The Bawdy Basket (11 page)

‘No sign of Master Paramore’s ship, then?’

‘Not so much of a glimpse,’ said Quilter. ‘But I’ll not be moved from this spot. I’ll sit here all night and all day tomorrow, if need be.’

‘I hope it will not come to that.’

After leaving the Queen’s Head, Nicholas had made his way back to the river. He was chastened by his interview with Edmund Hoode. It was painful to be reminded that he too had threatened to abandon the company but the fact had to be acknowledged. Now that he was back with Quilter again, he felt the compassion that led him to make the earlier decision. Fortunately, a way had been found to release the actor while retaining the services of the book holder. No such compromise could be used in Hoode’s case.

‘How did the performance fare?’ wondered Quilter.

‘It courted excellence, Frank.’

‘Who took my role?’

‘James Ingram, though with slightly less success.’

‘I doubt that. James is a fine actor.’

‘Granted,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he was trying too hard. Since Edmund was both author and actor in the piece, James was straining every sinew to impress him. He was not alone. Owen Elias and the others followed his example.’

‘Why should they need to impress Edmund?’

Nicholas told him about the playwright’s ultimatum and one more member of the company was dumbfounded. Though he had not been with them long, Quilter knew how crucial a figure Hoode was to Westfield’s Men. It was inconceivable to him that Hoode should even consider leaving. Nicholas discussed the problem at length, grateful for a subject that took Quilter’s mind away from his father’s fate. As they talked, the sails of a ship were gradually conjured out of the distance. The whole vessel soon appeared, scudding along the water in midstream and forcing them to stop their conversation abruptly. They watched with interest until the
Speedfast
eventually glided towards the wharf. Quilter was eager to race to the water’s edge but Nicholas held him back.

‘Stay, Frank,’ he said. ‘The ship is not safely moored yet.’

‘I want to be there when he steps ashore.’

‘But you do not even know who he is. Cyril Paramore might walk straight past and you none the wiser. Besides,’ added Nicholas, ‘it is important that he does not realise who you are or he’ll be frightened away.’

‘Only because he has something to hide.’

‘We’ll not find it by accosting him boldly.’

‘How, then, do we proceed, Nick?’

‘As before. You stand apart and let me pick him out.’

‘When you do not recognise his face?’

‘We are not the only ones here to greet the vessel,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the small crowd on the wharf. ‘I’ll lose myself in the press and shout his name aloud as the passengers disembark. That way, he’ll declare himself and I’ll approach him.’

‘Let me go with you.’

‘Watch and wait, Frank. You can judge the fellow from a distance.’

It took skill to bring the
Speedfast
alongside the wharf to moor it securely. Having spent so much time at sea himself, Nicholas took a keen interest in the way that the crew went about their business. They were agile and well-drilled, responding swiftly to the shouted commands from their bosun. Passengers lined the bulwarks in readiness but Nicholas had no idea which one of them would be Cyril Paramore. Recognising friends and relatives aboard, the crowd on the wharf began to wave and call their welcomes. Nicholas mingled with them and stood behind the tallest man he could find. When the gangplank was lowered, a member of the crew tested it before the passengers were allowed to disembark. The long procession began. Noisy reunions were taking place all around Nicholas. There was only one imminent reunion that caught his attention. It sent him scurrying back to Quilter.

‘What’s amiss?’ asked the actor. ‘Is he not aboard?’

‘I’m certain of it, Frank.’

‘Then why not accost him?’

‘We have someone to do it for us,’ explained Nicholas. ‘You see the tall man who is standing apart from the crowd? He has just arrived and can only be here to greet Master Paramore.’

‘How can you be so sure, Nick?’

‘Because his name is Sir Eliard Slaney.’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney!’ repeated Quilter. ‘Is
that
the villain?’

He looked at the tall, wiry, immaculate figure who was standing several yards from the wharf with two servants in attendance. Sir Eliard Slaney raised a hand to acknowledge someone aboard then clicked his fingers to send the two servants running towards the vessel. He followed them at a more leisurely pace. As the passengers filed off the vessel, a short, neat man in dark attire took his turn in the queue, carrying luggage in both hands. The servants relieved him of his cargo the moment he stepped ashore and left him free to embrace Sir Eliard Slaney. The two men were evidently close friends. As they left the wharf together, they were sharing a laugh.

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.’