. James is a fine actor.’

‘Granted,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he was trying too hard. Since Edmund was both author and actor in the piece, James was straining every sinew to impress him. He was not alone. Owen Elias and the others followed his example.’

‘Why should they need to impress Edmund?’

Nicholas told him about the playwright’s ultimatum and one more member of the company was dumbfounded. Though he had not been with them long, Quilter knew how crucial a figure Hoode was to Westfield’s Men. It was inconceivable to him that Hoode should even consider leaving. Nicholas discussed the problem at length, grateful for a subject that took Quilter’s mind away from his father’s fate. As they talked, the sails of a ship were gradually conjured out of the distance. The whole vessel soon appeared, scudding along the water in midstream and forcing them to stop their conversation abruptly. They watched with interest until the Speedfast eventually glided towards the wharf. Quilter was eager to race to the water’s edge but Nicholas held him back.

‘Stay, Frank,’ he said. ‘The ship is not safely moored yet.’

‘I want to be there when he steps ashore.’

‘But you do not even know who he is. Cyril Paramore might walk straight past and you none the wiser. Besides,’ added Nicholas, ‘it is important that he does not realise who you are or he’ll be frightened away.’

‘Only because he has something to hide.’

‘We’ll not find it by accosting him boldly.’

‘How, then, do we proceed, Nick?’

‘As before. You stand apart and let me pick him out.’

‘When you do not recognise his face?’

‘We are not the only ones here to greet the vessel,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the small crowd on the wharf. ‘I’ll lose myself in the press and shout his name aloud as the passengers disembark. That way, he’ll declare himself and I’ll approach him.’

‘Let me go with you.’

‘Watch and wait, Frank. You can judge the fellow from a distance.’

It took skill to bring the Speedfast alongside the wharf to moor it securely. Having spent so much time at sea himself, Nicholas took a keen interest in the way that the crew went about their business. They were agile and well-drilled, responding swiftly to the shouted commands from their bosun. Passengers lined the bulwarks in readiness but Nicholas had no idea which one of them would be Cyril Paramore. Recognising friends and relatives aboard, the crowd on the wharf began to wave and call their welcomes. Nicholas mingled with them and stood behind the tallest man he could find. When the gangplank was lowered, a member of the crew tested it before the passengers were allowed to disembark. The long procession began. Noisy reunions were taking place all around Nicholas. There was only one imminent reunion that caught his attention. It sent him scurrying back to Quilter.

‘What’s amiss?’ asked the actor. ‘Is he not aboard?’

‘I’m certain of it, Frank.’

‘Then why not accost him?’

‘We have someone to do it for us,’ explained Nicholas. ‘You see the tall man who is standing apart from the crowd? He has just arrived and can only be here to greet Master Paramore.’

‘How can you be so sure, Nick?’

‘Because his name is Sir Eliard Slaney.’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney!’ repeated Quilter. ‘Is that the villain?’

He looked at the tall, wiry, immaculate figure who was standing several yards from the wharf with two servants in attendance. Sir Eliard Slaney raised a hand to acknowledge someone aboard then clicked his fingers to send the two servants running towards the vessel. He followed them at a more leisurely pace. As the passengers filed off the vessel, a short, neat man in dark attire took his turn in the queue, carrying luggage in both hands. The servants relieved him of his cargo the moment he stepped ashore and left him free to embrace Sir Eliard Slaney. The two men were evidently close friends. As they left the wharf together, they were sharing a laugh.

Nicholas took careful note of Cyril Paramore. He had none of Bevis Millburne’s facial ugliness and oily complacency. Still in his twenties, he had a pleasant demeanor and a dapper elegance. As a witness in court, Nicholas gauged, he would be convincing.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Quilter.

‘Follow them at a distance,’ advised Nicholas. ‘Master Paramore does not live far away or Sir Eliard would have met him in a coach. When we know his address, I can call on Cyril Paramore at a time when he is alone. It would be foolish to approach him while his friend is at his side.’

‘Friend! Sir Eliard has no friends, only cronies.’

‘Then we have identified two of them, Frank.’

‘Yes,’ said the other through gritted teeth. ‘Bevis Millburne and Cyril Paramore.’

‘We know what devilish part they played at your father’s trial. All that we have to decide is what role Sir Eliard Slaney took behind the scenes.’

‘How do we decide that?’

‘We must hope that Anne can provide help there,’ said Nicholas, watching the two figures moving off. ‘Come, Frank. Let’s see where they go.’

When she married her husband at the age of seventeen, Rebecca Nettlefold was a slim and attractive young girl with a quiet disposition. In the intervening twenty-five years, her status and her character had changed out of all recognition. Having become Lady Slaney, she was now obese, self-absorbed and garrulous. In persisting in the choice of dresses that were more suitable for someone much younger, she came close to making herself look ridiculous. She had a particular fondness for ostentatious hats, chasing the latest fashions with a waddling urgency. Anne Hendrik found some of her commissions quite absurd but she was not there to criticise the taste of her customers. Her task was to design and provide whatever Lady Slaney requested.

When Anne called at the house, Lady Slaney was delighted to see her.

‘I did not expect you for days yet,’ she said.

‘Your hats always take precedence, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne. ‘And I know that you would prefer to have this one sooner rather than later.’

‘Quite so, quite so. Set it on the table.’

They were in the parlour of a sumptuous house near Bishopsgate. The room was large, rectangular, low-ceilinged and well-appointed. Gold plate stood on the gleaming oak court cupboard and on the magnificent Venetian chest of carved walnut with its gilded decoration. Anne always noticed the sheer size of the locks on the chest. Belgian tapestries covered two walls while gilt-framed portraits were displayed on the others. Sir Eliard Slaney was a man who liked to advertise his wealth. His wife’s costly, if rather incongruous, apparel was another means of doing so.

‘Let me see it,’ ordered Lady Slaney.

Anne undid the cloth in which she had carefully wrapped the hat then stood back so that her customer could view the results. Lady Slaney gasped with joy and clapped her hands like a child receiving a present on its birthday. The hat incorporated jewellery that she had coaxed out of her husband. Tall-crowned and brimless, it was made of light blue velvet and was decorated with jewellery around the lower part. The hat was ornamented with high-standing ostrich feathers that were fastened with precious stones. It positively glistened. Lady Slaney reached forward to grab it.

‘I must put it on at once,’ she said.

‘Let me help,’ counselled Anne, taking it from her to place in on her head. ‘Is it comfortable, Lady Slaney?’

‘A perfect fit, my dear. Quick — I must see for myself.’

She crossed to the ornate mirror on the far wall and preened herself in front of it, making minor adjustments to the tilt until she was completely satisfied. When she saw the final result, she giggled with pleasure.

‘I will turn every head when I wear this abroad,’ she announced.

‘I am glad that you are content,’ said Anne. ‘It becomes you, Lady Slaney. You could grace a royal event in that hat.’

‘That is my intention. My husband has great influence at Court. That’s to say,’ she added with a laugh, ‘he is owed money by half the nobility. There are many of them who would long ago have been bankrupt if they had not turned to Sir Eliard Slaney for their salvation.’

‘Your husband is such a shrewd man.’

Lady Slaney tittered. ‘That’s why he married me,’ she said. ‘But you are right, my dear. He is a species of genius. He makes money without even trying. There is no one to match him for sagacity. Others inherited their titles but Sir Eliard has had to work for his and deserves the honour.’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘My husband will not rest there. We look to be Lord and Lady Slaney one day.’

‘And this is all the fruit of usury?’ asked Anne.

‘That is not a word Sir Eliard likes, my dear. It smacks too much of Jewry and he has no dealings with those strange people. No, my husband is a man of business, pure and simple. He buys, sells, holds licenses, acts as a surveyor, transacts loans and generally helps those in financial need.’

Anne looked around. ‘This house is a worthy tribute to his success.’

‘It is only one of three that we own,’ boasted Lady Slaney, ‘and we hope to secure a fourth property near Richmond very soon. And that, mark you, does not include the charming residence we keep on the isle of Jersey.’

‘Jersey?’

‘It is a small paradise, my dear. If I did not hate sailing so much, I’d spend more time in Jersey. Our house is one of the finest on the island. My husband acquired it from Lord Groombridge when the poor man defaulted on a loan. His loss is our gain,’ she said, peering into the mirror once more. ‘Sir Eliard expects to take possession of the property in Richmond by the same means.’

‘Do you need so many houses, Lady Slaney?’

‘I could never be happy in just one. It would soon begin to stale. By moving from one property to another, we stave off boredom and ensure a regular change of scenery.’

‘Which house is your favourite?’

Lady Slaney needed no more encouragement. She launched into a description of every place that she and her husband had ever lived in, listing its merits and demerits, noting the improvements that she herself had introduced in each case, and charting the upward progress of their fortunes. She was as indiscreet as she was voluble. Anne learnt more from her on this visit than on every previous one. She reserved her most important question until she was about to leave. After receiving payment from her customer, she expressed her thanks and moved towards the door.

‘A friend of mine was at Smithfield yesterday,’ she said casually. ‘He thought that he saw your husband there. Could that have been so, Lady Slaney? Did Sir Eliard witness the public executions?’

Nicholas Bracewell had difficulty in restraining his friend. The long day’s wait had made Francis Quilter restive. When they followed Cyril Paramore to his home, he was ready to challenge the man openly. Nicholas advised against it, repeating the need to gather more evidence covertly before any accusations could be made. What he attached significance to was the presence of Sir Eliard Slaney, a visible link between the two key witnesses at the trial of Gerard Quilter. Leading the disappointed son away, Nicholas walked all the way back to his friend’s lodging with him. A most unexpected visitor awaited them. Squatting outside the door of the house with her basket beside her was Moll Comfrey. When she saw the two men approach, she leapt nimbly to her feet.

‘Master Quilter?’ she asked, looking from one to the other.

‘I am Frank Quilter,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Moll Comfrey, sir, and I beg you to listen to me. It has taken the best part of a day to track you down and I could never have done it without Lightfoot.’

‘Lightfoot?’

‘A friend, sir.’

‘What would you have with me?’

‘A few words, Master Quilter.’ She looked at Nicholas. ‘In private, I hope.’

‘Say what you have to say in front of Nick,’ urged Quilter. ‘I have no secrets from him.’ Moll bit her lip and hesitated. ‘Well, girl, speak up?’

‘At least have the grace to invite her in, Frank,’ said Nicholas, weighing the visitor up. ‘My guess is that our young friend here has come to London for the fair. She has probably walked some distance to get here.’

‘That is so, sir,’ agreed Moll. ‘Seven miles or more.’

‘And you have trudged even more in pursuit of Frank, you say. It must be urgent business if you go to so much trouble.’

‘It is very urgent, sir.’ She turned to Quilter. ‘I knew your father.’

Nicholas could see that his friend was both embarrassed and alerted by the news. Moll Comfrey was not the sort of person with whom he expected his father to have been acquainted. Her trade was clearly not confined to the sale of the wares in her basket. Young women of her sort congregated at fairs and offered the delights of their body in return for payment. Quilter was reluctant to invite such a person into his lodging but the mention of his father intrigued him.

‘What do you know of him?’ he asked.

‘I know that he was wrongfully hanged at Smithfield yesterday,’ she replied.

‘How?’

‘Because he did not commit a murder, sir. Your father was too sweet and loving a man to kill anyone. I’d stake my life on that. Besides, sir, I have proof.’

‘Proof?’ echoed Nicholas.

‘Yes, sir. Lightfoot found out when the murder took place.’

‘It was at the end of July,’ said Quilter. ‘The last day of the month.’

‘That is what Lightfoot told me, sir, and that is why I know your father is innocent. I’d swear it in a court of law, so I would, sir. I’m an honest girl.’

‘I’m sure that you are,’ said Nicholas softly. ‘But why can you say so confidently that Gerard Quilter was innocent of the crime?’

‘Because he was not in London on the day of the murder.’

‘How do you know?’

She gave a wan smile. ‘He was with me, sir,’ she said. ‘For the whole day.’