The Bawdy Basket (25 page)

‘Yes,’ said Paramore. ‘Lord Westfield is a sybarite. He adores fine things. He likes fine food, fine wine, fine clothes, fine women. Fine everything, in fact. Westfield’s Men are merely another suit of gorgeous clothing for him to wear in public. He uses them to dazzle the eye. There is one problem, however.’

‘What is that?’

‘Fine things come at fine prices,’ said Sir Eliard.

‘And that disgusting old epicurean does not have the money to pay for them,’ resumed Paramore. ‘He is in debt up to his neck. Yet the more he owes, the more he goes on spending. The fellow lives entirely on credit.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Millburne peevishly. ‘Most of the nobility are short of money. They borrow to survive. Lord Westfield’s problems are his own concern. They hardly serve our purpose.’

‘But they do, Bevis.’

‘Oh, yes,’ insisted Sir Eliard, raising his glass. ‘They most certainly do.’

Millburne was baffled. ‘How?’

‘Observe, my friend. I will give you a lesson in the art of destruction.’

When he called at the house late that afternoon, Nicholas Bracewell was surprised and pleased to see that Francis Quilter had a visitor. Owen Elias was ensconced in the one comfortable chair in the room. The Welshman got up to greet the newcomer warmly.

‘What are you doing here, Owen?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I came to offer my help,’ replied Elias. ‘When we first heard about what happened to Frank’s father, I was among those who felt that the name of Quilter might tarnish the name of the company. I am heartily ashamed of such thoughts now.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘You did, Nick. You were so convinced of the innocence of Gerard Quilter that I began to entertain doubts. Frank has been telling me just how much evidence the pair of you have gathered. It is damning,’ said Elias. ‘Let me fight alongside you under your banner. One more pair of hands can surely be put to some use.’

‘And one more pair of eyes,’ said Quilter. ‘I am very grateful, Owen.’

‘Employ me as you will.’

‘Then first know what I have learnt today at Smithfield,’ said Nicholas.

Quilter was eager for news. ‘Did you show him the hat, Nick?’

‘Yes, and Hermat thinks it may well be the one.’

‘Hermat?’ echoed Elias. ‘Is that the hermaphrodite that Frank mentioned?’

‘It is. Hermat is a curious individual,’ recalled Nicholas, ‘though it will cost you a penny to enter the booth if you wish to judge for yourself. He, or she, not only saw the murderer on the night that Moll Comfrey was killed, he, or she, may have recognised the hat. One thing more emerged from my visit.’

‘What was that?’ asked Quilter.

‘Hermat remembered a smell, Frank. When the man flitted past him that night, there was a sweet odour that he had never sniffed before. Bartholomew Fair is known for smells of a very different kind, none of them pleasing to the nostrils. This one was rather special.’

‘Why?’

‘Hermat did not expect to find it on a man.’

Elias was intrigued. ‘A woman’s perfume?’

‘It was something rather similar,’ said Nicholas. ‘When he realised what it might have been, Lightfoot ran to fetch it from Moll’s basket and Hermat agreed that that was what he had smelt.’

‘What was it, Nick?’

‘A piece of soap that gave off a powerful scent. It was like a keepsake to her. The one thing she owned that Moll would never have sold. According to Lightfoot, she always slept with it gripped tight in her hand. It sweetened the air
for her. During the struggle, the assassin must have rubbed up against it and gathered some of its odour on his clothing.’

Quilter was dubious. ‘Enough for someone to detect the aroma?’

‘Not any of us, Frank,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘especially when the encounter was so brief. But Hermat is not like any ordinary human being, as you can bear witness. Many things may be lacking or deformed in that weird body but Hermat’s senses are far keener than ours. That delicate nose picked up a scent that none of us would even have known was there.’

‘Then it is proof positive that the man he saw was indeed the killer.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Elias. ‘And he may well have been the same villain who tried to stab Nick in Turnmill Street. You should have taken me there with you,’ he chided, turning to Nicholas. ‘I know every inch of that place.’ He gave a coarse chuckle. ‘And one or two beauties in that street know every inch of Owen Elias.’

‘I’ll wager that he
was
the same man,’ decided Nicholas. ‘Since he disposed of Moll with such ease, he would surely have been hired again by Sir Eliard Slaney.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘A bawdy basket, a tumbler and a hermaphrodite. It is a peculiar chain that leads to Sir Eliard.’

‘Do not forget the blacksmith,’ said Quilter.

‘Luke Furness?’

‘He identified Justice Haygarth for us.’

‘I remember him well,’ said Nicholas. ‘And I recall those huge muscles of his. I’d sooner have the blacksmith shoe
my horse than pull out my teeth. There’ll be a lot of sore mouths in London when Luke Furness rides away.’

‘Sore ears are what we endure at the Queen’s Head,’ complained Elias with a grimace. ‘Lawrence has been yelling at us all. This threat has made Lawrence even testier than Edmund is. Lawrence will deafen the whole lot of us.’

‘We will be gravely weakened if Edmund Hoode leaves us,’ said Quilter sadly. ‘It is so unlike him to take such precipitate action. What moved him to do so?’

‘Lawrence paid a visit to Edmund’s beloved in order to use his charms on her.’

‘In vain,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was a ruinous course of action and the company is suffering as a consequence. Edmund will not even speak to him now.’

‘He should have sent
me
to woo the lady.’

‘No, Owen. Nobody should have gone. It was a cruel undertaking.’

‘Anything is worth trying, if it keeps Edmund by our side.’

‘I disagree,’ said Nicholas sternly. ‘We have no right to besiege Mistress Radley.’

Quilter heaved a sigh. ‘I know that my name has embarrassed the company in recent days,’ he said, ‘but at least I am innocent of one charge. Edmund’s departure is entirely his own decision.’

‘He must be stopped,’ asserted Elias.

Nicholas was precise. ‘Only by fair means, Owen, not by foul.’

‘You are the one person who might win him back, Nick,’
said Quilter, ‘but all of your spare time is taken up with my family troubles.’

‘Yours is the greater need, Frank. If your father’s name is not cleared of shame, you face a whole life in disgrace. It is true that I’ve neglected Edmund,’ he said with regret, ‘and I feel the pangs of guilt. It spurs me on to complete our investigation as soon as we can so that I may turn my attention to Edmund.’

Elias thumped his chest. ‘I offer my heart, my hand and my sword.’

‘All three are welcome.’

‘What is the next move?’

Nicholas pursed his lips and stroked his beard meditatively.

‘I fancy that may come from Sir Eliard Slaney,’ he said at length.

Barnaby Gill was not pleased to be called to the Queen’s Head that evening. He had intended to seek pleasures in a tavern that was more to his taste but the summons had an urgency that could not be ignored. Dressed in his finery, he arrived to find Lawrence Firethorn, brooding alone at a table in the corner. Gill sauntered across to him.

‘All that I can give you is five minutes,’ he declared loftily.

‘You’ll stay five hours when you hear what I have to say, Barnaby.’

‘I have business elsewhere.’

‘Let the boy drop his breeches for someone else tonight.’

‘That is a disgusting remark!’

‘Mend your ways,’ said Firethorn, ‘and I’ll not be able to make it.’ He grabbed Gill by the wrist before the latter could flounce off. ‘Sit down, Barnaby. This is no time for us to fall out. With all your faults, you love Westfield’s Men as much as any of us and will do anything to secure its future. That is why I called you here.’

‘What has happened, Lawrence?’

‘Something so dreadful that I can scarce name it.’

Gill let out a gasp. ‘Edmund is dead?’

‘No,’ growled Firethorn, ‘he is very much alive, worshipping at the altar of Mistress Avice Radley. Our one hope is that this will bring him to his senses.’

‘What will?’

‘I sent a message to his lodging. If Edmund has one ounce of loyalty to the company that made him famous, he will surely come. Nick, too, should be here.’

‘You have summoned Nicholas as well?’

‘George Dart went off to fetch them both as fast as his legs could carry him. We need their counsel. You, Edmund and I can determine the policy of Westfield’s Men but we are now menaced by something that only Nick Bracewell can help us to beat off.’

‘And what is that, Lawrence?’

Firethorn handed him a letter. ‘Prepare yourself, Barnaby. Before you read it, pray to God that it is all a foolish mistake.’

‘Why?’ He glanced at the missive. ‘Lord Westfield’s hand.’

‘It was delivered to my house earlier.’

‘Can its contents really be so abhorrent?’

‘I’ll let you decide that.’

Gill opened the letter to read it. Almost immediately, his face went white and his eyes bulged in disbelief. He began to froth at the mouth. With a cry of despair, he dropped the letter as if it were red hot. Before he could make any comment to Firethorn, a shadow fell across the table. They looked up to see Nicholas Bracewell. Standing behind him, sweating from his exertions, was George Dart. Firethorn jumped up gratefully to enfold Nicholas in his arms.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he exclaimed. ‘You were never more welcome.’

‘George said that I had to come as quickly as possible.’

‘You and Edmund, both.’ Firethorn glared at Dart. ‘Well, where is he?’

‘Master Hoode declined your invitation, I fear,’ said Dart.

Firethorn was aghast. ‘What did you say?’

‘He refused to come, Master Firethorn.’

‘Did you tell him how important this meeting was?’

‘Repeatedly, sir.’

‘I ordered you to bring him here, George.’

‘He would not budge.’

‘You failed me,’ said Firethorn, raising a hand to strike.

‘Do not blame the messenger,’ said Nicholas, intervening to save Dart from a blow. ‘George went first to Edmund’s lodging but was given short shrift. You or I or Master Gill
might have met with the same response. It is not George’s fault.’

Reining in his anger, Firethorn sat down again and dismissed the cowering Dart with a wave of his hand. The assistant stagekeeper shot Nicholas a look of gratitude before scampering away. Firethorn and Gill said nothing but their expressions were eloquent. Nicholas sat down and looked from one to the other.

‘What ails you both?’ he asked.

‘The death of a beautiful dream,’ said Firethorn sadly.

‘Worse than that, Lawrence,’ said Gill. ‘It is the end of my rule upon the stage.’

‘Thus it stands, Nick. Or, rather, thus it falls.’ He indicated the letter and Nicholas took it up. ‘Lord Westfield has received notice that a certain moneylender is to pay off all his debts so that he is our patron’s sole creditor. The miscreant is not named in the letter, as you see, but he gives Lord Westfield a bare month to settle the debt or he’ll drive him to bankruptcy.’

‘There is no way that Lord Westfield can meet this demand,’ wailed Gill. ‘He owes thousands of pounds. His property and all his assets will be seized forthwith. It is only a matter of time before Westfield’s Men cease to exist.’

‘Now do you see why I sent for you?’ asked Firethorn.

Gill was morose. ‘Not that Nicholas can do much for us. He has no fortune to bail out our wayward patron. Nor have we, alas.’

‘What I can do is to provide the missing name,’ said
Nicholas, returning the letter to Firethorn. ‘I know who the man is and what prompted this vicious action.’

‘We are facing oblivion!’

‘Be silent, Barnaby,’ scolded Firethorn. ‘Listen to Nick.’

Nicholas took a deep breath before delivering the bad news. ‘The moneylender in question is Sir Eliard Slaney,’ he said.

Firethorn erupted. ‘Hell and damnation!’

‘Who is the fellow?’ asked Gill.

‘The biggest blood-sucker in London.’

‘How can Nicholas be so sure that he is the man?’

‘It can be none other,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Sir Eliard Slaney is the person whom Frank Quilter and I have been stalking these past few days. We believe that he was responsible for the false accusations that led to the execution of Frank’s father.’

‘In other words,’ said Firethorn, rounding on him, ‘you and Frank have so annoyed Sir Eliard that he is venting his fury on the company.’

‘It is further proof of guilt,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Do you not see that?’

‘All I see,’ sneered Gill, ‘is a deadly poison by the name of Quilter. We should have expelled Frank the moment that we realised that his father was a killer.’

‘Gerard Quilter was innocent.’

‘He is guilty of killing Westfield’s Men, I know that.’

‘Barnaby is right,’ said Firethorn. ‘Frank has brought this down on us. I should have revoked his contract when I had the chance. I rue the day that you talked me into
giving him leave of absence, Nick. We shall
all
have leave of absence now,’ he added, pounding the table with a fist. ‘Westfield’s Men will vanish into thin air.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Nicholas.

‘Even you cannot get us out of this quicksand.’

‘Hear my advice.’

‘We’ve heard it once too often,’ said Gill spitefully.

‘Sir Eliard Slaney has shown his hand.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn, ‘before he crushes us to death with it. We are to lose Edmund within a week, then crumble into dust at the end of a month. I was a fool to listen to you, Nick.’ He picked up the letter. ‘When I saw the mention of a grasping moneylender, I should have guessed that it was none other than Sir Eliard. You had warned me that he was your quarry.’

Gill was indignant. ‘You
knew
about this man, Lawrence?’

‘Only what Nick had told me.’

‘Why did you not warn us about him?’

‘I did not see any need for caution. Nick and Frank were sniffing at his heels. That is all I was given to understand. It never crossed my mind that they would put us in jeopardy by their pursuit of this moneylender.’