The Bawdy Basket (12 page)

‘Proof?’ echoed Nicholas.

‘Yes, sir. Lightfoot found out when the murder took place.’

‘It was at the end of July,’ said Quilter. ‘The last day of the month.’

‘That is what Lightfoot told me, sir, and that is why I know your father is innocent. I’d swear it in a court of law, so I would, sir. I’m an honest girl.’

‘I’m sure that you are,’ said Nicholas softly. ‘But why can you say so confidently that Gerard Quilter was innocent of the crime?’

‘Because he was not in London on the day of the murder.’

‘How do you know?’

She gave a wan smile. ‘He was with me, sir,’ she said. ‘For the whole day.’

Anne Hendrik was so surprised and amused by what he said that she burst into laughter.

‘A bawdy basket!’ she exclaimed.

‘That is what Frank calls her. He was using thieves’ cant.’

‘And how would you describe this Moll Comfrey?’

‘As a girl who struggles to do make the best of herself,’ said Nicholas. ‘Moll is no common trull. She is too unspoiled to have been at the trade for any length of time, and too decent a girl to sell her favours unless she was in dire distress. If she is the bawdy basket that Frank takes her to be, then she has been forced into it. Necessity feeds on virtue, Anne. I take Moll Comfrey to be the prisoner of necessity.’

‘Then you take a kinder view than Frank Quilter, by the sound of it.’

‘He was too shocked to believe what she said at first.’

‘Shocked?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘His father was a God-fearing man, virtuous, upright and respected in the community. He had been a widower for some years but, according to Frank, he would never turn to someone like Moll Comfrey for pleasure.’

‘Is that what he did?’

‘I think not.’

‘What does the girl say?’ asked Anne.

‘Simply that she was a friend of Gerard Quilter. She refused to explain the strength or nature of that friendship, except to say that they met from time to time. Moll found him good-hearted and generous. He gave her money, it seems.’ Anne raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘No, Anne,’ he said defensively. ‘You are wrong, I am sure. Nothing of that kind occurred between them. I am certain of it. Apart from other indications, he was so much older than her.’

‘Since when has that held any man back?’

‘True.’

‘If he did not buy her favours,’ she suggested, ‘could she possibly have been his child, conceived outside the bounds of marriage?’

‘That too I considered, only to dismiss the notion when I knew a little more about her. But I could see that the same thought crossed Frank’s mind.’

‘Small wonder he was embarrassed by her arrival.’

‘He accepted the value of her testimony in the end,’ said Nicholas. ‘If her word can be trusted, she puts Gerard Quilter twenty miles away from London the day when Vincent Webbe was stabbed to death.’

‘What of this brawl the two men are alleged to have had?’

‘That must have been on the day before, Anne.’

‘Then he could not possibly have been the killer,’ she concluded. ‘Why did he not call the girl to speak up for him at the trial?’

‘I doubt if he had any idea where Moll was. She travels far and wide with her basket of wares. How could he summon her to his aid if she was several counties distant?’ he asked. ‘She came to London to see him. Moll said they had planned to meet again at Bartholomew Fair, but that will never happen now.’

Anne became serious. ‘Can the girl’s word be relied upon?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Would Frank agree with you?’

‘Moll convinced him in time.’

‘How?’

‘By talking in such detail about his father,’ explained Nicholas. ‘There can be no question that she knew him well. Master Quilter was very proud of his son. Though he disliked the notion of Frank being an actor, it did not stop his adoration of him. He talked to Moll about him in the warmest tones. In spite of his reservations, he once saw his son perform with Banbury’s Men. That was how Lightfoot tracked Frank down.’

‘Lightfoot?’

‘A tumbler who’ll perform at the fair.’

Anne smiled. ‘Bawdy baskets? Tumblers? Who else is in this story?’

‘Do not mock Lightfoot,’ he warned. ‘He is Moll’s best friend. When she heard of Gerard Quilter’s execution, it was Lightfoot who supplied the details. But for him, we might never have had this important new evidence.’

‘How did she get to Frank’s lodging?’

‘With the help of this tumbler. When Moll told him that Frank was an actor, he went to every theatre troupe in the city in search of him. Someone at the Queen’s Head said that Frank was a sharer with Westfield’s Men.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was as simple as that. Lightfoot found out where he lived and passed on the information to Moll Comfrey.’

‘This tumbler has great enterprise.’

‘We all have cause to be thankful to him, Anne. And to the girl.’

‘Did she come alone?’

‘Alone and forlorn. That’s what persuaded me of her sincerity.’

‘How?’

‘The way she responded to the man’s death,’ said Nicholas. ‘She was deeply moved. Their friendship was clearly of great moment to her. What girl would mourn the passing of a mere acquaintance, who paid for her favours now and then? She
loved
him, Anne. That’s what disturbed Frank most.’

‘Most sons would feel uneasy in such a situation.’

It was mid-evening when Nicholas Bracewell returned to the house in Bankside. Anne welcomed him home then gave him an account of her visit to Lady Slaney. He was grateful for all the information she had garnered in the course of her
visit. The details of Sir Eliard Slaney’s domestic life accorded very much with his expectations, and Nicholas had been pleased to get confirmation of the fact that Slaney had been at Smithfield to watch the last minutes of Gerard’s Quilter’s life. It strengthened the link between him and the two witnesses at the murder trial. Nicholas’s own tidings, however, could not wait. Before Anne could relate everything she had heard from the busy lips of Lady Slaney, he told her of the fortuitous arrival of Moll Comfrey. She was impressed.

‘You have vindicated Frank’s father in the space of a single day.’

‘It is not as easy as that, I fear.’

‘Moll Comfrey’s testimony will stand up in court, will it not?’

‘If we can find a judge to open the case once more.’

‘But you must, Nick. In the name of justice.’

‘Judges and justice do not always go together,’ he pointed out. ‘If they did, then Gerard Quilter would not have met such an ignominious death. Our first task was to let Moll Comfrey make a sworn statement in front of a magistrate.’

‘And did she?’

‘Willingly.’

‘What did the magistrate say?’

‘He was not sanguine, Anne,’ he confessed. ‘He did not think we could overturn the verdict in a murder trial on the strength of a deposition from an ignorant girl. That was not the way he described her to me in private,’ he recalled with irritation. ‘His language was more contemptuous.’

‘He took her for a bawdy basket as well, then?’ she said.

Nicholas grew angry. ‘It does not matter what she is or how she makes her living. Moll Comfrey only came forward because she has testimony that will absolve a man she cared for from the charge of murder. It took courage on her part. The girl can neither read nor write, Anne. The magistrate bullied her until she was utterly confused.’

‘Will she hold up under examination, Nick?’

‘I think so. Moll was confused but never browbeaten.’

‘What happens next?’

‘The magistrate promised to look into the matter,’ said Nicholas with a sigh, ‘but he warned us that it would take time before any decision was made. The law is quick enough to condemn a man to death but it moves like a snail when a miscarriage of justice has occurred.’

‘How did Frank Quilter react to all this?’

‘Sadly. He expected too much, too soon.’

‘Will you need more than Moll Comfrey’s word?’ she asked.

‘Much more, Anne. The magistrate made that clear.’

‘Not a helpful man, then, it would appear.’

‘No, said Nicholas. ‘At times, the fellow was all but obstructive.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Justice Haygarth.’

Adam Haygarth rode through the peopled streets at a steady trot. A big, fleshy, round-shouldered man in his fifties, he had grey hair and a wispy grey beard that looked as if it had been blown on to his chin by a strong wind instead of actually
growing there. Ordinarily, he moved through London with an air of condescension, looking down in disdain at the citizens he passed from his elevated position as a justice of the peace. This time, however, he put his self-importance aside in the interests of speed. All that he could think about was reaching his destination. When the crowds thinned slightly, he was able to kick his horse into a canter. It was a warm evening, still light. By the time he reached Bishopsgate, there were thick beads of sweat on his face. He dismounted, tethered his horse and hurried to the front door of the house. After licking his lips nervously, he knocked hard.

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.