The Bawdy Basket

Chapter Six

Lawrence Firethorn had more reason than any actor in the company to be grateful for the talents of Edmund Hoode. The playwright had furnished him with most of his finest roles. The imperious Pompey the Great and the courageous Henry V were recreated magnificently from life, but the heroes of The Loyal Subject, Death and Darkness, The Corrupt Bargain and a dozen other plays sprang up like vigorous new shoots from Hoode’s fertile brain. The dramatist was equally at home with history, comedy or tragedy, allowing the actor-manager to exhibit the full range of his incomparable abilities. Even when Hoode was merely a co-author of a piece — as with The Merry Devils or The Insatiate Duke — his contribution was distinctive. When he thought of the countless old plays by other hands that Hoode had repaired or substantially improved, Firethorn was reminded how valuable a member of Westfield’s Men his friend really was. Given his abilities, the playwright was remarkably self-effacing. There were occasions, it was true, when he wrote eye-catching parts specifically for himself to play but that was a permissible indulgence. In his own way, Firethorn came to see, Edmund Hoode would be an even more terrible loss than Nicholas Bracewell.

A desperate situation called for desperate measures. With that in mind, Firethorn arose even earlier than usual and ate a hasty breakfast before either his children or the apprentices had even been turned out of bed by a clamorous summons from his wife. Margery gave him a kiss before he took his leave.

‘Tell him from me that he must never desert Westfield’s Men,’ she said.

‘I do not intend to speak to Edmund as yet, my love.’

‘Then why set off so early for his lodging?’

‘To watch and wait,’ replied Firethorn.

‘For what?’

‘Guidance.’

‘You must surely speak with him to get that.’

‘He will not even know that I am there.’

‘Then why bother to go?’

‘I am acting on instinct.’

‘How will that help to keep a renegade playwright in the company?’

‘You will see, Margery.’

‘Give him time and he may come to his senses.’

Firethorn was bitter. ‘We do not have time,’ he said. ‘The longer we delay, the more firmly this witch will have Edmund under her spell. It must be broken soon.’

‘How, Lawrence?’

‘That is what I am going to find out.’

‘Why not take Nicholas with you?’

‘He has tried and failed. Diplomacy has made no ground at all. Rougher methods must be called into play. Nick is not the man to employ them.’ He embraced her warmly. ‘I must away, my love.’

Margery was puzzled. ‘Rougher methods?’

‘Farewell.’

He was soon riding out of Shoreditch at a steady canter, vowing to use whatever means it took to retain Hoode’s services for Westfield’s Men. Unlike his book holder, he was completely unscrupulous and would devote all his energies to the removal of Avice Radley from the playwright’s life. Before he could achieve that end, he needed to know more about the lady who threatened to undermine the stability of the company that he led so proudly. In order to do that, he required unwitting assistance from Hoode. When he entered the city through Bishopsgate, he turned his horse in the direction of his friend’s lodging, clattering along thoroughfares that had been baked hard by the hot summer. London was already wide awake, streets crowded, markets teeming with customers, but Hoode would not rise until it was time to leave for the morning’s rehearsal at the Queen’s Head. Firethorn reached the house, saw that the shutters on his window were still locked, and dismounted. He had timed his arrival well. A narrow lane, some thirty yards away, provided an ideal hiding place from which to watch the house.

Edmund Hoode was a creature of habit. Whenever he was in love — a not uncommon situation for someone so full of random affection — he would spend half the night sighing outside his lady’s bedchamber, then return in the morning to blow a kiss up to her window on his way to Gracechurch Street. It had happened so many times before that a pattern had been established. All that Firethorn had to do was to follow. It irked him that he had been kept in the dark about Avice Radley. Hoode had divulged nothing about her apart from her name and her determination to rescue him from the squalor of London and the precariousness of his profession so that they could live together in rural bliss. He had been very careful to give no indication of where she lived and, in spite of Nicholas Bracewell’s efforts at persuasion, had fled so swiftly after the performance of Love’s Sacrifice that nobody had been able to see where he went. Firethorn was taking a first important step in the campaign against Avice Radley.

‘Know thy enemy,’ he said to himself. ‘Track her to her lair.’

Firethorn did not have long to wait. Ten minutes after he took up his position, he saw Hoode’s face appear at the open window as the shutters were flung back. Smiling happily, the playwright inhaled the fetid air of the city as if it were the scent from a flower garden. He soon descended to the ground floor to let himself out of the house and saunter along the road. Firethorn led his horse by the rein in the wake of his friend. He had no fears that Hoode would turn round to see him. The man had eyes for no one but his beloved and it was an image of her that floated entrancingly before him. It was clear from the start that he was taking no direct route to the Queen’s Head. After snaking his way through a warren of back streets, Hoode came out into a wide road with a ribbon of houses along both sides. Firethorn trailed him until he stopped outside one of the largest dwellings and gazed up.

‘Good morning, Avice,’ said Hoode, blowing a kiss.

His arrival was not unexpected. At the very moment when he made his gesture of affection, shutters opened in the bedchamber at the front of the house and Avice Radley appeared in a long blue gown. Beaming graciously, she waved a greeting to Hoode that made him tremble with ecstasy. It was minutes before he could drag himself away to fulfil his obligations at the Queen’s Head. Firethorn did not immediately pursue him. Even after the woman had withdrawn, he stared up at the window in disbelief. Avice Radley had a statuesque beauty that took him quite by surprise. She was a woman of noble mien allied to considerable physical charms. She embodied all the qualities he found most attractive in the female sex, her widowhood suggesting an experience that tempted him even more. Firethorn no longer wondered how Avice Radley had ensnared his playwright. It was an upsurge of envy that now filled his breast.

‘Why choose Edmund,’ he murmured, ‘when you could be mine?’

Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive at the Queen’s Head. By the time that Thomas Skillen and George Dart rolled into the inn yard, the book holder had enquired after the landlord’s health, conversed affably with Sybil Marwood, swept some horse dung from the inn yard, wheeled out the barrels on which the stage was to be set and unlocked the room where they stored their scenery and properties. Westfield’s Men performed six days a week, their location within the city making it impossible for them to stage plays on Sunday because of an edict against such a practice. No such legal technicality hindered the two Shoreditch playhouses, the Theatre and the Curtain, nor the popular Rose in Bankside, all three being outside City jurisdiction. While their rivals at the Queen’s Head were forced to rest on the Sabbath, they could present their work to large audiences. Few plays had more than occasional consecutive performances at any of the London playhouses. Variety of fare was required and it was not unusual for Westfield’s Men to offer six entirely different dramas in a week. If high standards were to be maintained, daily rehearsals took on especial importance.

George Dart was still only half-awake when he trotted up to Nicholas.

‘What do we play today?’ he asked.

‘You should know that, George.’

‘I think it is Love’s Sacrifice.’

‘That was yesterday’s offering,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then it must be Black Antonio.’

‘Not until tomorrow.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Dart, rubbing his eyes. ‘My brain is addled today.’

‘It is always addled,’ complained Skillen, cuffing him around the ear. ‘Get more sleep, lad. I’ll not have you confusing one play with another. Today, we rehearse a bright comedy for a bright afternoon. Cupid’s Folly will be seen here.’

Dart grinned. ‘I like the play. It makes me laugh so.’

‘Then you’ll know what scenery we need,’ said Nicholas.

‘Every last piece.’

‘Fetch it, George.’ Dart ran off and Nicholas turned to the old man. ‘You are too hard on him, Thomas. A word of praise would not come amiss.’

‘Let him deserve it first,’ said Skillen.

‘He held the book well in my place, remember. Did you commend him for it?’

Skillen chuckled. ‘In a way, Nick. I did not box his ears for the whole afternoon. That’s the highest praise I can offer to George Dart. To spare him punishment.’

The actors were beginning to drift in. Most of them were on foot but a few, such as Barnaby Gill, wearing one of his most lurid suits, were mounted. Nicholas noted the general lack of enthusiasm among the troupe. Owen Elias was sullen, James Ingram was dejected and Rowland Carr looked as if he was overcome with a secret sorrow. Even Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most able of the apprentices, a boy whose angelic features were almost invariably touched with a smile, seemed jaded. The person who had caused the pervading gloom was blithely unaware of the effect he was having on the others. Grinning broadly, Edmund Hoode bounded up to scatter greetings to all and sundry. He was met with cold stares and muttered resentment. Nicholas alone gave him a warm welcome.

‘Have you had time to reflect on what I said, Edmund?’

‘When?’ asked Hoode.

‘Yesterday. After the performance, we had a brief talk.’

‘Did we?’

‘It made little impact if you cannot even recall it,’ said Nicholas resignedly, ‘so my question answers itself. You have not given any thought to my argument.’

‘I did, Nick, but only to dismiss it once again.’

‘Can no appeal reach you?’

‘Not while I tread in Elysium.’

‘It is not in your character to be so indifferent to your fellows.’

‘I am not indifferent,’ said Hoode, distributing a smile around the others. ‘I love them all dearly but I am the happy prisoner of a greater love that has determined my whole future. Share my joy, Nick. Wish me well in my marriage.’

‘I’ll be the first to do so,’ promised Nicholas. ‘You will be a dutiful husband. But I am sorry that you have to divorce twenty people in order to wed one. Is there no means by which we may all keep our mutual vows?’

‘None, I fear. The die is cast.’

‘We’ll talk further, Edmund.’

‘To no avail.’

Hoode went off to speak to Barnaby Gill, who was even more morose than usual. Nicholas was left to supervise the construction of the stage and the disposition of the scenery for the beginning of Cupid’s Folly. Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, was standing by in case his skills were needed to make a few repairs. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, was bringing the costumes out. Peter Digby and the other musicians were tuning their instruments in readiness. Every member of Westfield’s Men was there except its leader. When he finally made his entrance, Lawrence Firethorn was in no mood for delay. Something had put new spirit into him. Cantering into the yard, he reined in his horse, leapt down from the saddle, tossed the reins to George Dart and glared around at his discontented company.

‘Wherefore this Stygian gloom?’ he yelled. ‘Anybody would think that the landlord had recovered from his illness. We’ve work to do, my friends. Let’s about it straight. Come lads,’ he exhorted. ‘Strong hearts and honest endeavour are all that’s needed here. Show me what you can do.’

Firethorn’s vitality helped to lift the company out of its melancholy. Nicholas admired the way that he moved among them, soothing, encouraging and setting a positive example for the others to follow. Smiles reappeared and friendly badinage started once more. Firethorn was leading from the front. When the rehearsal began, he did not hold back in his customary way to save his full power for the audience that afternoon. Showing all his comic gifts, he committed himself totally to the play and released the deeper chords in Cupid’s Folly as well as its abiding humour. Everyone responded to his call. Barnaby Gill was supreme, dancing and clowning his way through the piece with effortless skill. Owen Elias, too, seemed to have been reborn as an actor, matching Firethorn himself for sheer volume and comic intensity. James Ingram’s was another inspired performance and the apprentices brought a new sharpness to the female characters. Instead of dominating the play, Edmund Hoode was all but rendered invisible by the display around him. It was almost as if the company was getting its revenge on its disloyal playwright, consigning him to insignificance in a play whose title was an appropriate comment on his latest romance.

At the end of the rehearsal, the company dispersed in search of refreshment. Firethorn waited until Hoode had departed before he drifted across to Nicholas. The actor-manager grinned broadly and stroked his beard.

‘Our troubles may be over, Nick,’ he said.

‘You can convince Edmund to stay with us?’

‘I prefer to work on the lady herself.’

‘Mistress Radley?’

‘She holds our lovesick author in thrall. Persuade her and we free Edmund.’

‘Tread with care,’ advised Nicholas.

‘This romance throws us all into jeopardy. I’ll nip it in the bud.’

‘That may prove a hard task.’

‘Trust me, Nick,’ said Firethorn confidently. ‘I have a plan.’

Without elaborating on his scheme, Firethorn went off to join the others for a light meal before the performance that afternoon. Nicholas was mystified, wondering what had transformed the actor-manager’s mood. After giving some last orders to Skillen and Dart, he moved off to take a short break himself. Before he could enter the inn, however, he was confronted by a curious figure in colourful attire. The newcomer’s face was lined with grief. Over his arm, he was carrying a large basket, filled to the brim with wares that Nicholas felt he recognised.

‘They told me I would find Nicholas Bracewell here,’ said the man.

‘He stands before you.’

‘Thank heaven, sir! My name is Lightfoot.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Nicholas, smiling at the tumbler. ‘You are Moll Comfrey’s friend. I thought that might be her basket that you carry.’

‘It is all she had to leave.’

‘Leave? She has surely not quit London?’

‘London, and every other place besides, sir,’ said Lightfoot. ‘Poor Moll is dead.’

‘Dead?’ cried Nicholas in alarm.

‘She was murdered as she lay. Some villain squeezed every last breath out of her. And the worst of it is,’ he went on, tears forming in his eyes, ‘we were sitting no more than five yards away.’

‘We?’

‘Ned Pellow, the pieman, and his wife. All three of us were outside the booth, talking happily until well after midnight. When we took to our beds, Ned looked in on Moll and saw her sleeping soundly, as he thought. She was very tired last night and laid her head down early.’ Lightfoot brushed a tear from his cheek. ‘It was only when they tried to wake her this morning that they learnt she had been killed.’

‘How could they be sure it was a case of murder?’

‘By the marks upon her, sir. Moll had bruises on her neck, her arms and her shoulders, as if she had been held down while some fiend smothered her. The blanket that did the foul deed lay beside her. It did not belong to Ned Pellow.’ He bit his lip to hold back his anguish. ‘If only she had cried out. We could have gone to her aid.’

Nicholas was shocked by the news, not merely because the witness who might have cleared Gerard Quilter’s name had been summarily removed. He had liked Moll Comfrey. His acquaintance with her had been fleeting but he had seen enough to note her honesty, her courage and her uncomplaining acceptance of her lot. She was a remarkable young woman and far too healthy to have died a natural death. It was horrifying to think that her life could be snuffed out so easily like a candle. He was bound to wonder if her murder was linked to the evidence she had been brave enough to give.

‘What action has been taken, Lightfoot?’ he asked.

‘Constables were summoned,’ replied the tumbler. ‘They took statements from us all then had the body removed to the mortuary. I could not bear to look on her as the cart took Moll away. She was such a dear friend to me, sir.’

‘Yes, I know. Moll told us how much you had helped her.’

‘I’ve never met anyone who asked for so little out of life.’

‘Have you taken these sad tidings to Master Quilter?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Why not? You know where he lodges. This affects him more than me.’

‘That is why I went first to his house,’ explained Lightfoot, ‘but he was not there and his landlady had no idea of his whereabouts. Then I remembered what Moll had said about Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Oh?’

‘She felt that you trusted her, sir. You spoke up for her before the magistrate. What really touched her was that you offered to find her a room where she might stay.’

‘I would gladly have done so.’

Lightfoot held up the basket. ‘That’s why I brought it to you, sir.’

‘I’ve no need for a basket.’

‘It’s what is inside that you should see.’ Putting the basket on the ground, he rummaged among its contents. ‘I found it quite by accident when I looked to see if any of Moll’s wares had been stolen. It was tucked away at the bottom.’

‘What was, Lightfoot?’

‘This, sir.’

He extracted a letter and handed it over. Nicholas glanced at the name and address on the front of the missive. He was puzzled.

‘Did you not think to deliver it to the man whose name it bears?’ he asked.

Lightfoot was shamefaced. ‘If I’d been able to read it, I might have done.’

‘The letter is addressed to a lawyer, here in London.’

‘A lawyer,’ echoed the tumbler. ‘Moll had no dealings with such men. It was all she could do to scrape a bare living. Nobody in her trade could afford a lawyer. One thing is certain, sir,’ he added, ‘Moll did not write that letter herself. The open road is all the schooling we’ve had. Reading and writing are not for the likes of us.’

Nicholas was decisive. ‘I’ll see it delivered to the right hands,’ he promised, ‘and I’ll inform Master Quilter of the tragedy that has occurred. I’ll want to visit Smithfield myself to see where the crime actually happened. Will you be there, Lightfoot?’

‘Yes, sir. Look for me at Ned Pellow’s booth. I’ll not be far away.’

‘Good. We may need your help.’

‘You can have more than that,’ vowed Lightfoot, straightening his shoulders. ‘I’ll not leave the city until we’ve caught the killer. I owe it to Moll to find the rogue. Count on me for whatever you need, sir. Lightfoot is yours.’

‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Moll saw this coming. That’s the tragedy of it, sir. When we got to Smithfield, she smelt the stink of calamity in the air. Moll said the place was cursed,’ he went on, picking up the basket again. ‘Her friend had been hanged there and a witch had been burnt nearby. To my eternal shame,’ he admitted, ‘I didn’t believe her, sir. Moll was right. There was a curse and she has become its victim.’

Frank Quilter’s zeal was undiminished. Having spent most of the morning keeping Bevis Millburne’s house under surveillance, he had, seeing nothing of value, transferred his attentions to the home of Cyril Paramore, the other man whose testimony had helped to send his father to the gallows. Quilter was not sure what he could expect to find out but he stayed at his post regardless. His vigil was eventually rewarded. As he watched from his vantage point in the Black Unicorn, he saw a plump, red-faced man arrive on horseback. From the description that Nicholas Bracewell had given him of the merchant, he guessed that it was Millburne. What interested him was that Paramore opened the front door himself in order to greet his friend. The younger man was far more relaxed than when Quilter had last seen him, dashing away from his home. As they went into the house, both of them were smiling broadly. Convinced that they were confederates in the plot to incriminate his father, Quilter was tempted to rush across the road to confront the men. Discretion held him back. Then he caught sight of another horseman and hurried out of the tavern in surprise.

Relieved to have tracked his friend down, Nicholas Bracewell dismounted.

‘I hoped that I might find you here, Frank,’ he said.

‘Why are you riding Lawrence Firethorn’s horse?’

‘I told him of my urgency. He loaned the animal to me to make sure that that I returned in time for the afternoon’s performance. This meeting must be brief.’

‘What has happened, Nick?’ asked Quilter. ‘I see great sadness in your face.’

‘Lightfoot came looking for me at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Moll’s friend? Did he bring news of her?’

‘The worst kind, Frank,’ said Nicholas, swallowing hard. ‘The poor girl is dead.’

Quilter was rocked. ‘Dead? This cannot be.’

‘There’s greater woe still. Moll Comfrey was murdered.’

Nicholas passed on the details that he had been given by Lightfoot, impressing on him that the tumbler was eager to join in any pursuit of the killer. Quilter was too shaken to reply at first, sensing that all hope of exonerating his father had gone. Despair gave way to remorse as he thought about the defenceless young girl who had been smothered to death. He scolded himself for being so contemptuous of her at first when all that she was doing was to try to aid his cause. It now appeared that she might have died in the name of that cause. Quilter was overcome with a sudden fury.

‘They are behind this, Nick,’ he insisted, pointing a finger at the house opposite. ‘Cyril Paramore and Bevis Millburne. They are there together even now, basking in their wickedness. Let’s drag them into the street and tear out their black hearts.’

‘No, Frank,’ said Nicholas, ‘that is not the way. Supposition is not proof.’

‘Who else would have a reason to kill Moll Comfrey?’

‘I cannot say but I’ll not rush to judgement. How could they possibly know of the girl’s existence, still less of her friendship with your father?’

‘They are guilty. I feel it in my bones.’

‘Once again, I counsel patience. I somehow doubt that they are the culprits. But if they are indeed behind the crime, we’ll find the evidence that will unmask them. Until then, we must work unseen and not give ourselves away.’

‘They have the blood of two victims on their hands now.’

‘We need to find out why,’ Nicholas reminded him, taking the letter out from inside his buff jerkin. ‘But there’s something else before I withdraw. This was found in Moll Comfrey’s basket. Lightfoot thought to deliver it to your lodging but you were not there. That’s why he sought me out.’ He handed the letter over. ‘It is addressed to a lawyer named Henry Cleaton and may be of importance. I wanted you to see it first.’

Quilter glanced down. ‘My father’s hand. I’d know it anywhere.’

‘Is the name familiar?’

‘Very familiar, Nick. Henry Cleaton handled father’s affairs. Thank you for this,’ he said, holding up the letter. ‘I’ll see it delivered at once.’

‘I’ll want to know what transpires,’ said Nicholas, putting a foot in the stirrup. ‘Let’s meet as soon as the performance is over.’ He hauled himself into the saddle. ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of such dreadful tidings. Moll Comfrey did not deserve this.’

‘Nor did she deserve my harsh words,’ confessed Quilter. ‘I should have shown her more courtesy. I bitterly regret the way that I treated her, Nick.’

‘Then make amends by helping to avenge her death. She was a blameless girl whose only desire was to clear your father’s name of disgrace. Now, it seems, she may have paid for her readiness to speak out. Leave off your vigil here, Frank,’ he said. ‘Master Paramore is not the leader in this business. He and Master Millburne are but accomplices. The man to watch is Sir Eliard Slaney.’

When she returned to the house near Bishopsgate that afternoon, Anne Hendrik took her most experienced hatmaker with her. Preben van Loew was a pale, dour, haggard man in his fifties with watery eyes that glistened either side of a hooked nose. He was laconic by nature but his employer had not taken him along for the benefit of his conversation. In the first instance, he provided a degree of protection for her on the journey. After crossing the Thames by boat, they had been faced with a long walk up Gracechurch Street, passing the Queen’s Head in time to hear roars of delight from the spectators who were watching Cupid’s Folly. Two other reasons prompted Anne to bring the exiled Dutchman with her. While she might design the new hat for Lady Slaney, it was Preben van Loew who would actually make it since he was particularly skilful at creating ostentatious headgear for the gentry. Apart from anything else, Anne felt that he should be there to receive his share of the praise for Lady Slaney’s most recent purchase. But the main reason for requesting his company was so that he might provide cover for her, a shield behind which she could hide while plying Lady Slaney with the questions she had been asked to put.

They were admitted to the house and conducted to the parlour. It was not long before Lady Slaney surged into the room with a welcoming titter, wearing a jewelled gown in the Spanish fashion and looking as if she was about to entertain royalty rather than give orders to her milliner. When she was introduced to the Dutchman, in his sober black garb, she gave a gasp of pleasure.

‘So you are the genius who makes my hats!’ she cried.

‘I do as I am bidden, Lady Slaney,’ he said modestly.

Anne was more forthright. ‘Preben ever hides his light under a bushel,’ she said. ‘I am fortunate to have him in my employ. When my late husband lured him to England, he told me that Preben van Loew was the finest hatmaker in Holland.’

‘Their loss is my gain,’ said Lady Slaney.

‘Both us are always at your disposal.’

‘What have you brought to show me?’

‘Some early drawings that should accord with your wishes, Lady Slaney.’

Preben van Loew was too overawed by the sumptuous surroundings to do more than stand meekly in the background as Anne laid out the drawings on the table. Lady Slaney clucked over them like a hen whose first chick has just hatched. When she had selected the design she preferred, she suggested minor improvements to which Anne readily agreed. Privately, her companion thought that the chosen hat was even more ludicrous than the one he had just completed for her but his personal opinion was hidden behind the impassive face. Whenever called upon for approval, he simply nodded his assent. It was half an hour before Lady Slaney had finished adding her refinements to the hat she had selected from the designs. Anne took careful note of every instruction.

‘Everyone admired the hat you brought yesterday,’ said Lady Slaney bountifully.

Anne smiled. ‘I hope that Sir Eliard shared in the admiration.’

‘He would not dare to play the apostate,’ said the other with a tinkling laugh. ‘He knows how much value I set on appearance and the right hat is such a vital element in the picture.’ She clapped her hands. ‘What a thought! I’ll have another portrait painted of me and this time, when I sit for the artist, I’ll wear my new hat. I’ll speak to my husband about it this very afternoon.’

‘Which new hat?’ asked Anne. ‘The one I delivered yesterday or the one that you have just commissioned us to make for you?’

‘Whichever flatters me the most.’

‘It is you who flatter us, Lady Slaney. We are deeply aware of the favour you bestow on us when you wear one of our hats in public. To have one seen at Court would indeed be a privilege for us.’

‘My husband will arrange that in due course.’

‘Sir Eliard seems able to arrange almost everything.’

‘It is the reason I chose him, my dear,’ said Lady Slaney with a giggle. ‘He likes to think that he proposed to me, of course, but it was I who drew him carefully on. Oh!’ she exclaimed, glancing coyly at the Dutchman and putting a hand to her mouth. ‘Do I give away female secrets in front of a man? That was indiscreet of me. And I am sure that it was not the case when he proposed to his own wife.’

‘Preben is not married, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne, noting the blush that tinged his cheeks. ‘But how did you and Sir Eliard first meet?’

‘That is an interesting story.’

Lady Slaney told it as if she had rehearsed it many times, concentrating on her own role in the domestic saga yet confiding a great deal of information about her husband in the process. Anne memorised it in silence. It was only when the other woman came to the end of her tale that Anne had to prompt her.

‘You never told me why Sir Eliard went to Smithfield the other day.’

‘It was to watch a public execution.’

‘I know, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne, choosing her words with care, ‘but it seems unlike your husband to take pleasure from such an event. Judging from what you say of him, he is a fastidious man who would be offended by the spectacle. Only some personal interest could draw him to witness it, surely?’

‘I believe that he knew the wretch who was hanged for murder,’ said Lady Slaney off-handedly. ‘A man by the name of Gerard Quilter.’

‘He knew him?’

‘Yes, my dear.’

‘And did this Gerard Quilter ever visit your house?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘But you heard his name mentioned?’

‘With frequency.’

‘Was it spoken kindly?’

‘No, his character was treated harshly.’

‘Sir Eliard must have known him well to attend his execution. Is that true?’

Anne Hendrik had asked one question too many. She was so absorbed in her covert interrogation of Lady Slaney that she did not notice the figure who now stood in the doorway. Sir Eliard Slaney was filled with cold anger. Walking into the room, he glared at the visitors with undisguised suspicion. He towered over Anne.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

The applause that reverberated around the inn yard at the Queen’s Head was well-deserved. While not scaling the heights of which they were capable, Westfield’s Men had given a lively performance of a romp that was a perennial favourite with their audiences. Cupid’s Folly had entertained and exhilarated for two whole hours. Avice Radley had been as amused as anyone in the galleries. Seated on the cushion she had hired from one of the gatherers, she enjoyed every moment of the play, even though Edmund Hoode was not able to shine quite so brightly as an actor on this occasion. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias were the ruling triumvirate onstage and there was exceptional support from Richard Honeydew and the other apprentices. Knowing that his beloved was there, Hoode did all he could to match the leading actors but they overshadowed him with ease.

Avice Radley was mildly disappointed. Though she intended to take him away from the company, she liked to be reminded of just how talented he was as an actor. Hoode’s creative skills would soon be put entirely at her disposal, making her as much of a patron as Lord Westfield. The difference was that she would not have to go to the Queen’s Head to endure the crush in the gallery, the stink from the commonalty below and the general rowdiness in order to appreciate Hoode’s brilliance. He would be hers alone, devoting his pen solely to her and creating a purer and more intense poetry. She would be his muse. Inspired by his wife, he would write and perform in the privacy of their home. It was the ideal recipe, she believed, for connubial delight.

Yet even as she luxuriated in thoughts of their future happiness, her gaze moved away from her captive playwright to the man who led the company with such verve and magnificence. Lawrence Firethorn was unquestionably the brightest star in their firmament. He acknowledged the ringing cheers from all quarters of the inn yard but he was looking directly at Avice Radley. When their eyes locked, she felt a tremor of surprise. Producing his most charming smile, he dedicated his next bow specifically to her then waved a hand familiarly in her direction before taking his company from the stage. She was baffled.

‘Moll Comfrey was your father’s niece?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell in amazement.

‘In a manner of speaking, Nick. She was the child of my uncle, Reginald, born out of wedlock and kept ignorant of her true parentage for many years. Henry Cleaton showed me the letter that my father had written on her behalf.’

‘Did your uncle support the girl?’

‘For a while, it seems,’ said Francis Quilter, ‘but he died in poverty a couple of years ago. My uncle was a dissolute man, I fear. He was the ruination of his wife and family. Drink and gambling made him lose what little fortune he had and he was reduced to borrowing money at exorbitant interest. That was the real discovery in the lawyer’s office, Nick,’ he continued. ‘When he died, Uncle Reginald was heavily in debt. I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to guess the name of his chief creditor.’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney, perhaps?’

‘The same.’

‘So that is the connection with your father.’

‘It goes deeper,’ said Quilter. ‘According to Master Cleaton, my father did everything that he could to prevent his brother’s house from being possessed by Slaney in payment of his loan. They were in and out of court for month after month. It was a battle royal. That despicable usurer got the house in the end but it was a Pyrrhic victory. My father was a doughty litigant. In the course of their legal encounters, he wounded Slaney badly and won a substantial reduction in the amount of money owed.’

Nicholas was fascinated. ‘Your visit to the lawyer has been profitable.’

‘It was a revelation, Nick. I learnt so much about my own family. As you know, my father was very unhappy when I chose to join a theatre company. He and I lost touch for some time.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You can imagine how much I regret that now.’

‘I can, Frank.’

‘The talk with Henry Cleaton opened my eyes.’

‘It also gave us the secret for which we’ve been searching, Frank.’

‘Secret?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sir Eliard Slaney’s motive for murder. Your father injured him severely in court. He wanted his revenge.’

They were walking briskly towards Smithfield. Once his duties at the Queen’s Head had been fulfilled, Nicholas had met up with Quilter to hear what had transpired at the lawyer’s office. As they headed for the site of Bartholomew Fair, important new facts were beginning to emerge. Nicholas sought clarification.

‘Why did your father give the letter to Moll?’ he asked.

‘Because he had taken on responsibility for her,’ said Quilter. ‘Even before his brother had died, he was the one who really cared for the girl. They met very rarely but he always gave her money when they did so. Uncle Reginald never acknowledged her as his daughter and my father did not want to distress his wife and family by telling them of Moll’s existence. Poor creature!’ he sighed. ‘When my father was hanged, she lost the one person in the world who showed her any parental love.’

‘It must have been an appalling blow for her.’

‘She was completely dazed, Nick. That’s why she forgot it.’

‘Forgot what?’

‘The letter,’ explained Quilter. ‘It was written two years ago. Moll was told that, in the event of my father’s death, she was to deliver it to his lawyer. But she put it away in the bottom of her basket and thought no more of it. Because she could not read, the letter had no real meaning for her.’

‘What did it contain?’

‘Provision for her in my father’s will. Master Cleaton said that there was a codicil, naming Moll Comfrey as one of the beneficiaries, if and when she presented the letter to the lawyer.’

‘It’s too late for that now,’ said Nicholas ruefully. ‘But I’m surprised that Master Cleaton told you nothing of the codicil before.’

‘He was forbidden to do so, Nick. My father never divulged anything to me about the girl. I suspect that he kept her existence hidden so that I would not think unkindly of Uncle Reginald. He was so protective towards his brother. And, of course,’ he went on, ‘there was no reason why I would ever learn the truth about Moll.’

‘No, Frank. Had your father died by natural means, she could have presented her letter to Master Cleaton and claimed her inheritance. You would have been none the wiser.’ Nicholas pursed his lips. ‘The fact that your father was executed as a murderer changed everything.’

‘That was the other discovery,’ said Quilter.

‘What was?’

‘The information I gleaned about the victim.’

‘Vincent Webbe?’

‘Yes, Nick,’ said Quilter. ‘I knew that Master Webbe had fallen on hard times, largely because of his own failings. What I had not understood until the lawyer told me was that Vincent Webbe, too, had been a client of Sir Eliard Slaney — just like my uncle.’

‘Had he borrowed heavily?’

‘Too heavily. He’d put his house in pawn.’

‘That signals desperation.’

‘He put the blame on my father. Master Webbe was no gentleman. I told you how he accosted us that time. He was so belligerent towards my father. If anyone had used such vile language to me, I would have had difficulty in staying my hand.’

Nicholas was thoughtful. ‘When Vincent Webbe died,’ he said, ‘his debts must still have been unpaid. What happened to his property?’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney took it into his possession.’

They walked on in silence. As they approached Smithfield, Quilter was starting to feel queasy, recalling the dire humiliation he had seen his father endure on their last visit to the place. Nicholas, meanwhile, was trying to sift through the new information that had come to light. It said much for Gerard Quilter that he had not only defended his brother against the extortionate demands of Sir Eliard Slaney, he had taken responsibility for an illegitimate daughter that his brother had fathered. His conduct throughout had been exemplary. The codicil that Gerard Quilter had added to his will indicated a man of compassion. Nothing he had ever heard about him suggested to Nicholas that he could be capable of murder.

Hundreds of yards away from Bartholomew Fair, they were aware of its presence. Pungent smells of all description were carried on the wind and a mild tumult could be heard. The vast majority of vendors and entertainers had now arrived, setting up their stalls and erecting their booths so close to each other that there appeared to be a continuous blaze of colour across Smithfield. Curious dogs and inquisitive children had come to look around, as did the local prostitutes and pickpockets, taking their bearings so that they could see where best to operate on the following day when huge crowds descended on the fair. When they plunged in among the booths, Nicholas caught a strong whiff of roast pig mingling with that of a dozen other aromas, including the stench of animal dung. Some of the performers were already practising their tricks, giving the watching children free entertainment. There was no sign of Lightfoot among the tumblers on display.

Nicholas asked for directions to the booth where Ned Pellow’s pies were sold. He and Quilter were soon introducing themselves to a big, bearded individual in a leather apron that shone like silver in the sun. Now in his fifties, Pellow was a giant of a man with thick eyebrows curving outwards from a central position above his nose before merging with his beard. His wife, Lucy, was equally large and even more hirsute, her long black hair trailing down her back like the tail of a mare, her craggy features, dark moustache and bristled chin making her look more like Pellow’s younger brother than his chosen bride. However unprepossessing they might look, the pair were warm, friendly and caring. Both had been deeply fond of Moll Comfrey.

‘She was like the daughter we never had,’ said Pellow. ‘Lucy will tell you.’

‘Yes,’ said his wife in a voice that was little more than a squeak. ‘Moll was the sweetest girl in the world. It was a pleasure to know her. She always stayed with us when we met up at a fair or a market. Ned used to say it was because she had a taste for our pies but I like to think it was because she was fond of us.’

‘I’m sure she was,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lightfoot told us how good you were to her.’

‘Yet we let her down when she really needed us, sir,’ admitted Pellow, plucking a sizeable piece of pie from his beard. ‘So did Lightfoot. The three of us were sitting out here while that fiend was smothering her inside the booth. If I ever get my hands on the villain,’ he warned, flexing his muscles, ‘I’ll tear him to pieces.’

‘And I’ll help you, Ned,’ vowed his wife. ‘I want my share of his blood.’

‘You shall have it, Lucy. He took our Moll away.’

‘What did the constables say?’ asked Quilter.

‘They promised to look into the crime,’ replied Pellow bitterly, ‘but they made it clear that they would not do so with urgency. If a member of the nobility had been murdered in our booth, Smithfield would be crawling with officers of the law. Because she was only a bawdy basket, Moll does not rate any attention.’

‘She does from us,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘That’s why we want to track down the killer. Anything you can tell us will be of value. What mood was Moll in when she went to bed? How did she seem when you peeped in on her? When did you discover that she had been murdered? What steps did you take?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Take your time. Every detail is important. We’ll be patient listeners.’

Pellow nodded vigorously. ‘We’ll tell you all we know, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘Moll had kind words to say of Nicholas Bracewell. She sensed you were a friend.’

Nicholas smiled but Quilter shifted his feet uneasily, knowing that he had made a bad impression on the girl at first. Both men waited for Ned Pellow to launch into his speech. Ably supported by his wife, who contributed additions and variations at every stage, he described what had happened from the moment when Moll had returned to the fair after her visit to the magistrate. When they reached the point where the dead body was discovered, man and wife wept copiously. Nicholas warmed to them. They were kind, generous, affectionate people who had adopted Moll Comfrey as their own, offering her free accommodation whenever they met.

‘How did the killer enter your booth?’ asked Nicholas.

‘He cut his way in with a knife, sir,’ replied Pellow. ‘Lucy had to sew the tear up again this morning. I’ll show you the place, if you wish.’

‘Please do.’

The pieman first took them to the rear of the booth to point out the gash that had been made in the painted canvas. Nicholas and Quilter were then allowed inside to view the exact spot where Moll had slept. It was separated from the Pellows’ own sleeping area by a large flap of canvas. Unbeknown to them, they had slumbered beside a corpse for the whole night. Nicholas examined the blanket that had been used to suffocate her. Made of wool, it was of a quality that set it apart from anything else in the booth. It had belonged to someone with far more money than Ned Pellow and his wife.

‘We’ll not sleep a wink tonight,’ confided the pieman.

‘No,’ squeaked his wife. ‘We’ll be thinking about what happened to Moll.’

Leaving the booth, they came out into the fresh air. Nicholas looked around. Circumstances had favoured the killer. The crowded acres of Smithfield had provided him with the cover he needed to slip into the booth, smother an unprotected girl to death and make his escape into the darkness. What puzzled him was how the murderer knew where to find Moll Comfrey. He was still assessing the possibilities when Lightfoot emerged from the crowd. The tumbler grinned appreciatively.

‘You came, sir,’ he said. ‘I knew that you would.’

‘It is good to see you again, Lightfoot,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is Frank Quilter, of whom you have heard so much.’

‘I am in your debt, Lightfoot,’ said Quilter, shaking him by the hand. ‘That letter you gave us was most helpful.’

‘Did it tell you who might have wanted to kill Moll?’ asked Lightfoot.

‘Not exactly.’

‘But it contained many valuable clues,’ explained Nicholas. ‘It also showed the great affection that Frank’s father had for Moll. He had bequeathed her some money in his will.’

‘Would that she had been able to collect it!’ sighed Pellow.

His wife began to weep. ‘Moll was robbed of her inheritance.’

‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘Did she have any enemies here at the fair?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘None, sir,’ said the pieman. ‘We are all fellows here. It is like belonging to one big family. At fairs like this, we all look out for each other.’

‘But only someone in your fraternity would know where Moll slept.’

‘That is what troubled me, sir,’ said Lightfoot, ‘and I have spent the afternoon searching for the answer. I think I may have found it.’

‘Go on,’ urged Quilter.

‘I talked to everyone I could who was here yesterday. Not just those who were within reach of Ned’s booth but stall holders on the very fringe of the fair. One of them was Luke Furness.’

‘The blacksmith?’ asked Pellow.

‘Yes, Ned. With so many horses being sold here, Luke always does well at Bartholomew Fair. He’s a vigilant man who keeps his wits about him.’

‘What did he tell you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘That he was accosted by a gentleman yesterday,’ replied Lightfoot, ‘asking if he knew anyone by the name of Moll Comfrey. The blacksmith did, of course. Luke Furness has been coming here so often that knows almost all of us. He told the gentleman that Moll could be found at Ned Pellow’s booth.’

‘Did he describe the man?’

‘He did, sir. Luke remembered him well. He said the fellow was big and fat with a pale face and hard eyes. He wore dark attire and seemed like a man of distinction. Luke took note of how fine a horse he rode.’

‘How old would he be, Lightfoot?’

‘Older than any of us here.’

‘Did he, by chance, have a grey beard?’

‘Why, yes,’ said the tumbler. ‘A small grey beard hardly worthy of the name.’

‘Thank you, my friend. This intelligence is timely.’

‘You recognise the man?’

‘I think so,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name is Justice Haygarth.’