Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘You injured yourself, sir,’ he said.

‘I collected a few bruises,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I shed no blood. After you left the counting house, I was cornered by the man who ambushed me in Turnmill Street …’

He told them what had happened, giving few details of the fight itself but explaining that the only way to escape alive was to kill his attacker. Anne was horrified that he might have been stabbed to death while she was talking downstairs to Lady Slaney. Lightfoot was pleased yet envious.

‘If only he had come in when I was there,’ he said wistfully. ‘I’d have strangled the life out of him. He was the villain who smothered poor Moll.’

‘He also confessed to the murder of Vincent Webbe,’ said Nicholas.

Anne shuddered. ‘And the attempted murder of Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘He’ll do no more mischief with his dagger, Anne.’

‘But what of the consequences? They’ll come looking for you, Nick.’

‘I killed in self-defence.’

‘How will you prove it? Your word may not save you from arrest.’

‘There’ll be no pursuit of me,’ he said confidently, tapping the ledger. ‘The only arrests will be caused by this. There’s evidence in this book to bring Sir Eliard and his confederates to justice. One of them has already met his fate.’

‘What will they do when the body is discovered?’ asked Lightfoot.

‘That will not happen for a little while. I fancy that Sir Eliard is still at the Queen’s Head with at least another hour of the play to watch. It will take him a while to make his way out through that crowd,’ decided Nicholas. ‘By the time he unlocks his counting house, I will already have set the wheels of the law in motion.’

‘Shall I come with you, sir?’

‘No, Lightfoot. I have another task for you.’

The tumbler grinned. ‘Will I have the chance to fight?’

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You’ll have to push your way through the crush on London Bridge as you escort Mistress Hendrik to her house in Bankside.’ Lightfoot was disappointed. ‘Anne did valuable work this afternoon. But for her, we would never have got into the house and seized this ledger. About it straight. I’ll take this evidence to the lawyer. We can then finish the work that The Merchant of Calais has started.’

The applause that filled the yard at the Queen’s Head was long and loud. For once in their lives, neither Lawrence Firethorn nor Barnaby Gill minded that someone in a lesser role collected the biggest cheer. Edmund Hoode’s performance as Sir Eliard Slimy had been comically sinister to those who did not know the real moneylender, and hilarious to those who did. When he came out to take his bow, he was acclaimed. His had been a sublime exercise in theatrical assassination and the galleries revelled in it. Of the other actors, only Firethorn and Gill knew the significance of Hoode’s work. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, the precarious situation on Westfield’s Men was kept from the rest of the company lest it breed gloom and listlessness. Nicholas’s own absence was explained away in terms of sickness and Francis Quilter proved a highly competent deputy for him. There was a buoyant atmosphere among the players and it was translated to the stage. The Merchant of Calais had never been performed with such zest.

During his first and last visit to the Queen’s Head, Sir Eliard Slaney had been stretched repeatedly on the rack of satire. He had not realised the sheer power of the theatre to rouse an audience to such a pitch. All around him spectators were quoting some of the choicer lines about the moneylender. Sir Eliard had never been the object of such scorn and derision before. As he and Cyril Paramore made their way towards the stairs, they kept their heads down in shame. It was only when they reached the waiting coach that Sir Eliard was able to show his fury.

‘Why did they do this to me?’ he snarled.

‘I fear that you provoked them, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore.

‘Oh, I’ll provoke them, mark my words. I’ll provoke them out of existence. I’ll have the company sued for seditious libel and the playwright sliced to bits in front of me. Sir Eliard Slimy, indeed!’ he said. ‘Edmund Hoode will pay for that.’

Paramore knew better than to interrupt his master. He let him rant wildly all the way back to the house in Bishopsgate. When they entered the house, Sir Eliard was still fuming. His wife came out of the parlour to greet him and saw him for the first time in disguise. She was puzzled.

‘Why do you wear that attire, Eliard?’ she wondered.

‘Do not bother me, Rebecca,’ he replied. ‘Keep out of my way.’

‘Have I displeased you?’

‘You displease me now by badgering me.’

‘I only sought to welcome my husband to his home.’

‘Where’s Martin?’ he demanded.

‘I’ve not seen him all afternoon.’

‘He must still be here. Martin! Martin!’ he yelled, walking around the ground floor of the house. ‘Where are you, man? Martin!’

‘Shall I look for him?’ she asked obligingly.

‘Out of my way, Rebecca.’ He pushed her aside and ascended the stairs with Paramore at his heels. ‘Martin! Martin, are you here? I’ve work for you.’ When he came to the counting house, he took out a key and inserted it into the lock. ‘I ordered him to stay here. Where is the fellow?’

As he opened the door, he almost tripped over the dead man. Sir Eliard gaped and Paramore gave a yell of surprise. It was obvious that Martin would never be able to serve his master again. Sir Eliard was the first to recover. Stepping over the corpse, he went to the table and scrabbled among his papers. He let out a cry of pain.

‘My ledger!’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone has taken my ledger!’

Henry Cleaton chortled his way through the ledger like a man who has just stumbled on a treasure chest. Names that meant nothing to Nicholas Bracewell drew a chuckle of recognition from the lawyer. He pointed with a stubby finger.

‘This name may be the most damning indictment of all,’ he said.

Nicholas read it out. ‘Archibald Froggatt? I do not know the man.’

‘Count yourself lucky, then. Justice Froggatt was one of the most bloodthirsty judges ever to preside at a trial. He was the man who sent Gerard Quilter to his death. That is why this payment from Sir Eliard Slaney is so revealing.’

‘Five hundred pounds!’

‘To abuse the law costs a high price,’ said Cleaton, ‘and Justice Froggatt abused it mightily. He not only sent an innocent man to the gallows, he added more agony by having him hanged at Smithfield in the company of a witch. I’ll wager that it was Adam Haygarth who was the interlocutor here. He dangled the money before the judge.’ He indicated another amount on the page. ‘Justice Haygarth was well-rewarded for his work, as you see.’ Cleaton slapped the ledger. ‘By all, this is wonderful! We’ve evidence enough to put a dozen men behind bars. How did you come by the book?’

‘Let us just say that it fell into my hands,’ said Nicholas discreetly.

‘Frank Quilter will be overjoyed at this.’

‘He never believed that his father could be guilty.’

‘No more did I,’ said Cleaton. ‘This ledger vindicates him completely.’

They were in the lawyer’s office. Cleaton had examined the entries in the ledger with painstaking care. It was a written confession of the sins and stratagems of Sir Eliard Slaney. The evidence that the lawyer himself had gathered was given full confirmation. Picking up the ledger, he rose to his feet.

‘I need to show this to someone else,’ he said.

‘Make sure that he is not one of Sir Eliard’s creatures.’

‘This ledger will go to a higher authority than anyone listed here. Even the bribes of Sir Eliard could not corrupt this man. When the evidence is scrutinised, there’ll be sudden justice. I would expect arrests to be made within days.’