‘I do not blame her,’ said Nicholas. ‘When he has been away in France for a time, she has a right to expect that he would spend his first evening at home with her. It is strange behaviour for a husband.’
‘I could not have followed him on foot.’
‘Even your young legs would not move that fast.’
‘And I did not wish to keep you waiting here.’
‘You did well to discover what you did, Frank.’
‘There was one thing more, Nick.’
‘Yes?’
‘The landlord at the Black Unicorn told me that Paramore was devoted to his wife, but I saw little devotion in the way he abandoned her on the doorstep. He did not even bid the poor woman farewell.’
‘The news he received must have been truly grievous,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nothing else would make a loving husband act in such a way.’ He ran a thoughtful hand through his beard. ‘Where could he have been going?’
While his visitors were on the verge of panic, Sir Eliard Slaney remained icily calm. Bevis Millburne and Cyril Paramore were in great discomfort as they sat in the parlour of Sir Eliard’s house. They had still not managed to assimilate the tidings.
‘Where did this creature spring from?’ demanded Millburne.
‘She is in London for the fair,’ said Sir Eliard. ‘It was sheer chance that she arrived on the very heels of yesterday’s business, though there may be consolation in that.’
‘Consolation! I see no consolation, Sir Eliard.’
‘Calm yourself, Bevis.’
‘How can I when this girl holds a knife at our throats?’
‘Bevis is right, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore. ‘Let this bawdy basket give her evidence in court and we are all done for.’
‘Therein lies the consolation, Cyril,’ replied Sir Eliard. ‘Had the girl appeared before the trial, it might not have had such a rewarding outcome for us. Her word might have rescued Quilter from the noose that we so cleverly put around his neck. The pair of you would have been arrested on a charge of perjury.’
‘Horror!’ cried Millburne.
‘We only did your bidding, Sir Eliard,’ argued Paramore.
‘Cyril has hit the mark there. The plan was not of our devising.’
‘You must take the greater share of the blame.’
Sir Eliard was scornful. ‘Be quiet, you craven cowards!’ he shouted. ‘You were quick enough take my money when it was offered. I heard no complaints from you then. This is a time when each of us must keep our nerve, not descend into bickering. I expected Bevis to whimper,’ he went on, ‘but I looked for better from you, Cyril.’
Paramore squirmed in his chair beneath the withering gaze of his employer.
‘You have my apology, Sir Eliard,’ he muttered.
‘What are we going to do?’ wailed Millburne.
‘Act like men,’ insisted Sir Eliard, ‘and not like terrified women. Take hold on yourself, Bevis. If one of us stumbles, he brings the rest of us down.’
Sir Eliard went to the table to pour three glasses of wine. When it was handed to him, Millburne took a long sip from his glass. His hands were shaking visibly. Paramore had regained his composure. He had more faith in his host. There had been other storms to weather in the past. They would doubtless survive this new squall. A sip of wine put more confidence into him.
‘All that we have to do is to defy this bawdy basket,’ he said airily. ‘What value will a judge place on her word when it is ranged against that of respectable citizens like Bevis and myself? Her evidence will be laughed out of court.’
‘Not if it is supported by others,’ said Sir Eliard.
‘Others?’
‘Yes, Cyril. The girl was seen with Gerard Quilter on the day in question. According to Adam Haygarth, she can call on two or three who will vouch for the fact. Travellers, like herself. They’ll be here for the fair.’
Millburne was aghast. ‘Are we to be brought down by the sweepings of the streets? I’ll not endure it, Sir Eliard.’
‘You will not have to, Bevis.’
‘We may still brazen it out,’ said Paramore. ‘A dozen bawdy baskets and their kind could not discredit our evidence.’
‘The case must never come to court,’ urged Millburne. ‘Buy the creature off.’
‘That was my first instinct,’ admitted Sir Eliard, drinking his own wine. ‘But our helpful magistrate tells me that she is beyond the reach of a bribe. Moll Comfrey did not visit Adam Haygarth’s house alone. She went with Francis Quilter.’
‘The son! Then are we all damned.’
‘Be silent, Bevis.’
‘With his support, the girl is a more credible witness.’
‘We’ll not buy Quilter’s son off,’ said Paramore anxiously. ‘He’ll want the family name cleansed of its stain. There’s danger here, Sir Eliard.’
‘Grave danger. We sent an innocent man to his death and now we’ll pay for it.’
‘He was not innocent,’ retorted Sir Eliard, eyes blazing. ‘Gerard Quilter had the gall to cross me and no man does that with impunity. He deserved his fate and I’m proud that I contrived it. I’d do the same again. Bear that in mind,’ he warned, looking from one man to the other. ‘I’ll brook no opposition. I did not achieve my position by being kind to my enemies. I simply destroy them. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore meekly.
‘Bevis?’
Millburne nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Eliard,’ he whispered.
‘Do as I tell you and none of us need fear. One solitary person stands between us and our peace of mind. A bawdy basket called Moll Comfrey.’ He gave a sneer. ‘Are we going to let some roadside punk defeat us?’
‘No, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore.
‘Never!’ added Millburne.
Sir Eliard gave a cold smile. ‘Then this is what must be done.’
Anne Hendrik was waiting for him when he returned to Bankside that night. Seated at the table in the parlour, she was examining some drawings she had made of new hats. She rose to give him a welcome kiss. Nicholas Bracewell squeezed her affectionately.
‘It is good to see a face that bears a smile,’ he said, ‘especially when the face happens to be yours, Anne. I saw precious few smiles at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Is the company so distressed about what happened to Gerard Quilter?’
‘What issued from it has hardly cheered them. They have lost the services of a fine actor and opinion is divided as to whether they should have him back. Frank did himself no favours by his surly behaviour towards them this evening. He pretended that his fellows were not even there.’
‘Is that what removed the smiles from their faces?’ she asked.
‘No, Anne,’ he said, sitting down. ‘They hardly noticed that Frank was with me. It’s another departure that vexes Westfield’s Men. They fear to lose Edmund.’
‘Edmund Hoode?’
‘He has elected to go.’
‘Surely not, Nick.’
‘I did not believe it myself at first.’
‘What possible cause could make him quit the company?’
‘Her name is Mistress Avice Radley.’
‘Ah,’ she sighed, understanding the situation. ‘Of course. It had to be a woman’s hand who tries to pull him away.’
‘She may accomplish what a team of horses could not do, Anne, for they would not make him budge an inch from the Queen’s Head.’
‘Who is the lady?’
‘A wealthy widow,’ he said, ‘with enough money to support them both and sufficient greed, it seems, to want Edmund all to herself. He is besotted with her.’
‘He is always besotted with some woman or other.’
‘This one is set quite apart from the others, Anne.’
‘In what way?’
‘No stalking was involved here, no futile pursuit of his prey. Mistress Radley came to him. Edmund says that she descended out of heaven on a white cloud. You can see that he still sees her through the eyes of a
poet.’
‘How long will that last?’
‘In perpetuity, he claims.’
‘His loss would be a bitter blow to the company.’
‘Crippling, Anne,’ he agreed. ‘Lawrence Firethorn is tearing out his hair.’
‘Can he not persuade Edmund to stay?’
‘I fear not. No more can I,’ he admitted, ‘though not for want of trying. I can usually reason with Edmund but he would hear none. His decision has been made. He vows that it will not be changed.’
‘Who made the decision? Edmund or Mistress Radley?’
‘He swears the compact is mutual.’
‘Then Westfield’s Man are truly under threat,’ she concluded, sitting at the table. ‘To lose an actor like Frank Quilter is handicap enough. To be deprived of the author of your best work will make you weak indeed. Your rivals will prosper at your expense.’
‘That is what the company fears. It has touched them all. Even Barnaby Gill has been forced to acknowledge how important Edmund is to our success.’ His eye twinkled. ‘You can imagine his derision when he learnt that a woman was the cause of it all.’
Anne smiled. ‘At least Barnaby will not be led astray by a wealthy widow.’
‘He lives for the theatre, Anne. So, I believed, did Edmund.’
‘Is this Mistress Radley such a paragon of virtues that she can lure him away?’
‘None of us have met the lady.’
‘Someone should do so,’ she advised. ‘On the company’s behalf, I mean. You are the man for that task, Nick. Edmund may be impervious to reason but his inamorata may not be. Why not approach her direct?’
‘That would be unfair to him.’
‘Seek his permission first.’
‘He is unlikely to grant it,’ said Nicholas. ‘This lady is like no other whom Edmund has met. He is shielding her from us.’ He grinned. ‘Lawrence Firethorn cannot understand why she did not pick out him instead.’
‘His vanity knows no bounds.’ She gathered up the drawings. ‘But how did you find Frank Quilter this evening? Is he still weighed down with grief?’
‘He was heartened by what we learnt today.’
‘So he should be, Nick. This young peddler whom you met has the power to proclaim his father’s innocence. Even though her occupation does embarrass Frank.’
‘Moll Comfrey did not choose her occupation.’
‘Where is the girl now?’
‘She stays at Smithfield in the booth of some friends.’
‘What happens when the fair breaks up?’
‘That is where we encounter trouble,’ he confessed. ‘Justice Haygarth insisted that she stay in London until she is called to give her evidence in open court. That may take time. I hope to use my position at the Queen’s Head to find her a bed there.’
‘Would she be safe at an inn like that, Nick?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘If I was there to keep an eye on her.’
‘We could both do that, if Moll Comfrey chose to come here instead.’
‘Here?’
‘There’s room in the attic for her and her basket,’ she said. ‘It is important that she remains in London, you say. Why did you not invite her to Bankside?’
‘Without your permission, I did not feel able to do so.’
‘Well, now you have it.’
‘Thank you, Anne,’ he said, getting up to kiss her. ‘I am most grateful. It is the best solution of all. You will like Moll. She is a charming girl.’
‘Yet her charms do not seem to work on Frank Quilter.’
‘He will come to like her in the end. Moll Comfrey is his saviour.’
Smithfield was still alive as midnight approached. Hundreds of people had now arrived in readiness for the fair. Booths, tents, and stalls had been set up in favoured positions. Those who would sell, perform or otherwise seek payment at Bartholomew Fair were united in common fellowship. Old friends met up to exchange news and gossip. Whole families sat out in the warm night air to speculate on what weather they might expect for the fair and what effect it would have on the crowds. Fires had been lit to cook food and dozens still sat around them to talk, argue, complain, reminisce or simply stare into the embers. The lights of the city might be going out but the sturdier souls at Smithfield needed less sleep. It would be hours before the heavy murmur of conversation died away.
Moll Comfrey was oblivious to it all. While her hosts were still out under the stars, she had long since crept into their booth and found the corner allocated to her. She lay on a piece of sacking on the bare earth, curled up beside her basket. Fatigue had taken her to the booth but heartache prevented her from falling asleep. Her mind was filled too vividly with shifting images of Gerard Quilter, a man she had come to love as much as anyone in the world. The meeting with his son had been both salutary and upsetting. Francis Quilter looked so much like his father that he revived fond memories of her time with the older man, while simultaneously reminding her of his dreadful fate. The son had the same features, the same voice, the same gestures and the same way of holding his head at a slight angle. Francis Quilter also had the same integrity, the same fundamental decency and consideration for others that would never allow him to stoop to murder. His father had been the victim of false witnesses. Moll was dedicated to the notion of clearing his name. Her hand tightened around a small gift that the older man had once given her. Its aroma always helped to sweeten her sleep.
When exhaustion finally got the better of her grief, she dozed off but she did not desert her dearest friend. He followed her into her dream, walking beside a river with her, talking with her, showing his concern and affection, offering her money to help her through any difficult times ahead. Time spent with Gerard Quilter was a haven of peace in an otherwise fraught existence. When they arranged to meet at Bartholomew Fair, she was delighted. The thought that she would soon see him again would steady her through any troubles she might encounter. As they parted beside the river, he kissed her gently on the forehead, pressed some money into her palm then vanished from her sight.
He returned to her almost at once but the scene had changed. Bartholomew Fair was at its height, turning Smithfield into a cauldron of noise and merriment. Lightfoot was turning his somersaults, a performing dog was prancing on its back legs, a man was swallowing fire, a champion wrestler was taking on all-comers. Enormous crowds were swirling around the booths. Moll was selling her wares when she saw her friend emerging out of the crowd. Quilter gave her a cordial welcome. Buying some ribbons from her, he tied them neatly in her hair. She felt elated and danced around with joy. Then he suddenly disappeared again and she could not find him. Moll was desolate. She ran wildly here and there, searching with increasing desperation, until she bumped hard into a gallows and looked up to see Gerard Quilter’s body dangling above her.
It brought her awake with a silent cry. Before she could even realise where she was, she saw a figure moving towards her in the gloom. Had her friend come back for her, after all? Had he escaped the cruel death she had seen in her dream? Was he there to take her away from the hardship of her life? Longing to be reunited with Gerard Quilter, she sat up with open arms to beckon him forward. Her wish was granted.
Moll Comfrey soon joined her friend in an untimely grave.
Chapter Six
Lawrence Firethorn had more reason than any actor in the company to be grateful for the talents of Edmund Hoode. The playwright had furnished him with most of his finest roles. The imperious Pompey the Great and the courageous Henry V were recreated magnificently from life, but the heroes of The Loyal Subject, Death and Darkness, The Corrupt Bargain and a dozen other plays sprang up like vigorous new shoots from Hoode’s fertile brain. The dramatist was equally at home with history, comedy or tragedy, allowing the actor-manager to exhibit the full range of his incomparable abilities. Even when Hoode was merely a co-author of a piece – as with The Merry Devils or The Insatiate Duke – his contribution was distinctive. When he thought of the countless old
plays by other hands that Hoode had repaired or substantially improved, Firethorn was reminded how valuable a member of Westfield’s Men his friend really was. Given his abilities, the playwright was remarkably self-effacing. There were occasions, it was true, when he wrote eye-catching parts specifically for himself to play but that was a permissible indulgence. In his own way, Firethorn came to see, Edmund Hoode would be an even more terrible loss than Nicholas Bracewell.
A desperate situation called for desperate measures. With that in mind, Firethorn arose even earlier than usual and ate a hasty breakfast before either his children or the apprentices had even been turned out of bed by a clamorous summons from his wife. Margery gave him a kiss before he took his leave.
‘Tell him from me that he must never desert Westfield’s Men,’ she said.
‘I do not intend to speak to Edmund as yet, my love.’
‘Then why set off so early for his lodging?’
‘To watch and wait,’ replied Firethorn.
‘For what?’
‘Guidance.’
‘You must surely speak with him to get that.’
‘He will not even know that I am there.’
‘Then why bother to go?’
‘I am acting on instinct.’
‘How will that help to keep a renegade playwright in the company?’
‘You will see, Margery.’
‘Give him time and he may come to his senses.’
Firethorn was bitter. ‘We do not have time,’ he said. ‘The longer we delay, the more firmly this witch will have Edmund under her spell. It must be broken soon.’
‘How, Lawrence?’
‘That is what I am going to find out.’
‘Why not take Nicholas with you?’
‘He has tried and failed. Diplomacy has made no ground at all. Rougher methods must be called into play. Nick is not the man to employ them.’ He embraced her warmly. ‘I must away, my love.’
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