The Bawdy Basket

by Edward Marston

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

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Quilter.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘How do we decide that?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Let me see it,’ ordered Lady Slaney.

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

  ‘I must put it on at once,’ she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Your husband is such a shrewd man.’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Jersey?’

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

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

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

  ‘Which house is your favourite?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Lightfoot?’

  ‘A friend, sir.’

  ‘What would you have with me?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What do you know of him?’ he asked.

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

  ‘How?’

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

  ‘Proof?’ echoed Nicholas.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘How do you know?’

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

  Chapter Five

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

  ‘A bawdy basket!’ she exclaimed.

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

  ‘And how would you describe this Moll Comfrey?’

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

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

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

  ‘Shocked?’

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

  ‘Is that what he did?’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘What does the girl say?’ asked Anne.

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

  ‘Since when has that held any man back?’

  ‘True.’

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

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

  ‘Small wonder he was embarrassed by her arrival.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Would Frank agree with you?’

  ‘Moll convinced him in time.’

  ‘How?’

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

  ‘Lightfoot?’

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

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

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

  ‘How did she get to Frank’s lodging?’

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

  ‘This tumbler has great enterprise.’

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

  ‘Did she come alone?’

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

  ‘How?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘It is not as easy as that, I fear.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Willingly.’

  ‘What did the magistrate say?’

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

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

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

  ‘Will she hold up under examination, Nick?’

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

  ‘What happens next?’

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

  ‘How did Frank Quilter react to all this?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What is his name?’

  ‘Justice Haygarth.’

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