The Bawdy Basket

by Edward Marston

  ‘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.’

  ‘Cyril Paramore is not here.’

  ‘Not here to enjoy your day of triumph?’

  ‘His ship does not return from France until tomorrow,’ he said, staring intently at Nicholas. ‘Look, why all these questions? You have not even given me a name. What’s your purpose in coming here like this? Who are you, fellow?’

  ‘A grateful friend,’ said Nicholas, backing away.

  And before he could be detained, he slipped quickly out of the front door of the tavern. Quilter was waiting impatiently for him across the road. He came forward.

  ‘Was he there, Nick?’

  ‘As large as life.’

  ‘Did you speak with him?’

  ‘Briefly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I left before I aroused his suspicion too much.’

  ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘What I expected, Frank. He was celebrating this afternoon’s event with friends.’

  ‘Was that lying knave, Cyril Paramore, among them?’

  ‘No, we will talk to him tomorrow.’

  Quilter’s hopes rose. ‘You know where he lives?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but I am certain where he will be. And we’ll be there to meet him. My conversation with Master Millburne was short but highly instructive. I take him to be just the sort of unprincipled rogue you suspect. We may judge his accomplice tomorrow.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When he disembarks from his ship. He is returning from France.’

  ‘Is there nothing we can do meanwhile, Nick?’

  ‘Try to get a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘There’ll be no rest for me tonight,’ said Quilter. ‘My thoughts will be with my father. I doubt if I shall ever sleep soundly again until we clear his name.’

  ‘We have made a start, Frank.’

  ‘Why break off now? One of the men who sent him to the gallows is filling his belly at the Golden Fleece. He is glorying in my father’s death. I’ll not allow it. Let’s drag the villain into the street and cudgel a confession out of him.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, restraining him with an arm. ‘Once your identity is known, my own disguise is weakened. We must move privily to gather evidence, Frank. Show our hand too soon and we forewarn both Bevis Millburne and Cyril Paramore.’

  Quilter was rancorous. ‘They are the ones who deserve to be hanged.’

  ‘Then let’s find the rope that will do the office. But we must be cunning in our search. Master Millburne is a person of standing. He has important friends. One of them sups with him this evening.’

  ‘What’s the fellow’s name?’

  ‘Sir Eliard Slaney.’ Quilter snorted with contempt. ‘You know the man, I see.’

  ‘Only through my father’s eyes, Nick.’

  ‘And what did they see?’

  ‘One of the meanest rascals in the whole of London.’

  Owen Elias was strolling jauntily along Cheapside when he spotted his friend coming towards him. He waved cheerily but there was no acknowledgement. Head down, eyes dreamily sear
ching the ground, Edmund Hoode was oblivious to all around him. His face was ignited by a smile, his body animated by a deep inner joy. If the Welshman had not blocked his passage as he tried to go by, Hoode would have gone straight past. He came out of his reverie.

  ‘Owen!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well met, old friend.’

  ‘Well met, indeed!’ replied the other. ‘Thank heaven you are accosted by me and not by some lurking thief. Keep your wits about you, man. You are such a ready target when you amble along like that. A blind man with one arm could have robbed you and you’d have been none the wiser.’

  ‘Nobody could deprive me of my most precious gift.’

  ‘That does not mean you should toss your purse away so idly.’

  ‘Money is only money, Owen.’

  ‘Therein lies its attraction. It buys food, drink and the company of fair ladies.’

  ‘Some ladies spurn the notion of payment.’

  ‘Well, I have never met such a creature, Edmund,’ said the other cynically. ‘Women are all one to me. You may hire their bodies for a night or, if you marry them, you will have to pay in perpetuity. That is why I spread my charm amongst those already wed. A mistress who gives herself for love needs far less expenditure when she has a husband to buy at her command. Choose a married woman for sport, Edmund. Your purse will profit.’

  ‘It is far better to be chosen than to choose, Owen.’

  ‘On that point, we do agree. Though there is some deceit involved,’ conceded Elias. ‘When I pursue a woman, I always convince her that it was her idea and that she set the trap for me. It’s the shortest way to happiness.’

  ‘I have found my own route there.’

  Elias laughed. ‘How many times have we heard that vain boast?’

  ‘Do not mock me, Owen.’

  ‘Then do not set yourself up for mockery. The only women you ever find were put on this earth to break your heart. Your whole life is one long, desperate, lovesick sigh. But enough of that,’ said Elias, turning to a more serious matter. ‘Have you seen Nick since this afternoon?’

  ‘No, why should I see him?’

  ‘Because he is the best friend you have. Do you know a better reason?’

  Hoode simpered. ‘I have been otherwise engaged this evening.’

  ‘Did you spare no thought for Nick and Frank Quilter?’ he prodded the other man in the chest. ‘Shame on you, Edmund! I can see from your face that you gave neither of them a moment’s consideration.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because they went through an ordeal today. So did our audience, of course,’ he added, ‘because we gave them poor fare on stage this afternoon. Nick and Frank were part of a different audience. They watched a public execution at Smithfield.’

  ‘Did they?’ asked Hoode, as if hearing about it for the first time.

  ‘You know they did, Edmund.’

  ‘I vaguely recall something to that effect.’

  ‘The company was buzzing with the news.’

  ‘My thoughts were some way distant, Owen. Why did Nick and Frank desert us in order to watch an execution? Their place was at the Queen’s Head with us.’

  ‘Would you have been there if your father was being hanged?’

  Hoode was startled. ‘Nick’s father was the condemned man?’

  ‘No, you idiot!’ shouted Elias. ‘It was Gerard Quilter who went to his death today on a charge of murder. Have you not been listening to your fellows? They spent the whole rehearsal calling for Frank’s removal from the company. Barnaby thinks we will be in bad odour with our audiences if we let the son of a killer remain in Westfield’s Men. I am unsure. I have been having second thoughts on the matter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Frank alleges that his father was an innocent man. Nick supports his cry.’

  ‘He was hanged unjustly, then?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Elias. ‘The fact remains that the two of them went through a terrible ordeal at Smithfield this afternoon. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the case, my heart goes out to both of them.’

  ‘So does mine,’ agreed Hoode. ‘What a hideous predicament to be in.’

  ‘It lands us in a quandary. Do we keep Frank or spurn him altogether?’

  ‘I’ve no opinion on the subject.’

  ‘You must have, Edmund. It’s the duty of every sharer.’

  ‘I’ll be guided by Lawrence.’

  ‘I fancy that Nick Bracewell will be the better guide. I’ll side with him.’

  ‘That might be the wiser course.’

  Hoode was obviously shocked to be reminded about the execution but Elias did not get the impression that it engaged his interest at any profound level. The playwright was still partly diverted by other concerns. Elias believed that he could guess what they were. His voice became a confidential whisper.

  ‘How does your new play prosper, Edmund?’

  ‘Slowly. Very slowly.’

  ‘They say that it may be your masterpiece.’

  ‘I entertained that delusion myself at one time.’

  ‘Your faith in the piece has slackened, then?’

  ‘It has all but disappeared, Owen.’

  ‘You always say that when a new play nears completion.’

  ‘I can summon up no interest in the paltry work.’

  ‘That, too, is a familiar cry,’ said Elias with a grin. ‘This bodes well. When you begin to lose heart, it means the piece is far better than you expected. I hope there is a part worthy of my talents, Edmund. What is the piece called?’

  ‘No matter.’

  ‘But I wish to know. You have kept it from us too long already. Come, Edmund, this play has been your mistress for well over a month now. You’ve fled from us day after day in order to take your pleasure from her loins. Give me some hint of what lies in store for us,’ he begged. ‘Tell me the title.’

  Hoode was only half-listening. His mind had already strayed back to the meeting he had just enjoyed with Avice Radley. It had not merely changed his opinion of himself, it had altered his whole perspective on his work. The play on which he had expended so much patient labour held none of its former appeal for him. Indeed, the whole notion of working with a theatre company seemed rather frivolous now. The truth had to be faced. He had alighted on something infinitely better.

  ‘The title, man!’ repeated Elias. ‘What is the title of your masterpiece?’

  As the beautiful face of Avice Radley arose before him, Hoode beamed.

  ‘The Queen of my Heart,’ he said.

  It was late when he arrived back. Nicholas Bracewell had spent hours with his friend as he tried to still the demons that plagued Quilter. It was a forlorn exercise. While he had managed to bend him to reason, Nicholas could not lift him out of despair or wipe away the memories of a testing afternoon. After arranging to meet Quilter early the next day, Nicholas set off for Bankside. The long walk gave him ample time to reflect on the events of the day and the details of the case. Gathering evidence to vindicate Gerard Quilter would be no simple task. His brief encounter with Bevis Millburne had taught him enough about the man to provoke his suspicion, yet there was a big problem. Millburne was no practised liar, hauled off the streets and paid to incriminate someone else in a court of law. He was a wealthy merchant, a responsible citizen whose voice would be respected. It was unlikely that any bribe could make such a man perjure himself. What motive, then, had driven him to accuse Gerard Quilter of murder?

  Cyril Paramore too, he suspected, would be a man of means who was beyond the reach of a bribe. Why had he borne witness against the prisoner? Were he and Millburne friends of the dead man, driven by lust for revenge? Or were they sworn enemies of Gerard Quilter himself, only too willing to implicate him in a murder he did not commit? It was baffling. What did weigh heavily with Nicholas was the fact that Millburne had attended the execution then celebrated the event at the Golden Fleece. Witnesses in murder trials were not usually impelled by such feelings. Once they had given their evidence, they
let the law take its course. Bevis Millburne, however, had gained obvious satisfaction from the hanging of Gerard Quilter. It was not only a perverse joy that he was exhibiting. During his exchange with the man, Nicholas thought he noticed a sense of relief, as if a danger had been passed.

  He was still asking questions of himself as he crossed London Bridge but answers proved elusive. Nicholas plunged into the teeming streets of Bankside. Uneasy by day, the area was hazardous at night, filled, as it was, with taverns, brothels, gaming houses and tenements that attracted all manner of low-life. Drunken revellers lurched out of inns, prostitutes blatantly tried to lure clients, thieves and pickpockets were constantly on the alert for fresh prey and brawls were common sights. Nicholas’s broad shoulders and brisk gait deterred all attackers. Even in the half-dark, few men were brave enough to tackle such a sturdy fellow. He walked with impunity past petty villains and roaring drunkards. Bankside held no fears for him. It was his home.

  Anne Hendrik had waited up for him. She had a light supper in readiness.

  ‘Welcome back!’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  ‘It is good to see the end of this day, Anne.’

  ‘Was it so distressing?’

  ‘My distress lay in the sight of another’s. Anne,’ he said, ‘today was nothing but a torture chamber for Frank Quilter. I thought he would never survive it.’

  ‘Did he hold up?’

  ‘Bravely.’

  ‘No small thanks to you, I dare venture.’

  ‘There was little I could do beyond bearing him company.’

  Nicholas sat at the table and picked at the supper she had prepared for him. He told her little about the execution itself, suppressing its viler aspects completely. Anne was pleased to hear about his visit to Lawrence Firethorn.