The Bawdy Basket

by Edward Marston

  Relieved to have tracked his friend down, Nicholas Bracewell dismounted.

  ‘I hoped that I might find you here, Frank,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you riding Lawrence Firethorn’s horse?’

  ‘I told him of my urgency. He loaned the animal to me to make sure that that I returned in time for the afternoon’s performance. This meeting must be brief.’

  ‘What has happened, Nick?’ asked Quilter. ‘I see great sadness in your face.’

  ‘Lightfoot came looking for me at the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘Moll’s friend? Did he bring news of her?’

  ‘The worst kind, Frank,’ said Nicholas, swallowing hard. ‘The poor girl is dead.’

  Quilter was rocked. ‘Dead? This cannot be.’

  ‘There’s greater woe still. Moll Comfrey was murdered.’

  Nicholas passed on the details that he had been given by Lightfoot, impressing on him that the tumbler was eager to join in any pursuit of the killer. Quilter was too shaken to reply at first, sensing that all hope of exonerating his father had gone. Despair gave way to remorse as he thought about the defenceless young girl who had been smothered to death. He scolded himself for being so contemptuous of her at first when all that she was doing was to try to aid his cause. It now appeared that she might have died in the name of that cause. Quilter was overcome with a sudden fury.

  ‘They are behind this, Nick,’ he insisted, pointing a finger at the house opposite. ‘Cyril Paramore and Bevis Millburne. They are there together even now, basking in their wickedness. Let’s drag them into the street and tear out their black hearts.’

  ‘No, Frank,’ said Nicholas, ‘that is not the way. Supposition is not proof.’

  ‘Who else would have a reason to kill Moll Comfrey?’

  ‘I cannot say but I’ll not rush to judgement. How could they possibly know of the girl’s existence, still less of her friendship with your father?’

  ‘They are guilty. I feel it in my bones.’

  ‘Once again, I counsel patience. I somehow doubt that they are the culprits. But if they are indeed behind the crime, we’ll find the evidence that will unmask them. Until then, we must work unseen and not give ourselves away.’

  ‘They have the blood of two victims on their hands now.’

  ‘We need to find out why,’ Nicholas reminded him, taking the letter out from inside his buff jerkin. ‘But there’s something else before I withdraw. This was found in Moll Comfrey’s basket. Lightfoot thought to deliver it to your lodging but you were not there. That’s why he sought me out.’ He handed the letter over. ‘It is addressed to a lawyer named Henry Cleaton and may be of importance. I wanted you to see it first.’

  Quilter glanced down. ‘My father’s hand. I’d know it anywhere.’

  ‘Is the name familiar?’

  ‘Very familiar, Nick. Henry Cleaton handled father’s affairs. Thank you for this,’ he said, holding up the letter. ‘I’ll see it delivered at once.’

  ‘I’ll want to know what transpires,’ said Nicholas, putting a foot in the stirrup. ‘Let’s meet as soon as the performance is over.’ He hauled himself into the saddle. ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of such dreadful tidings. Moll Comfrey did not deserve this.’

  ‘Nor did she deserve my harsh words,’ confessed Quilter. ‘I should have shown her more courtesy. I bitterly regret the way that I treated her, Nick.’

  ‘Then make amends by helping to avenge her death. She was a blameless girl whose only desire was to clear your father’s name of disgrace. Now, it seems, she may have paid for her readiness to speak out. Leave off your vigil here, Frank,’ he said. ‘Master Paramore is not the leader in this business. He and Master Millburne are but accomplices. The man to watch is Sir Eliard Slaney.’

  When she returned to the house near Bishopsgate that afternoon, Anne Hendrik took her most experienced hatmaker with her. Preben van Loew was a pale, dour, haggard man in his fifties with watery eyes that glistened either side of a hooked nose. He was laconic by nature but his employer had not taken him along for the benefit of his conversation. In the first instance, he provided a degree of protection for her on the journey. After crossing the Thames by boat, they had been faced with a long walk up Gracechurch Street, passing the Queen’s Head in time to hear roars of delight from the spectators who were watching Cupid’s Folly. Two other reasons prompted Anne to bring the exiled Dutchman with her. While she might design the new hat for Lady Slaney, it was Preben van Loew who would actually make it since he was particularly skilful at creating ostentatious headgear for the gentry. Apart from anything else, Anne felt that he should be there to receive his share of the praise for Lady Slaney’s most recent purchase. But the main reason for requesting his company was so that he might provide cover for her, a shield behind which she could hide while plying Lady Slaney with the questions she had been asked to put.

  They were admitted to the house and conducted to the parlour. It was not long before Lady Slaney surged into the room with a welcoming titter, wearing a jewelled gown in the Spanish fashion and looking as if she was about to entertain royalty rather than give orders to her milliner. When she was introduced to the Dutchman, in his sober black garb, she gave a gasp of pleasure.

  ‘So you are the genius who makes my hats!’ she cried.

  ‘I do as I am bidden, Lady Slaney,’ he said modestly.

  Anne was more forthright. ‘Preben ever hides his light under a bushel,’ she said. ‘I am fortunate to have him in my employ. When my late husband lured him to England, he told me that Preben van Loew was the finest hatmaker in Holland.’

  ‘Their loss is my gain,’ said Lady Slaney.

  ‘Both us are always at your disposal.’

  ‘What have you brought to show me?’

  ‘Some early drawings that should accord with your wishes, Lady Slaney.’

  Preben van Loew was too overawed by the sumptuous surroundings to do more than stand meekly in the background as Anne laid out the drawings on the table. Lady Slaney clucked over them like a hen whose first chick has just hatched. When she had selected the design she preferred, she suggested minor improvements to which Anne readily agreed. Privately, her companion thought that the chosen hat was even more ludicrous than the one he had just completed for her but his personal opinion was hidden behind the impassive face. Whenever called upon for approval, he simply nodded his assent. It was half an hour before Lady Slaney had finished adding her refinements to the hat she had selected from the designs. Anne took careful note of every instruction.

  ‘Everyone admired the hat you brought yesterday,’ said Lady Slaney bountifully.

  Anne smiled. ‘I hope that Sir Eliard shared in the admiration.’

  ‘He would not dare to play the apostate,’ said the other with a tinkling laugh. ‘He knows how much value I set on appearance and the right hat is such a vital element in the picture.’ She clapped her hands. ‘What a thought! I’ll have another portrait painted of me and this time, when I sit for the artist, I’ll wear my new hat. I’ll speak to my husband about it this very afternoon.’

  ‘Which new hat?’ asked Anne. ‘The one I delivered yesterday or the one that you have just commissioned us to make for you?’

  ‘Whichever flatters me the most.’

  ‘It is you who flatter us, Lady Slaney. We are deeply aware of the favour you bestow on us when you wear one of our hats in public. To have one seen at Court would indeed be a privilege for us.’

  ‘My husband will arrange that in due course.’

  ‘Sir Eliard seems able to arrange almost everything.’

  ‘It is the reason I chose him, my dear,’ said Lady Slaney with a giggle. ‘He likes to think that he proposed to me, of course, but it was I who drew him carefully on. Oh!’ she exclaimed, glancing coyly at the Dutchman and putting a hand to her mouth. ‘Do I give away female secrets in front of a man? That was indiscreet of me. And I am sure that it was not the case when he proposed to his own wife.’

  ‘Prebe
n is not married, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne, noting the blush that tinged his cheeks. ‘But how did you and Sir Eliard first meet?’

  ‘That is an interesting story.’

  Lady Slaney told it as if she had rehearsed it many times, concentrating on her own role in the domestic saga yet confiding a great deal of information about her husband in the process. Anne memorised it in silence. It was only when the other woman came to the end of her tale that Anne had to prompt her.

  ‘You never told me why Sir Eliard went to Smithfield the other day.’

  ‘It was to watch a public execution.’

  ‘I know, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne, choosing her words with care, ‘but it seems unlike your husband to take pleasure from such an event. Judging from what you say of him, he is a fastidious man who would be offended by the spectacle. Only some personal interest could draw him to witness it, surely?’

  ‘I believe that he knew the wretch who was hanged for murder,’ said Lady Slaney off-handedly. ‘A man by the name of Gerard Quilter.’

  ‘He knew him?’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’

  ‘And did this Gerard Quilter ever visit your house?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘But you heard his name mentioned?’

  ‘With frequency.’

  ‘Was it spoken kindly?’

  ‘No, his character was treated harshly.’

  ‘Sir Eliard must have known him well to attend his execution. Is that true?’

  Anne Hendrik had asked one question too many. She was so absorbed in her covert interrogation of Lady Slaney that she did not notice the figure who now stood in the doorway. Sir Eliard Slaney was filled with cold anger. Walking into the room, he glared at the visitors with undisguised suspicion. He towered over Anne.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  The applause that reverberated around the inn yard at the Queen’s Head was well-deserved. While not scaling the heights of which they were capable, Westfield’s Men had given a lively performance of a romp that was a perennial favourite with their audiences. Cupid’s Folly had entertained and exhilarated for two whole hours. Avice Radley had been as amused as anyone in the galleries. Seated on the cushion she had hired from one of the gatherers, she enjoyed every moment of the play, even though Edmund Hoode was not able to shine quite so brightly as an actor on this occasion. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias were the ruling triumvirate onstage and there was exceptional support from Richard Honeydew and the other apprentices. Knowing that his beloved was there, Hoode did all he could to match the leading actors but they overshadowed him with ease.

  Avice Radley was mildly disappointed. Though she intended to take him away from the company, she liked to be reminded of just how talented he was as an actor. Hoode’s creative skills would soon be put entirely at her disposal, making her as much of a patron as Lord Westfield. The difference was that she would not have to go to the Queen’s Head to endure the crush in the gallery, the stink from the commonalty below and the general rowdiness in order to appreciate Hoode’s brilliance. He would be hers alone, devoting his pen solely to her and creating a purer and more intense poetry. She would be his muse. Inspired by his wife, he would write and perform in the privacy of their home. It was the ideal recipe, she believed, for connubial delight.

  Yet even as she luxuriated in thoughts of their future happiness, her gaze moved away from her captive playwright to the man who led the company with such verve and magnificence. Lawrence Firethorn was unquestionably the brightest star in their firmament. He acknowledged the ringing cheers from all quarters of the inn yard but he was looking directly at Avice Radley. When their eyes locked, she felt a tremor of surprise. Producing his most charming smile, he dedicated his next bow specifically to her then waved a hand familiarly in her direction before taking his company from the stage. She was baffled.

  ‘Moll Comfrey was your father’s niece?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell in amazement.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, Nick. She was the child of my uncle, Reginald, born out of wedlock and kept ignorant of her true parentage for many years. Henry Cleaton showed me the letter that my father had written on her behalf.’

  ‘Did your uncle support the girl?’

  ‘For a while, it seems,’ said Francis Quilter, ‘but he died in poverty a couple of years ago. My uncle was a dissolute man, I fear. He was the ruination of his wife and family. Drink and gambling made him lose what little fortune he had and he was reduced to borrowing money at exorbitant interest. That was the real discovery in the lawyer’s office, Nick,’ he continued. ‘When he died, Uncle Reginald was heavily in debt. I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to guess the name of his chief creditor.’

  ‘Sir Eliard Slaney, perhaps?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘So that is the connection with your father.’

  ‘It goes deeper,’ said Quilter. ‘According to Master Cleaton, my father did everything that he could to prevent his brother’s house from being possessed by Slaney in payment of his loan. They were in and out of court for month after month. It was a battle royal. That despicable usurer got the house in the end but it was a Pyrrhic victory. My father was a doughty litigant. In the course of their legal encounters, he wounded Slaney badly and won a substantial reduction in the amount of money owed.’

  Nicholas was fascinated. ‘Your visit to the lawyer has been profitable.’

  ‘It was a revelation, Nick. I learnt so much about my own family. As you know, my father was very unhappy when I chose to join a theatre company. He and I lost touch for some time.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You can imagine how much I regret that now.’

  ‘I can, Frank.’

  ‘The talk with Henry Cleaton opened my eyes.’

  ‘It also gave us the secret for which we’ve been searching, Frank.’

  ‘Secret?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sir Eliard Slaney’s motive for murder. Your father injured him severely in court. He wanted his revenge.’

  They were walking briskly towards Smithfield. Once his duties at the Queen’s Head had been fulfilled, Nicholas had met up with Quilter to hear what had transpired at the lawyer’s office. As they headed for the site of Bartholomew Fair, important new facts were beginning to emerge. Nicholas sought clarification.

  ‘Why did your father give the letter to Moll?’ he asked.

  ‘Because he had taken on responsibility for her,’ said Quilter. ‘Even before his brother had died, he was the one who really cared for the girl. They met very rarely but he always gave her money when they did so. Uncle Reginald never acknowledged her as his daughter and my father did not want to distress his wife and family by telling them of Moll’s existence. Poor creature!’ he sighed. ‘When my father was hanged, she lost the one person in the world who showed her any parental love.’

  ‘It must have been an appalling blow for her.’

  ‘She was completely dazed, Nick. That’s why she forgot it.’

  ‘Forgot what?’

  ‘The letter,’ explained Quilter. ‘It was written two years ago. Moll was told that, in the event of my father’s death, she was to deliver it to his lawyer. But she put it away in the bottom of her basket and thought no more of it. Because she could not read, the letter had no real meaning for her.’

  ‘What did it contain?’

  ‘Provision for her in my father’s will. Master Cleaton said that there was a codicil, naming Moll Comfrey as one of the beneficiaries, if and when she presented the letter to the lawyer.’

  ‘It’s too late for that now,’ said Nicholas ruefully. ‘But I’m surprised that Master Cleaton told you nothing of the codicil before.’

  ‘He was forbidden to do so, Nick. My father never divulged anything to me about the girl. I suspect that he kept her existence hidden so that I would not think unkindly of Uncle Reginald. He was so protective towards his brother. And, of course,’ he went on, ‘there was no reason why I would ever learn the truth about Moll.’


  ‘No, Frank. Had your father died by natural means, she could have presented her letter to Master Cleaton and claimed her inheritance. You would have been none the wiser.’ Nicholas pursed his lips. ‘The fact that your father was executed as a murderer changed everything.’

  ‘That was the other discovery,’ said Quilter.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘The information I gleaned about the victim.’

  ‘Vincent Webbe?’

  ‘Yes, Nick,’ said Quilter. ‘I knew that Master Webbe had fallen on hard times, largely because of his own failings. What I had not understood until the lawyer told me was that Vincent Webbe, too, had been a client of Sir Eliard Slaney – just like my uncle.’

  ‘Had he borrowed heavily?’

  ‘Too heavily. He’d put his house in pawn.’

  ‘That signals desperation.’

  ‘He put the blame on my father. Master Webbe was no gentleman. I told you how he accosted us that time. He was so belligerent towards my father. If anyone had used such vile language to me, I would have had difficulty in staying my hand.’

  Nicholas was thoughtful. ‘When Vincent Webbe died,’ he said, ‘his debts must still have been unpaid. What happened to his property?’

  ‘Sir Eliard Slaney took it into his possession.’

  They walked on in silence. As they approached Smithfield, Quilter was starting to feel queasy, recalling the dire humiliation he had seen his father endure on their last visit to the place. Nicholas, meanwhile, was trying to sift through the new information that had come to light. It said much for Gerard Quilter that he had not only defended his brother against the extortionate demands of Sir Eliard Slaney, he had taken responsibility for an illegitimate daughter that his brother had fathered. His conduct throughout had been exemplary. The codicil that Gerard Quilter had added to his will indicated a man of compassion. Nothing he had ever heard about him suggested to Nicholas that he could be capable of murder.