The Bawdy Basket (32 page)

‘I thought we needed to round up the others first. Their confessions rip away any hope Sir Eliard has of defence. When we caught them, we tightened the noose around his neck. That was my reasoning.’

‘No matter. We simply run him to ground.’

Elias turned to one of the officers. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘To Oxford, it seems,’ replied the man. ‘The servants told us he has a house there. Sir Eliard and his wife travel by coach. That means they’ll leave by Ludgate. We’ll go after them and try to catch them up.’

‘Wait!’ advised Nicholas. ‘First, search the house.’

‘Yes,’ said Quilter. ‘That way you may be sure the bird has flown. You do not wish to gallop off on the road to Oxford if Sir Eliard and his wife are hiding here.’

‘That is not the only reason to go inside, Frank.’ Nicholas
spoke to the officer. ‘Look in the counting house, my friend. You’ll find a body there. I can shed light on how the man came to die.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the officer.

He led his companions into the house to begin the search.

‘Why did you tell him that, Nick?’ asked Quilter. ‘It will only delay us.’

‘Come,’ urged Elias. ‘Let’s borrow horses and ride after the coach. We’ll find it long before these fellows.’

‘I’m sure that we would, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but to no advantage. I do not believe that Sir Eliard and his wife are inside it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he is too guileful to be caught like that. If he told the servants that he was heading for Oxford, that is the one place he will avoid. I’ll wager that he sent his coach through Ludgate to decoy us.’

‘He will surely need it himself,’ said Quilter.

‘I think not.’

‘How else could he and his wife travel?’

Nicholas pondered. He recalled the boasts that Anne Hendrik had endured from Lady Slaney. Her customer talked in fulsome terms about her husband’s properties. He owned a number of houses. To which of his expensive rabbit holes would Sir Eliard run?

Nicholas clocked his fingers.

‘Owen,’ he said.

‘Yes, Nick,’ replied the Welshman.

‘I must stay here to speak with the officers. A dead body
must be explained. I’ve nothing to fear if I tell the truth. You must go to the quayside.’

‘Why?’

‘Find out which ships sail this evening.’

‘Is
that
how the devil is escaping?’

‘I believe that it may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘Hurry – and wait for us there.’

Elias nodded and set off down the street at a brisk pace. Quilter was mystified.

‘Are they fleeing the country, then?’ he asked in alarm.

‘It’s possible.’

‘Then that black-hearted rogue will outrun justice.’

‘No, Frank. We’ll catch him yet, I promise you.’

‘Will we?’

‘If the company will release us both for long enough.’

‘I’ll chase Sir Eliard to the ends of the earth.’

‘We’ll not need to go quite that far,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘There is one question I must ask, however. How good a sailor are you?’

Lord Westfield was in great pain. His head was pounding, his stomach aching and his gout at its most agonising. Alone in the parlour of his London house, he sat in a chair with his foot propped up on a stool. Ordinarily, he saw himself as a leader of fashion but he was not wearing any of his ostentatious apparel today. He had chosen a long gown for comfort and had taken off the shoe from his throbbing foot. A cup of wine stood within reach on the table. His physician had forbidden him to drink any more alcohol but it was the
only thing that gave him any relief from the pain. Nothing, however, could still the turbulence in his mind. Whenever he contemplated the future, a rush of panic overtook him. It was the end. After years of unbridled extravagance, he was finally confronted with the reckoning. He could no longer borrow from one person in order to pay off another and gain a temporary respite. All his debts were in the hands of one man and they were being called in. Lord Westfield was compelled to face the truth. During his long years of overindulgence, he had been committing financial suicide.

A manservant knocked before entering the room with a tentative step.

‘You have a visitor, my lord,’ he said.

‘Send him away,’ replied the old man irritably. ‘I’ll receive nobody today.’

‘The gentleman was most insistent.’

‘I, too, am insistent. Whose house is this? His or mine?’

Another spasm of pain shot through him as he realised the truthful answer to the question. The house, like everything in it, was not his at all. It had been borrowed from a friend to whom he had promised to pay a rent that never actually appeared. The servant was still hovering. Lord Westfield glared at him.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said with a token bow. ‘I’ll send Master Firethorn away.’

Interest was sparked. ‘Master Firethorn? You say that Lawrence Firethorn is here? Why did you not tell me so, man?’

‘Is he to come or go, my lord?’

‘Send him in, but warn him of my condition.’

‘I will.’

The man gave another token bow and withdrew. Lord Westfield sat up in his chair and tried to adjust his gown. When his visitor was shown in, the old man even contrived a weary smile of welcome. Firethorn practised his most obsequious bow.

‘My lord,’ he said.

‘You find me in torment, Master Firethorn.’

‘Is there anything that I may do to relieve it?’

‘Nothing, sir. If my foot does not hurt, my stomach does. When that pain abates, my head begins to split. Mostly, however, all three afflictions plague me at once.’ He peered at his visitor. ‘I am a poor host.’

‘Not at all, my lord.’

‘And an even poorer patron. Poverty-stricken, in fact.’

‘That is what I have come to discuss,’ said Firethorn.

‘Has the company been informed?’

‘Not yet, my lord. I have only confided in certain of the sharers. Tidings like that would dampen the most ardent spirits. I spared my fellows the shock.’

‘The longer it is delayed, the worse it will be.’

‘That is one way of looking at it.’

‘It is the only way, Master Firethorn.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘No more of Westfield’s Men? That’s like saying there’s to be no more fine wine or pretty ladies. A precious adornment is about to vanish and my name will vanish with it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Do you know
why
I wanted my own theatre company?’

‘You’ve told me many times,’ said Firethorn tactfully.

‘It can bear repetition,’ said the other. ‘I wanted to bring some harmless pleasure to the capital. I wanted Westfield’s Men to be a cipher for joyous entertainment.’

‘And so it has been, my lord.’

‘Until now. All that will go. And I’ll be quite forgotten as a patron.’

‘Never,’ said Firethorn. ‘You’ll live on forever in our hearts.’

‘Hearts, alas, cannot contrive to pay bills.’

‘They can if they are stout enough.’ Firethorn beamed. ‘Let me explain, my lord. I’m no physician but I may at least be able to medicine your mind. Your plight is not as desperate as you fear.’

‘But it is,’ croaked the old man. ‘Sir Eliard Slaney demands a settlement of all my debts within a calendar month. If he gave me a decade, I could not settle them. Not without borrowing heavily from someone else.’

‘That loan is forthcoming.’

‘How? The players could never raise such a sum.’

‘It will not have to be raised. Thus it stands.’

Firethorn gave him a summary of recent events surrounding the company. When he explained why the moneylender had turned with such venom on them, he gave his patron an insight into just how corrupt and vindictive the man was. Lord Westfield was entranced. The pain in his foot gradually eased, the ache in his stomach faded away and the pounding in his head became a gentle throb. Firethorn’s news lifted his spirits completely. He smacked his palms together in appreciation.

‘Heaven forfend! This book holder of yours is a hero.’

‘Nick Bracewell sets a high value on friendship, my lord,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is why he risked his life to help Frank Quilter in his extremity. Their efforts have been richly rewarded – and you will reap some of those rewards.’

‘Is it true? Sir Eliard Slaney put to flight?’

‘Ignominiously.’

‘What of his loans?’

‘He is in no position to call them in.’

‘This grows better and better.’

‘His papers have been confiscated by order of the Lord Chief Justice and all his dealings suspended. In short, my lord,’ continued Firethorn, rubbing his hands, ‘you are released from your debts and Westfield’s Men are reprieved from their death sentence.’

‘These are wondrous tidings,’ shouted the patron, unwisely trying to stand on his tender foot. He winced at the pain then shrugged it off. ‘Sir Eliard routed and his vile confederates jailed? I could not have wished for more.’

‘Nor I, my lord.’

‘Except, of course, the capture of the rogue himself.’

‘That will soon take place.’

‘But you told me that he had sailed out of the country.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘Nick Bracewell has gone after him,’ he said.

‘What – across the
sea
?’

‘Nick is something of a sailor himself. They have hired a boat. He and Frank Quilter will not let Sir Eliard get away.’

Lady Rebecca Slaney was unrecognisable from the woman who had presided over the splendid house in Bishopsgate. Deprived of her wardrobe, separated from her collection of hats, hustled out of her home and forced to run like a fugitive, she had endured a testing voyage to France. Three lonely days on the coast had followed while they waited for a vessel to take them to their destination. The strain of it all transformed her appearance. Her attire was stained by travel, her hair dishevelled and her face lined with fatigue. No matter how much she pleaded with her husband, she was given only a partial explanation of why they had had to leave London so suddenly. When they finally secured a passage from France, she tried to question him once more. They were standing on deck as the ship scudded across a calm sea. Lady Slaney was dispirited.

‘Are we never to go back to England?’ she said with consternation.

‘It was time for us to leave, Rebecca.’

‘What of the property that we left behind?’

‘Think no more of that,’ he said. ‘It belongs to another life.’

She was desolate. ‘Have I lost
everything
?’

‘Be brave, my love. We have more than enough.’ He patted the strongbox that had never left his side. ‘This will buy us contentment for the rest of our lives.’

‘But contentment comes from our position in society and we have none. A week ago, you promised me that we would be presented at Court. Yet now we are hiding like wanted felons.’

‘That’s not true, Rebecca,’ he rejoined. ‘Wait until we get to the house. It was ever your favourite of all the properties we owned.’

‘Only because we could come and go as we pleased,’ she argued. ‘This time, it seems, we come to stay with no prospect of escape.’

‘Bear with me.’

‘How can I when you will not be honest with your wife?’

‘Look,’ said Sir Eliard, pointing. ‘There is a sight to gladden your heart.’

But it failed to arouse any gladness in his jaded companion. As a rule, Lady Slaney was thrilled when she got her first glimpse of Jersey. It was a place that always inspired her. This time, however, she barely gave it a glance. Instead of gazing with pleasure at the magnificent Elizabeth Castle that dominated the bay of Saint Helier from its high eminence, she averted her eyes. The beautiful island with its mild climate and its rich soil had lost its appeal for her. Their house was no longer one of her prized possessions. It was a place of refuge. In England, they had lived in exquisite style. On Jersey, they would be in exile.

Rocks, reefs and currents made navigation difficult around the island. It seemed an age before the helmsman steered them safely into the harbour. Further humiliation awaited Lady Slaney. When she disembarked in London, a coach would be waiting to take them home. Here, because no letter of warning had been sent ahead, there was nobody to welcome them or to drive them in comfort to their house. They had to make do with a horse and cart that rattled
noisily along and seemed intent on exploring the deepest potholes on the road. The passengers were bounced and bumped for almost a mile until they turned into the drive of their splendid residence. Sheltered by trees, the house was set at the heart of an estate of thirty acres. It was an imposing mansion with a superfluity of glass that made it dazzle in the sunlight. Sir Eliard emitted a laugh of relief and his wife rallied for the first time.

Spotting them through the window, the steward came rushing out to greet them.

‘Your rooms will soon be ready, Sir Eliard,’ he said.

The moneylender was puzzled. ‘But you were not expecting us.’

‘Not until a short while ago.’

‘You had wind of our arrival?’

‘Yes, Sir Eliard,’ said the man. ‘The visitors told us that you had landed.’

‘Visitors?’

‘They came a short while ago. That is why we had no time to harness the horses. You arrived before I could dispatch the coachman.

‘Who are these visitors?’

‘They gave no names, Sir Eliard.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Waiting for you inside.’

Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter stood at one of the windows and watched them approach. They felt sorry for Lady Slaney when they saw the look of dismay on her face but
they had no sympathy for her husband. Angered by the news that his whereabouts were known, Sir Eliard came striding towards the house with his cane in his hand. The visitors drew back from the window and returned to their seats. Above their heads were matching portraits of the owners of the house. Lady Slaney’s haughty expression was complemented by the arrogant pose of Sir Eliard. Judging by their appearance, they might have been the rulers of the island.

When he burst into the parlour, Sir Eliard had regained his imperious tone.

‘Who, in God’s name, are you, sirs?’ he demanded.