Hundreds of yards away from Bartholomew Fair, they were aware of its presence. Pungent smells of all description were carried on the wind and a mild tumult could be heard. The vast majority of vendors and entertainers had now arrived, setting up their stalls and erecting their booths so close to each other that there appeared to be a continuous blaze of colour across Smithfield. Curious dogs and inquisitive children had come to look around, as did the local prostitutes and pickpockets, taking their bearings so that they could see where best to operate on the following day when huge crowds descended on the fair. When they plunged in among the booths, Nicholas caught a strong whiff of roast pig mingling with that of a dozen other aromas, including the stench of animal dung. Some of the performers were already practising their tricks, giving the watching children free entertainment. There was no sign of Lightfoot among the tumblers on display.
Nicholas asked for directions to the booth where Ned Pellow’s pies were sold. He and Quilter were soon introducing themselves to a big, bearded individual in a leather apron that shone like silver in the sun. Now in his fifties, Pellow was a giant of a man with thick eyebrows curving outwards from a central position above his nose before merging with his beard. His wife, Lucy, was equally large and even more hirsute, her long black hair trailing down her back like the tail of a mare, her craggy features, dark moustache and bristled chin making her look more like Pellow’s younger brother than his chosen bride. However unprepossessing they might look, the pair were warm, friendly and caring. Both had been deeply fond of Moll Comfrey.
‘She was like the daughter we never had,’ said Pellow. ‘Lucy will tell you.’
‘Yes,’ said his wife in a voice that was little more than a squeak. ‘Moll was the sweetest girl in the world. It was a pleasure to know her. She always stayed with us when we met up at a fair or a market. Ned used to say it was because she had a taste for our pies but I like to think it was because she was fond of us.’
‘I’m sure she was,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lightfoot told us how good you were to her.’
‘Yet we let her down when she really needed us, sir,’ admitted Pellow, plucking a sizeable piece of pie from his beard. ‘So did Lightfoot. The three of us were sitting out here while that fiend was smothering her inside the booth. If I ever get my hands on the villain,’ he warned, flexing his muscles, ‘I’ll tear him to pieces.’
‘And I’ll help you, Ned,’ vowed his wife. ‘I want my share of his blood.’
‘You shall have it, Lucy. He took our Moll away.’
‘What did the constables say?’ asked Quilter.
‘They promised to look into the crime,’ replied Pellow bitterly, ‘but they made it clear that they would not do so with urgency. If a member of the nobility had been murdered in our booth, Smithfield would be crawling with officers of the law. Because she was only a bawdy basket, Moll does not rate any attention.’
‘She does from us,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘That’s why we want to track down the killer. Anything you can tell us will be of value. What mood was Moll in when she went to bed? How did she seem when you peeped in on her? When did you discover that she had been murdered? What steps did you take?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Take your time. Every detail is important. We’ll be patient listeners.’
Pellow nodded vigorously. ‘We’ll tell you all we know, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘Moll had kind words to say of Nicholas Bracewell. She sensed you were a friend.’
Nicholas smiled but Quilter shifted his feet uneasily, knowing that he had made a bad impression on the girl at first. Both men waited for Ned Pellow to launch into his speech. Ably supported by his wife, who contributed additions and variations at every stage, he described what had happened from the moment when Moll had returned to the fair after her visit to the magistrate. When they reached the point where the dead body was discovered, man and wife wept copiously. Nicholas warmed to them. They were kind, generous, affectionate people who had adopted Moll Comfrey as their own, offering her free accommodation whenever they met.
‘How did the killer enter your booth?’ asked Nicholas.
‘He cut his way in with a knife, sir,’ replied Pellow. ‘Lucy had to sew the tear up again this morning. I’ll show you the place, if you wish.’
‘Please do.’
The pieman first took them to the rear of the booth to point out the gash that had been made in the painted canvas. Nicholas and Quilter were then allowed inside to view the exact spot where Moll had slept. It was separated from the Pellows’ own sleeping area by a large flap of canvas. Unbeknown to them, they had slumbered beside a corpse for the whole night. Nicholas examined the blanket that had been used to suffocate her. Made of wool, it was of a quality that set it apart from anything else in the booth. It had belonged to someone with far more money than Ned Pellow and his wife.
‘We’ll not sleep a wink tonight,’ confided the pieman.
‘No,’ squeaked his wife. ‘We’ll be thinking about what happened to Moll.’
Leaving the booth, they came out into the fresh air. Nicholas looked around. Circumstances had favoured the killer. The crowded acres of Smithfield had provided him with the cover he needed to slip into the booth, smother an unprotected girl to death and make his escape into the darkness. What puzzled him was how the murderer knew where to find Moll Comfrey. He was still assessing the possibilities when Lightfoot emerged from the crowd. The tumbler grinned appreciatively.
‘You came, sir,’ he said. ‘I knew that you would.’
‘It is good to see you again, Lightfoot,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is Frank Quilter, of whom you have heard so much.’
‘I am in your debt, Lightfoot,’ said Quilter, shaking him by the hand. ‘That letter you gave us was most helpful.’
‘Did it tell you who might have wanted to kill Moll?’ asked Lightfoot.
‘Not exactly.’
‘But it contained many valuable clues,’ explained Nicholas. ‘It also showed the great affection that Frank’s father had for Moll. He had bequeathed her some money in his will.’
‘Would that she had been able to collect it!’ sighed Pellow.
His wife began to weep. ‘Moll was robbed of her inheritance.’
‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘Did she have any enemies here at the fair?’ wondered Nicholas.
‘None, sir,’ said the pieman. ‘We are all fellows here. It is like belonging to one big family. At fairs like this, we all look out for each other.’
‘But only someone in your fraternity would know where Moll slept.’
‘That is what troubled me, sir,’ said Lightfoot, ‘and I have spent the afternoon searching for the answer. I think I may have found it.’
‘Go on,’ urged Quilter.
‘I talked to everyone I could who was here yesterday. Not just those who were within reach of Ned’s booth but stall holders on the very fringe of the fair. One of them was Luke Furness.’
‘The blacksmith?’ asked Pellow.
‘Yes, Ned. With so many horses being sold here, Luke always does well at Bartholomew Fair. He’s a vigilant man who keeps his wits about him.’
‘What did he tell you?’ asked Nicholas.
‘That he was accosted by a gentleman yesterday,’ replied Lightfoot, ‘asking if he knew anyone by the name of Moll Comfrey. The blacksmith did, of course. Luke Furness has been coming here so often that knows almost all of us. He told the gentleman that Moll could be found at Ned Pellow’s booth.’
‘Did he describe the man?’
‘He did, sir. Luke remembered him well. He said the fellow was big and fat with a pale face and hard eyes. He wore dark attire and seemed like a man of distinction. Luke took note of how fine a horse he rode.’
‘How old would he be, Lightfoot?’
‘Older than any of us here.’
‘Did he, by chance, have a grey beard?’
‘Why, yes,’ said the tumbler. ‘A small grey beard hardly worthy of the name.’
�
��Thank you, my friend. This intelligence is timely.’
‘You recognise the man?’
‘I think so,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name is Justice Haygarth.’
Chapter Seven
As he rode along Cheapside at a steady trot, Lawrence Firethorn congratulated himself on his deft stage management. When the performance of Cupid’s Folly was over, he took Edmund Hoode into the taproom and plied him with Canary wine until the playwright was in an amenable mood. Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias had been recruited to lend their help and they moved in on cue to take over. While they engaged Hoode in conversation, Firethorn slipped quietly away to put his plan into practice. Having given Avice Radley time to return home, he now headed in the same direction. There was a limit to how long his friends could delay her beloved but Firethorn was confident that his horse would get him there well ahead of Hoode, who would travel on foot. He reached the house and tethered his mount. When a maidservant answered his loud knock on the door, his tone was peremptory.
‘Tell your mistress that Lawrence Firethorn is without,’ he declared.
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, gaping in awe at the actor.
‘Hurry, girl. Hurry!’
The command sent her scurrying into the house to gabble the message. It took Avice Radley by surprise but she was sufficiently curious to invite him in. Escorted into the parlour by the maidservant, Firethorn gave her the kind of bow that he reserved for his audiences at the Queen’s Head. He positively exuded charm.
‘Forgive this intrusion, dear lady,’ he said, ‘but I could not help observing that you were in the gallery this afternoon to witness our humble efforts.’
‘There was nothing humble about your performance, Master Firethorn.’
‘You are very gracious, Mistress Radley. And even though we are, in a sense, strangers to each other, I find that I know you well enough to call on you.’
‘That depends on why you are here, sir,’ she said.
‘In the first instance, it is for the pleasure of meeting you.’
‘That pleasure is shared. I have long admired your work at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Then why do you seek to hinder it?’
‘I seek nothing of the kind, I assure you.’
‘It seems so to us, Mistress Radley,’ he said with an appeasing smile. ‘But I am sure the damage you are about to inflict is not deliberate. Ignorance of our company leads you unwittingly to hurt us in this way.’
‘I have no desire to hurt anyone, Master Firethorn.’
‘That is what I told my fellows. When you understand the true state of affairs, you will, I am certain, change your mind. I can see at a glance that you are a reasonable person.’ He lowered his voice to a soft purr. ‘You are also the most delightful and beautiful creature to have graced our inn yard for many years.’
‘Dispense with this needless flattery,’ she advised, looking him in the eye. ‘It will not advantage you in the least. Now, sir, if it is not too much trouble, I would be pleased to hear why you have paid me this unheralded visit. Edmund warned me that you would try to win me over.’
He was taken aback. ‘Warned you?’
‘He is very familiar with your methods. That was why Edmund did his best to conceal my address from you. May I ask how you found it?’
‘A happy accident.’
‘For whom?’
‘For both of us, I hope.’
He smiled again and inclined his head forward in a token bow. Avice Radley fought hard to resist the sheer force of his personality. A man who was able to dominate a large audience at the Queen’s Head was almost overwhelming in a more intimate setting. If only to stop him from looming over her, she invited him to sit. Firethorn mistakenly took it as a sign of progress and he surged on quickly.
‘You have followed the fortunes of Westfield’s Men?’ he asked.
‘Very closely, sir.’
‘Which is your favourite play?’
‘The Merchant of Calais.’
He inflated his chest. ‘Because of my performance in the title role?’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘because it is one of Edmund’s finest dramas.’
‘Nicholas Bracewell had a hand in it,’ he said peevishly. ‘It is by no means pure invention by Edmund. The character I play is inspired by Nick’s own father.’
‘So Edmund told me. We have discussed every play he wrote.’
‘Did he mention his latest work?’
‘Yes, he described the plot of The Duke of Verona in detail to me.’
‘That is more than he has done for me,’ he complained. ‘You obviously have skills of persuasion far greater than my own. I could tease nothing out of Edmund beyond the fact that the play would be his most rewarding.’
‘He no longer labours under that illusion, Master Firethorn.’
‘It is no illusion. I have known him many years and have learnt to read him like a book. He is not given to boasting. If Edmund pronounces a play to be his finest, then I trust his judgement implicitly.’ He sat forward in his chair. ‘Would you deprive London of Edmund Hoode’s masterpiece?’
‘The decision is entirely his own.’
‘Strongly influenced by you, Mistress Radley.’
Firethorn was disappointed to have had so little visible impact on her. Beside the balding and unremarkable Hoode, he accounted himself exquisitely handsome and women usually fell at his feet in submission. It was not simply his striking appearance and glorious voice that they adored. What attracted his female admirers in such profusion was his bubbling energy. Avice Radley seemed strangely impervious to it. The irony was that he was increasingly drawn to her. Arresting when viewed from a distance, she was even more appealing in close proximity.
‘I hoped that we might be more closely acquainted,’ he said with a coaxing smile.
‘It would be an honour to be numbered among your friends, sir.’
‘That is my dearest wish.’
He gazed steadily at her with seductive charm, conveying interest, affection and desire in equal proportions. That look in his eye had presaged a whole series of conquests but Avice Radley was not about to join their ranks.
‘You must visit us in the country,’ she said politely.
‘I would prefer to visit you on your own.’
‘Edmund told me that you would, Master Firethorn. He knows you better than you know yourself. But it would be quite improper of me to receive attentions from anyone but my husband. Besides,’ she added, turning the knife gently in the wound, ‘you are yourself a married man, I hear. Did you swear no vows of fidelity?’
Firethorn was flustered. ‘My private life is irrelevant,’ he said with a sweeping gesture. ‘Put it aside, I pray. I am here on behalf of my company to plead for your assistance. If you have any feeling for Westfield’s Men, or any desire for the continuation of the high quality of its work, do not rob us of one of the main reasons for our success. In short, the excellence of Edmund Hoode’s plays.’
‘I am no robber, sir. Edmund’s withdrawal is voluntary.’
‘It is a catastrophe!’
‘Only until you find a worthy successor.’
‘There is no worthy successor to Edmund.’
‘He has many imitators. School one of them.’
‘We would rather retain the original, Mistress Radley,’ he argued, ‘and it lies within your power to grant us that favour. Enthral him, if you must, tease him, spoil him, pamper him, even marry him, if that is your ambition. But do not build a dam to hold back the torrent of his creative genius.’
‘I hold nothing back, sir. My intent is to encourage that creative genius. I can think of no better way to invest my wealth than by placing it at his disposal.’
‘I can,’ he said, seizing on the remark. ‘If you seek investment, why not donate the money to the company itself? Lord Westfield is our patron but he lacks the funds to lavish upon us. We are ever in need of money to buy new costumes, make new properties, train new apprentices and commission new pl
ays. Put your wealth at our disposal,’ he went on, excited by the notion, ‘and you would bring The Duke of Verona to life, along with many other splendid dramas from the pen of Edmund Hoode.’
‘There is only one problem with that bold idea, Master Firethorn.’
‘What is that, dear lady?’
Avice Radley gave him a cold, bright, proprietary smile.
‘I do not wish to share him,’ she said flatly. ‘Edmund is mine alone.’
The visit to Bartholomew Fair had been enlightening. Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter left Smithfield in a far more positive frame of mind than on the earlier occasion. The information obtained by Lightfoot gave them what was potentially their most important clue to date. Nicholas was circumspect. Instead of accepting the tumbler’s version of events without confirmation, he and Quilter called on the blacksmith in question and heard the evidence from his own lips. Luke Furness was open and honest with them. His memory was sound. As they walked away from his forge, they were even more convinced that the person seeking the whereabouts of Moll Comfrey had indeed been Justice Haygarth.
‘No wonder he was so obstructive when we met him,’ said Quilter.
‘I put that down to judicial caution,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘Moll had many virtues but, to a magistrate, she did not look like a reliable witness. Let us remember that, when she first came forward, you did not take the girl at her word.’
‘I confess it freely, Nick.’
‘She was the victim of her profession.’
‘At least, we now know who contrived her death.’
‘Do we?’
‘Yes,’ said Quilter. ‘It’s as plain as the beard on Ned Pellow’s face. The villain was that devious magistrate, Justice Haygarth.’
‘That’s by no means certain, Frank.’
‘Why else would he come in search of Moll?
‘So that he could take a fuller statement from her,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Or in order to establish where she might be for the next few days in case he needed her. You may recall that he did ask her where she lodged. All that Moll would say was that she would be staying with friends.’
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