Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘The very same, sir.’

‘Martin should have killed you in Turnmill Street.’

‘He tried once too often to stab me with his dagger,’ said Nicholas. ‘I was obliged to take it off him.’

‘You murdered him! I saw the body for myself.’

‘I killed in self-defence. He was armed and I was not.’

‘You’re a thief,’ said Paramore, struggling vainly to shake off the two men. ‘You broke into Sir Eliard’s house and stole his property.’

‘Lady Slaney invited me in,’ explained Nicholas. ‘I merely took advantage of my presence in the house to borrow the ledger and settle an old score with a hired assassin.’

Elias was impatient. ‘Shall I knock the truth out of him, Nick?’

‘I admit nothing,’ said Paramore boldly.

‘Then you need some encouragement, my friend.’

‘Leave him, Owen,’ ordered Nicholas. ‘We’ll return his horse to the stable then take him before the magistrate. He can join his friends in prison.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias, pinching the man’s sleeve. ‘He wears fine clothes now but they’ll be soiled after a night or two in a filthy cell. Take a last look at the daylight, Master Paramore. You’ll not be seeing it again for a long time.’

‘We’ve caught the underlings, Nick,’ said Quilter. ‘What about the man who paid them all? When do we collect him?’

‘As soon as we’ve bestowed this fellow where he belongs,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do not worry, Frank. Sir Eliard will not get away.’

Cyril Paramore’s harsh laughter echoed down the street.

The quick brain that had helped Sir Eliard Slaney to amass his wealth did not let him down. When his wife told him of her visitors that afternoon, he guessed immediately that Anne Hendrik had brought Nicholas Bracewell into the house. It was the only way to explain the death of Martin and the theft of the incriminating ledger. Sir Eliard’s reaction was swift. Within ten minutes, he and his wife were climbing into their coach with a number of hastily assembled belongings around them. Lady Slaney complained bitterly that she had had to leave most of her precious hats behind. Clutching his strongbox, her husband ordered her to be quiet.

‘You have done enough damage already, Rebecca,’ he said ruefully.

His wife was bewildered. ‘What is going on?’ she asked.

‘We are quitting the house for good.’

‘But why?’

‘I’ll explain in due course.’

‘Where are we going, Eliard?’

‘Far away,’ he said. ‘To the one place they would not think of finding us.’

Henry Cleaton had underestimated the power of his own profession to move speedily. No sooner had the Lord Chief Justice heard the lawyer’s tale and seen the evidence in the ledger than he dispatched mounted officers to arrest Sir Eliard Slaney. They arrived too late. Perplexed servants told them how their master had fled the house with everything that he could grab. The officers were still pressing for details as Nicholas Bracewell and the others arrived. When they heard what had happened, the newcomers understood the meaning of Cyril Paramore’s laughter. He knew of Sir Eliard’s flight.

‘I blame myself,’ said Nicholas bitterly. ‘We gave him too much time.’

Quilter sighed. ‘That’s what I feared, Nick.’

‘I thought we needed to round up the others first. Their confessions rip away any hope Sir Eliard has of defence. When we caught them, we tightened the noose around his neck. That was my reasoning.’

‘No matter. We simply run him to ground.’

Elias turned to one of the officers. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘To Oxford, it seems,’ replied the man. ‘The servants told us he has a house there. Sir Eliard and his wife travel by coach. That means they’ll leave by Ludgate. We’ll go after them and try to catch them up.’

‘Wait!’ advised Nicholas. ‘First, search the house.’

‘Yes,’ said Quilter. ‘That way you may be sure the bird has flown. You do not wish to gallop off on the road to Oxford if Sir Eliard and his wife are hiding here.’

‘That is not the only reason to go inside, Frank.’ Nicholas spoke to the officer. ‘Look in the counting house, my friend. You’ll find a body there. I can shed light on how the man came to die.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the officer.

He led his companions into the house to begin the search.

‘Why did you tell him that, Nick?’ asked Quilter. ‘It will only delay us.’

‘Come,’ urged Elias. ‘Let’s borrow horses and ride after the coach. We’ll find it long before these fellows.’

‘I’m sure that we would, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but to no advantage. I do not believe that Sir Eliard and his wife are inside it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he is too guileful to be caught like that. If he told the servants that he was heading for Oxford, that is the one place he will avoid. I’ll wager that he sent his coach through Ludgate to decoy us.’

‘He will surely need it himself,’ said Quilter.

‘I think not.’

‘How else could he and his wife travel?’

Nicholas pondered. He recalled the boasts that Anne Hendrik had endured from Lady Slaney. Her customer talked in fulsome terms about her husband’s properties. He owned a number of houses. To which of his expensive rabbit holes would Sir Eliard run?

Nicholas clocked his fingers.

‘Owen,’ he said.

‘Yes, Nick,’ replied the Welshman.

‘I must stay here to speak with the officers. A dead body must be explained. I’ve nothing to fear if I tell the truth. You must go to the quayside.’

‘Why?’

‘Find out which ships sail this evening.’

‘Is that how the devil is escaping?’

‘I believe that it may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘Hurry — and wait for us there.’

Elias nodded and set off down the street at a brisk pace. Quilter was mystified.

‘Are they fleeing the country, then?’ he asked in alarm.

‘It’s possible.’

‘Then that black-hearted rogue will outrun justice.’

‘No, Frank. We’ll catch him yet, I promise you.’

‘Will we?’

‘If the company will release us both for long enough.’

‘I’ll chase Sir Eliard to the ends of the earth.’

‘We’ll not need to go quite that far,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘There is one question I must ask, however. How good a sailor are you?’

Lord Westfield was in great pain. His head was pounding, his stomach aching and his gout at its most agonising. Alone in the parlour of his London house, he sat in a chair with his foot propped up on a stool. Ordinarily, he saw himself as a leader of fashion but he was not wearing any of his ostentatious apparel today. He had chosen a long gown for comfort and had taken off the shoe from his throbbing foot. A cup of wine stood within reach on the table. His physician had forbidden him to drink any more alcohol but it was the only thing that gave him any relief from the pain. Nothing, however, could still the turbulence in his mind. Whenever he contemplated the future, a rush of panic overtook him. It was the end. After years of unbridled extravagance, he was finally confronted with the reckoning. He could no longer borrow from one person in order to pay off another and gain a temporary respite. All his debts were in the hands of one man and they were being called in. Lord Westfield was compelled to face the truth. During his long years of overindulgence, he had been committing financial suicide.

A manservant knocked before entering the room with a tentative step.

‘You have a visitor, my lord,’ he said.

‘Send him away,’ replied the old man irritably. ‘I’ll receive nobody today.’

‘The gentleman was most insistent.’

‘I, too, am insistent. Whose house is this? His or mine?’