The Bawdy Basket (7 page)

‘Then we are two of a kind,’ he said with a disarming smile, ‘for your letters entranced me. I have never met anyone who could conjure up such sweet phrases and delightful conceits.’

‘It is good to hear that we have something in common already.’

‘And much else besides, I venture to hope.’

‘I share that wish, Master Hoode.’

‘Be so bold as to call me “Edmund”, for I feel that we have stepped over the barrier that separates acquaintance from friendship.’

‘Very well, Edmund. That contents me.’

He waited for a similar concession on her side but it did not come. Avice Radley was too conventional to allow ready access to her Christian name so early in a friendship. He admired her for that. It was a right that he would have to earn. Hoode sat there and luxuriated in her presence. The opulence of the house and the quality of her apparel suggested a considerable degree of wealth. Her voice was an indication of her character. Soft and melodious, it spoke of intelligence, tolerance and decency. Avice Radley was obviously not one of the many rich, widowed, promiscuous
women who haunted the playhouses regularly in search of random lovers. She was highly selective and her choice had fallen on him. Her poise faltered for a second.

‘I am in uncharted territory, Edmund,’ she confessed.

‘How so?’

‘I have never done anything like this before.’

‘I suspected as much.’

‘Was my invitation too impulsive and unseemly?’

‘Far from it, Mistress Radley,’ he said, raising a palm. ‘I too am somewhat adrift here. This is a situation in which I do not find myself every day.’

‘Merely once a week, then?’ she teased.

He became impassioned. ‘No, dear lady. Someone like you will only come along once in a lifetime!’ He checked himself and offered an apologetic smile. ‘Forgive me. I am a trifle overwhelmed at my good fortune.’

‘But you hardly know me, Edmund.’

‘I know enough to see that you are an answer to a prayer.’

She was touched by his rejoinder. It restored her aplomb. She studied him for a long time, remembering the pleasure he had given her in various ways on the stage at the Queen’s Head. What surprised her most was his remarkable modesty. He had none of the vanity and ostentation that went hand-in-glove with his chosen profession. Edmund Hoode was a man entirely without airs and graces.

‘You carry your talent so lightly, Edmund.’

‘It is not a heavy burden.’

‘Burden?’ she repeated. ‘Do you see it as a load that you must bear?’

‘Sometimes, Mistress Radley.’

‘Yet you said earlier that you live for your work.’

‘Only because I have to honour my contract.’

‘Do you not
enjoy
writing plays?’

‘It is too vexing a business to permit enjoyment,’ he said. ‘Sweat and suffering are my constant companions when I sit at my table. Scenes have to be beaten out of my brain like horseshoes upon an anvil. Uncertainty ever sits on my shoulder. The only play I have worked on with any semblance of pleasure is the latest one.’

‘And what is that called?’

He needed a moment to remember the title. ‘
The Duke of Verona.’

‘Does it bring you a sense of fulfilment?’ she asked.

‘I thought it did, Mistress Radley. Now I have my doubts.’

‘What of your work as a player?’

‘That is always secondary. There is a certain satisfaction in the applause that we receive but I am conscious that the spectators are rarely acclaiming me. I can never rival the magnificence of a Lawrence Firethorn, or the inspired clowning of Barnaby Gill, or even the skills of lesser mortal like Owen Elias.’

‘You outshone all three of them in
Mirth and Madness.’

‘That was due to their weakness on the day rather than to any superior strength on my part. Besides,’ he acknowledged, ‘I did not eclipse Barnaby. He was in fine form this afternoon and reminded the audience that we were playing a comedy.’

‘I saw nobody onstage but you, Edmund.’

‘Then I am glad I was worthy of your indulgence.’

She looked at him quizzically. ‘Writing plays can be onerous, then?’

‘Onerous and unrewarding.’

‘And you do not take yourself too seriously as an actor?’

‘It would be dishonest to do so.’

‘Wherein, then, does the pleasure lie?’

‘In the fellowship of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Is it enough to make you forget the pain of composition?’

‘Most of the time, Mistress Radley.’

‘And on other occasions?’ she pressed.

‘I am close to despair,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘When a play of mine does not work onstage, or when a performance I give carries no conviction, I wonder what I am doing in the company. I feel as if I am a species of trickster.’

‘That is not what I see, Edmund. You are the soul of honesty.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Are you not happy with Westfield’s Men?’

‘Life in the theatre is never without its torments.’

‘Does that mean that you would consider renouncing it?’

He shrugged. ‘How, then, would I feed and clothe myself?’

‘By doing what you
really
want to do,’ she urged. ‘By responding to the impulses within your breast. Tell me, Edmund. If you could choose to spend the rest of your life doing one thing, what would it be?’

‘That is an easy question.’

‘Tell me your answer.’

‘I would write sonnets.’

‘Sonnets?’

‘In praise of you, Mistress Radley.’

She was deeply moved. Bringing a hand to her mouth, she looked at him with even more intensity. Hoode thought he saw the hint of a tear in her eye. At a stroke, their relationship became markedly closer.

‘I think it is time that you called me “Avice”,’ she said.

Nicholas Bracewell did not waste any time. When he left Shoreditch, he walked swiftly back to the city and called on Francis Quilter at his lodging in Silver Street. The latter was relieved to hear that he had been granted temporary leave of absence from the company while he pursued his investigation. Though he still had obligations of his own to Westfield’s Men, Nicholas pledged his help. They began their enquiries at once. It was the testimony of two witnesses that had brought about Gerard Quilter’s downfall. His son had managed to find the address of one of the men, a merchant name Bevis Millburne. On their way to the house, Nicholas asked for more detail about the case.

‘Why did your father hate this Vincent Webbe so?’ he asked.

‘Because the rogue betrayed him.’

‘In what way?’

‘They were partners at one time, Nick,’ explained Quilter, ‘and my father grew to like and trust Master Webbe. The
trust was badly misplaced. He discovered that his partner was guilty of embezzlement. Vincent Webbe denied it hotly, but there could be no doubt of his villainy.’

‘Was his crime prosecuted?’

‘Alas, no. My father was too soft-hearted to pursue the business. Out of kindness to the man’s wife and family, he drew back from that step. I think it was a mistake to let the malefactor escape scot-free. He should have been sent to prison for what he did.’

‘Vincent Webbe should have been grateful to your father.’

‘Any other man would have been,’ agreed Quilter, ‘but he never forgave my father for finding him out. The dissolution of their partnership left him in severe straits. While my father prospered, Master Webbe’s fortunes declined rapidly.’

‘He had only himself to blame for that, Frank.’

‘That was not how he viewed it. He preferred to blame my father.’

‘The enmity was clearly very strong between the two.’

‘And it seemed to grow with time,’ said Quilter. ‘It was one of the reasons that my father retired early. While he stayed in London, there was always the fear of a chance meeting with his partner. I was there on one occasion when their paths did cross. It was not a pleasant event, Nick.’

‘What happened?’

‘Master Webbe had taken drink. No sooner did he set eyes on my father than he began to rant and roar, accusing him of ruining his life and throwing his family
into destitution. My father was a mild man but even he was provoked. Had I not pulled him away, I fear that he might have exchanged blows with the man.’

‘But the provocation was all on Master Webbe’s side?’

‘His language was revolting, Nick.’

‘Was he armed?’

‘Only with a vicious tongue.’

‘What of your father?’

‘He never walks abroad with a weapon.’

‘How long did this feud between them last?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Three years or more.’

‘And your father took care to avoid his erstwhile partner?’

‘Every possible care.’

They turned a corner and lengthened their stride. It took them some time to reach Cornhill but they had so much to discuss on the way that it seemed like only a matter of seconds before they reached the abode of Bevis Millburne. The house had an impressive façade. Its owner was clearly a man of wealth. When they knocked on the front door, it was opened by a servant in neat attire. He told them that his master was not at home. They offered to return later but he assured them that it might be several hours before his master came back as he was at supper with friends. Nicholas managed to wheedle out of him the name of the tavern where Millburne had gone. Leaving the grand house, the friends turned their steps towards the Golden Fleece, a place frequented by the gentry and known for its excellent
food and high prices. As it came into sight, Nicholas turned to his companion.

‘Wait outside for me, Frank,’ he suggested.

‘Why?’

‘Because your face might be recognised in there. Your father was seen at his worst today but the family resemblance was still unmistakable. I would not have you go in there to stir up abuse and ridicule.’

‘I’ll endure anything on my father’s behalf.’

‘Then do so by adding discretion to your boldness,’ advised Nicholas. ‘Why should a man like Bevis Millburne desert his house and family to sup with friends on this particular today? Could it be that he is celebrating the gruesome event that we witnessed at Smithfield?’ As Quilter started, he put a hand on his arm. ‘You are rightly aroused but you’ll achieve nothing with anger. Let me go in alone to sound the man out. He’ll not suspect me of having any link with your family.’

‘Lure him out so that I may question him as well.’

‘No, Frank.’

‘I’ll beat the truth out of the knave!’

‘Threats accomplish far less than subtler interrogation.’

With great reluctance, Quilter accepted his friend’s counsel. Nicholas stationed him on the other side of the street before crossing to enter the Golden Fleece. It was a large, low, well-appointed establishment, filled with a mixed aroma of ale, tobacco, roasted meat, fresh herbs and delicate perfume. The atmosphere was boisterous. Gallants and their ladies supped at the various tables. Larger parties
were catered for in private rooms. Nicholas bought a tankard of ale and fell into conversation with the landlord, an amiable man of middle years with a florid complexion.

‘You’re a stranger to the Golden Fleece, I think, sir,’ he remarked.

‘I did dine here once before,’ claimed Nicholas, ‘on the recommendation of a friend. He spoke highly of your venison and he was not deceiving me.’

‘I am glad that we did not disappoint you.’

‘I had hoped to see him here this evening. He was headed this way.’

‘What is his name, sir?’

‘Millburne, my friend. Master Bevis Millburne.’

‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ said the landlord jovially. ‘He sups with companions in the next room. Sir Eliard Slaney among them. They are in high spirits today. Shall I tell him that you are here?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I prefer to surprise him.’

The landlord soon moved off to serve other customers. Sidling across to the adjoining room, Nicholas peeped in. Guests occupied the four tables, eating their food, downing their wine and indulging in loud banter. Unable to pick his man out, Nicholas lurked and listened to scraps of conversation from the various tables. Eventually, he heard the name of Bevis mentioned in the far corner. It belonged to a sleek, portly man in his forties with a large wart on his left cheek that vibrated visibly whenever he laughed. Millburne had three companions. Two were somewhat younger and, judging by their deferential manner, might
be employed by Millburne. The fourth man was older and had an air of distinction about him. Nicholas decided that it must be the aforementioned Sir Eliard Slaney, a wiry individual with watchful eyes set into a face the colour of parchment. Wearing immaculate apparel, he had a whole array of expensive rings on both hands.

Nicholas summoned one of the servingmen, asked him to deliver a message, then slipped him a coin. He withdrew to the next room and waited. Bevis Millburne eventually waddled out, eyes blinking with curiosity. Nicholas closed on him.

‘Master Millburne?’ he enquired.

‘Are you the fellow who asked to speak with me?’

‘I am, sir, merely to congratulate you.’

‘On what?’

‘Your performance in court, Master Millburne. I was there when that villain, Gerard Quilter, was tried. Your evidence helped to send the fiend to his death.’

‘I did what any honest man would have done,’ boasted the other.

‘You and Master Paramore, both,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, Cyril did his part in court. But what’s your interest, sir?’

‘I was at the execution today and saw the condemned man hanged for his crime. Though, I must admit, I was surprised to go to Smithfield for such a pleasure when the gallows stand at Tyburn. Why not there?’

Millburne chuckled. ‘Being hanged beside a witch inflicted greater shame on the fellow. It could not have been
arranged better. I thought it a most satisfying affair.’

‘You were at Smithfield yourself, then?’

‘I would not have missed the spectacle for the world.’

‘Is that what you are celebrating now?’

‘What is it to you?’ asked Millburne, growing suspicious. ‘Who are you and why do you drag me away from my friends?’

Nicholas held up both hands in a calming gesture. ‘I simply wished to thank you, Master Millburne,’ he said with a bland smile. ‘You helped justice to take its course. But I am sorry to have taken you away from your celebration. I’ll let you get back to Master Paramore and the others.’