Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘Something is afoot, Nick,’ he said. ‘Do not deny it. There has to be a reason why Edmund hurled those thunderbolts at Sir Eliard Slaney today. When I saw Frank sneaking away, I went after him.’

‘I could not shake him off,’ said Quilter.

Nicholas smiled. ‘We may have employment for him.’

‘Sword or dagger?’ asked Elias.

‘Wait and see.’

‘And why are you dressed like a Dutch hatmaker? Do you work for Anne now?’

‘I did this afternoon, Owen.’

Nicholas fell in beside them and explained what had transpired. Quilter was thrilled that the crucial evidence had been obtained and that the would-be assassin had been killed with his own dagger. Though he regretted he had not been there to help Nicholas, the Welshman was fascinated by all that he heard and understood why The Merchant of Calais had been slanted in a particular direction that afternoon. The fact that Sir Eliard had bought up all of their patron’s debts made him seethe with rage.

‘Destroy us out of spite?’ he roared. ‘Let me get my hands on the rogue.’

‘The law will do that,’ said Nicholas.

‘He deserves to be hanged from the nearest tree. When they learn what he tried to do, the whole company will dance around him with glee.’

‘Let us confront him, Nick,’ said Quilter.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We will save him until the last. I think we should strike at one of his lieutenants first. A confession from him will speed up retribution.’

‘From whom?’

‘You will soon guess when we pass the Golden Fleece.’

‘Bevis Millburne?’

‘Yes, Frank. One of the men who sent your father to his grave and who now enjoys the proceeds of that crime. He is a liar and a knave. I talked to the man. I do not take him to be brave and steadfast under questioning.’

‘I’ll question the rogue with the point of my dagger,’ said Elias.

‘It may not come to that, Owen.’

When they reached the house, Nicholas sent the Welshman around to the rear before he and Quilter went up to the front door. Their knock brought a manservant to the threshold. He refused to admit them until he had gained permission from his master. Quilter was too impatient to wait. Shoving the man aside, he stepped into the hall and yelled at the top of his voice.

‘Bevis Millburne! The son of Gerard Quilter would have words with you!’

The anxious face of Millburne appeared at the door of the parlour, took one look at the two visitors then vanished. They heard a key turning in the lock. When Quilter put his shoulder to the door, he could not budge it.

‘Come, Frank,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s see what fish Owen has caught.’

They left by the front door and made their way to the back of the property. Elias was as good as his work. Eyes popping and chest heaving, Millburne was pinned against a wall with a dagger at his throat. When his friends approached, the Welshmen pricked his captive’s skin enough to draw blood. Millburne yelped.

‘You chose the right man, Nick,’ said Elias genially. ‘Master Millburne could not be more obliging. When I offered to trim his beard for him, he promised to tell us all that we wished to know.’

‘Did you give false evidence against my father?’ demanded Quilter.

Millburne looked hunted. Elias flicked the knife to open another small cut.

‘Give the gentleman his answer, Master Millburne,’ he said.

‘We have Sir Eliard’s ledger in our possession,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is a record of payments to you and all the others involved in the conspiracy. Admit your crime now and it might buy you some leniency.’

‘Yes,’ added Elias. ‘I’ll only cut off one of your ears.’

‘Did you lie at my father’s trial?’ said Quilter, inches from Millburne’s face.

The captive’s resolution crumbled. Surrounded by three strong men, faced with the information that Sir Eliard’s payment to him could be verified and realising that the forces of law and order would descend on them all with a vengeance, he did what he always did in a crisis and tried to blame others.

‘I did perjure myself, sirs,’ he admitted, ‘but only under duress. Sir Eliard forced me to do it even though my senses rebelled against the notion. He and Cyril Paramore are the real culprits. Believe me, sirs, they worked on me until I consented.’

Nicholas was satisfied. ‘Let’s take him before a magistrate,’ he said.

‘Which one?’ asked Quilter with a grim chuckle. ‘Justice Haygarth?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need to collect him on the way.’

Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill rarely spent much time alone. While they worked together with surpassing brilliance onstage, they were less than friendly towards each other when they left it. The mutual antagonism went deeper than professional envy. Their private lives occupied such different worlds and their attitudes towards their fellow men were at such variance that they could find nothing to share with pleasure. It was all the more surprising, then, that the two of them sat apart from the rest of the company, deep in conversation and, apparently, in close agreement for once. Everyone else contributed to the boisterous atmosphere in the taproom but the two principal actors were solemn. Over a cup apiece of Canary wine, they brooded on their future.

‘When will you tell them, Lawrence?’ asked Gill.

‘I hope that we may never have to do so.’

‘The other sharers deserve to know the truth.’

‘They have known the truth about Lord Westfield for long enough,’ said Firethorn. ‘Our patron is a pleasure-seeker, a man so riddled with bad debts that, were he a vessel, he’d have sunk to the bed of the ocean by now.’

‘The likelihood is that he will take the rest of us with him.’

‘Not if Nick Bracewell’s plan has worked.’

‘It is too risky.’

‘We did our share, Barnaby. We traduced that despicable moneylender, as we were bid. If the fellow was in the gallery, his ears would have been burnt off with shame. Edmund was a most slimy Sir Eliard.’

‘And that’s the other thing, Lawrence.’

‘What is?’

‘Nicholas may save us from bankruptcy but even he cannot keep Edmund.’

‘No,’ sighed Firethorn. ‘We must resign ourselves to his loss.’

Gill pulled a face. ‘Then we head for the wilderness.’

Alexander Marwood emerged from the crowd to push his emaciated face at them. Pallid and wasted, he looked as if he had risen from his deathbed to haunt them. He wagged a skeletal finger with indignation.

‘You’ll bring the law down around my ears,’ he complained.

‘Then sell finer wine and better ale,’ said Firethorn.

‘I speak of your play, sir. It was an outrage.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No, Master Firethorn. I never watch your performances. Plays are an abomination. When I lay sick in bed, I was forced to listen to some of them and that was enough of an ordeal. Now you inflict this new threat on me.’

‘What threat?’ asked Gill.

‘Prosecution.’

Firethorn snorted. ‘You should have been prosecuted for ugliness years ago.’

‘Everyone is talking of the way that you mocked Sir Eliard Slaney today.’

‘It was no more than the rogue deserved.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ said Marwood, ‘but he is a powerful man. Nobody with any sense dares to cross Sir Eliard or they will suffer for it. When he hears what you’ve done, he’ll bring an action against the company for seditious libel. Since you perform in my yard, papers will be served on me as well.’

‘Prison is the best place for you.’

‘Do not sneer, Master Firethorn. I’ll demand restitution.’

‘Demand all you will,’ said Firethorn. ‘You’ll not get a penny for us.’