Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘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.