The Bawdy Basket

Chapter Eight

When he left the Queen’s Head later that evening, Nicholas Bracewell was in a state of considerable disquiet. The ride home on the borrowed horse gave him an opportunity to reflect on Edmund Hoode’s impassioned declaration. The playwright had revoked his earlier promise to remain with the company until the end of September. Instead, shocked by the crude attempt to woo Avice Radley away from him, and in defiance of his contractual obligations, he was now planning to leave Westfield’s Men in less than a week. The decision had shaken them. Hoode was one of the most placid and undemonstrative of men, not given to rash pronouncements. Nicholas had often heard him moan about the perils of life in the theatre but his friend had never before threatened to bring his career with the troupe to such a premature end. Yet he was patently in earnest. At the end of August, they could no longer call on his services.

Nicholas blamed himself as much as anyone else. Revolted and annoyed by Lawrence Firethorn’s failed seduction of Avice Radley, he nevertheless took some responsibility for the predicament in which they found themselves. Nicholas had always been much more than simply the book holder with Westfield’s Men. A number of other duties fell to him, one of which was to keep an eye on members of the company in order to spot any potential sources of trouble. Since he enjoyed the confidence of his fellows, he was uniquely placed to listen to complaints, offer advice, quell anxieties, subdue any discord and spread contentment. Problems that actors would never dare raise with Lawrence Firethorn were taken to Nicholas Bracewell and, more often than not, solved before the actor-manager even caught wind of them. Edmund Hoode had turned to the book holder a number of times in the past and the outcome had always been fruitful.

Apparently, those days were over. Nicholas’s powers of persuasion had been wholly ineffective. Hoode had ignored the appeal he had made on behalf of the company and, outraged by Firethorn’s actions, was walking out on them almost immediately. Having made his announcement at the Queen’s Head, the playwright had turned on his heel and stalked off before anyone could stop him. Firethorn, Owen Elias and James Ingram had been stunned. Because he and Hoode had always been so close, Nicholas felt the pain of being spurned. Westfield’s Men were about to lose a gifted author, a talented actor and a leading sharer but Nicholas was also forfeiting a friendship that was very dear to him. He felt a sense of profound guilt. In devoting so much attention to Francis Quilter’s plight, he had not shown sufficient interest in Hoode’s private life. During his many previous romantic entanglements, his friend had invariably confided in him, using Nicholas first as a mirror in which to admire his own happiness and, then, when the romance withered on the vine, as it inevitably did, seeking his companionship for the sympathy and understanding that he needed.

A rift had opened up between them and Nicholas was bound to put some of the blame on himself. As a result of Firethorn’s clumsy and inglorious attempt to steal his lady away from beneath his nose, Hoode had widened that rift even more. Nicholas could not reason with him. In the playwright’s eyes, he was no more than part of a world that had to be abandoned once and for all. It was a sad comment on their long friendship. Nicholas hoped that there might yet be some way to retrieve the situation. When word of Hoode’s imminent departure spread among the company, they would be devastated. The new play on which he had laboured so hard, and in which he had such faith, would never even be finished. Instead of being able to offer Hoode’s masterpiece, Westfield’s Men would have to fall back on older material, pieces that had been staled by over-use and lacked the appeal of novelty.

So much had changed in such a short time. That was what disturbed Nicholas. At the beginning of the week, fortune seemed to favour them. They presented an exciting play to a packed audience at the Queen’s Head and reaped the many benefits of having their difficult landlord struck down by illness. Company spirit was high. Hoode was totally committed to his new work. All seemed well. Crises swiftly ensued. The execution of Gerard Quilter was a black cloud over Westfield’s Men and the sudden infatuation of their playwright was a torrential downpour that would leave them bedraggled. When they next stepped out onstage, the actors would be thoroughly depressed. It was worrying. Nicholas knew that a poor performance on the following afternoon would be accorded little respect by their spectators. If they felt they were getting anything less than their money’s worth, they would mock, jeer, protest aloud and even hurl things at the cast. A dark tragedy like Black Antonio would be severely handicapped if the actors spent some of their time dodging apple cores and other missiles. The company’s reputation would suffer and their takings would dwindle. It was a daunting prospect.

Although he did not regret helping Quilter to exonerate his father, Nicholas was the first to admit that it was diverting some of his energies from his work. The sooner that a gross miscarriage of justice was exposed, the sooner he could concentrate more fully on his other duties. What puzzled him was the speed of Hoode’s change of direction. Avice Radley had clearly made a tremendous impact on him. If Nicholas had gained anything out of the visit to the Queen’s Head, it was an increased respect for the lady. Evidently, she had repelled the attentions of Lawrence Firethorn with robustness and that indicated strength of character. Westfield’s Men were now the victims of that strength of character. When she pursued a course of action, she did so with iron determination. To have achieved what she had done in a matter of days, he judged, Avice Radley must indeed be a remarkable woman. Nicholas wondered if he would ever get to meet her.

He had reached the fringes of Bankside before he realised that he was being followed. As he rode his horse at a trot down a narrow lane, he heard another set of hooves clacking over the hard surface behind him. Whenever he turned a corner, the other rider pursued him. The sense of danger that was ever present in a notorious area like Bankside was intensified. Night was falling and shadows were darkening. Thieves were on the prowl. Nicholas kept one hand on the hilt of his dagger. When he urged his horse into a brisker trot, he heard the answering hoofbeats behind him. They seemed to be getting closer yet, when he looked behind him, there was nobody there. His phantom stalker had vanished. Certain that he was still being trailed, Nicholas pressed on until he reached Anne Hendrik’s house. He dismounted to stable the horse then ambled round to the front of the house. As he paused at the door, he was even more conscious of being under surveillance yet the street appeared to be completely empty. It was eerie.

Anne was waiting for him. There was a hint of fear in her eyes.

‘Is he still there?’ she asked.

‘Who?’

‘The man who was watching.’

‘I saw nobody,’ he said.

‘Neither did I at first, Nick. But I felt that someone was out there earlier this evening. I peeped out half-a-dozen times but there was no one in sight. And then,’ she went on with a shiver, ‘I caught a glimpse of him, sitting astride a horse on the corner of Smock Alley, staring at the house. When he saw me, he disappeared down the alley at once. It shook me, Nick. I haven’t dared to step outside the front door since.’

‘What time did you see him, Anne?’

‘All of two hours or more ago.’

‘Can you describe the fellow?’

‘Not in any detail,’ she replied. ‘I only saw him for an instant. He wore a black cloak and a hat pulled down over his face. I was frightened.’

Nicholas gave her a reassuring squeeze before going back to the door. Opening it swiftly, he darted out and looked up and down the street before running diagonally across to Smock Alley. Long and narrow, it knifed its way in a straight line between the tenements that stretched on down to the river. The alley was too dark for Nicholas to see anything at all but he heard the distant clatter of hooves as a horseman sped away. Neither he nor Anne had been mistaken. For some reason, they were being watched. Nicholas could still feel the sense of menace in the air.

Adam Haygarth enjoyed his moment of power on the bench. As he sat in judgement on his fellow men, he became brusque, imperious and uncompromising. Mercy was never allowed to influence any sentence that he imposed. Those who came before him, and whose guilt was established, could expect the severest treatment. He closed the day’s session by sentencing a woman to a term of imprisonment for the crime of stealing bread in order to feed her starving children. Sweeping her heart-rending pleas aside, he ordered that she be taken out by force. Haygarth glowed with satisfaction. Having spent so long wishing to become a justice of the peace, he was relishing every second of it now. The Clerk of the Court then handed him a letter that had just been delivered. Its contents soon wiped the complacent smile from Haygarth’s face. Calling for his horse, he left court at an undignified speed.

A summons from Sir Eliard Slaney had to be obeyed. Haygarth rode at a canter until he reached the house. He was still panting for breath as he was shown into the parlour by a manservant. Seated at a table, Sir Eliard glanced up at him.

‘Why this delay?’ he asked sharply.

‘The court was in session, Sir Eliard.’

‘You should have declared an adjournment.’

‘Is it that serious?’

‘It could be,’ said Sir Eliard, rising to his feet. ‘We have a problem, it seems.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘I am not certain yet, Adam. That’s why I needed to speak to you. Tell me about Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Who?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell, man!’ snapped the other. ‘One of the people who brought Moll Comfrey to your house to make her statement.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Haygarth, nervously stroking his beard. ‘I remember him. A sturdy fellow with an intelligence I would not have expected from a man in his occupation. He is the book holder with Westfield’s Men and a friend of Francis Quilter. Of the two, Nicholas Bracewell was by far the more capable, with a knowledge of the law exceeding that of Gerard Quilter’s son.’ He gave a shrug. ‘That is all I can tell you about him, except that he struck me as an obstinate fellow, far too resolute for my liking. Why do you ask about him, Sir Eliard?’

‘He lodges with my wife’s milliner.’

‘Is that a reason to take an interest in him?’

‘Yes, Adam,’ said Sir Eliard. ‘Because the lady in question, one Anne Hendrik, has taken a sudden interest in me. She was here only yesterday, interrogating my wife, probing away to find out why I had attended the execution at Smithfield. That is hardly the kind of question a milliner puts to a customer.’

Haygarth was anxious. ‘Someone has set her on.’

‘Exactly, my friend. We do not need to look far to name him.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘The inquisitive milliner had the gall to ask my wife how well I knew Gerard Quilter and whether or not the man had ever been to my house.’

‘Saints preserve us!’ cried Haygarth.

‘In other words,’ said Sir Eliard, moving across to him, ‘Nicholas Bracewell has somehow stumbled on the fact that I am involved in this business. Now, how could he possibly do that, Adam? I hope that you did not let anything slip when you met him.’

‘No, Sir Eliard!’

‘It will go hard with you, if you did.’

‘Your name was never mentioned, I swear it!’

‘I helped to secure you a place on the bench,’ warned Sir Eliard, ‘but I can just as easily have you unseated. I thought I could rely on your discretion.’

‘You can, Sir Eliard,’ said Haygarth, starting to tremble.

‘What did you say when they brought that bawdy basket to you?’

‘As little as possible. I simply examined the girl then pointed out that the law moves slowly and that they must not expect a speedy response. My intention was to send them on their way so that I could come here post-haste.’

‘Were you followed, by any chance?’

‘No question of that, Sir Eliard. I waited until they had gone off in the other direction before I even left the house. Besides,’ he said, ‘I rode hell for leather and they were only on foot. There is no way that they could have known my destination.’

‘They have linked my name to the crime somehow.’

‘Not through me, Sir Eliard, I assure you.’

Haygarth was quivering with apprehension, fearing his host’s displeasure as much as the consequences of what he had just been told. Sir Eliard studied him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The visitor squirmed under his gaze.

‘Very well,’ decided Sir Eliard. ‘I accept that you were not responsible for leading Nicholas Bracewell to my door but somebody was. I wish to know his identity.’

‘Then look no further than Francis Quilter.’

‘Quilter?’

‘He must have been aware of the enmity between you and his father. Is it not likely that your name was mentioned to Nicholas Bracewell at some stage? That fellow has a quick brain. He’d wish to find out more about you.’

‘And did so through the agency of his landlady,’ said Sir Eliard with disgust. ‘It was the second day in succession that the milliner came in search of information about me. I love my wife dearly but Rebecca is not the most reticent of women. She is inclined to boast and that breeds carelessness of discourse.’

‘How much did she tell this Anne Hendrik?’

‘Enough to convince me that the milliner was here with a purpose. I had her house in Bankside watched yesterday,’ he explained. ‘And I had Nicholas Bracewell followed home from the Queen’s Head where he spent the evening with his fellows. You can imagine how I felt when I learnt that he lived under the same roof as the milliner.’

‘This is unsettling news, Sir Eliard.’

‘It shows the importance of discretion.’

‘I have been as close as the grave.’

‘Would that my wife had been so as well! However,’ said Sir Eliard, strolling around the room to relieve his tension, ‘I interrupted them before anything too ruinous was divulged. Needless to say, my wife has been ordered to dismiss her milliner.’

‘It is the lodger that we need to worry about, Sir Eliard.’

‘I agree.’

‘What is to be done?’

‘In the first instance, I have alerted Bevis and Cyril to the situation. They need to be on their guard in case anyone comes asking questions about them. They were the witnesses at the trial. Francis Quilter is bound to turn his attention to them.’

‘They are staunch men. They’ll not let us down.’

‘Nor must you, Adam,’ cautioned the other. ‘I’ll not tolerate any sign of weakness. You must stand four-square with us.’

‘That goes without saying, Sir Eliard.’

‘Betray me and I’ll carve the sentence on your heart.’

Haygarth shuddered. ‘You will have no cause to do that.’

‘Describe him to me.’

‘Who?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell. All that you have told me is that he is sturdy and resolute. What of his age, his height, his colouring, his attire, his bearing?’

‘Well,’ recalled Haygarth, ‘he’ll not see thirty years again, Sir Eliard. He is a tall man, something of your own height, with fair hair and beard. In his own way, I suppose, he is handsome enough. Francis Quilter was in doublet and hose but Nicholas Bracewell wore a buff jerkin. He bore himself well,’ he said. ‘In short, he was a fine, upstanding fellow, more able to control his temper than Master Quilter.’

Sir Eliard was thoughtful. ‘It has to be the same man,’ he decided.

‘The same man?’

‘Your description tallies with that given to me by Bevis Millburne. On the night of the execution, we celebrated at the Golden Fleece. A stranger arrived to see Bevis and congratulate him on his part in the trial. He left before Bevis could find out his name but I am certain it must be Nicholas Bracewell. This is upsetting,’ said Sir Eliard, chewing his lip. ‘Since he saw Bevis at the Golden Fleece, the chances are that he noticed me as well. Small wonder that he is poking about in my affairs.’

‘What are we to do about him, Sir Eliard?’

‘I think that you predicted his future accurately, Adam.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes,’ said the other with a ghost of a smile. ‘You said that you were as close as the grave. There’s nothing as close as that, is there? Graves seal up everything tidily. Gerard Quilter learnt that and so did Moll Comfrey. I think it may be time for Nicholas Bracewell to make the same discovery.’

Henry Cleaton defied all his expectations. When he was introduced to the lawyer, Nicholas Bracewell expected to find a worthy, studious man in the dull garb of his profession, careful in speech and obsessed with the need for caution. Instead, he was looking at a jovial individual of fifty with a shock of red hair that matched the colour of his cheeks, and a stocky frame in a blue doublet. There was a faintly bucolic air about Cleaton. His office was small and cluttered, making its occupant seem even larger. Chuckling to himself, the lawyer cleared piles of documents off a chair and a stool so that his visitors could sit down. He glanced at Nicholas.

‘Frank tells me how helpful you have been to him,’ he said.

‘Nick has been a godsend,’ affirmed Quilter. ‘Without him, I’d be lost.’

‘At a time like this, you need a reliable friend.’

‘I’m happy to lend my assistance,’ said Nicholas. ‘I do not know the full details of the case but I am persuaded that a terrible injustice has taken place.’

Cleaton’s face clouded. ‘It is monstrous!’ he declared. ‘Gerard Quilter was the most inoffensive of men. He would not kill a fly, still less a human being. Those who sent him to the gallows committed a heinous crime and they must answer for it.’ His manner softened as he appraised Nicholas. ‘So you are the famous book holder, are you? I have oftentimes been in the gallery at the Queen’s Head to watch the company at work. They are always well-drilled.’

Nicholas was modest. ‘That is Master Firethorn’s doing rather than mine.’

‘Do not listen to him,’ said Quilter. ‘Nick is the true power behind the throne. If a play runs smoothly, it is usually because of his control behind the scenes. That reminds me,’ he added, turning to his friend. ‘How did Black Antonio fare this afternoon?’

‘Very poorly, Frank.’

‘I am surprised to hear that,’ said Cleaton. ‘When I last saw the piece, it was acted with a vigour that set my old heart racing. What was amiss today?’

‘The actors’ minds were elsewhere,’ explained Nicholas. ‘They were slow and lacklustre. The audience let them know it. We rallied towards the end but, in truth, it was not an occasion in which we could take pride.’

The performance had, in fact, verged on chaos but Lawrence Firethorn had saved the day with his brilliant account of the main character. Alone of the other actors, Edmund Hoode had managed to shine in a supporting role, attesting his excellence on the eve of his departure and reminding everyone of what they would be losing when he went. Nicholas had stayed long enough to see everything cleared away before joining Quilter at the lawyer’s office. He warmed to Cleaton on sight. The man had a bristling intelligence.

‘Enquiries have been made,’ said the lawyer, reaching for a document on his table. ‘I have spent the whole day asking questions and chasing down the answers like a dog after a rabbit. We have made progress, gentlemen.’

‘Good,’ said Quilter.

‘What have you found out, sir?’ asked Nicholas.

Cleaton read from the paper before him. ‘Firstly, that a certain Adam Haygarth became a justice of the peace as a result of the direct intercession of Sir Eliard Slaney. There’s no doubting it. Haygarth is Sir Eliard’s creature in every way.’

‘Then he must have told him about the new evidence that came forward.’

‘Yes, Nick,’ said Quilter, ‘and thereby prompted the murder of Moll Comfrey. The man is beneath contempt. He ran to his master like the cur he is. What hope have we for justice if rogues such as Adam Haygarth administer it?’

‘Not everyone in the law is so devoid of honesty,’ promised Cleaton. ‘There are still a few of us who believe in the ideals that brought us to the profession. One of those ideals is to root out injustice wherever we find it and there is no more appalling example of it than here. But there’s more,’ he went on, looking down again. ‘Haygarth is also a friend of Bevis Millburne, close enough to be invited to his wedding, I am told. And he must be acquainted with Cyril Paramore too, because the latter works with Sir Eliard at all times.’

‘In short,’ said Nicholas, ‘all four men are confederates.’

‘So it would appear.’

‘Your enquiries prove it beyond any contention, Master Cleaton.’

‘True, sir,’ replied the lawyer. ‘I’ve unearthed several links between the four of them. What I cannot prove as yet, however, is that they were instruments in the death of Frank’s father.’

‘They were!’ asserted Quilter.

‘I know and I am as eager as you to proclaim it to the world. But the law requires more evidence, Frank. Trial for murder is a most serious business. To overturn a verdict will take much more than we have at our disposal.’

‘Moll Comfrey was the decisive witness,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why she had to be silenced so abruptly. Sir Eliard Slaney is a ruthless man.’

Cleaton gave them a warning nod. ‘You would do well to remember that. When he becomes aware of what you are doing, your own lives may be at risk.’

‘That will not stop us,’ said Quilter boldly.

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but it does mean that we should be more circumspect, Frank. I was followed home last night and Anne tells me that someone was watching the house earlier. I spy a connection with Sir Eliard.’

‘Everything seems to be connected with him somehow,’ said Cleaton, studying the document in front of him. ‘The paper trail leads directly to his house in Bishopsgate.’

He listed all that he had found out about the relationship between Sir Eliard Slaney and the other three men. Nicholas and Quilter were duly impressed with the amount of information he had gathered in such a short time. There was, however, a significant omission.

‘What did you learn about Vincent Webbe?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Precious little, I fear,’ replied the lawyer. ‘My energies were taken up with the enquiries I made in other directions. All that I discovered about Master Webbe is where his widow now lives.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘It is not the most salubrious part of London.’

Quilter was positive. ‘Wherever it is, I’ll visit her.’

‘No, Frank,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is work for me. Vincent Webbe hated your father. The name of Quilter will bar the door against you. Let me call on the widow. We’ll go first to the fair to seek out Lightfoot, then I’ll go on to speak to the lady. She’ll not suspect me. I’ll say I was a friend of her husband. Then I’ll draw her out. Leave her to me, Frank,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll find out much more on my own.’

When the visitor gave her name, Avice Radley’s surprise turned to incredulity. The last person she expected to come to her house was Margery Firethorn. During the social niceties, they weighed each other up. Margery was struck by the other’s handsome features and by her rich attire. By the same token, Avice Radley was impressed by her comely appearance. Margery’s crimson gown had actually been donated to the company and been worn by one of the female characters in a number of plays but it was far more striking on its present owner. A mutual respect was established between the two women at once. Both had great self-possession. As she took her seat, Margery knew that she would have to use reason instead of bluster against her hostess.

‘I do not need to tell you what has brought me here,’ she began. ‘Edmund Hoode is a good friend of mine and I would hate to see him abandon the company.’

‘Save your breath,’ said Avice politely. ‘Edmund’s future has been decided.’

‘In so short a time?’

‘The moment we met, I knew that I wanted to marry him.’

Margery smiled appreciatively. ‘I can see why he feels the same about you, Mistress Radley. But must marriage and the playhouse be worlds apart? Why cannot Edmund enjoy both?’

‘Because he has no wish to do so.’

‘Have you given him the choice?’

‘That is a private matter.’

‘Not when it affects the lives of so many others, my husband among them.’

‘Master Firethorn has already made that point to me.’

‘It can bear repetition.’

‘I think not,’ said Avice. ‘It is good of you to call but I have to say I think less of Master Firethorn for delegating this work to his wife. Because he failed to prevail upon me himself, he has sent you to approach me afresh.’

‘That is not the case at all,’ retorted Margery. ‘I come strictly of my own volition. Were Lawrence to hear of this visit, he would be exceedingly angry. I am not allowed to meddle in the affairs of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Then why do you do so?’

‘Because the quality of their work is at stake.’

‘There are other playwrights in London.’

‘None so fruitful as Edmund Hoode.’

‘What of young Lucius Kindell?’ asked Avice. ‘Edmund speaks well of him.’

‘And so he should, Mistress Radley. They worked together on The Insatiate Duke and Lucius has written two tragedies of his own. His time will surely come,’ said Margery, ‘but he is no substitute for the master himself.’

‘Other companies have no difficulty in finding plays. Look at Banbury’s Men. They are always announcing the performance of a new work.’

‘Yes,’ argued Margery, ‘and as soon as they find a talented author, they bind him hand and foot with contracts so that he can write for nobody but them. Banbury’s Men have tried to lure Edmund away time and again. Has he told you that?’

‘Naturally. We have no secrets from each other.’

‘Then you will know how much joy and satisfaction he gets from his work.’

‘The joy has gone, Mistress Firethorn,’ said the other sadly, ‘and the satisfaction has fallen away. Edmund seeks new pleasures. I thank God that he has chosen to do so exclusively in my company.’

Margery could see that she was making little impact. Avice Radley was not susceptible to any form of persuasion. There was a quiet certainty about her that was forbidding. Margery decided to change her tack.

‘I must thank you for one thing,’ she said effusively.

‘Thank me?’

‘You have brought some happiness into Edmund’s life at long last. He has been led such a merry dance by Cupid in the past that we feared he might perish from unrequited love.’ She smiled benignly. ‘It is heartening to see that he has finally found someone who understands his true worth.’

‘I adore him,’ said Avice quietly. ‘He is a complete man to me.’

‘What first drew your attention to him?’

‘His plays. When I saw The Merchant of Calais, I was captivated. It had such a keen understanding of human nature. And such sublime verse,’ she went on. ‘I went home that afternoon with my head spinning.’

‘What else have you seen of Edmund’s?’

‘Almost everything that he has written. I watched in wonder until I felt compelled to send him a letter of appreciation. From that single action, so foreign to my character, all else has flowed.’

‘When you enjoyed his work so much, why prevent others from like pleasure?’

‘But that is not what I am doing,’ Avice reminded her. ‘Those same dramas that delighted me are the property of Westfield’s Men. They can be performed whenever Master Firethorn chooses. Edmund bequeaths them with his blessing.’

‘And lays down his pen for good.’

‘No, Mistress Firethorn. He wishes to employ it in a worthier cause. Henceforth, he will devote himself to sonnets and shun the cruder arts of the playhouse.’

‘It was those cruder arts that enslaved you,’ said Margery pointedly.

Avice Radley acknowledged the fact with a smile. She admired Margery for what she was trying to do and touched by her obvious fondness for Edmund Hoode. But that did not sway her in the least. She sought to give her visitor an explanation.

‘When did you meet Lawrence Firethorn?’ she asked.

‘Many years ago.’

‘Can you recall the moment when you first set eyes on him?’

‘Vividly,’ said Margery with a nostalgic grin. ‘I watched a performance of Pompey the Great and he was every inch the hero in the title. When he stepped out onstage, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I feared that I would never stop trembling. And the beauty of it is,’ she confided, ‘there are still times when Lawrence has the same effect on me. I married a titan of the stage.’

‘So will I,’ said Avice. ‘You found love at first sight and I did likewise.’

‘Yes, but I did not try to tear my husband away from his work.’

‘There’s no tearing with Edmund. He comes of his own free will.’

‘Leaving the company he serves in ruin.’

‘Come now,’ said Avice, clicking her tongue. ‘Do not be so disloyal to your husband. No troupe that is led by Lawrence Firethorn will ever be in ruins. He can bring the meanest play to life. And he has such able men around him, attracted by his brilliance. The loss of Edmund will soon be repaired.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that. But it is not only Edmund’s departure that is so disturbing,’ said Margery. ‘It is the nature of that departure. Lawrence tells me that he means to cut himself off from Westfield’s Men within a week.’

‘That is so.’

‘How can he be so callous?’

‘Edmund’s intention had been to remain until the end of September.’

‘What changed his mind, Mistress Radley?’

There was a pause. ‘I can see that your husband has omitted certain facts.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Margery as she began to understand. ‘So that is what happened, was it? In the interests of his company, Lawrence attempted to work on your emotions himself. Do not expect me to be shocked,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘It is no more than he does every time he struts upon a stage. That, after all, is how he ambushed me and I am sure that there were other young ladies in the audience who were equally entranced. I was fortunate to be chosen.’

‘So am I, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘Yet, by your own account, you did the choosing.’

‘Not entirely.’

‘Your wrote to Edmund. But for that, he would have been quite unaware of your existence. Let us be honest here, shall we? You were the huntress.’

‘We were drawn ineluctably together.’

‘After he had read the contents of your letter.’

‘I had to declare myself by some means,’ said the other defensively. ‘Had I not reached out for Edmund, I would have remained a face in the crowd to him. Instead, he has turned my grief into ecstasy.’ He voice softened to a whisper. ‘Tell me, Mistress Firethorn. Have you ever mourned the death of someone close to you?’

‘Many times,’ replied Margery. ‘I lost both parents, a brother and two sisters. My first child was stillborn. I, too, have been acquainted with grief.’

‘Then you will know the feeling of despair that grips you. When my husband died, he left me with nothing but dear memories. There were no children to help me bear the agony of his passing, no brothers or sisters on either side of the family to share my misery. I became a recluse,’ she confessed. ‘And I might still be locked away if a friend had not insisted that I visit the Queen’s Head with her. No spectator ever went less willingly to a play, yet I left that inn yard in high spirits. That was the effect that Edmund Hoode’s play had on me. It brought me back to life.’

‘A play is only as good as the actors who perform it,’ said Margery, quoting one of her husband’s favourite maxims. ‘What brought you back to life was the work of a whole company, not simply the genius of the author. You should be sufficiently grateful to Westfield’s Men to let them keep their playwright.’

‘Edmund no longer wishes to stay.’

‘Thanks to your influence.’

‘Not at all. Were he so wedded to the notion, I’d live with him in London and let him stay at the Queen’s Head. But he is adamant,’ said Avice with an invincible smile. ‘Edmund Hoode is determined to break off all ties with Westfield’s Men. No power on earth can stop him.’

Bartholomew Fair was at its height. The people of London and those from much further afield came to buy, sell, haggle, steal, eat, drink, fight, frolic, be entertained and generally enjoy the holiday atmosphere. The clamour was ear-splitting, the colours dazzling and the compound of smells so powerful that they reached out well beyond Smithfield. Peddlers and stall holders vied for the attention of the seething masses. Those enticed into various booths could see a cow with six legs, a dwarf with three eyes, a giant horse that seemed to talk and sundry other freaks of nature. A performing bear drew gasps of wonder from the onlookers. Drunken men sought the company of prostitutes, drunken women fell to brawling. Among the most popular characters at the fair were Luke Furness, the blacksmith, who took time off from shoeing horses to draw teeth with amazing dexterity; Ursula the Pig Woman, a vast, ugly, foul-tongued creature with a face that bore an amazing resemblance to that of the pig being roasted outside her booth; and Ned Pellow, the pieman, massive, bearded and obliging, renowned for the quality of his food and for the affability of his manner.

Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter had to wait in the queue until they had a chance to speak to him. While the beaming Pellow was selling his pies, his hairy wife was bringing out fresh supplies from inside the booth. They gave off a tempting odour.

‘Good day, my friends,’ said Pellow, recognising them. ‘Can I offer you some of my pies to take away your hunger?’

‘Another time, Ned,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are looking for Lightfoot.’

‘Then you must head for the ring. That is where he performs.’

‘The ring?’

‘Follow the noise, sirs. It will lead you there.’

They took his advice. Above the tumult was an occasional burst of cheering and applause. Nicholas and Quilter pushed their way through the crowd until they reached an open area between the stalls. A series of stakes had been driven into the ground in a rough circle so that a rope could be tied to them. The large crowd that pressed against the rope yelled and laughed as Puppy the Wrestler, a mountain of flesh with a bare chest, lifted his latest challenger high in the air before dashing him to the ground. While anxious friends tried to revive the fallen man, Puppy walked around the ring with an arrogant strut, hands held high in triumph, waiting for the next foolish hero to step over the rope and try his strength. Lightfoot did not hesitate. The brief time between wrestling bouts was his opportunity to earn money. He cartwheeled around the ring with such speed that he provoked spontaneous clapping. Concluding with a dozen somersaults, he landed on his feet, doffed his cap to take in the applause then used it to collect money from his audience. When he drew level with them, Nicholas dropped a coin into the hat then indicated that he wished to speak to the tumbler. As soon as Puppy was grappling with his next victim, Lightfoot slipped out of the ring and took the newcomers aside.

‘I hoped that you would come,’ he said.

‘Do you have any news for us, Lightfoot?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I believe so, sir.’

Quilter was eager. ‘Well? What have you discovered?’

‘I spoke to Hermat.’

‘And what did he tell you?’

Lightfoot laughed. ‘He told me nothing, sir. Or rather, only half of what I heard came directly from him.’

‘Stop talking in riddles,’ complained Quilter.

‘Lightfoot does not mean to confuse you, Frank,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘though I daresay that you would be confused if you met Hermat for he and she are a study in confusion.’ Quilter looked bewildered. ‘You obviously did not read the sign as we passed it. Hermat is half-man and half-woman. A veritable hermaphrodite.’

‘That is so,’ said Lightfoot. ‘You can view him in his booth for a penny.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘If you offer him more, he will show you something in private that will amaze your eyes and make you marvel at the mystery of creation.’

Quilter was impatient. ‘Another mystery has brought us here.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘My father was executed less than fifty yards from where we stand.’

‘Moll met her death even closer to us than that,’ said Lightfoot solemnly. ‘I am sorry to jest. It is not really a cause for laughter. Thus it stands,’ he said, pausing as another roar went up from Puppy’s admirers. ‘Two nights ago, when it was dark enough to venture out, Hermat decided to take a walk. Night is his friend. It is the only time when nobody stares at him.’

‘Go on,’ said Nicholas.

‘He swears that he saw a figure lurking outside Ned Pellow’s booth. A tall, thin man, who scurried away when Hermat approached.’

‘What time would this be, Lightfoot?’

‘Around midnight,’ replied the tumbler. ‘Hermat thought no more of it. A fair such as this is always haunted by strangers. The man could easily have been a scavenger, looking for scraps from the pieman. Hermat would probably have forgotten all about it.’

‘What jogged his memory?’

‘He saw the fellow again, sir, later on.’

‘In the same place?’

‘No, some way distant,’ said Lightfoot. ‘He was hurrying off with his head down as if leaving Smithfield altogether. Whether he sees like a man or like a woman, I do not know, but Hermat has sharp eyes. Even in the gloom, he knew that it was the same man. There was only one difference.

‘What was that?’ asked Nicholas.

‘He was no longer carrying anything. When Hermat first spied him, he says that the man was holding something close to his chest.’ Lightfoot demonstrated with his hands. ‘Something big enough to be noticed. Yet it was gone when they next met.’

‘A blanket!’

‘That was my thinking,’ said Lightfoot. ‘The murder weapon.’

Cyril Paramore was so distressed by the news that his lower lip began to twitch violently.

‘These are fearful tidings for all of us, Sir Eliard,’ he said.

‘That is why we must work together.’

‘How did they know that you were implicated?’

‘They picked up my scent,’ said Sir Eliard rancorously, ‘and they must be shaken off. I thought at first that Adam Haygarth might unwittingly have provided them with a clue but he denies it hotly.’

‘He is in this as deep as any of us.’

‘I reminded him of that, Cyril.’

‘Does Bevis know what has transpired?’

‘He galloped over here on receipt of my letter. Bevis was even more upset than you, especially when I explained what must have happened.’

‘And what was that, Sir Eliard?’

They were in the parlour at the house in Bishopsgate. Paramore was white with fear. That fear was in no way allayed when Sir Eliard told him about the celebratory supper at the Golden Fleece and the interruption by a stranger who sought to speak with Bevis Millburne. Paramore reached the same conclusion.

‘It was this fellow, Nicholas Bracewell!’

‘He saw us crowing over the execution of Gerard Quilter.’

‘Thank heaven that I was not at the table!’

‘Stop thinking of yourself, Cyril,’ ordered Sir Eliard. ‘If one of us is arraigned, the other three will not escape. I did not summon you hear to listen to your selfishness. I had enough vain bleating from Bevis. You are here for a purpose.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Find out all you can about Westfield’s Men.’

‘The troupe at the Queen’s Head?’

‘Francis Quilter acts with the company and Nicholas Bracewell is its book holder. See what standing they have among their fellows. Investigate the company itself.’

‘I have already done that, Sir Eliard,’ said the other. ‘I know that you abjure the playhouse but we admire the troupe. My wife and I have been privileged to watch them perform on three or four occasions.’

Sir Eliard turned on him. ‘There’s no privilege in watching two of their number perform,’ he snarled. ‘They will get no applause from me for their antics. What I need to know is how Gerard Quilter’s son and his friend can find the time to bother us. Are they working alone or do they have assistance from their fellows? Be careful,’ he advised. ‘Move with stealth. But find out everything there is to know about Westfield’s Men.’

‘We already know the worst thing about them.’

‘Do we?’

‘They employ this cunning fellow called Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘At the moment,’ said Sir Eliard with a sly grin. ‘But his contract may soon be terminated. By tomorrow, Westfield’s Men will be looking for a new book holder.’

Nicholas Bracewell approached Turnmill Street with a caution born of experience. It was at the heart of a district that was notorious for brothels, gaming houses, violence, danger, squalor and abiding degradation. Bankside, too, had a reputation for drunkenness and debauchery but the inhabitants of Turnmill Street and its adjacent lanes, yards and alleys were even more mired in corruption, crime and licentiousness. Thieves, ruffians, pickpockets, forgers, prostitutes, gamblers, vagabonds, masterless men, discharged soldiers without pensions to sustain them, boisterous sailors and all kinds of other unseemly individuals congregated in the area. The fact that Vincent Webbe’s widow now lived there showed how desperate her condition must be. Nicholas felt a surge of sympathy for the woman. At one time, when her husband was in partnership with Gerard Quilter, they must have lived in style at a prestigious address. Now, widowed and poverty-stricken, she was reduced to renting a room in one of the vilest parts of London.

Striding up the main street, Nicholas passed Jacob’s Well Court, Bowling Alley, Hercules Yard and Cock Alley, home of the infamous Cock Tavern, where vices of every description could be purchased by customers who later found that they had also bought disease in the wake of pleasure. Beggars and ragged children lurked on every corner. Drunken men lurched out of taverns to relieve themselves against the nearest wall or to spew up the contents of their stomachs on ground that was already covered with excrement and refuse. The stench was revolting, the sense of depravity was oppressive. Nicholas walked on until he reached Slaughterhouse Yard, a place that advertised its presence by the most noisome reek of all. Holding his breath, he sought out the address he had been given. He knocked on the door and waited. A woman’s head appeared through the shutters above.

‘What do you want?’ she croaked.

‘I am looking for Elizabeth Webbe.’

‘Why?’

‘I was a friend of her husband, Vincent,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘I came to pay my respects to his widow. Is she within?’

‘I am Bess Webbe,’ she admitted. ‘Wait there, sir.’

She withdrew from the window and Nicholas heard her descending the stairs. When the door opened a few inches, she examined him with suspicion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes large and staring. Elizabeth Webbe was still in her forties but time had dealt harshly with her appearance. Her hair was white, her skin like parchment.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘You will not know the name because it is some years since Vincent and I met. I have recently returned to London and was horrified to learn what happened to him.’

‘Cruel murder, sir,’ she moaned. ‘Cruel murder.’

‘I am anxious to know more. A lawyer gave me your address.’ He looked up at the hovel. ‘I am sorry to find you in such a mean dwelling. You deserve better.’

‘We had better, sir.’

‘I know. Vincent was a prosperous man.’

‘It was Master Quilter who brought him down.’

‘Gerard Quilter?’ asked Nicholas, feigning surprise.

‘Brought him down then stabbed him to death.’

It took him a few minutes to convince her that he had come in good faith. She invited him in, embarrassed by the state of her lodging and making continual apologies as they ascended the stairs. The room in which she lived with her two daughters was small, dark and evil-smelling. It contained little beyond a few sticks of furniture and the bed in which all three of them obviously slept. She indicated a stool and he sat down.

‘My girls are both out,’ she explained. ‘They are too young to work but they pick up what they can from kind strangers. We have such limited means, sir.’

‘Then I hope you will accept a gift from me,’ he said, putting some money into her hand out of genuine concern for her, but also in order to win her confidence. ‘Vincent would have done the same for my wife had he found her in the same distress.’

‘Thank you, Master Bracewell. You are very generous.’

‘All that I have heard is that your husband was killed. You tell me that Gerard Quilter was the murderer. That astonishes me for he was such a gentle soul.’

‘He was not gentle when he turned Vincent out!’ she protested.

‘When did that happen?’

Elizabeth Webbe was an embittered woman who told her story with her eyes flashing angrily. It was evident from the start that she had accepted her husband’s version of events without reservation. There was no mention of the embezzlement that had led to the dissolution of the partnership with Gerard Quilter. In her opinion, the latter was wholly to blame. Nor did she refer to Vincent Webbe’s drinking habits. All that she would admit was that he became truculent at times but even that she managed to excuse. Her account of the murder was substantially that which had been given in court.

‘Two witnesses saw him thrust his dagger into my husband,’ she said.

‘When was this?’

‘On the night that he went to the Mercers’ Hall.’

‘Why did he go there when he was no longer a member of the guild?’

‘It was at the suggestion of someone else, sir.’

‘Who?’ pressed Nicholas.

‘He was a man who loaned Vincent some money.’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney, perhaps?’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, searching her memory, ‘that could be the name. Vincent could not repay him so he was advised to ask his old partner for funds. Master Quilter was ever a soft-hearted man and Vincent felt that he was owed money for the sake of past favours. But he was spurned, sir,’ she cried. ‘Master Quilter not only cursed him, he set about Vincent with his cane.’

‘There was a brawl, then?’

‘Several people saw it.’

‘And your husband was stabbed in the course of the fight?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It must have been later. Master Quilter was too cunning to do it with so many people nearby. He bided his time and killed Vincent in a yard behind the Mercers’ Hall. Two men chanced to pass,’ she continued, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘They thought they had merely seen an affray. It was only when the body was discovered the next day that they knew they had witnessed a murder.’

‘When did you first learn of the crime?’ asked Nicholas.

‘The day after Vincent left for the Mercers’ Hall.’

‘Were you not worried when he failed to return for the night?’

She shook her head. ‘It was not unusual for him to be away for a couple of days at a time,’ she confessed. ‘We sometimes did not see him for a week. Vincent was always looking for ways to get established again. He had to search for opportunities.’

‘What happened when you learnt of his death?’

‘I was distraught, sir. So were our daughters. We cried and cried.’

‘And you are certain that Gerard Quilter was the culprit?’

‘Who else could it have been?’ she said sharply. ‘The crime was witnessed by two honest, upright men. Master Quilter admitted there had been a brawl with my husband. What he did not admit was that he later took his revenge.’ She let out a hoarse cackle. ‘But we had our own revenge on him this week,’ she sneered. ‘All three of us went to Smithfield to watch him being hanged for his crime.’

Nicholas glanced around. ‘Were you living here at the time of the murder?’

‘No, sir. We had our own house then, but it was taken away when Vincent died. I was turned out with my daughters and we had to fend for ourselves.’

‘Who could have been so cruel as to do that?’

‘The moneylender, Sir Eliard Slaney.’

‘Did you ever meet the man?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I saw his bailiffs. They threw us out without mercy. I had no idea that Vincent had borrowed so much money. It was a grievous shock.’

‘Yet you had heard Sir Eliard’s name before?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘How did your husband speak it?’

‘As if it were a foul disease,’ she said. ‘Vincent wished that he had never met the fellow. He feared that Sir Eliard would be the ruin of him. He was so angered by the demands for money that he went to Sir Eliard’s house and caused a commotion. My husband had a temper when he was roused.’

‘Could no lawyer save your house from being possessed?’

‘Lawyers cost money, sir, and we were left penniless.’

Nicholas felt sorry for the woman but he was glad that he had made the effort to see her. She would never have divulged the same information to Francis Quilter. Nicholas believed that she might have given him the explanation that he needed. Thanking her for what she had told him, Nicholas took his leave and stepped out into the yard in time to see some frightened sheep being herded into the slaughterhouse. The scene was emblematic of the whole area. Turnmill Street was a slaughterhouse in itself, butchering the lives, reputations and self-respect of all who came there. Elizabeth Webbe had once been the wife of a prosperous mercer with an assured place in society. She was now one more terrified animal, penned up in readiness for destruction.

Brooding on what he had heard, Nicholas headed back in the direction of Cow Cross. His instincts remained alert, however. When he walked past Fleur de Luce Yard, he caught a hint of sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Nicholas turned just in time. A tall, slim, sinewy man came out of the shadows to lunge at him with a dagger. Nicholas caught his wrist and twisted the weapon away, using his other hand to get a grip on the man’s throat. A fierce struggle ensued. His assailant was young and strong but he had met his match in Nicholas. Instead of taking his victim by surprise, he found himself rammed so hard against a wall that all the breath was knocked out of him. The dagger fell to the floor and Nicholas kicked it away. He then snatched off the man’s hat to reveal a thin, swarthy face that was half-covered with a straggly beard.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Nicholas.

By way of reply, the man spat in his eyes to blind him temporarily. Bringing up a knee into his captor’s groin, he pushed Nicholas away as the latter doubled up in pain. Without pausing to pick up his dagger, the man fled. It had all happened so quickly that Nicholas was still bewildered. By the time he recovered enough to go in pursuit, the man was mounting the horse he had tethered in the adjoining lane. He kicked the animal into a canter and rode off. He would never be caught now. Nicholas walked back to retrieve the dagger and the abandoned hat. He chided himself for letting his attacker escape. One thought was uppermost in his mind. The man was free to strike again.