The Bawdy Basket (23 page)

‘What do you want?’ she croaked.

‘I am looking for Elizabeth Webbe.’

‘Why?’

‘I was a friend of her husband, Vincent,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘I came to pay my respects to his widow. Is she within?’

‘I am Bess Webbe,’ she admitted. ‘Wait there, sir.’

She withdrew from the window and Nicholas heard her descending the stairs. When the door opened a few inches, she examined him with suspicion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes large and staring. Elizabeth Webbe was still in her forties but time had dealt harshly with her appearance. Her hair was white, her skin like parchment.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘You will not know the name because it is some years since Vincent and I met. I have recently returned to London and was horrified to learn what happened to him.’

‘Cruel murder, sir,’ she moaned. ‘Cruel murder.’

‘I am anxious to know more. A lawyer gave me your address.’ He looked up at the hovel. ‘I am sorry to find you in such a mean dwelling. You deserve better.’

‘We
had
better, sir.’

‘I know. Vincent was a prosperous man.’

‘It was Master Quilter who brought him down.’

‘Gerard Quilter?’ asked Nicholas, feigning surprise.

‘Brought him down then stabbed him to death.’

It took him a few minutes to convince her that he had come in good faith. She invited him in, embarrassed by the state of her lodging and making continual apologies as they ascended the stairs. The room in which she lived with her two daughters was small, dark and evil-smelling. It contained little beyond a few sticks of furniture and the bed in which all three of them obviously slept. She indicated a stool and he sat down.

‘My girls are both out,’ she explained. ‘They are too
young to work but they pick up what they can from kind strangers. We have such limited means, sir.’

‘Then I hope you will accept a gift from me,’ he said, putting some money into her hand out of genuine concern for her, but also in order to win her confidence. ‘Vincent would have done the same for my wife had he found her in the same distress.’

‘Thank you, Master Bracewell. You are very generous.’

‘All that I have heard is that your husband was killed. You tell me that Gerard Quilter was the murderer. That astonishes me for he was such a gentle soul.’

‘He was not gentle when he turned Vincent out!’ she protested.

‘When did that happen?’

Elizabeth Webbe was an embittered woman who told her story with her eyes flashing angrily. It was evident from the start that she had accepted her husband’s version of events without reservation. There was no mention of the embezzlement that had led to the dissolution of the partnership with Gerard Quilter. In her opinion, the latter was wholly to blame. Nor did she refer to Vincent Webbe’s drinking habits. All that she would admit was that he became truculent at times but even that she managed to excuse. Her account of the murder was substantially that which had been given in court.

‘Two witnesses saw him thrust his dagger into my husband,’ she said.

‘When was this?’

‘On the night that he went to the Mercers’ Hall.’

‘Why did he go there when he was no longer a member of the guild?’

‘It was at the suggestion of someone else, sir.’

‘Who?’ pressed Nicholas.

‘He was a man who loaned Vincent some money.’

‘Sir Eliard Slaney, perhaps?’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, searching her memory, ‘that could be the name. Vincent could not repay him so he was advised to ask his old partner for funds. Master Quilter was ever a soft-hearted man and Vincent felt that he was owed money for the sake of past favours. But he was spurned, sir,’ she cried. ‘Master Quilter not only cursed him, he set about Vincent with his cane.’

‘There was a brawl, then?’

‘Several people saw it.’

‘And your husband was stabbed in the course of the fight?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It must have been later. Master Quilter was too cunning to do it with so many people nearby. He bided his time and killed Vincent in a yard behind the Mercers’ Hall. Two men chanced to pass,’ she continued, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘They thought they had merely seen an affray. It was only when the body was discovered the next day that they knew they had witnessed a murder.’

‘When did you first learn of the crime?’ asked Nicholas.

‘The day after Vincent left for the Mercers’ Hall.’

‘Were you not worried when he failed to return for the night?’

She shook her head. ‘It was not unusual for him to be
away for a couple of days at a time,’ she confessed. ‘We sometimes did not see him for a week. Vincent was always looking for ways to get established again. He had to search for opportunities.’

‘What happened when you learnt of his death?’

‘I was distraught, sir. So were our daughters. We cried and cried.’

‘And you are certain that Gerard Quilter was the culprit?’

‘Who else could it have been?’ she said sharply. ‘The crime was witnessed by two honest, upright men. Master Quilter admitted there had been a brawl with my husband. What he did not admit was that he later took his revenge.’ She let out a hoarse cackle. ‘But we had our own revenge on him this week,’ she sneered. ‘All three of us went to Smithfield to watch him being hanged for his crime.’

Nicholas glanced around. ‘Were you living here at the time of the murder?’

‘No, sir. We had our own house then, but it was taken away when Vincent died. I was turned out with my daughters and we had to fend for ourselves.’

‘Who could have been so cruel as to do that?’

‘The moneylender, Sir Eliard Slaney.’

‘Did you ever meet the man?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I saw his bailiffs. They threw us out without mercy. I had no idea that Vincent had borrowed so much money. It was a grievous shock.’

‘Yet you had heard Sir Eliard’s name before?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘How did your husband speak it?’

‘As if it were a foul disease,’ she said. ‘Vincent wished that he had never met the fellow. He feared that Sir Eliard would be the ruin of him. He was so angered by the demands for money that he went to Sir Eliard’s house and caused a commotion. My husband had a temper when he was roused.’

‘Could no lawyer save your house from being possessed?’

‘Lawyers cost money, sir, and we were left penniless.’

Nicholas felt sorry for the woman but he was glad that he had made the effort to see her. She would never have divulged the same information to Francis Quilter. Nicholas believed that she might have given him the explanation that he needed. Thanking her for what she had told him, Nicholas took his leave and stepped out into the yard in time to see some frightened sheep being herded into the slaughterhouse. The scene was emblematic of the whole area. Turnmill Street was a slaughterhouse in itself, butchering the lives, reputations and self-respect of all who came there. Elizabeth Webbe had once been the wife of a prosperous mercer with an assured place in society. She was now one more terrified animal, penned up in readiness for destruction.

Brooding on what he had heard, Nicholas headed back in the direction of Cow Cross. His instincts remained alert, however. When he walked past Fleur de Luce Yard, he caught a hint of sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Nicholas turned just in time. A tall, slim, sinewy man came out of the shadows to lunge at him with a dagger.
Nicholas caught his wrist and twisted the weapon away, using his other hand to get a grip on the man’s throat. A fierce struggle ensued. His assailant was young and strong but he had met his match in Nicholas. Instead of taking his victim by surprise, he found himself rammed so hard against a wall that all the breath was knocked out of him. The dagger fell to the floor and Nicholas kicked it away. He then snatched off the man’s hat to reveal a thin, swarthy face that was half-covered with a straggly beard.

‘Who
are
you?’ demanded Nicholas.

By way of reply, the man spat in his eyes to blind him temporarily. Bringing up a knee into his captor’s groin, he pushed Nicholas away as the latter doubled up in pain. Without pausing to pick up his dagger, the man fled. It had all happened so quickly that Nicholas was still bewildered. By the time he recovered enough to go in pursuit, the man was mounting the horse he had tethered in the adjoining lane. He kicked the animal into a canter and rode off. He would never be caught now. Nicholas walked back to retrieve the dagger and the abandoned hat. He chided himself for letting his attacker escape. One thought was uppermost in his mind. The man was free to strike again.

Francis Quilter was deeply upset by news of the attempt on his friend’s life. It was one more dreadful setback for them. When he talked to Nicholas Bracewell that evening, he was overcome with guilt.

‘You should have let me go with you, Nick,’ he said.

‘I survived.’

‘But you could just as easily have been stabbed to death.’

‘Not if I remain alert, Frank. I have been to Turnmill Street before and know its dangers well. It’s a place where you need eyes in the back of your head.’ He held up the hat and the dagger that he had collected. ‘In any case, I got the better of the encounter. My attacker had to run away, unarmed and bare-headed. I fancy that he took away a few bruises as well.’

‘My concern is solely for you, Nick. I put you in jeopardy.’

‘Not with intention.’

‘It matters not,’ said Quilter. ‘Simply by helping me you have become a marked man. Moll Comfrey has already perished in my name. Now they have turned their attention to you. Consider your own safety and let me deal with this business on my own forthwith.’

‘That is the last thing I will do.’

‘I have a family interest here. You do not.’

Nicholas was insistent. ‘The call of friendship brought me to your side and there I’ll stay. It is not only you that I help, remember. When we clear your father’s name, the company will also profit. They will regain a fine actor called Frank Quilter and their book holder’s mind will not stray from his duties.’

‘Westfield’s Men will not profit if their book holder is murdered.’

‘Then I’ll ensure that it will not happen,’ said Nicholas with a confident smile.

‘Take me with you wherever you go.’

‘It is you who may need a bodyguard, Frank. I do not expect another attack on me. My assailant has more sense than to risk his neck again. No,’ he went on, frowning with concern, ‘he may come in search of you next time. This, after all, is an investigation set in motion by you. If they kill Frank Quilter, they will hope to prevent any further enquiry into the trial and conviction of your father.’

‘I go abroad armed,’ said Quilter, indicating his sword and dagger.

‘A companion is the best defence.’

‘I might say the same to you, Nick.’

They were in Quilter’s lodging. While the actor had remained at Bartholomew Fair to confirm certain facts, Nicholas had made his way to Turnmill Street. As arranged, they met up to discuss what each had learnt. A thought occurred to Quilter.

‘Can we be certain that the man
was
hired by Sir Eliard Slaney?’ he asked.

‘I believe so.’

‘Could he not as easily have been some thief in search of your purse?’

‘He would not need to kill me in order to get that,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘A thief would be more likely to cudgel me to the ground so that he could grab what he wanted. My attacker escaped on his horse, Frank. How many thieves in Turnmill Street own more than the clothes they stand up in? No doubt can exist,’ he emphasised. ‘I was followed there by an assassin who bided his time until he saw his opportunity to strike. He may well be the same man who trailed me to Bankside last night and who had earlier kept watch on Anne’s house.’

‘Would you know him again, Nick?’

‘I could recognise that mean face in a crowd. Do not look so worried,’ he said, with a reassuring hand on his friend’s arm. ‘The attack was foiled because it was not unexpected. I take it to be an encouraging sign.’

Quilter gaped. ‘Where’s the encouragement in an attempt on your life?’

‘It shows how worried they are, Frank. We have made
more progress than we know. Sir Eliard Slaney must be fearful if he needs to order another death. His spy has put Anne and me under the same roof, so he will know that I must have asked her to find out what she could from Lady Slaney.’

‘It grieves me that I’ve put Anne’s life in danger as well.’

‘I do not think that you have,’ said Nicholas. ‘What advantage would they gain by her death? You and I are the targets here. Besides, Anne is well-protected by those who work for her. Have no fears for her safety. And sit down,’ he advised, ‘so that I might tell you what I learnt from Vincent Webbe’s widow.’

Quilter sat in the chair while Nicholas perched on the edge of the table. The actor listened attentively as his friend gave him a detailed account of the conversation in Slaughterhouse Yard. He seized on the name of Sir Eliard Slaney.

‘So it was
he
who told Vincent Webbe to approach my father that night.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Secure in the knowledge that your father would turn down his old partner’s plea for a loan. Sir Eliard could also be certain that Vincent Webbe would lose his temper and become truculent. I daresay he also took care to see that Master Webbe had been drinking heavily before he accosted your father outside the Mercers’ Hall. Hot words were followed by a brawl.’

‘My father would never have provoked it.’

‘He did not need to, Frank. Imagine the situation,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Vincent Webbe is an indigent man
who has lost his standing in the world. He sees your father about to attend a banquet at the Mercers’ Hall because he is a respected member of the guild. His old partner must have been green with envy. When your father refused to lend him money, Vincent Webbe became choleric and struck out.’

‘With many witnesses nearby.’

‘Your father defended himself as best he could then Master Webbe skulked off. From all that I’ve heard about him,’ decided Nicholas, ‘I’d say that he sought solace in the nearest tavern. The next day he was stabbed to death in an alley near Mercers’ Hall and the blame was laid on your father.’

‘You have still not explained why Vincent Webbe had to be killed.’

‘His widow did that for me,’ said Nicholas. ‘She told me that her husband borrowed a great deal of money from Sir Eliard and was hounded for repayment. He grew belligerent and offered violence to the usurer. Sir Eliard would not endure that. Since there were two men whom he had reason to hate, he devised a plan to get rid of both in the most brutal way. Your father was falsely accused of the murder of his old partner, thereby removing both of Sir Eliard’s enemies at a stroke.’

‘Now I see it, Nick,’ said Quilter. ‘He has hit two marks with one shot.’

‘Or two birds with one stone.’

‘You were so wise to make a visit to Vincent’s Webbe’s widow.’

‘She is a good woman,’ recalled Nicholas, ‘still loyal to
her husband, even though his dissipation brought about their downfall. I heard no word of reproach against him. I think that Vincent Webbe was loved far better than he deserved.’

‘So it seems.’

‘But what of you, Frank? How did you fare after my departure?’

‘Lightfoot took me to meet Hermat,’ said Quilter. ‘I wanted to hear his evidence from his own lips. Or
her
lips, as the case may be. What a strange creature Hermat was! Neither man nor woman, yet possessing the features of both. I tell you, Nick, I would not like to have been left alone with Hermat.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘Did you think your virtue would be in danger?’

‘I simply did not know where to look.’

‘What did you learn?’

‘Exactly what Lightfoot had told us,’ explained Quilter. ‘Hermat saw the man around midnight, close by the pieman’s booth. But he remembered one new detail. When he noticed the fellow later, making off, they were close by a fire that had been lighted. Hermat was able to see him more clearly, albeit for a fleeting moment.’

‘What did he remember?’

‘The hat, Nick. The man was wearing a big hat with a tall feather in it.’

Nicholas held up the hat that he had taken from his attacker.

‘Like this one?’

Turmoil was Lawrence Firethorn’s natural element. True art, in his view, could not arise of itself without effort. It grew out of strife and conflict. Only when he had argued with the playwright, bullied his actors and suffered doubts about a performance could he produce the magnificent portrayals for which he was renowned. Since crises were a necessary precursor of his work, he usually took them in his stride, knowing that they would only increase his concentration and redouble his commitment to the play in hand. But the latest emergency could not be dismissed as a positive stage in the creative process. It cast a blight over the whole future of Westfield’s Men. When he returned home to Shoreditch that evening, he was in a pessimistic vein.

‘We are done for, Margery!’ he announced. ‘Dissolution is at our shoulder.’

‘Is Edmund still resolved?’

‘Yes, my love. He quits the company within a week.’

‘Can his contract not keep him tied to Westfield’s Men?’ she asked.

‘Our lawyer has waved that at him but to no avail. Edmund snapped his fingers and dared us to sue him. Even if we win the case,’ said Firethorn disconsolately, ‘all that we will get is money that Avice Radley will cheerfully pay. The court cannot restore our playwright. He is lost forever.’

‘Can nobody persuade him to stay?’

‘We have been debating that very point at the Queen’s Head this evening. Owen Elias offered to knock some sense into Edmund’s head but violence is not the remedy.’ Tossing his hat onto the table, he slumped in a chair. ‘Nor is
Barnaby’s suggestion that we increase the fee that he earns with a new play. Money can no longer tempt Edmund. His beloved has wealth enough for both of them.’

‘I still say that Nicholas is your best interlocutor.’

Firethorn groaned. ‘He is too busy helping Frank Quilter wield the sword of justice. Besides, my love, even Nick is powerless here. When he talked to Edmund earlier, his sage counsel went unheard.
She
is the cunning viper here!’ he said with sudden anger. ‘Avice Radley has bewitched Edmund.’

‘What sort of woman is she, Lawrence?’ asked Margery artlessly.

‘The worst kind, my love. The kind that thrive on power over their victims.’

‘Did you find her attractive?’

‘No, no,’ he said, curling a lip in disgust. ‘Mistress Radley is an ugly, misshapen, ill-favoured creature. She would never appeal to me, that I can swear.’

‘What means did you use when you called at her house?’

‘Means?’

‘Yes,’ said Margery sweetly. ‘Did you persuade, threaten or cajole her?’

‘I used simple reason and nothing more.’

‘Did you not trade on your charm?’

‘It never crossed my mind to do so. I was there on behalf of the company.’

‘Then you would surely resort to anything at your disposal.’

‘No,’ he said with righteous indignation. ‘You slander
me. I used the arts of persuasion to convince her of our need to retain our playwright. I was a shrewd advocate but it was a futile visit.’

‘I wonder about the cause of that futility,’ she said. ‘When you called at her house, you had Edmund Hoode in your service for at least another month. Yet, when he accosted you later at the Queen’s Head, that month had shrunk to a week. Why?’ she pressed. ‘What made him reach such a cruel decision?’

‘Spite.’

‘That is not in Edmund’s character.’

‘Avice Radley is consumed with it.’

‘I doubt that a spiteful woman could capture his heart,’ she said. ‘I am inclined to believe that Edmund’s change of mind was prompted by something that happened when you chose to call on Mistress Radley behind his back.’

‘All that I did was to plead our case.’

‘That is not what the lady herself would say.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘According to her,’ said Margery, fixing him with her eye, ‘reason soon gave way to a more intimate form of persuasion. In my opinion, Mistress Avice Radley is not in the least degree ugly, misshapen and ill-favoured. She is a handsome woman who could attract any man.’

Firethorn gulped. ‘You have
seen
the lady?’

‘I called on her myself to see if womanly argument could make her bend.’

‘Then it was wrong of you to do so,’ he protested, rising to his feet with an attempt at anger. ‘How many times have
I told you, Margery? You must not meddle in the affairs of Westfield’s Men?’

‘Even if I am able to save them from a terrible loss?’

His face ignited. ‘Is that what you did?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Alas, no.’

‘Then you have only made the situation worse.’

‘It was your clumsy wooing that did that, Lawrence,’ she said with vehemence. ‘Did you really imagine that you could charm the lady into bed? She is in love with Edmund and he with her. That bond will not be broken because Lawrence Firethorn deigns to lift an eyebrow at her. Instead of seducing Avice Radley, you simply managed to turn a month of Edmund’s time into a bare week. I’m surprised that he granted you that in the circumstances.’

‘You misunderstand what happened, my love.’

‘I understand it only too well,’ she returned. ‘When you see a pretty face, you forget all about your wife and children and think yourself a carefree gallant. Mistress Radley’s is but the latest name that I could cite.’ She jabbed a finger at his chest. ‘You betrayed us all, Lawrence. And the worst of it is that you betrayed yourself as well.’

‘But I only did it to save the company,’ he said, conjuring up a look of injured innocence. ‘Show some faith in me, Margery. I did not go to the house to try her virtue. I was there to test the strength of her love for Edmund.’

‘It is the strength of your lust for her that worries me.’

He reached out for her. ‘My love!’

‘Stand off, sir!’ she cried, beating him away.

‘Truly, I found the lady lacking all attraction.’

‘I have
seen
her, Lawrence. Do not lie to me.’

‘What else was I to do?’

‘Send Nicholas in your stead,’ she replied. ‘He would have had the sense to get Edmund’s permission to meet Mistress Radley then everything would have been open and friendly. Nicholas would never have descended to your crude harassment of her.’

‘I was led simply by my desire to save Westfield’s Men.’

Margery was scornful. ‘You were led, as ever, by your pizzle.’

Firethorn writhed in discomfort under her searching gaze. The fact that she had also visited Avice Radley took away all possibility of being able to manipulate the truth to his advantage. Only one avenue of reconciliation remained open to him.