The Bawdy Basket

Chapter Five

Anne Hendrik was so surprised and amused by what he said that she burst into laughter.

‘A bawdy basket!’ she exclaimed.

‘That is what Frank calls her. He was using thieves’ cant.’

‘And how would you describe this Moll Comfrey?’

‘As a girl who struggles to do make the best of herself,’ said Nicholas. ‘Moll is no common trull. She is too unspoiled to have been at the trade for any length of time, and too decent a girl to sell her favours unless she was in dire distress. If she is the bawdy basket that Frank takes her to be, then she has been forced into it. Necessity feeds on virtue, Anne. I take Moll Comfrey to be the prisoner of necessity.’

‘Then you take a kinder view than Frank Quilter, by the sound of it.’

‘He was too shocked to believe what she said at first.’

‘Shocked?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘His father was a God-fearing man, virtuous, upright and respected in the community. He had been a widower for some years but, according to Frank, he would never turn to someone like Moll Comfrey for pleasure.’

‘Is that what he did?’

‘I think not.’

‘What does the girl say?’ asked Anne.

‘Simply that she was a friend of Gerard Quilter. She refused to explain the strength or nature of that friendship, except to say that they met from time to time. Moll found him good-hearted and generous. He gave her money, it seems.’ Anne raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘No, Anne,’ he said defensively. ‘You are wrong, I am sure. Nothing of that kind occurred between them. I am certain of it. Apart from other indications, he was so much older than her.’

‘Since when has that held any man back?’

‘True.’

‘If he did not buy her favours,’ she suggested, ‘could she possibly have been his child, conceived outside the bounds of marriage?’

‘That too I considered, only to dismiss the notion when I knew a little more about her. But I could see that the same thought crossed Frank’s mind.’

‘Small wonder he was embarrassed by her arrival.’

‘He accepted the value of her testimony in the end,’ said Nicholas. ‘If her word can be trusted, she puts Gerard Quilter twenty miles away from London the day when Vincent Webbe was stabbed to death.’

‘What of this brawl the two men are alleged to have had?’

‘That must have been on the day before, Anne.’

‘Then he could not possibly have been the killer,’ she concluded. ‘Why did he not call the girl to speak up for him at the trial?’

‘I doubt if he had any idea where Moll was. She travels far and wide with her basket of wares. How could he summon her to his aid if she was several counties distant?’ he asked. ‘She came to London to see him. Moll said they had planned to meet again at Bartholomew Fair, but that will never happen now.’

Anne became serious. ‘Can the girl’s word be relied upon?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Would Frank agree with you?’

‘Moll convinced him in time.’

‘How?’

‘By talking in such detail about his father,’ explained Nicholas. ‘There can be no question that she knew him well. Master Quilter was very proud of his son. Though he disliked the notion of Frank being an actor, it did not stop his adoration of him. He talked to Moll about him in the warmest tones. In spite of his reservations, he once saw his son perform with Banbury’s Men. That was how Lightfoot tracked Frank down.’

‘Lightfoot?’

‘A tumbler who’ll perform at the fair.’

Anne smiled. ‘Bawdy baskets? Tumblers? Who else is in this story?’

‘Do not mock Lightfoot,’ he warned. ‘He is Moll’s best friend. When she heard of Gerard Quilter’s execution, it was Lightfoot who supplied the details. But for him, we might never have had this important new evidence.’

‘How did she get to Frank’s lodging?’

‘With the help of this tumbler. When Moll told him that Frank was an actor, he went to every theatre troupe in the city in search of him. Someone at the Queen’s Head said that Frank was a sharer with Westfield’s Men.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was as simple as that. Lightfoot found out where he lived and passed on the information to Moll Comfrey.’

‘This tumbler has great enterprise.’

‘We all have cause to be thankful to him, Anne. And to the girl.’

‘Did she come alone?’

‘Alone and forlorn. That’s what persuaded me of her sincerity.’

‘How?’

‘The way she responded to the man’s death,’ said Nicholas. ‘She was deeply moved. Their friendship was clearly of great moment to her. What girl would mourn the passing of a mere acquaintance, who paid for her favours now and then? She loved him, Anne. That’s what disturbed Frank most.’

‘Most sons would feel uneasy in such a situation.’

It was mid-evening when Nicholas Bracewell returned to the house in Bankside. Anne welcomed him home then gave him an account of her visit to Lady Slaney. He was grateful for all the information she had garnered in the course of her visit. The details of Sir Eliard Slaney’s domestic life accorded very much with his expectations, and Nicholas had been pleased to get confirmation of the fact that Slaney had been at Smithfield to watch the last minutes of Gerard’s Quilter’s life. It strengthened the link between him and the two witnesses at the murder trial. Nicholas’s own tidings, however, could not wait. Before Anne could relate everything she had heard from the busy lips of Lady Slaney, he told her of the fortuitous arrival of Moll Comfrey. She was impressed.

‘You have vindicated Frank’s father in the space of a single day.’

‘It is not as easy as that, I fear.’

‘Moll Comfrey’s testimony will stand up in court, will it not?’

‘If we can find a judge to open the case once more.’

‘But you must, Nick. In the name of justice.’

‘Judges and justice do not always go together,’ he pointed out. ‘If they did, then Gerard Quilter would not have met such an ignominious death. Our first task was to let Moll Comfrey make a sworn statement in front of a magistrate.’

‘And did she?’

‘Willingly.’

‘What did the magistrate say?’

‘He was not sanguine, Anne,’ he confessed. ‘He did not think we could overturn the verdict in a murder trial on the strength of a deposition from an ignorant girl. That was not the way he described her to me in private,’ he recalled with irritation. ‘His language was more contemptuous.’

‘He took her for a bawdy basket as well, then?’ she said.

Nicholas grew angry. ‘It does not matter what she is or how she makes her living. Moll Comfrey only came forward because she has testimony that will absolve a man she cared for from the charge of murder. It took courage on her part. The girl can neither read nor write, Anne. The magistrate bullied her until she was utterly confused.’

‘Will she hold up under examination, Nick?’

‘I think so. Moll was confused but never browbeaten.’

‘What happens next?’

‘The magistrate promised to look into the matter,’ said Nicholas with a sigh, ‘but he warned us that it would take time before any decision was made. The law is quick enough to condemn a man to death but it moves like a snail when a miscarriage of justice has occurred.’

‘How did Frank Quilter react to all this?’

‘Sadly. He expected too much, too soon.’

‘Will you need more than Moll Comfrey’s word?’ she asked.

‘Much more, Anne. The magistrate made that clear.’

‘Not a helpful man, then, it would appear.’

‘No, said Nicholas. ‘At times, the fellow was all but obstructive.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Justice Haygarth.’

Adam Haygarth rode through the peopled streets at a steady trot. A big, fleshy, round-shouldered man in his fifties, he had grey hair and a wispy grey beard that looked as if it had been blown on to his chin by a strong wind instead of actually growing there. Ordinarily, he moved through London with an air of condescension, looking down in disdain at the citizens he passed from his elevated position as a justice of the peace. This time, however, he put his self-importance aside in the interests of speed. All that he could think about was reaching his destination. When the crowds thinned slightly, he was able to kick his horse into a canter. It was a warm evening, still light. By the time he reached Bishopsgate, there were thick beads of sweat on his face. He dismounted, tethered his horse and hurried to the front door of the house. After licking his lips nervously, he knocked hard.

Sir Eliard Slaney was at home. A servant conducted the visitor into the parlour, where Sir Eliard was being forced to admire his wife’s latest purchase from her milliner. Wearing the new hat, Lady Slaney was parading up and down so that her husband could view her from different angles. When she saw Haygarth, she insisted that he, too, should tell her how remarkable she looked in the hat. With an effort, he duly obliged. Haygarth signalled the importance of his visit with a glance at Slaney, who immediately ushered his wife towards the door.

‘The hat is a triumph, Rebecca,’ he said, easing her out of the room. ‘But you must excuse me while I talk to Justice Haygarth.’

‘When shall I wear it in public, Eliard?’

‘As soon as you wish, my dear.’

He closed the door behind her and gave a world-weary sigh.

‘My wife has a strange passion for hats,’ he explained.

‘I have always admired the way that she dresses herself, Sir Eliard.’

‘That is her only fault, alas. Rebecca demands rather too much admiration. Still,’ he went on, ‘I doubt if you came to discuss the skills of her milliner. What means this unexpected visit, Adam? You look as if you have been running.’

‘Riding hard,’ said Haygarth.

‘You were wont to move more leisurely when you are in the saddle.’

‘Urgency required speed, Sir Eliard.’

‘Urgency?’

‘I had enquiries to make elsewhere at first,’ said Haygarth, taking a paper from inside his doublet. ‘Once they were completed, I came here as fast as I could.’

‘You sound as if you had good reason.’

‘The best, Sir Eliard. Disaster is in the air. I thought the problem was solved when Gerard Quilter was hanged yesterday, but it is not to be.’

‘What do you mean?’

Haygarth offered him the paper. ‘First, read this. It is a frightening document.’

‘Nothing frightens me,’ said Sir Eliard, taking the paper from him to glance at it. His expression changed at once. His eyes bulged in alarm. ‘Can this be true?’

‘The girl gave her statement earlier this evening, Sir Eliard.’

‘She claims to have been with Master Quilter on the very day he was alleged to have committed the murder. Does this have any substance? If it does,’ he continued, ‘then we are all in serious danger.’

‘That’s why I brought you the news post-haste.’

‘Who is this creature called Moll Comfrey?’

‘A bawdy basket, arrived in the city for Bartholomew Fair.’

Sir Eliard grinned slyly. ‘Then we are surely safe,’ he said, relaxing. ‘No judge would take the word of some common prostitute against that of worthy fellows like Cyril Paramore and Bevis Millburne.’

‘The girl has solid support, alas.’

‘Support?’

‘Two men came with her, Sir Eliard. One is Master Quilter’s son.’

‘An actor with Westfield’s Men, as I hear.’

‘And a most determined young fellow,’ warned Haygarth. ‘Had the girl come alone, I could have dismissed her story out of hand, but Francis Quilter is not so easily swept aside. His friend is just as resolute.’

‘Friend?’

‘One Nicholas Bracewell, as stubborn a fellow as I’ve ever met. With two such people at her back, the girl is prepared to take her Bible oath that Gerard Quilter was unjustly convicted of murder.’

‘A pox on Moll Comfrey!’

‘We are all like to catch it from her, Sir Eliard,’ whined the other. ‘If the truth can be established in court, all four of us face the wrath of the law. As a justice of the peace, I will be especially humiliated.’

‘Cease this snivelling, man!’ ordered Sir Eliard. ‘Let me think.’

He paced the room and read the statement through once again before slapping it down angrily on the oak table. It took him a full minute to reach his decision. He rounded on Haygarth with such menace that the magistrate took a step backwards.

‘Where is this Moll Comfrey now?’ he demanded.

‘That is what delayed me, Sir Eliard,’ said Haygarth. ‘I went to find out where the girl is lodging while she is in London. And I spoke with one or two people who know Moll Comfrey. Among her kind, she is popular and well-respected.’

‘Her popularity has already worn thin with me,’ said Sir Eliard, curling his lip. ‘Where does she stay?’

‘At Smithfield. She’ll sleep in the booth of a pie man and his wife. They are old acquaintances of hers and among the first to arrive today. Smithfield is already half-covered in stalls and booths,’ he said. ‘You would not recognise it as the place where public executions took place yesterday.’

Sir Eliard was rueful. ‘Bartholomew Fair does not cover everything as completely as we would have hoped, it seems. If this girl is allowed to give her evidence, a hundred thousand booths will not hide the mischief behind the hanging of Gerard Quilter.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Is the girl at Smithfield now?’

‘Yes, Sir Eliard. I glimpsed her as I left.’

‘And you could point out the place where she will lay her head?’

‘The smell would guide me to it, for they are still baking pies there.’

Slaney went to the table and picked up the paper again. After reading it through for the third time, he scrunched it up in his hand and tossed it to the floor.

‘She must go,’ he decided.

Moll Comfrey was sitting on the grass as she shared a warm pie with Lightfoot. She was glad to be back at Smithfield again. Newcomers had been arriving throughout evening to pitch their tents and set up their stalls. A sea of coloured canvas was slowly engulfing the whole field. Moll felt at home. The sturdy itinerants who travelled around fairs and markets were people she liked and understood. She was part of their fellowship and had made several friends. None was more valued than Lightfoot.

‘This is the tastiest supper I’ve had in a month,’ he said through a mouthful of meat pie. ‘Though you might have done even better for yourself, Moll, had you kept your wits about you.’

‘Done better?’ she asked.

‘Did you not say that you met Master Quilter?’

‘Yes, Lightfoot. He was a true gentleman.’

‘Then he should have bought a lady a fine supper in gratitude,’ he argued. ‘What you took him in exchange was worth far more than the price of a meal.’

‘I did not go there to sell the information.’

‘That is what I’d have done in your place, Moll. Yes,’ he added, swallowing the last of his pie and licking his fingers, ‘and I’d have expected money as well as food.’

‘They did offer me money.’

‘Then why did you not take it, girl?’

‘Because I thought they did so to make trial of me,’ she said. ‘Master Quilter did not trust me at first, I could see that. Why should he? I am a complete stranger, arriving out of nowhere to claim that I knew his father. He offered me money to see if I was trying to sell worthless tittle-tattle. When I spurned it, he began to listen more carefully to me.’

‘What of this other man you met?’

‘He was kinder to me from the start. His name was Nicholas Bracewell and he helped to convince his friend that I was telling the truth. They took me to a magistrate and I told him what I knew. Justice Haygarth turned up his nose at me,’ she recalled bitterly, ‘and would have thrown me out as soon as look at me. It was this Nicholas Bracewell who made him take my evidence seriously.’

‘I hope that it helps, Moll.’

‘It must,’ she insisted. ‘A terrible wrong has to be righted.’

‘They’ll make you stand up in a court of law,’ he cautioned.

‘I’m not afraid of that, Lightfoot. Gerard Quilter was a good friend.’

‘Did you tell them why?’

She lowered her head. ‘Some things must ever be kept secret.’ Moll nibbled at her own piece of pie. ‘Now you may see why I fainted when you broke the news about the execution to me. It shocked me so deeply. When I came to Bartholomew Fair, I expected to meet him again yet I find that he was hanged on the very spot where the fair will take place.’ She shivered involuntarily. ‘And I’ve not forgotten Jane Gullet. She was burnt for witchcraft here.’

‘Eat your pie and pay no attention to her.’

‘How can I when her spirit still walks on Smithfield?’

‘Think of the spirit of Master Gerard Quilter,’ he suggested.

‘I do, Lightfoot,’ she said solemnly. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else all day. This whole field is now accursed. An innocent man was hanged by the neck, and a witch was burnt to a cinder. Can you not smell the menace in the air?’

‘All that I can smell are those wonderful pies.’

‘I am worried, Lightfoot.’

‘There is no need,’ he assured her. ‘What will happen now?’

‘We wait on the word of the magistrate.’

‘The law will not be rushed.’

‘That is what Justice Haygarth said. I’m to remain in London until I am called.’

‘That may take weeks,’ he said. ‘How will you live? Where will you stay?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell has offered to find me a roof over my head. He works with the theatre troupe that performs at the Queen’s Head. He has influence there and believes he can secure me a small room.’

‘Then you are blessed in his friendship, Moll. The Queen’s Head is a fine inn. I went there myself. You are rising in the world,’ he teased. ‘While you lie in a warm bed there, I will be sleeping under a hedge.’

Moll finished her pie. ‘I’ve slept under enough hedges myself in the past,’ she said, ‘and look to spend a night under many more.’ Stifling a yawn, she rose to her feet. ‘I am tired, Lightfoot. It has been a long day and this business has worn me down. I know it is still early but I am ready to lay down my head.’

‘Not before you honour your promise,’ he said with a grin.

‘Promise?’

‘I gave you a name, Moll. Where is my kiss in return?’

‘That particular name does not merit a kiss.’

‘A bargain is a bargain,’ he argued.

‘True enough.’ She got up to kiss him softly on the lips. ‘There’s your reward, Lightfoot,’ she sighed. ‘But you’d have had a thousand more kisses if you could have told me that Master Gerard Quilter was still alive.’

When he returned to the Queen’s Head that evening, Nicholas Bracewell saw that some of Westfield’s Men were still there. Their mood was somnolent. Instead of carousing, they sat in a huddle, nursing their ale and sharing their concerns about the company. Before he joined them, Nicholas went across to Sybil Marwood, the landlady, a fearsome woman with a basilisk stare that could quell any affray that broke out on the premises. While she shared her husband’s dislike of the troupe, she was far more tolerant of its presence, knowing how much distinction and custom it brought to the inn. Over the years she had also developed a sneaking fondness for Nicholas, the most polite and presentable member of the troupe. His approach actually managed to crack her face into something resembling a smile.

‘Good even, Mistress Marwood,’ he said.

‘You are welcome, sir.’

‘How does your husband fare?’

‘Indifferently well.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. Is he still abed?’

‘He is,’ she complained, ‘and likely to remain there for another week at least. I begin to think his illness is deliberate so that all the responsibility of managing the Queen’s Head falls on my shoulders. Alexander has left everything to me.’

‘But you do it so well,’ he flattered. ‘Far better than your husband.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Everyone in the company has noticed.’

‘Have they?’ she said, softening even more. ‘I shall tell that to Alexander. It may help to speed his recovery. He believes that custom will dry up without him. He is such a jealous man where the Queen’s Head is concerned.’

‘It is in safe hands with you, Mistress Marwood.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I think that you were born to the life.’

Her smile broadened. ‘The approval of Nicholas Bracewell is always a pleasure.’

‘You have earned it, dear lady,’ he said. ‘Convey my regards to your husband.’

‘I will, I will.’

Having cheered the grim landlady, Nicholas crossed to the table where his friends were sitting. All five of them were despondent. Owen Elias looked up at him through glazed eyes. The Welshman had lost of all his usual effervescence.

‘Have you come to take part in the funeral, Nick?’

‘What funeral?’ asked Nicholas.

‘The one that we are holding for Westfield’s Men.’

‘When the troupe is still alive and in good health?’

‘But it is not,’ replied Elias. ‘We’ve lost Frank Quilter from our ranks. You, too, were in danger of leaving. And now we have this message of doom from Edmund.’

‘All may yet be well, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Frank’s departure is a temporary loss and I have resolved to stay with the company. As for Edmund, he is in the grip of an infatuation and we have seen many of those before.’

‘Not like this one, Nick,’ said James Ingram.

‘No,’ added Elias. ‘Every time a woman smiles at him, Edmund falls in love but his passion is always unrequited. That is not so here. This creature called Avice Radley is a bird of prey. She hovers above our heads, ready to snatch our playwright in her talons.’

‘How long will we survive without him?’ moaned Ingram.

‘It may not come to that, James,’ said Nicholas.

‘Lawrence is in despair. He hoped that you could talk sense into Edmund’s ear. Yet even your attempts were met with failure.’

‘I’ll try again with more cogent argument.’

‘A dip in the Thames is the only cogent argument for Edmund,’ said Elias sourly. ‘Let’s throw the wretch from London Bridge. The water may bring him to his senses.’

‘Violence will not be called for, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Once the novelty of this new romance is past, Edmund will listen to reason.’ He saw someone coming in through the door. ‘But you must excuse me, friends. I must have private conference with Frank. His troubles make our own seem small.’

Nicholas went over to intercept his friend and guide him to a quiet corner of the taproom. It had been Quilter’s idea that they should meet at the Queen’s Head but he was having reservations about the decision now. He looked furtive and uneasy, keeping his head down and unwilling even to glance towards the other actors. Conscious that some of them still wanted him discharged from the company, he no longer felt part of it. Nicholas ordered ale for both of them then told him what Anne Hendrik had learnt during her visit to the Slaney household. Quilter pounced on one revelation.

‘And so Sir Eliard Slaney was at Smithfield yesterday!’ he noted.

‘Standing beside his friend, Bevis Millburne, no doubt.’

‘Two yoke-devils, exulting in their wickedness.’

‘We have no proof that Sir Eliard was involved,’ Nicholas reminded him.

‘Then why is he so thick with the two false witnesses who brought about my father’s death? He has to be in league with them, Nick.’

‘I agree, but we must establish that fact for certain.’

‘Anne is our best hope there,’ said Quilter. ‘Does she have good reason to visit the house again before long?’

‘Happily, yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lady Slaney was so pleased with her new hat that she wishes to commission another. Anne is to call on her soon to discuss the style she prefers and the material she wishes to choose. I am glad that I went back to Bankside to hear the intelligence she gathered today. It is invaluable.’

‘I’ve not been idle since we parted.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘I kept vigil outside Master Paramore’s house,’ explained Quilter. ‘We did well to follow him when he disembarked. That taught us where the villain lived and in what obvious comfort.’

‘He is a prosperous man, Frank.’

‘But wherein does that prosperity lie? That is what I went to find out. You’ll recall there was a tavern close to his house.’

‘The Black Unicorn, was it not?’

‘The very same,’ said Quilter. ‘I bought a drink and asked the landlord if Cyril Paramore ever dined there. He does so regularly, Nick, and always orders the best of everything. There’s more. The landlord told me that he sometimes dines at the Black Unicorn with his employer.’

‘Employer?’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney.’

Nicholas nodded. ‘That explains why Sir Eliard met him off the Speedfast today.’

‘The first thing that Paramore would want to know, I daresay, is what happened at Smithfield while he was absent. Only when my father was dead would he feel safe.’

‘That safety is now under threat,’ said Nicholas. ‘Thanks to Moll Comfrey.’

‘I wonder if he is aware of that.’

‘How could he be? Her statement is lodged with Justice Haygarth. The wheels of the law are sluggish, Frank. The magistrate schooled us to be patient. No,’ he decided, ‘there is no way that Paramore could have caught wind of Moll’s evidence.’

‘He has caught wind of something, Nick.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only this,’ said Quilter. ‘I watched his house above an hour from the comfort of the tavern. Then a messenger rode up. What news he brought, I do not know, but it frighted Cyril Paramore mightily. He rushed out of his house and called for a horse from his stable. His wife was alarmed at his sudden departure. I could see it in her face as she stood at the door. When her husband rode off hell for leather, she was bewildered.’

‘I do not blame her,’ said Nicholas. ‘When he has been away in France for a time, she has a right to expect that he would spend his first evening at home with her. It is strange behaviour for a husband.’

‘I could not have followed him on foot.’

‘Even your young legs would not move that fast.’

‘And I did not wish to keep you waiting here.’

‘You did well to discover what you did, Frank.’

‘There was one thing more, Nick.’

‘Yes?’

‘The landlord at the Black Unicorn told me that Paramore was devoted to his wife, but I saw little devotion in the way he abandoned her on the doorstep. He did not even bid the poor woman farewell.’

‘The news he received must have been truly grievous,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nothing else would make a loving husband act in such a way.’ He ran a thoughtful hand through his beard. ‘Where could he have been going?’

While his visitors were on the verge of panic, Sir Eliard Slaney remained icily calm. Bevis Millburne and Cyril Paramore were in great discomfort as they sat in the parlour of Sir Eliard’s house. They had still not managed to assimilate the tidings.

‘Where did this creature spring from?’ demanded Millburne.

‘She is in London for the fair,’ said Sir Eliard. ‘It was sheer chance that she arrived on the very heels of yesterday’s business, though there may be consolation in that.’

‘Consolation! I see no consolation, Sir Eliard.’

‘Calm yourself, Bevis.’

‘How can I when this girl holds a knife at our throats?’

‘Bevis is right, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore. ‘Let this bawdy basket give her evidence in court and we are all done for.’

‘Therein lies the consolation, Cyril,’ replied Sir Eliard. ‘Had the girl appeared before the trial, it might not have had such a rewarding outcome for us. Her word might have rescued Quilter from the noose that we so cleverly put around his neck. The pair of you would have been arrested on a charge of perjury.’

‘Horror!’ cried Millburne.

‘We only did your bidding, Sir Eliard,’ argued Paramore.

‘Cyril has hit the mark there. The plan was not of our devising.’

‘You must take the greater share of the blame.’

Sir Eliard was scornful. ‘Be quiet, you craven cowards!’ he shouted. ‘You were quick enough take my money when it was offered. I heard no complaints from you then. This is a time when each of us must keep our nerve, not descend into bickering. I expected Bevis to whimper,’ he went on, ‘but I looked for better from you, Cyril.’

Paramore squirmed in his chair beneath the withering gaze of his employer.

‘You have my apology, Sir Eliard,’ he muttered.

‘What are we going to do?’ wailed Millburne.

‘Act like men,’ insisted Sir Eliard, ‘and not like terrified women. Take hold on yourself, Bevis. If one of us stumbles, he brings the rest of us down.’

Sir Eliard went to the table to pour three glasses of wine. When it was handed to him, Millburne took a long sip from his glass. His hands were shaking visibly. Paramore had regained his composure. He had more faith in his host. There had been other storms to weather in the past. They would doubtless survive this new squall. A sip of wine put more confidence into him.

‘All that we have to do is to defy this bawdy basket,’ he said airily. ‘What value will a judge place on her word when it is ranged against that of respectable citizens like Bevis and myself? Her evidence will be laughed out of court.’

‘Not if it is supported by others,’ said Sir Eliard.

‘Others?’

‘Yes, Cyril. The girl was seen with Gerard Quilter on the day in question. According to Adam Haygarth, she can call on two or three who will vouch for the fact. Travellers, like herself. They’ll be here for the fair.’

Millburne was aghast. ‘Are we to be brought down by the sweepings of the streets? I’ll not endure it, Sir Eliard.’

‘You will not have to, Bevis.’

‘We may still brazen it out,’ said Paramore. ‘A dozen bawdy baskets and their kind could not discredit our evidence.’

‘The case must never come to court,’ urged Millburne. ‘Buy the creature off.’

‘That was my first instinct,’ admitted Sir Eliard, drinking his own wine. ‘But our helpful magistrate tells me that she is beyond the reach of a bribe. Moll Comfrey did not visit Adam Haygarth’s house alone. She went with Francis Quilter.’

‘The son! Then are we all damned.’

‘Be silent, Bevis.’

‘With his support, the girl is a more credible witness.’

‘We’ll not buy Quilter’s son off,’ said Paramore anxiously. ‘He’ll want the family name cleansed of its stain. There’s danger here, Sir Eliard.’

‘Grave danger. We sent an innocent man to his death and now we’ll pay for it.’

‘He was not innocent,’ retorted Sir Eliard, eyes blazing. ‘Gerard Quilter had the gall to cross me and no man does that with impunity. He deserved his fate and I’m proud that I contrived it. I’d do the same again. Bear that in mind,’ he warned, looking from one man to the other. ‘I’ll brook no opposition. I did not achieve my position by being kind to my enemies. I simply destroy them. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore meekly.

‘Bevis?’

Millburne nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Eliard,’ he whispered.

‘Do as I tell you and none of us need fear. One solitary person stands between us and our peace of mind. A bawdy basket called Moll Comfrey.’ He gave a sneer. ‘Are we going to let some roadside punk defeat us?’

‘No, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore.

‘Never!’ added Millburne.

Sir Eliard gave a cold smile. ‘Then this is what must be done.’

Anne Hendrik was waiting for him when he returned to Bankside that night. Seated at the table in the parlour, she was examining some drawings she had made of new hats. She rose to give him a welcome kiss. Nicholas Bracewell squeezed her affectionately.

‘It is good to see a face that bears a smile,’ he said, ‘especially when the face happens to be yours, Anne. I saw precious few smiles at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Is the company so distressed about what happened to Gerard Quilter?’

‘What issued from it has hardly cheered them. They have lost the services of a fine actor and opinion is divided as to whether they should have him back. Frank did himself no favours by his surly behaviour towards them this evening. He pretended that his fellows were not even there.’

‘Is that what removed the smiles from their faces?’ she asked.

‘No, Anne,’ he said, sitting down. ‘They hardly noticed that Frank was with me. It’s another departure that vexes Westfield’s Men. They fear to lose Edmund.’

‘Edmund Hoode?’

‘He has elected to go.’

‘Surely not, Nick.’

‘I did not believe it myself at first.’

‘What possible cause could make him quit the company?’

‘Her name is Mistress Avice Radley.’

‘Ah,’ she sighed, understanding the situation. ‘Of course. It had to be a woman’s hand who tries to pull him away.’

‘She may accomplish what a team of horses could not do, Anne, for they would not make him budge an inch from the Queen’s Head.’

‘Who is the lady?’

‘A wealthy widow,’ he said, ‘with enough money to support them both and sufficient greed, it seems, to want Edmund all to herself. He is besotted with her.’

‘He is always besotted with some woman or other.’

‘This one is set quite apart from the others, Anne.’

‘In what way?’

‘No stalking was involved here, no futile pursuit of his prey. Mistress Radley came to him. Edmund says that she descended out of heaven on a white cloud. You can see that he still sees her through the eyes of a poet.’

‘How long will that last?’

‘In perpetuity, he claims.’

‘His loss would be a bitter blow to the company.’

‘Crippling, Anne,’ he agreed. ‘Lawrence Firethorn is tearing out his hair.’

‘Can he not persuade Edmund to stay?’

‘I fear not. No more can I,’ he admitted, ‘though not for want of trying. I can usually reason with Edmund but he would hear none. His decision has been made. He vows that it will not be changed.’

‘Who made the decision? Edmund or Mistress Radley?’

‘He swears the compact is mutual.’

‘Then Westfield’s Man are truly under threat,’ she concluded, sitting at the table. ‘To lose an actor like Frank Quilter is handicap enough. To be deprived of the author of your best work will make you weak indeed. Your rivals will prosper at your expense.’

‘That is what the company fears. It has touched them all. Even Barnaby Gill has been forced to acknowledge how important Edmund is to our success.’ His eye twinkled. ‘You can imagine his derision when he learnt that a woman was the cause of it all.’

Anne smiled. ‘At least Barnaby will not be led astray by a wealthy widow.’

‘He lives for the theatre, Anne. So, I believed, did Edmund.’

‘Is this Mistress Radley such a paragon of virtues that she can lure him away?’

‘None of us have met the lady.’

‘Someone should do so,’ she advised. ‘On the company’s behalf, I mean. You are the man for that task, Nick. Edmund may be impervious to reason but his inamorata may not be. Why not approach her direct?’

‘That would be unfair to him.’

‘Seek his permission first.’

‘He is unlikely to grant it,’ said Nicholas. ‘This lady is like no other whom Edmund has met. He is shielding her from us.’ He grinned. ‘Lawrence Firethorn cannot understand why she did not pick out him instead.’

‘His vanity knows no bounds.’ She gathered up the drawings. ‘But how did you find Frank Quilter this evening? Is he still weighed down with grief?’

‘He was heartened by what we learnt today.’

‘So he should be, Nick. This young peddler whom you met has the power to proclaim his father’s innocence. Even though her occupation does embarrass Frank.’

‘Moll Comfrey did not choose her occupation.’

‘Where is the girl now?’

‘She stays at Smithfield in the booth of some friends.’

‘What happens when the fair breaks up?’

‘That is where we encounter trouble,’ he confessed. ‘Justice Haygarth insisted that she stay in London until she is called to give her evidence in open court. That may take time. I hope to use my position at the Queen’s Head to find her a bed there.’

‘Would she be safe at an inn like that, Nick?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘If I was there to keep an eye on her.’

‘We could both do that, if Moll Comfrey chose to come here instead.’

‘Here?’

‘There’s room in the attic for her and her basket,’ she said. ‘It is important that she remains in London, you say. Why did you not invite her to Bankside?’

‘Without your permission, I did not feel able to do so.’

‘Well, now you have it.’

‘Thank you, Anne,’ he said, getting up to kiss her. ‘I am most grateful. It is the best solution of all. You will like Moll. She is a charming girl.’

‘Yet her charms do not seem to work on Frank Quilter.’

‘He will come to like her in the end. Moll Comfrey is his saviour.’

Smithfield was still alive as midnight approached. Hundreds of people had now arrived in readiness for the fair. Booths, tents, and stalls had been set up in favoured positions. Those who would sell, perform or otherwise seek payment at Bartholomew Fair were united in common fellowship. Old friends met up to exchange news and gossip. Whole families sat out in the warm night air to speculate on what weather they might expect for the fair and what effect it would have on the crowds. Fires had been lit to cook food and dozens still sat around them to talk, argue, complain, reminisce or simply stare into the embers. The lights of the city might be going out but the sturdier souls at Smithfield needed less sleep. It would be hours before the heavy murmur of conversation died away.

Moll Comfrey was oblivious to it all. While her hosts were still out under the stars, she had long since crept into their booth and found the corner allocated to her. She lay on a piece of sacking on the bare earth, curled up beside her basket. Fatigue had taken her to the booth but heartache prevented her from falling asleep. Her mind was filled too vividly with shifting images of Gerard Quilter, a man she had come to love as much as anyone in the world. The meeting with his son had been both salutary and upsetting. Francis Quilter looked so much like his father that he revived fond memories of her time with the older man, while simultaneously reminding her of his dreadful fate. The son had the same features, the same voice, the same gestures and the same way of holding his head at a slight angle. Francis Quilter also had the same integrity, the same fundamental decency and consideration for others that would never allow him to stoop to murder. His father had been the victim of false witnesses. Moll was dedicated to the notion of clearing his name. Her hand tightened around a small gift that the older man had once given her. Its aroma always helped to sweeten her sleep.

When exhaustion finally got the better of her grief, she dozed off but she did not desert her dearest friend. He followed her into her dream, walking beside a river with her, talking with her, showing his concern and affection, offering her money to help her through any difficult times ahead. Time spent with Gerard Quilter was a haven of peace in an otherwise fraught existence. When they arranged to meet at Bartholomew Fair, she was delighted. The thought that she would soon see him again would steady her through any troubles she might encounter. As they parted beside the river, he kissed her gently on the forehead, pressed some money into her palm then vanished from her sight.

He returned to her almost at once but the scene had changed. Bartholomew Fair was at its height, turning Smithfield into a cauldron of noise and merriment. Lightfoot was turning his somersaults, a performing dog was prancing on its back legs, a man was swallowing fire, a champion wrestler was taking on all-comers. Enormous crowds were swirling around the booths. Moll was selling her wares when she saw her friend emerging out of the crowd. Quilter gave her a cordial welcome. Buying some ribbons from her, he tied them neatly in her hair. She felt elated and danced around with joy. Then he suddenly disappeared again and she could not find him. Moll was desolate. She ran wildly here and there, searching with increasing desperation, until she bumped hard into a gallows and looked up to see Gerard Quilter’s body dangling above her.

It brought her awake with a silent cry. Before she could even realise where she was, she saw a figure moving towards her in the gloom. Had her friend come back for her, after all? Had he escaped the cruel death she had seen in her dream? Was he there to take her away from the hardship of her life? Longing to be reunited with Gerard Quilter, she sat up with open arms to beckon him forward. Her wish was granted.

Moll Comfrey soon joined her friend in an untimely grave.