‘Preben is not married, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne, noting the blush that tinged his cheeks. ‘But how did you and Sir Eliard first meet?’
‘That is an interesting story.’
Lady Slaney told it as if she had rehearsed it many times, concentrating on her own role in the domestic saga yet confiding a great deal of information about her husband in the process. Anne memorised it in silence. It was only when the other woman came to the end of her tale that Anne had to prompt her.
‘You never told me
why
Sir Eliard went to Smithfield the other day.’
‘It was to watch a public execution.’
‘I know, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne, choosing her words with care, ‘but it seems unlike your husband to take pleasure from such an event. Judging from what you say of him, he is a fastidious man who would be offended by the spectacle. Only some personal interest could draw him to witness it, surely?’
‘I believe that he knew the wretch who was hanged for murder,’ said Lady Slaney off-handedly. ‘A man by the name of Gerard Quilter.’
‘He knew him?’
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘And did this Gerard Quilter ever visit your house?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘But you heard his name mentioned?’
‘With frequency.’
‘Was it spoken kindly?’
‘No, his character was treated harshly.’
‘Sir Eliard must have known him well to attend his execution. Is that true?’
Anne Hendrik had asked one question too many. She was so absorbed in her covert interrogation of Lady Slaney that she did not notice the figure who now stood in the doorway. Sir Eliard Slaney was filled with cold anger. Walking into the room, he glared at the visitors with undisguised suspicion. He towered over Anne.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
The applause that reverberated around the inn yard at the Queen’s Head was well-deserved. While not scaling the heights of which they were capable, Westfield’s Men had given a lively performance of a romp that was a perennial favourite with their audiences.
Cupid’s Folly
had entertained and exhilarated for two whole hours. Avice Radley had been as amused as anyone in the galleries. Seated on the cushion she had hired from one of the gatherers, she enjoyed every moment of the play, even though Edmund Hoode was not able to shine quite so brightly as an actor on this occasion. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias were the ruling triumvirate onstage and there was exceptional support from Richard Honeydew and the other apprentices. Knowing that his beloved was there, Hoode did all he could to match the leading actors but they overshadowed him with ease.
Avice Radley was mildly disappointed. Though she
intended to take him away from the company, she liked to be reminded of just how talented he was as an actor. Hoode’s creative skills would soon be put entirely at her disposal, making her as much of a patron as Lord Westfield. The difference was that she would not have to go to the Queen’s Head to endure the crush in the gallery, the stink from the commonalty below and the general rowdiness in order to appreciate Hoode’s brilliance. He would be hers alone, devoting his pen solely to her and creating a purer and more intense poetry. She would be his muse. Inspired by his wife, he would write and perform in the privacy of their home. It was the ideal recipe, she believed, for connubial delight.
Yet even as she luxuriated in thoughts of their future happiness, her gaze moved away from her captive playwright to the man who led the company with such verve and magnificence. Lawrence Firethorn was unquestionably the brightest star in their firmament. He acknowledged the ringing cheers from all quarters of the inn yard but he was looking directly at Avice Radley. When their eyes locked, she felt a tremor of surprise. Producing his most charming smile, he dedicated his next bow specifically to her then waved a hand familiarly in her direction before taking his company from the stage. She was baffled.
‘Moll Comfrey was your father’s
niece
?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell in amazement.
‘In a manner of speaking, Nick. She was the child of my uncle, Reginald, born out of wedlock and kept ignorant of
her true parentage for many years. Henry Cleaton showed me the letter that my father had written on her behalf.’
‘Did your uncle support the girl?’
‘For a while, it seems,’ said Francis Quilter, ‘but he died in poverty a couple of years ago. My uncle was a dissolute man, I fear. He was the ruination of his wife and family. Drink and gambling made him lose what little fortune he had and he was reduced to borrowing money at exorbitant interest. That was the real discovery in the lawyer’s office, Nick,’ he continued. ‘When he died, Uncle Reginald was heavily in debt. I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to guess the name of his chief creditor.’
‘Sir Eliard Slaney, perhaps?’
‘The same.’
‘So
that
is the connection with your father.’
‘It goes deeper,’ said Quilter. ‘According to Master Cleaton, my father did everything that he could to prevent his brother’s house from being possessed by Slaney in payment of his loan. They were in and out of court for month after month. It was a battle royal. That despicable usurer got the house in the end but it was a Pyrrhic victory. My father was a doughty litigant. In the course of their legal encounters, he wounded Slaney badly and won a substantial reduction in the amount of money owed.’
Nicholas was fascinated. ‘Your visit to the lawyer has been profitable.’
‘It was a revelation, Nick. I learnt so much about my own family. As you know, my father was very unhappy when I chose to join a theatre company. He and I lost touch
for some time.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You can imagine how much I regret that now.’
‘I can, Frank.’
‘The talk with Henry Cleaton opened my eyes.’
‘It also gave us the secret for which we’ve been searching, Frank.’
‘Secret?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sir Eliard Slaney’s motive for murder. Your father injured him severely in court. He wanted his revenge.’
They were walking briskly towards Smithfield. Once his duties at the Queen’s Head had been fulfilled, Nicholas had met up with Quilter to hear what had transpired at the lawyer’s office. As they headed for the site of Bartholomew Fair, important new facts were beginning to emerge. Nicholas sought clarification.
‘Why did your father give the letter to Moll?’ he asked.
‘Because he had taken on responsibility for her,’ said Quilter. ‘Even before his brother had died, he was the one who really cared for the girl. They met very rarely but he always gave her money when they did so. Uncle Reginald never acknowledged her as his daughter and my father did not want to distress his wife and family by telling them of Moll’s existence. Poor creature!’ he sighed. ‘When my father was hanged, she lost the one person in the world who showed her any parental love.’
‘It must have been an appalling blow for her.’
‘She was completely dazed, Nick. That’s why she forgot it.’
‘Forgot what?’
‘The letter,’ explained Quilter. ‘It was written two years ago. Moll was told that, in the event of my father’s death, she was to deliver it to his lawyer. But she put it away in the bottom of her basket and thought no more of it. Because she could not read, the letter had no real meaning for her.’
‘What did it contain?’
‘Provision for her in my father’s will. Master Cleaton said that there was a codicil, naming Moll Comfrey as one of the beneficiaries, if and when she presented the letter to the lawyer.’
‘It’s too late for that now,’ said Nicholas ruefully. ‘But I’m surprised that Master Cleaton told you nothing of the codicil before.’
‘He was forbidden to do so, Nick. My father never divulged anything to me about the girl. I suspect that he kept her existence hidden so that I would not think unkindly of Uncle Reginald. He was so protective towards his brother. And, of course,’ he went on, ‘there was no reason why I would ever learn the truth about Moll.’
‘No, Frank. Had your father died by natural means, she could have presented her letter to Master Cleaton and claimed her inheritance. You would have been none the wiser.’ Nicholas pursed his lips. ‘The fact that your father was executed as a murderer changed everything.’
‘That was the other discovery,’ said Quilter.
‘What was?’
‘The information I gleaned about the victim.’
‘Vincent Webbe?’
‘Yes, Nick,’ said Quilter. ‘I knew that Master Webbe had fallen on hard times, largely because of his own failings. What I had not understood until the lawyer told me was that Vincent Webbe, too, had been a client of Sir Eliard Slaney – just like my uncle.’
‘Had he borrowed heavily?’
‘Too heavily. He’d put his house in pawn.’
‘That signals desperation.’
‘He put the blame on my father. Master Webbe was no gentleman. I told you how he accosted us that time. He was so belligerent towards my father. If anyone had used such vile language to me, I would have had difficulty in staying my hand.’
Nicholas was thoughtful. ‘When Vincent Webbe died,’ he said, ‘his debts must still have been unpaid. What happened to his property?’
‘Sir Eliard Slaney took it into his possession.’
They walked on in silence. As they approached Smithfield, Quilter was starting to feel queasy, recalling the dire humiliation he had seen his father endure on their last visit to the place. Nicholas, meanwhile, was trying to sift through the new information that had come to light. It said much for Gerard Quilter that he had not only defended his brother against the extortionate demands of Sir Eliard Slaney, he had taken responsibility for an illegitimate daughter that his brother had fathered. His conduct throughout had been exemplary. The codicil that Gerard Quilter had added to his will indicated a man of compassion. Nothing he had ever heard about him suggested to Nicholas that he could be capable of murder.
Hundreds of yards away from Bartholomew Fair, they were aware of its presence. Pungent smells of all description were carried on the wind and a mild tumult could be heard. The vast majority of vendors and entertainers had now arrived, setting up their stalls and erecting their booths so close to each other that there appeared to be a continuous blaze of colour across Smithfield. Curious dogs and inquisitive children had come to look around, as did the local prostitutes and pickpockets, taking their bearings so that they could see where best to operate on the following day when huge crowds descended on the fair. When they plunged in among the booths, Nicholas caught a strong whiff of roast pig mingling with that of a dozen other aromas, including the stench of animal dung. Some of the performers were already practising their tricks, giving the watching children free entertainment. There was no sign of Lightfoot among the tumblers on display.
Nicholas asked for directions to the booth where Ned Pellow’s pies were sold. He and Quilter were soon introducing themselves to a big, bearded individual in a leather apron that shone like silver in the sun. Now in his fifties, Pellow was a giant of a man with thick eyebrows curving outwards from a central position above his nose before merging with his beard. His wife, Lucy, was equally large and even more hirsute, her long black hair trailing down her back like the tail of a mare, her craggy features, dark moustache and bristled chin making her look more like Pellow’s younger brother than his chosen bride. However unprepossessing they might look, the pair were
warm, friendly and caring. Both had been deeply fond of Moll Comfrey.
‘She was like the daughter we never had,’ said Pellow. ‘Lucy will tell you.’
‘Yes,’ said his wife in a voice that was little more than a squeak. ‘Moll was the sweetest girl in the world. It was a pleasure to know her. She always stayed with us when we met up at a fair or a market. Ned used to say it was because she had a taste for our pies but I like to think it was because she was fond of us.’
‘I’m sure she was,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lightfoot told us how good you were to her.’
‘Yet we let her down when she really needed us, sir,’ admitted Pellow, plucking a sizeable piece of pie from his beard. ‘So did Lightfoot. The three of us were sitting out here while that fiend was smothering her inside the booth. If I ever get my hands on the villain,’ he warned, flexing his muscles, ‘I’ll tear him to pieces.’
‘And I’ll help you, Ned,’ vowed his wife. ‘I want my share of his blood.’
‘You shall have it, Lucy. He took our Moll away.’
‘What did the constables say?’ asked Quilter.
‘They promised to look into the crime,’ replied Pellow bitterly, ‘but they made it clear that they would not do so with urgency. If a member of the nobility had been murdered in our booth, Smithfield would be crawling with officers of the law. Because she was only a bawdy basket, Moll does not rate any attention.’
‘She does from us,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘That’s why we
want to track down the killer. Anything you can tell us will be of value. What mood was Moll in when she went to bed? How did she seem when you peeped in on her? When did you discover that she had been murdered? What steps did you take?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Take your time. Every detail is important. We’ll be patient listeners.’
Pellow nodded vigorously. ‘We’ll tell you all we know, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘Moll had kind words to say of Nicholas Bracewell. She sensed you were a friend.’
Nicholas smiled but Quilter shifted his feet uneasily, knowing that he had made a bad impression on the girl at first. Both men waited for Ned Pellow to launch into his speech. Ably supported by his wife, who contributed additions and variations at every stage, he described what had happened from the moment when Moll had returned to the fair after her visit to the magistrate. When they reached the point where the dead body was discovered, man and wife wept copiously. Nicholas warmed to them. They were kind, generous, affectionate people who had adopted Moll Comfrey as their own, offering her free accommodation whenever they met.
‘How did the killer enter your booth?’ asked Nicholas.
‘He cut his way in with a knife, sir,’ replied Pellow. ‘Lucy had to sew the tear up again this morning. I’ll show you the place, if you wish.’