The Bawdy Basket (15 page)

‘They told me I would find Nicholas Bracewell here,’ said the man.

‘He stands before you.’

‘Thank heaven, sir! My name is Lightfoot.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Nicholas, smiling at the tumbler. ‘You are Moll Comfrey’s friend. I thought that might be her basket that you carry.’

‘It is all she had to leave.’

‘Leave? She has surely not quit London?’

‘London, and every other place besides, sir,’ said Lightfoot. ‘Poor Moll is dead.’

‘Dead?’ cried Nicholas in alarm.

‘She was murdered as she lay. Some villain squeezed every last breath out of her. And the worst of it is,’ he went on, tears forming in his eyes, ‘we were sitting no more than five yards away.’

‘We?’

‘Ned Pellow, the pieman, and his wife. All three of us were outside the booth, talking happily until well after midnight. When we took to our beds, Ned looked in on Moll and saw her sleeping soundly, as he thought. She was very tired last night and laid her head down early.’ Lightfoot brushed a tear from his cheek. ‘It was only when they tried to wake her this morning that they learnt she had been killed.’

‘How could they be sure it was a case of murder?’

‘By the marks upon her, sir. Moll had bruises on her neck, her arms and her shoulders, as if she had been held down while some fiend smothered her. The blanket that did the foul deed lay beside her. It did not belong to Ned Pellow.’ He bit his lip to hold back his anguish. ‘If only she had cried out. We could have gone to her aid.’

Nicholas was shocked by the news, not merely because the witness who might have cleared Gerard Quilter’s name had been summarily removed. He had liked Moll Comfrey. His acquaintance with her had been fleeting but he had seen enough to note her honesty, her courage and her uncomplaining acceptance of her lot. She was a remarkable young woman and far too healthy to have died a natural death. It was horrifying to think that her life could be snuffed out so easily like a candle. He was bound to wonder if her murder was linked to the evidence she had been brave enough to give.

‘What action has been taken, Lightfoot?’ he asked.

‘Constables were summoned,’ replied the tumbler. ‘They took statements from us all then had the body removed to the mortuary. I could not bear to look on her as the cart took Moll away. She was such a dear friend to me, sir.’

‘Yes, I know. Moll told us how much you had helped her.’

‘I’ve never met anyone who asked for so little out of life.’

‘Have you taken these sad tidings to Master Quilter?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Why not? You know where he lodges. This affects him more than me.’

‘That is why I went first to his house,’ explained Lightfoot, ‘but he was not there and his landlady had no idea of his whereabouts. Then I remembered what Moll had said about Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Oh?’

‘She felt that you trusted her, sir. You spoke up for her before the magistrate. What really touched her was that you offered to find her a room where she might stay.’

‘I would gladly have done so.’

Lightfoot held up the basket. ‘That’s why I brought it to you, sir.’

‘I’ve no need for a basket.’

‘It’s what is inside that you should see.’ Putting the basket on the ground, he rummaged among its contents. ‘I found it quite by accident when I looked to see if any of Moll’s wares had been stolen. It was tucked away at the bottom.’

‘What was, Lightfoot?’

‘This, sir.’

He extracted a letter and handed it over. Nicholas glanced at the name and address on the front of the missive. He was puzzled.

‘Did you not think to deliver it to the man whose name it bears?’ he asked.

Lightfoot was shamefaced. ‘If I’d been able to read it, I might have done.’

‘The letter is addressed to a lawyer, here in London.’

‘A lawyer,’ echoed the tumbler. ‘Moll had no dealings with such men. It was all she could do to scrape a bare living. Nobody in her trade could afford a lawyer. One thing is certain, sir,’ he added, ‘Moll did not write that letter herself. The open road is all the schooling we’ve had. Reading and writing are not for the likes of us.’

Nicholas was decisive. ‘I’ll see it delivered to the right hands,’ he promised, ‘and I’ll inform Master Quilter of the tragedy that has occurred. I’ll want to visit Smithfield myself to see where the crime actually happened. Will you be there, Lightfoot?’

‘Yes, sir. Look for me at Ned Pellow’s booth. I’ll not be far away.’

‘Good. We may need your help.’

‘You can have more than that,’ vowed Lightfoot, straightening his shoulders. ‘I’ll not leave the city until we’ve caught the killer. I owe it to Moll to find the rogue. Count on me for whatever you need, sir. Lightfoot is yours.’

‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Moll saw this coming. That’s the tragedy of it, sir. When we got to Smithfield, she smelt the stink of calamity in the air. Moll said the place was cursed,’ he went on, picking up the basket again. ‘Her friend had been hanged there and a witch had been burnt nearby. To my eternal shame,’ he admitted, ‘I didn’t believe her, sir. Moll was right. There
was
a curse and she has become its victim.’

Frank Quilter’s zeal was undiminished. Having spent most of the morning keeping Bevis Millburne’s house under
surveillance, he had, seeing nothing of value, transferred his attentions to the home of Cyril Paramore, the other man whose testimony had helped to send his father to the gallows. Quilter was not sure what he could expect to find out but he stayed at his post regardless. His vigil was eventually rewarded. As he watched from his vantage point in the Black Unicorn, he saw a plump, red-faced man arrive on horseback. From the description that Nicholas Bracewell had given him of the merchant, he guessed that it was Millburne. What interested him was that Paramore opened the front door himself in order to greet his friend. The younger man was far more relaxed than when Quilter had last seen him, dashing away from his home. As they went into the house, both of them were smiling broadly. Convinced that they were confederates in the plot to incriminate his father, Quilter was tempted to rush across the road to confront the men. Discretion held him back. Then he caught sight of another horseman and hurried out of the tavern in surprise.

Relieved to have tracked his friend down, Nicholas Bracewell dismounted.

‘I hoped that I might find you here, Frank,’ he said.

‘Why are you riding Lawrence Firethorn’s horse?’

‘I told him of my urgency. He loaned the animal to me to make sure that that I returned in time for the afternoon’s performance. This meeting must be brief.’

‘What has happened, Nick?’ asked Quilter. ‘I see great sadness in your face.’

‘Lightfoot came looking for me at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Moll’s friend? Did he bring news of her?’

‘The worst kind, Frank,’ said Nicholas, swallowing hard. ‘The poor girl is dead.’

Quilter was rocked. ‘Dead? This cannot be.’

‘There’s greater woe still. Moll Comfrey was murdered.’

Nicholas passed on the details that he had been given by Lightfoot, impressing on him that the tumbler was eager to join in any pursuit of the killer. Quilter was too shaken to reply at first, sensing that all hope of exonerating his father had gone. Despair gave way to remorse as he thought about the defenceless young girl who had been smothered to death. He scolded himself for being so contemptuous of her at first when all that she was doing was to try to aid his cause. It now appeared that she might have died in the name of that cause. Quilter was overcome with a sudden fury.

‘They are behind this, Nick,’ he insisted, pointing a finger at the house opposite. ‘Cyril Paramore and Bevis Millburne. They are there together even now, basking in their wickedness. Let’s drag them into the street and tear out their black hearts.’

‘No, Frank,’ said Nicholas, ‘that is not the way. Supposition is not proof.’

‘Who else would have a reason to kill Moll Comfrey?’

‘I cannot say but I’ll not rush to judgement. How could they possibly know of the girl’s existence, still less of her friendship with your father?’

‘They are guilty. I feel it in my bones.’

‘Once again, I counsel patience. I somehow doubt that
they are the culprits. But if they are indeed behind the crime, we’ll find the evidence that will unmask them. Until then, we must work unseen and not give ourselves away.’

‘They have the blood of two victims on their hands now.’

‘We need to find out why,’ Nicholas reminded him, taking the letter out from inside his buff jerkin. ‘But there’s something else before I withdraw. This was found in Moll Comfrey’s basket. Lightfoot thought to deliver it to your lodging but you were not there. That’s why he sought me out.’ He handed the letter over. ‘It is addressed to a lawyer named Henry Cleaton and may be of importance. I wanted you to see it first.’

Quilter glanced down. ‘My father’s hand. I’d know it anywhere.’

‘Is the name familiar?’

‘Very familiar, Nick. Henry Cleaton handled father’s affairs. Thank you for this,’ he said, holding up the letter. ‘I’ll see it delivered at once.’

‘I’ll want to know what transpires,’ said Nicholas, putting a foot in the stirrup. ‘Let’s meet as soon as the performance is over.’ He hauled himself into the saddle. ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of such dreadful tidings. Moll Comfrey did not deserve this.’

‘Nor did she deserve my harsh words,’ confessed Quilter. ‘I should have shown her more courtesy. I bitterly regret the way that I treated her, Nick.’

‘Then make amends by helping to avenge her death. She was a blameless girl whose only desire was to clear your father’s name of disgrace. Now, it seems, she may have paid
for her readiness to speak out. Leave off your vigil here, Frank,’ he said. ‘Master Paramore is not the leader in this business. He and Master Millburne are but accomplices. The man to watch is Sir Eliard Slaney.’

When she returned to the house near Bishopsgate that afternoon, Anne Hendrik took her most experienced hatmaker with her. Preben van Loew was a pale, dour, haggard man in his fifties with watery eyes that glistened either side of a hooked nose. He was laconic by nature but his employer had not taken him along for the benefit of his conversation. In the first instance, he provided a degree of protection for her on the journey. After crossing the Thames by boat, they had been faced with a long walk up Gracechurch Street, passing the Queen’s Head in time to hear roars of delight from the spectators who were watching
Cupid’s Folly
. Two other reasons prompted Anne to bring the exiled Dutchman with her. While she might design the new hat for Lady Slaney, it was Preben van Loew who would actually make it since he was particularly skilful at creating ostentatious headgear for the gentry. Apart from anything else, Anne felt that he should be there to receive his share of the praise for Lady Slaney’s most recent purchase. But the main reason for requesting his company was so that he might provide cover for her, a shield behind which she could hide while plying Lady Slaney with the questions she had been asked to put.

They were admitted to the house and conducted to the parlour. It was not long before Lady Slaney surged into the
room with a welcoming titter, wearing a jewelled gown in the Spanish fashion and looking as if she was about to entertain royalty rather than give orders to her milliner. When she was introduced to the Dutchman, in his sober black garb, she gave a gasp of pleasure.

‘So
you
are the genius who makes my hats!’ she cried.

‘I do as I am bidden, Lady Slaney,’ he said modestly.

Anne was more forthright. ‘Preben ever hides his light under a bushel,’ she said. ‘I am fortunate to have him in my employ. When my late husband lured him to England, he told me that Preben van Loew was the finest hatmaker in Holland.’

‘Their loss is my gain,’ said Lady Slaney.

‘Both us are always at your disposal.’

‘What have you brought to show me?’

‘Some early drawings that should accord with your wishes, Lady Slaney.’

Preben van Loew was too overawed by the sumptuous surroundings to do more than stand meekly in the background as Anne laid out the drawings on the table. Lady Slaney clucked over them like a hen whose first chick has just hatched. When she had selected the design she preferred, she suggested minor improvements to which Anne readily agreed. Privately, her companion thought that the chosen hat was even more ludicrous than the one he had just completed for her but his personal opinion was hidden behind the impassive face. Whenever called upon for approval, he simply nodded his assent. It was half an hour before Lady Slaney had finished adding her refinements to
the hat she had selected from the designs. Anne took careful note of every instruction.

‘Everyone admired the hat you brought yesterday,’ said Lady Slaney bountifully.

Anne smiled. ‘I hope that Sir Eliard shared in the admiration.’

‘He would not dare to play the apostate,’ said the other with a tinkling laugh. ‘He knows how much value I set on appearance and the right hat is such a vital element in the picture.’ She clapped her hands. ‘What a thought! I’ll have another portrait painted of me and this time, when I sit for the artist, I’ll wear my new hat. I’ll speak to my husband about it this very afternoon.’

‘Which new hat?’ asked Anne. ‘The one I delivered yesterday or the one that you have just commissioned us to make for you?’

‘Whichever flatters me the most.’

‘It is you who flatter us, Lady Slaney. We are deeply aware of the favour you bestow on us when you wear one of our hats in public. To have one seen at Court would indeed be a privilege for us.’

‘My husband will arrange that in due course.’

‘Sir Eliard seems able to arrange almost everything.’

‘It is the reason I chose him, my dear,’ said Lady Slaney with a giggle. ‘He likes to think that he proposed to me, of course, but it was I who drew him carefully on. Oh!’ she exclaimed, glancing coyly at the Dutchman and putting a hand to her mouth. ‘Do I give away female secrets in front of a man? That was indiscreet of me. And I am sure that it
was not the case when he proposed to his own wife.’