Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

Francis Quilter was on the verge of collapse. There were two tiny consolations for him. The hangman knew his trade. When the trap was opened and the body plunged, the prisoner’s neck was broken instantly. There was no lingering death. Gerard Quilter had been spared any additional agony. Divine intervention seemed to be responsible for the second consolation. A gust of wind came out of nowhere to fan the flames of the fire and to send the smoke so thickly across the gallows that it obscured the hanged man. Jane Gullet became the focus of attention, howling in anguish and defying the crowd to the last. Only when she was consumed by the flames did the collective hysteria start to abate.

Taking his friend by the arm, Nicholas led him away.

‘You have seen enough, Frank,’ he said.

‘They’re no better than animals,’ muttered Quilter, gazing around. ‘What sort of people enjoy such horrors? And why must they be made public?’

‘The authorities believe that they are setting an example. Each victim who goes to his grave in such an appalling way stands as a warning to others.’

‘But why hang my father when they are burning a witch?’

‘It was a heartless decision.’

‘He did not belong in the company of that repulsive creature.’

‘Neither of them deserved the hatred and ridicule they provoked.’

‘Father was innocent, Nick!’ urged Quilter, bunching a fist to strike the palm of his other hand. ‘What we saw today was nothing short of judicial murder.’

They fell silent and walked swiftly away. Pleased with the entertainment, the crowd was now dispersing with grim satisfaction. Nicholas hoped that his friend did not hear some of the bloodthirsty comments that came from the lips of other spectators. One woman complained bitterly that the hanging had been over too quickly, and that they had been cheated of the victim’s frantic twitches as he choked to death. As soon as they got clear of Smithfield and its denizens, Nicholas guided his friend towards a tavern. When his companion bought him a tankard of ale, Quilter took a long sip before speaking.

‘This must be avenged, Nick,’ he said firmly.

‘If your father did not kill Vincent Webbe, then someone else did. The only way to clear the family name is to find the real murderer.’

‘It will be my mission in life.’

‘Where will you start?’

‘With the two men who bore false witness against my father.’

‘Count on me if you need help, Frank.’

Quilter was touched. ‘You have gone well beyond the bounds of friendship as it is,’ he said. ‘It would be unfair of me to burden you any further.’

‘A shared load would be lighter for both of us.’

‘No, Nick. Your first obligation is to Westfield’s Men. They will have missed you badly this afternoon. And why? Because you chose to bear me company on the worst day of my life.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘Lawrence Firethorn would not spare you again.’

‘He is not my keeper,’ said Nicholas.

Quilter became wistful. ‘Until today, he was my idol, the actor whom I admire most in the world and on whom I try to pattern myself. Not any more, alas,’ he sighed. ‘How eager will he be to have me beside him after this ?’

‘You have a contract with the company, Frank.’

‘I have violated its terms already by missing a performance. And because I am the son of Gerard Quilter, I have probably endangered the whole document. You were at the rehearsal this morning, Nick,’ he said. ‘What was the general feeling?’

‘There was much uncertainty,’ replied Nicholas tactfully.

‘Do not hide the truth to spare my feelings. I can imagine the harsh words that were spoken against me by some. They want me out, do they not?’

‘One or two, perhaps.’

‘What of Lawrence Firethorn?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘He feels the pressure from the others.’

‘In other words, he is against me as well. Then my cause is truly doomed.’

‘No, Frank.’

‘I would hate to lose my place among Westfield’s Men.’

‘Nor shall you,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ve brought shame to the company, or so it will be seen. I’ll be an outcast. What is to stop them from expelling me?’

‘The fear that they will lose more than a good actor.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you are forced to leave,’ said Nicholas, ‘then I have refused to stay.’

Quilter was dismayed. ‘But you are the very essence of Westfield’s Men.’

‘I hope that others share that view.’

‘No, Nick. I cannot allow this. It’s too great a sacrifice. I’ll fight to hold my place in the company and will go reluctantly, if I fail. But your own future must never be conditional on mine. If I’m to drown, I’ll not take you down with me.’

‘It may not come to that, Frank. Hot words were spoken at the Queen’s Head this morning. When tempers have cooled, our fellows may talk with more sense. They should certainly learn to show more loyalty to one of their number.’

‘You’ve enough loyalty for all of them.’

‘I believe in you, Frank — and in your father’s innocence.’

‘How can we convince the others?’

‘By doing as you say. Vindicate his reputation and Westfield’s Men will be only too keen to woo us back into their ranks.’

‘No,’ said Quilter, shaking his head. ‘I’ll not be the cause of your departure, Nick. Whatever happens, you must stay. I need one friend in the company.’

Nicholas pondered. ‘Then there may be a middle way,’ he said at length.

‘Betwixt what?’

‘Retention and expulsion. After the events at Smithfield this afternoon, a black cloud hangs over the company. I’d be misleading you if I said that you would be welcomed back into the fold. Try to hold them to the contract,’ he went on, ‘and they might still find a way to eject you. But if you sue for leave of absence, you will be free to conduct your investigation and Westfield’s Men will be spared much embarrassment. Will this content you?’

‘It will,’ said Quilter eagerly. ‘That way, both parties are satisfied.’

‘Let me put it to Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Do not forget to mention the prime benefit. Harp on that, Nick.’

‘On what?’

‘Westfield’s Men will not only be getting rid of me at a time when I might cause them some unease,’ said Quilter. ‘They will have Nicholas Bracewell back at the helm. It will be the finest bargain they ever struck.’

Margery Firethorn was a motherly woman of generous proportions, with wide hips, a thickening waist and a surging bosom. As befitted the wife of a famous actor, she had a decidedly theatrical air herself and, in the heat of argument, could match her husband for sheer power, strutting and ranting to such effect that she might have been treading the boards at the Queen’s Head before a large audience. In point of fact, Lawrence Firethorn was the sole spectator of her towering rages, stirring performances that he would not inflict on any man, however much he hated him, and which, in the interests of domestic harmony, he did his best to avoid at all costs.

Still handsome, and with an appetite for pleasure equal to his own, Margery was a loyal, long-suffering wife who ran their home in Shoreditch with bustling efficiency, brought up their children in a Christian manner, nurtured the company’s apprentices and coped with the multiple problems of sharing her life with the wayward genius who led Westfield’s Men. Those unwise enough to cross Margery felt the lacerating sharpness of her tongue, but there was one person who invariably brought out her softer side. When he called at the house that evening, she wrapped him in a warm embrace.