Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘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 facade. 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.’