The Bawdy Basket (22 page)

‘Vividly,’ said Margery with a nostalgic grin. ‘I watched a performance of
Pompey the Great
and he was every inch the hero in the title. When he stepped out onstage, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I feared that I would never stop trembling. And the beauty of it is,’ she confided,
‘there are still times when Lawrence has the same effect on me. I married a titan of the stage.’

‘So will I,’ said Avice. ‘You found love at first sight and I did likewise.’

‘Yes, but I did not try to tear my husband away from his work.’

‘There’s no tearing with Edmund. He comes of his own free will.’

‘Leaving the company he serves in ruin.’

‘Come now,’ said Avice, clicking her tongue. ‘Do not be so disloyal to your husband. No troupe that is led by Lawrence Firethorn will ever be in ruins. He can bring the meanest play to life. And he has such able men around him, attracted by his brilliance. The loss of Edmund will soon be repaired.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that. But it is not only Edmund’s departure that is so disturbing,’ said Margery. ‘It is the nature of that departure. Lawrence tells me that he means to cut himself off from Westfield’s Men within a week.’

‘That is so.’

‘How can he be so callous?’

‘Edmund’s intention had been to remain until the end of September.’

‘What changed his mind, Mistress Radley?’

There was a pause. ‘I can see that your husband has omitted certain facts.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Margery as she began to understand. ‘So
that
is what happened, was it? In the interests of his company, Lawrence attempted to work on your emotions
himself. Do not expect me to be shocked,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘It is no more than he does every time he struts upon a stage. That, after all, is how he ambushed me and I am sure that there were other young ladies in the audience who were equally entranced. I was fortunate to be chosen.’

‘So am I, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘Yet, by your own account, you did the choosing.’

‘Not entirely.’

‘Your wrote to Edmund. But for that, he would have been quite unaware of your existence. Let us be honest here, shall we? You were the huntress.’

‘We were drawn ineluctably together.’

‘
After
he had read the contents of your letter.’

‘I had to declare myself by some means,’ said the other defensively. ‘Had I not reached out for Edmund, I would have remained a face in the crowd to him. Instead, he has turned my grief into ecstasy.’ He voice softened to a whisper. ‘Tell me, Mistress Firethorn. Have you ever mourned the death of someone close to you?’

‘Many times,’ replied Margery. ‘I lost both parents, a brother and two sisters. My first child was stillborn. I, too, have been acquainted with grief.’

‘Then you will know the feeling of despair that grips you. When my husband died, he left me with nothing but dear memories. There were no children to help me bear the agony of his passing, no brothers or sisters on either side of the family to share my misery. I became a recluse,’ she confessed. ‘And I might still be locked away if a friend had not insisted that I visit the Queen’s Head with her. No
spectator ever went less willingly to a play, yet I left that inn yard in high spirits. That was the effect that Edmund Hoode’s play had on me. It brought me back to life.’

‘A play is only as good as the actors who perform it,’ said Margery, quoting one of her husband’s favourite maxims. ‘What brought you back to life was the work of a whole company, not simply the genius of the author. You should be sufficiently grateful to Westfield’s Men to let them keep their playwright.’

‘Edmund no longer wishes to stay.’

‘Thanks to your influence.’

‘Not at all. Were he so wedded to the notion, I’d live with him in London and let him stay at the Queen’s Head. But he is adamant,’ said Avice with an invincible smile. ‘Edmund Hoode is determined to break off all ties with Westfield’s Men. No power on earth can stop him.’

Bartholomew Fair was at its height. The people of London and those from much further afield came to buy, sell, haggle, steal, eat, drink, fight, frolic, be entertained and generally enjoy the holiday atmosphere. The clamour was ear-splitting, the colours dazzling and the compound of smells so powerful that they reached out well beyond Smithfield. Peddlers and stall holders vied for the attention of the seething masses. Those enticed into various booths could see a cow with six legs, a dwarf with three eyes, a giant horse that seemed to talk and sundry other freaks of nature. A performing bear drew gasps of wonder from the onlookers. Drunken men sought the company of prostitutes,
drunken women fell to brawling. Among the most popular characters at the fair were Luke Furness, the blacksmith, who took time off from shoeing horses to draw teeth with amazing dexterity; Ursula the Pig Woman, a vast, ugly, foul-tongued creature with a face that bore an amazing resemblance to that of the pig being roasted outside her booth; and Ned Pellow, the pieman, massive, bearded and obliging, renowned for the quality of his food and for the affability of his manner.

Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter had to wait in the queue until they had a chance to speak to him. While the beaming Pellow was selling his pies, his hairy wife was bringing out fresh supplies from inside the booth. They gave off a tempting odour.

‘Good day, my friends,’ said Pellow, recognising them. ‘Can I offer you some of my pies to take away your hunger?’

‘Another time, Ned,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are looking for Lightfoot.’

‘Then you must head for the ring. That is where he performs.’

‘The ring?’

‘Follow the noise, sirs. It will lead you there.’

They took his advice. Above the tumult was an occasional burst of cheering and applause. Nicholas and Quilter pushed their way through the crowd until they reached an open area between the stalls. A series of stakes had been driven into the ground in a rough circle so that a rope could be tied to them. The large crowd that pressed against the rope yelled and laughed as Puppy the Wrestler, a mountain
of flesh with a bare chest, lifted his latest challenger high in the air before dashing him to the ground. While anxious friends tried to revive the fallen man, Puppy walked around the ring with an arrogant strut, hands held high in triumph, waiting for the next foolish hero to step over the rope and try his strength. Lightfoot did not hesitate. The brief time between wrestling bouts was his opportunity to earn money. He cartwheeled around the ring with such speed that he provoked spontaneous clapping. Concluding with a dozen somersaults, he landed on his feet, doffed his cap to take in the applause then used it to collect money from his audience. When he drew level with them, Nicholas dropped a coin into the hat then indicated that he wished to speak to the tumbler. As soon as Puppy was grappling with his next victim, Lightfoot slipped out of the ring and took the newcomers aside.

‘I hoped that you would come,’ he said.

‘Do you have any news for us, Lightfoot?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I believe so, sir.’

Quilter was eager. ‘Well? What have you discovered?’

‘I spoke to Hermat.’

‘And what did he tell you?’

Lightfoot laughed. ‘
He
told me nothing, sir. Or rather, only half of what I heard came directly from him.’

‘Stop talking in riddles,’ complained Quilter.

‘Lightfoot does not mean to confuse you, Frank,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘though I daresay that you would be confused if you met Hermat for he and she are a study in
confusion.’ Quilter looked bewildered. ‘You obviously did not read the sign as we passed it. Hermat is half-man and half-woman. A veritable hermaphrodite.’

‘That is so,’ said Lightfoot. ‘You can view him in his booth for a penny.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘If you offer him more, he will show you something in private that will amaze your eyes and make you marvel at the mystery of creation.’

Quilter was impatient. ‘Another mystery has brought us here.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘My father was executed less than fifty yards from where we stand.’

‘Moll met her death even closer to us than that,’ said Lightfoot solemnly. ‘I am sorry to jest. It is not really a cause for laughter. Thus it stands,’ he said, pausing as another roar went up from Puppy’s admirers. ‘Two nights ago, when it was dark enough to venture out, Hermat decided to take a walk. Night is his friend. It is the only time when nobody stares at him.’

‘Go on,’ said Nicholas.

‘He swears that he saw a figure lurking outside Ned Pellow’s booth. A tall, thin man, who scurried away when Hermat approached.’

‘What time would this be, Lightfoot?’

‘Around midnight,’ replied the tumbler. ‘Hermat thought no more of it. A fair such as this is always haunted by strangers. The man could easily have been a scavenger, looking for scraps from the pieman. Hermat would probably have forgotten all about it.’

‘What jogged his memory?’

‘He saw the fellow again, sir, later on.’

‘In the same place?’

‘No, some way distant,’ said Lightfoot. ‘He was hurrying off with his head down as if leaving Smithfield altogether. Whether he sees like a man or like a woman, I do not know, but Hermat has sharp eyes. Even in the gloom, he knew that it was the same man. There was only one difference.

‘What was that?’ asked Nicholas.

‘He was no longer carrying anything. When Hermat first spied him, he says that the man was holding something close to his chest.’ Lightfoot demonstrated with his hands. ‘Something big enough to be noticed. Yet it was gone when they next met.’

‘A blanket!’

‘That was my thinking,’ said Lightfoot. ‘The murder weapon.’

Cyril Paramore was so distressed by the news that his lower lip began to twitch violently.

‘These are fearful tidings for all of us, Sir Eliard,’ he said.

‘That is why we must work together.’

‘How did they know that you were implicated?’

‘They picked up my scent,’ said Sir Eliard rancorously, ‘and they must be shaken off. I thought at first that Adam Haygarth might unwittingly have provided them with a clue but he denies it hotly.’

‘He is in this as deep as any of us.’

‘I reminded him of that, Cyril.’

‘Does Bevis know what has transpired?’

‘He galloped over here on receipt of my letter. Bevis was even more upset than you, especially when I explained what must have happened.’

‘And what was that, Sir Eliard?’

They were in the parlour at the house in Bishopsgate. Paramore was white with fear. That fear was in no way allayed when Sir Eliard told him about the celebratory supper at the Golden Fleece and the interruption by a stranger who sought to speak with Bevis Millburne. Paramore reached the same conclusion.

‘It was this fellow, Nicholas Bracewell!’

‘He saw us crowing over the execution of Gerard Quilter.’

‘Thank heaven that
I
was not at the table!’

‘Stop thinking of yourself, Cyril,’ ordered Sir Eliard. ‘If one of us is arraigned, the other three will not escape. I did not summon you hear to listen to your selfishness. I had enough vain bleating from Bevis. You are here for a purpose.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Find out all you can about Westfield’s Men.’

‘The troupe at the Queen’s Head?’

‘Francis Quilter acts with the company and Nicholas Bracewell is its book holder. See what standing they have among their fellows. Investigate the company itself.’

‘I have already done that, Sir Eliard,’ said the other. ‘I know that you abjure the playhouse but we admire the
troupe. My wife and I have been privileged to watch them perform on three or four occasions.’

Sir Eliard turned on him. ‘There’s no privilege in watching two of their number perform,’ he snarled. ‘They will get no applause from me for their antics. What I need to know is how Gerard Quilter’s son and his friend can find the time to bother us. Are they working alone or do they have assistance from their fellows? Be careful,’ he advised. ‘Move with stealth. But find out everything there is to know about Westfield’s Men.’

‘We already know the worst thing about them.’

‘Do we?’

‘They employ this cunning fellow called Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘At the moment,’ said Sir Eliard with a sly grin. ‘But his contract may soon be terminated. By tomorrow, Westfield’s Men will be looking for a new book holder.’

Nicholas Bracewell approached Turnmill Street with a caution born of experience. It was at the heart of a district that was notorious for brothels, gaming houses, violence, danger, squalor and abiding degradation. Bankside, too, had a reputation for drunkenness and debauchery but the inhabitants of Turnmill Street and its adjacent lanes, yards and alleys were even more mired in corruption, crime and licentiousness. Thieves, ruffians, pickpockets, forgers, prostitutes, gamblers, vagabonds, masterless men, discharged soldiers without pensions to sustain them, boisterous sailors and all kinds of other unseemly
individuals congregated in the area. The fact that Vincent Webbe’s widow now lived there showed how desperate her condition must be. Nicholas felt a surge of sympathy for the woman. At one time, when her husband was in partnership with Gerard Quilter, they must have lived in style at a prestigious address. Now, widowed and
poverty-stricken,
she was reduced to renting a room in one of the vilest parts of London.

Striding up the main street, Nicholas passed Jacob’s Well Court, Bowling Alley, Hercules Yard and Cock Alley, home of the infamous Cock Tavern, where vices of every description could be purchased by customers who later found that they had also bought disease in the wake of pleasure. Beggars and ragged children lurked on every corner. Drunken men lurched out of taverns to relieve themselves against the nearest wall or to spew up the contents of their stomachs on ground that was already covered with excrement and refuse. The stench was revolting, the sense of depravity was oppressive. Nicholas walked on until he reached Slaughterhouse Yard, a place that advertised its presence by the most noisome reek of all. Holding his breath, he sought out the address he had been given. He knocked on the door and waited. A woman’s head appeared through the shutters above.