The Bawdy Basket

by Edward Marston

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

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

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

  ‘As soon as you wish, my dear.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Riding hard,’ said Haygarth.

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

  ‘Urgency required speed, Sir Eliard.’

  ‘Urgency?’

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

  ‘You sound as if you had good reason.’

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

  ‘What do you mean?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Who is this creature called Moll Comfrey?’

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

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

  ‘The girl has solid support, alas.’

  ‘Support?’

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

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

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

  ‘Friend?’

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

  ‘A pox on Moll Comfrey!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘She must go,’ he decided.

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

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

  ‘Done better?’ she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘They did offer me money.’

  ‘Then why did you not take it, girl?’

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

  ‘What of this other man you met?’

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

  ‘I hope that it helps, Moll.’

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

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

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

  ‘Did you tell them why?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I am worried, Lightfoot.’

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

  ‘We wait on the word of the magistrate.’

  ‘The law will not be rushed.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Promise?’

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

  ‘That particular name does not merit a kiss.’

  ‘A bargain is a bargain,’ he argued.

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

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

  ‘Good even, Mistress Marwood,’ he said.

  ‘You are welcome, sir.’

  ‘How does your husband fare?’

  ‘Indifferently well.’

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

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

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

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Everyone in the company has noticed.’

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

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

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

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

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

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

  ‘I will, I will.’

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

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

  ‘What funeral?’ asked Nicholas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I’ve not been idle since we parted.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

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

  ‘He is a prosperous man, Frank.’

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

  ‘The Black Unicorn, was it not?’

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

  ‘Employer?’

  ‘Sir Eliard Slaney.’

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

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

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

  ‘I wonder if he is aware of that.’

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

  ‘He has caught wind of something, Nick.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

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