The Bawdy Basket

by Edward Marston

  ‘But there’s no question of that. Frank is contracted to the company. You cannot rescind a legal document in a fit of pique.’

  Gill was insulted. ‘This is no fit of pique, I promise you.’

  ‘Nor is it a considered judgement, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘I speak on behalf of the majority.’

  ‘Then you speak in ignorance,’ said Nicholas civilly. ‘If you knew the full facts of the case, you would not be so ungenerous. Nor would you show such disloyalty to one of your own. Frank Quilter has been a great asset to Westfield’s Men. We are fortunate to number him in our company.’

  ‘He was no great asset to us in Hannibal,’ said Gill spitefully.

  ‘True enough,’ conceded Firethorn.

  ‘Frank was sorely troubled,’ Nicholas reminded them. ‘Who would not be with something as grievous as this hanging over him?’

  ‘Had he forewarned us, Nick,’ said Elias, ‘we might have understood his plight.’

  ‘Yes,’ insisted Gill. ‘And thrown him out before he did even more damage.’

  ‘That will never happen,’ said Nicholas levelly.

  ‘It will, if I have my way. Most of the sharers are of the same mind.’

  Nicholas was hurt. ‘I cannot believe you side with them, Owen.’

  ‘I do not,’ affirmed Elias. ‘I deplore what his father did, Nick, but I would not oust Frank on that account. If we were all responsible for our father’s mistakes, none of us would escape whipping.’

  ‘Murder is more than a mistake!’ protested Gill.

  ‘Granted,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I’ve yet to hear convincing evidence of Gerard Quilter’s guilt. From what I know of him, he is simply not capable of murder.’

  Firethorn was resigned. ‘Guilty or not, he faces execution this afternoon.’

  ‘And we suffer the consequences,’ said Gill, ‘as long as his son remains.’

  ‘He must remain,’ Nicholas contended. Turning to Firethorn, he saw the doubt in the latter’s face. ‘You support Frank to the hilt, surely?’

  ‘I would like to, Nick,’ said Firethorn quietly, ‘but, in truth, I find it difficult to do so. And I do not want a revolt on my hands. I can only lead where others will follow. When all is said and done, the company is greater than any individual actor.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men have a reputation for helping each other.’

  ‘Not when someone commits such a crime,’ said Gill.

  ‘Frank’s only crime is to be the son of Gerard Quilter.’

  ‘That is enough, more than enough.’

  ‘No,’ replied Nicholas, looking to Firethorn once more. ‘Do you set yourselves up as judge and jury, yet give Frank no chance to defend himself?’

  ‘We’ll hear him out, naturally,’ said Firethorn.

  Elias gave a nod. ‘It’s the least that we could do.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gill with exaggerated sweetness. ‘We’ll give him a fair hearing first, then we’ll kick him out of the company for good.’

  ‘What of his contract?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘This afternoon’s events revoke it completely.’

  ‘I do not agree with you there, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘Broken contracts are meat and drink to lawyers. The last thing we must do is to invite litigation. Much as I hate to say this, Nick,’ he went on, turning to the book holder, ‘the best way forward may be to persuade Frank to withdraw from the troupe of his own free will. Would you undertake that task?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas firmly.

  ‘We demand it of you!’ cried Gill.

  ‘My answer remains the same.’

  ‘Nick knows that he would be wasting his time,’ reasoned Elias. ‘Frank Quilter has his pride. He’ll not slink away from the company with his tail between his legs. The only way to get rid of him is to dismiss him summarily.’

  ‘Then that is what we must do,’ said Gill. ‘Do you not see that, Lawrence?’

  Firethorn shifted his feet. Circumstances had conspired to put him in the most awkward position. It was ironic. Westfield’s Men had been enjoying an unprecedented success. Fine weather had brought in large audiences on a daily basis. Their repertoire was wide and received with acclaim. The advent of Frank Quilter had both strengthened them and weakened their hated rivals. Edmund Hoode was on the verge of delivering what he believed to be his finest drama. Topping it all was the news that Alexander Marwood, the melancholy landlord, was confined to his bed. Westfield’s Men had never known such good fortune. Yet, at the very moment of triumph, their equilibrium was threatened. The actions of someone outside the company had shaken them to the core. As long as one particular actor remained, Firethorn’s beloved troupe was at risk. Nicholas Bracewell was a dear and respected friend of his but Firethorn had to disappoint him for once. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I see no future for Frank Quilter in the company,’ he announced.

  Gill beamed. ‘Common sense wins the day at last!’

  ‘I’d be sorry to part with Frank on this account,’ said Elias.

  ‘So would I,’ declared Nicholas, ‘but the decision lies not with me. On one issue, however, I do have a deciding voice and that is with regard to my own future. Dispatch Frank Quilter, if you must,’ he said, straightening his shoulders, ‘but bear this in mind. If he goes, you will need to replace me as well.’

  She was there. Edmund Hoode sensed it the moment that he stepped out onstage. The anonymous lady who had written to him in praise of his work was somewhere up in the galleries. Whenever he could, he let his gaze scan the faces above him, trying to find that special countenance that looked down on him with such favour. It was not only Hoode’s plays that had been hailed by his correspondent. She had lauded his performances as an actor as well. When he read between the beautifully written lines of her letter, he saw that she was really enamoured of him. Without even meeting the lady, Hoode had made a conquest. Satisfying to any man, it was especially exciting for him because he so rarely aroused such uncompromising love in a woman. The moon-faced dramatist with receding hair was a veteran of doomed romances. Desire on his part was always urgent yet seldom fulfilled. Unrequited love was his usual suit. It was almost as if he sought out unattainable ladies in order to be punished by their rejection. Now, at last, against all the odds, through no effort of his own, someone had picked him out. The elegance of her hand and the scented aroma of her missive spoke highly of the sender. Clearly, she was a person of discernment.

  Inspired by the thought that she was watching him, Hoode excelled himself. He entered with sprightly step, delivered his lines with brimming confidence and brought out every aspect of his character. His performance was all the more striking because of the dross that surrounded it. Mirth and Madness was a standard play from their repertoire, a lively comedy that was shot through with moments of high farce. Since the action took place in midsummer, it seemed an ideal choice for a hot afternoon in August, replete, as it was, with songs and dances, and blissfully free from the technical problems associated with Hannibal. As a piece of theatre, it had never failed them. This time it was different. Word of their unfortunate link with a public execution had upset the company deeply but the news about Nicholas Bracewell was even more distressing. He was one of the mainstays of Westfield’s Men. His resourcefulness had saved them from disaster – even extinction – on more than one occasion. The thought that he might desert the troupe caused fear and panic to spread.

  Even the acknowledged star of the company wavered. Lawrence Firethorn took the leading role with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. His mind was patently not on the play. Where he could usually reap a whole harvest of laughter, he now barely managed to arouse more than an occasional giggle. Owen Elias, too, was a shadow of himself, booming away half-heartedly as if he had no real faith in the part that he was taking. Most of the actors were similarly dispirited, moving through the play like sleepwalkers, unable to shake off their apprehension about their revered book holder. Barnaby Gill, by c
ontrast, was superb. Untroubled by the impending loss of Nicholas Bracewell, he filled the gaps left by the others and seized every opportunity to dazzle. His three comic songs and four hilarious jigs allowed him to monopolise the laughter. Along with Hoode, he injected some zest into the play and the spectators were duly appreciative. To Firethorn’s disgust, it was Gill and Hoode who received most applause when they took their bow.

  The clapping was sustained, the cheers loud. Edmund Hoode heard none of it. His eyes were roving the galleries in search of his mystery correspondent. He was certain that she was there because he could feel her gaze upon him like rays of sunlight. His gaze went swiftly along the rows of smiling faces. Handsome gallants and pretty ladies were there in profusion but he could not pick her out on the crowded benches. The important thing, he told himself, was that she could see him and she had watched him perform on a day when he was head and shoulders above most of his fellows. For the first time in his life, he had even outshone Lawrence Firethorn. Somewhere up there was the lady who made it all possible, the spur to his talent, the beat of his heart. His face glowed with happiness. The impossible had happened. He had fallen in love with someone whom he had never even seen.

  As the applause weakened, the actors began to quit the stage. Hoode could not linger. He was about to give up his search and leave when she finally revealed herself. She was seated in the middle of the upper gallery, directly in front of him and with a perfect view of the stage. Rising to her feet, she raised a gloved hand to give him a little wave of congratulation. Hoode trembled involuntarily. She was rather older than he had imagined, and more matronly in appearance, but that did not matter. His admirer was a gorgeous lady with dark hair curling out from beneath her hat and a smile that ignited her whole face. Wearing a dress in the Spanish fashion, she seemed to him the epitome of all that was good in womanhood. He had known younger, daintier, more vivacious ladies in his time but this one had a quality that they had all lacked. She was his.

  When he backed his way offstage, Hoode was still in a dream. His mind was filled to bursting with the vision of loveliness he had just seen. It was only when he collided with George Dart that he realised he was in the tiring house.

  ‘Steady, Master Hoode!’ said Dart in alarm.

  ‘Oh, forgive me, George. My thoughts were elsewhere.’

  ‘It was so for most of the company during the play, for their thoughts were neither on mirth nor madness. There were times when I wondered if I was holding the correct book. The actors wandered so.’

  Dart was immensely proud that he had been chosen as Nicholas Bracewell’s deputy. While the others mocked him for his misfortunes onstage, the book holder showed tolerance towards him. He knew that the more responsibility Dart was given behind the scenes, the better he discharged it. Aided by Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, who stood at his side ready to box his ears in the event of a mistake, Dart had been remarkably efficient in his new role. He knew Mirth and Madness well, and had watched Nicholas in action enough times to pick up hints from him. While many others floundered onstage, Dart held his nerve. It was only when the play was over that he let his anxieties show.

  ‘I never thought to get through the afternoon,’ he confessed.

  ‘You did well, George.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘You held the tiller with a steady hand.’

  ‘It did not feel very steady, Master Hoode.’

  ‘Nick Bracewell would have been proud of you.’

  ‘There’s no higher praise than that.’ His face puckered with concern. ‘He is a prince of his craft. Westfield’s Men would be lost without him.’

  ‘That’s why we will never let him go.’

  ‘But he’s threatened to leave us. Have you not heard the news?’

  Hoode came out of his daze. ‘News?’

  ‘There is a danger that we may lose Nicholas,’ said Dart, biting his lip. ‘Many people are calling for Master Quilter to be ousted from the company. If he goes, Nicholas has warned, then we will have lost our book holder as well.’

  ‘Nick Bracewell said that?’

  Hoode was dumbfounded. He had heard the rumours earlier in the day but had been far too preoccupied take them in. If some as lowly as George Dart could report the ultimatum, then it must have a basis in truth. Hoode shuddered. Nicholas Bracewell was much more to him than a crucial member of the company. He was a close friend of the playwright’s, more reliable than Lawrence Firethorn and far less critical than Owen Elias. The one person to whom Hoode could turn in the emergencies that seemed to litter his life was the book holder.

  Nicholas was also the only man in whom he confided details of his private life and, since that had taken such a delightful turn, he needed someone to listen to the tale of his good fortune. Hoode would sooner surrender a limb than lose the companionship of Nicholas Bracewell. The consequences for Westfield’s Men were unthinkable. The playwright resolved to raise the matter instantly with Lawrence Firethorn, who was sitting gloomily on a bench, contemplating the defects of his performance that afternoon. Hoode walked towards him. Before he could reach the actor-manager, however, he was intercepted by a shamefaced James Ingram.

  ‘You came to our rescue out there, Edmund,’ he said.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘We gave a poor account of ourselves this afternoon. But for you and Barnaby, Mirth and Madness could more properly have been called Misery and Badness. We betrayed the play by being too full of self-affairs. Thank you for helping to save our reputation. You were heroic.’

  ‘I gave of my best, James, that is all.’

  ‘It was more than the rest of us managed to do.’

  ‘I felt inspired today.’

  ‘We were too jaded to follow your example.’

  Patting him on the shoulder, Ingram moved away. His place was immediately taken by a servant who worked at the Queen’s Head. The lad blinked at Hoode for a moment then handed him a letter.

  ‘I was asked to deliver this, sir,’ he said.

  ‘By whom?’ The question became irrelevant when Hoode glanced at the handwriting. It was from her. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he mumbled.

  While the boy ran off, Hoode retreated to a corner of the room so that he could read the letter. It contained only one sentence but it was enough to make his head spin. He almost swooned with delight. The first missive had been unsigned but this one had the tantalising initial of ‘A’. He speculated on what her name might be. Adele? Araminta? Alice? Arabella? Anne? Audrey? Antonia? Unable to select the correct name, he decided that ‘A’ must stand for ‘angel’, for that is what he felt she was, descending from heaven to bring him unexpected joy. The letter was a gift from God. All else fled from his mind. When the firm hand of Lawrence Firethorn fell on his shoulder, he hardly felt it.

  ‘We owe you a debt of gratitude, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Thank you.’

  Hoode looked at him. ‘For what?’

  ‘The services you rendered the company this afternoon.’

  ‘Barnaby was the real saviour.’

  ‘He did no more than he always does,’ said Firethorn irritably. ‘Prancing and pulling faces is the height of his art. But you lifted yourself to a higher plain, Edmund. None of us could rival you.’

  Ordinarily, Hoode would have lapped up the congratulations. They rarely came from such a source. A vain man, Firethorn spent more time in boasting about his own theatrical triumphs than in praising the work of others. He believed that simply by allowing other actors to appear beside him onstage, he was conferring tacit approval on them. They deserved no more encouragement. To admit that someone actually gave a superior performance to his was a unique concession. Yet Hoode was unable to enjoy it. He was still caught up in the mood of exhilaration. Hoode would listen to praise from only one source. Her letter was warm in his hand.

  ‘Will you stay to celebrate with us in the taproom, Edmund?’

  ‘No, Lawrence,’ he replied. ‘I must away.’

&n
bsp; ‘That’s dedication indeed! I’ll not try to keep you from it,’ said Firethorn. ‘Once it is finished, the whole company will be the beneficiaries. Then they will understand why you’ve scurried off alone each day.’ He nudged Hoode. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Are you pleased with the results?’

  ‘Extremely pleased.’

  ‘When do we get to view this masterpiece?’

  ‘I’ve had not had that privilege myself yet, Lawrence.’

  Firethorn gaped. ‘But you have been slaving at it for several weeks now.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You know that you have, Edmund. You have devoted every waking hour to it. Though we missed your company, we admired your sense of purpose. So,’ he said, whispering into Hoode’s ear. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The work of art you are rushing off to finish. The new play, man, the new play!’

  Hoode stared at him with blank incomprehension.

  ‘Play?’ he said at length. ‘What play?’

  Entertainment of a different kind was on offer at Smithfield that afternoon and it drew a more ghoulish audience. Spectators at the city’s playhouses had gone to be moved by counterfeit deaths and fake horrors. Those who congregated at Smithfield wanted no deceit. They came in search of the real thing. Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter were part of a milling crowd. Renowned for centuries for its horse-market, the grassy acres that comprised ‘Smoothfield’, as it had been called, were redolent of a grim history. It had been a place of public execution for over four hundred years. Countless villains had been put to death before the eyes of the commonalty. Most were hanged from the gallows that stood between the horse-pool and the wells, but, in the reign of Henry VIII, Tyburn became the regular site for executions. Smithfield, however, was not wholly discarded. At the command of Mary Tudor, over two hundred martyrs were burnt at the stake there and it continued to be used on certain occasions. Gerard Quilter was unfortunate enough to be singled out for one of those occasions.