The Bawdy Basket

by Edward Marston

  It was only when they were clear of the house that Anne Hendrik noticed the blood on his sleeve. She became alarmed. Nicholas Bracewell gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘It does not belong to me, Anne,’ he said.

  ‘Then how is it spattered on your arm?’

  ‘Let’s meet with Lightfoot then I’ll tell you both.’

  The tumbler was waiting for them in an alley off Gracechurch Street. Nicholas introduced him to Anne. Lightfoot was polite and deferential. As he handed over the ledger, his sharp eyes caught sight of the blood as well.

  ‘You injured yourself, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I collected a few bruises,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I shed no blood. After you left the counting house, I was cornered by the man who ambushed me in Turnmill Street …’

  He told them what had happened, giving few details of the fight itself but explaining that the only way to escape alive was to kill his attacker. Anne was horrified that he might have been stabbed to death while she was talking downstairs to Lady Slaney. Lightfoot was pleased yet envious.

  ‘If only he had come in when I was there,’ he said wistfully. ‘I’d have strangled the life out of him. He was the villain who smothered poor Moll.’

  ‘He also confessed to the murder of Vincent Webbe,’ said Nicholas.

  Anne shuddered. ‘And the attempted murder of Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘He’ll do no more mischief with his dagger, Anne.’

  ‘But what of the consequences? They’ll come looking for you, Nick.’

  ‘I killed in self-defence.’

  ‘How will you prove it? Your word may not save you from arrest.’

  ‘There’ll be no pursuit of me,’ he said confidently, tapping the ledger. ‘The only arrests will be caused by this. There’s evidence in this book to bring Sir Eliard and his confederates to justice. One of them has already met his fate.’

  ‘What will they do when the body is discovered?’ asked Lightfoot.

  ‘That will not happen for a little while. I fancy that Sir Eliard is still at the Queen’s Head with at least another hour of the play to watch. It will take him a while to make his way out through that crowd,’ decided Nicholas. ‘By the time he unlocks his counting house, I will already have set the wheels of the law in motion.’

  ‘Shall I come with you, sir?’

  ‘No, Lightfoot. I have another task for you.’

  The tumbler grinned. ‘Will I have the chance to fight?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You’ll have to push your way through the crush on London Bridge as you escort Mistress Hendrik to her house in Bankside.’ Lightfoot was disappointed. ‘Anne did valuable work this afternoon. But for her, we would never have got into the house and seized this ledger. About it straight. I’ll take this evidence to the lawyer. We can then finish the work that The Merchant of Calais has started.’

  The applause that filled the yard at the Queen’s Head was long and loud. For once in their lives, neither Lawrence Firethorn nor Barnaby Gill minded that someone in a lesser role collected the biggest cheer. Edmund Hoode’s performance as Sir Eliard Slimy had been comically sinister to those who did not know the real moneylender, and hilarious to those who did. When he came out to take his bow, he was acclaimed. His had been a sublime exercise in theatrical assassination and the galleries revelled in it. Of the other actors, only Firethorn and Gill knew the significance of Hoode’s work. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, the precarious situation on Westfield’s Men was kept from the rest of the company lest it breed gloom and listlessness. Nicholas’s own absence was explained away in terms of sickness and Francis Quilter proved a highly competent deputy for him. There was a buoyant atmosphere among the players and it was translated to the stage. The Merchant of Calais had never been performed with such zest.

  During his first and last visit to the Queen’s Head, Sir Eliard Slaney had been stretched repeatedly on the rack of satire. He had not realised the sheer power of the theatre to rouse an audience to such a pitch. All around him spectators were quoting some of the choicer lines about the moneylender. Sir Eliard had never been the object of such scorn and derision before. As he and Cyril Paramore made their way towards the stairs, they kept their heads down in shame. It was only when they reached the waiting coach that Sir Eliard was able to show his fury.

  ‘Why did they do this to me?’ he snarled.

  ‘I fear that you provoked them, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore.

  ‘Oh, I’ll provoke them, mark my words. I’ll provoke them out of existence. I’ll have the company sued for seditious libel and the playwright sliced to bits in front of me. Sir Eliard Slimy, indeed!’ he said. ‘Edmund Hoode will pay for that.’

  Paramore knew better than to interrupt his master. He let him rant wildly all the way back to the house in Bishopsgate. When they entered the house, Sir Eliard was still fuming. His wife came out of the parlour to greet him and saw him for the first time in disguise. She was puzzled.

  ‘Why do you wear that attire, Eliard?’ she wondered.

  ‘Do not bother me, Rebecca,’ he replied. ‘Keep out of my way.’

  ‘Have I displeased you?’

  ‘You displease me now by badgering me.’

  ‘I only sought to welcome my husband to his home.’

  ‘Where’s Martin?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ve not seen him all afternoon.’

  ‘He must still be here. Martin! Martin!’ he yelled, walking around the ground floor of the house. ‘Where are you, man? Martin!’

  ‘Shall I look for him?’ she asked obligingly.

  ‘Out of my way, Rebecca.’ He pushed her aside and ascended the stairs with Paramore at his heels. ‘Martin! Martin, are you here? I’ve work for you.’ When he came to the counting house, he took out a key and inserted it into the lock. ‘I ordered him to stay here. Where is the fellow?’

  As he opened the door, he almost tripped over the dead man. Sir Eliard gaped and Paramore gave a yell of surprise. It was obvious that Martin would never be able to serve his master again. Sir Eliard was the first to recover. Stepping over the corpse, he went to the table and scrabbled among his papers. He let out a cry of pain.

  ‘My ledger!’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone has taken my ledger!’

  Henry Cleaton chortled his way through the ledger like a man who has just stumbled on a treasure chest. Names that meant nothing to Nicholas Bracewell drew a chuckle of recognition from the lawyer. He pointed with a stubby finger.

  ‘This name may be the most damning indictment of all,’ he said.

  Nicholas read it out. ‘Archibald Froggatt? I do not know the man.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky, then. Justice Froggatt was one of the most bloodthirsty judges ever to preside at a trial. He was the man who sent Gerard Quilter to his death. That is why this payment from Sir Eliard Slaney is so revealing.’

  ‘Five hundred pounds!’

  ‘To abuse the law costs a high price,’ said Cleaton, ‘and Justice Froggatt abused it mightily. He not only sent an innocent man to the gallows, he added more agony by having him hanged at Smithfield in the company of a witch. I’ll wager that it was Adam Haygarth who was the interlocutor here. He dangled the money before the judge.’ He indicated another amount on the page. ‘Justice Haygarth was well-rewarded for his work, as you see.’ Cleaton slapped the ledger. ‘By all, this is wonderful! We’ve evidence enough to put a dozen men behind bars. How did you come by the book?’

  ‘Let us just say that it fell into my hands,’ said Nicholas discreetly.

  ‘Frank Quilter will be overjoyed at this.’

  ‘He never believed that his father could be guilty.’

  ‘No more did I,’ said Cleaton. ‘This ledger vindicates him completely.’

  They were in the lawyer’s office. Cleaton had examined the entries in the ledger with painstaking care. It was a written confession of the sins and stratagems of Sir Eliard Slaney. The evidence that the lawyer himself had gathered was given full confirm
ation. Picking up the ledger, he rose to his feet.

  ‘I need to show this to someone else,’ he said.

  ‘Make sure that he is not one of Sir Eliard’s creatures.’

  ‘This ledger will go to a higher authority than anyone listed here. Even the bribes of Sir Eliard could not corrupt this man. When the evidence is scrutinised, there’ll be sudden justice. I would expect arrests to be made within days.’

  ‘I’ll not wait until that long,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor will Frank. He’ll meet me as soon as the performance is over. We mean to call the first of the villains to account this very afternoon. We’ll attack Sir Eliard at his weakest point.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘Bevis Millburne.’

  Edmund Hoode was in a state of ambivalence. Exhilarated by the performance that afternoon, he was having regrets about the way that he had altered his play. There was no doubting its success. Time and again, the target had been hit with unerring accuracy. If his contribution helped to salvage the future of Westfield’s Men, he would be happy. Yet an act of betrayal was involved and that left him feeling pangs of guilt. In order to aid his fellows, he had disobeyed Avice Radley’s decree and done so without forewarning her. It was a double blow for her since she would have been there to watch her favourite play. Expecting to take pleasure in it, she would have been jolted by the changes made and shocked to see Hoode impersonating a man whom she had expressly banned from appearing as a character in the play. Conflicting emotions troubled Hoode as he arrived at her house. When he knocked the door, it was with great trepidation.

  The maidservant invited him in and conducted him to the parlour. Avice Radley was seated at the table, composing a letter. She did not even look up as he entered. Hoode studied her in profile, admiring once again the sculptured beauty and the natural poise. He was overwhelmed with remorse at having upset her and wanted to fling himself abjectly at her feet. But something held him back. When he cleared his throat, she put her quill aside and turned to look at him.

  ‘So, Edmund,’ she said, her voice icily calm. ‘It is you.’

  ‘I told you that I would come as soon as I could.’

  ‘The wonder is that you dared to come at all.’

  ‘Avice!’ he protested. ‘You promised that I could treat this house as my own.’

  ‘I am glad that you raise the subject of promises,’ she rejoined. ‘Was it not in this very room that you promised to abide by my wishes? I asked you to let Westfield’s Men fight their own battles, you agreed. You gave me your solemn word.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yet the promise carried no weight.’

  ‘It did, it did.’

  ‘I see none.’

  ‘Permit me to explain,’ he begged.

  ‘I saw your explanation at the Queen’s Head this afternoon,’ she said. ‘You dragged me there to enforce my discomfiture.’

  ‘No, Avice!’

  ‘It was degrading. You did not even have the courtesy to warn me in advance.’

  ‘Had I done that, you would have talked me out of it.’

  ‘I thought that I already had done so, Edmund.’

  ‘So did I,’ he admitted.

  ‘What, then, changed your mind?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Was it sheer malice? Or rebellion against me?’

  ‘Neither of those things, Avice.’

  ‘Were you telling me that your love had gone away?’ she pressed. ‘Is that the reason you turned on me so? I did not think you could be so fickle, Edmund.’

  ‘But I am not fickle. I remain as constant as ever.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘As constant as you were this afternoon?’

  ‘Forgive me. It was not intended as an insult to you.’

  ‘That is how it was received.’

  ‘I shower you with my apologies, Avice,’ he said effusively, ‘and I will do anything to get myself into your good graces again.’

  ‘Then do so by leaving me.’

  He shuddered. ‘Leaving you? Am I to be given no right of appeal?’

  ‘You gave me none, Edmund. Had I known what mischief you planned upon that stage today, I would have appealed with all my might. I did not take you for a vengeful man but I see that I was mistaken.’

  ‘The only vengeance was directed at Sir Eliard Slaney.’

  ‘It is time to bid farewell,’ she said levelly.

  ‘No,’ he cried, moving across to her. ‘You do not understand. At least, let me tell you how it came about. For the sake of the love you once bore me, hear me out.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Very well, sir. Be brief.’

  ‘I did bow to your wishes, Avice, it is true. When I saw your strength of purpose, I sent Nick Bracewell away from here with a cracked heart. He, of all, men had the right to call on my friendship yet I turned my back on him. It made me sad to do so.’

  ‘There was no sadness when you consented to quit the company.’

  ‘No, there was only joy and relief.’

  ‘Did it so quickly vanish?’

  ‘It is still there,’ he insisted. ‘My feelings for you have not altered in any degree. But you must allow for other claims upon my time. Westfield’s Men nurtured me, taught me, made me what I am. Those long years could not so easily be forgotten, Avice. When I left here on Sunday, I was fired with the notion of penning another sonnet in praise of you. My mind was filled with sweet phrases and pretty conceits.’

  ‘I heard neither at the Queen’s Head today.’

  ‘That is because an older loyalty dictated my hand,’ he said. ‘I tried to write for you but found myself composing a new prologue to The Merchant of Calais. ’Tis all done now, Avice. My debt to the company has been discharged. I am yours alone.’

  ‘For how long, Edmund?’

  ‘For all eternity.’

  ‘And how long will that last?’ she asked scornfully. ‘Until the company next call upon you? Until you feel the need again to disregard my orders? You swore to love and honour me for all eternity once before. Its span was a matter of days.’

  ‘Only because of circumstance.’

  ‘I fondly imagined that I was the only circumstance in your life.’

  ‘You were, you are, and ever more will be.’

  ‘Leave off your protestations, sir. They are too hollow.’

  ‘I acted with the best of intentions, Avice.’

  ‘Yet you achieved the worst of results,’ she said coldly. ‘You rebuffed me, treated my wishes with open contempt and showed yourself unworthy of my love.’

  ‘Is there no way that I can earn it back again?’ he pleaded.

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Avice!’

  ‘The damage is done, Edmund. It cannot be repaired.’

  ‘Would you rather I had let Westfield’s Men fade out of existence?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said angrily. ‘The first time I made trial of your love, it failed. And there is nothing I abhor so much as failure, unless it be rank disobedience. You were guilty of both, Edmund, and are no longer welcome in my house.’

  Hoode’s dreams suddenly went up in smoke and all that he was left with was an acrid smell in his nostrils. Still mouthing his apologies, he backed his way out and opened the front door. He walked away from Avice Radley in a daze. Hoode did not blame her for what she had done. He had brought her ire down on himself. When he was offered the one chance of marital bliss that he was ever likely to get, he had deliberately cast it away. Westfield’s Men had been given priority – if only fleetingly – over Avice Radley and she would not endure it. Love had cooled, vows of fidelity were discarded. He was completely numbed by the interview with her. It was several minutes before he realised that his feet were taking him towards the Queen’s Head. One love had perished but another remained. Rejected by Avice Radley, he would be given a hero’s welcome by Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill. They did not expect perfection. They and the others loved him for his weaknesses as much as for his strengths. He
began to smile. There was a world elsewhere and it was one in which he could be himself.

  When Nicholas Bracewell met up with his friend, Francis Quilter had a familiar figure with him. Armed and eager, Owen Elias did not wish to miss out on what he suspected would be some violent action.

  ‘Something is afoot, Nick,’ he said. ‘Do not deny it. There has to be a reason why Edmund hurled those thunderbolts at Sir Eliard Slaney today. When I saw Frank sneaking away, I went after him.’

  ‘I could not shake him off,’ said Quilter.

  Nicholas smiled. ‘We may have employment for him.’

  ‘Sword or dagger?’ asked Elias.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘And why are you dressed like a Dutch hatmaker? Do you work for Anne now?’

  ‘I did this afternoon, Owen.’

  Nicholas fell in beside them and explained what had transpired. Quilter was thrilled that the crucial evidence had been obtained and that the would-be assassin had been killed with his own dagger. Though he regretted he had not been there to help Nicholas, the Welshman was fascinated by all that he heard and understood why The Merchant of Calais had been slanted in a particular direction that afternoon. The fact that Sir Eliard had bought up all of their patron’s debts made him seethe with rage.

  ‘Destroy us out of spite?’ he roared. ‘Let me get my hands on the rogue.’

  ‘The law will do that,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘He deserves to be hanged from the nearest tree. When they learn what he tried to do, the whole company will dance around him with glee.’

  ‘Let us confront him, Nick,’ said Quilter.

  ‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We will save him until the last. I think we should strike at one of his lieutenants first. A confession from him will speed up retribution.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘You will soon guess when we pass the Golden Fleece.’

  ‘Bevis Millburne?’