‘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.
Anne Hendrik had waited up for him. She had a light supper in readiness.
‘Welcome back!’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.
‘It is good to see the end of this day, Anne.’
‘Was it so distressing?’
‘My distress lay in the sight of another’s. Anne,’ he said, ‘today was nothing but a torture chamber for Frank Quilter. I thought he would never survive it.’
‘Did he hold up?’
‘Bravely.’
‘No small thanks to you, I dare venture.’
‘There was little I could do beyond bearing him company.’
Nicholas sat at the table and picked at the supper she had prepared for him. He told her little about the execution itself, suppressing its viler aspects completely. Anne was pleased to hear about his visit to Lawrence Firethorn.
‘You have bought Frank some time, then?’
‘Yes, Anne,’ he said. ‘He has time to recover and time to conduct his search.’
‘For what?’
‘The real killer of Vincent Webbe.’
‘Is there no question of his father’s guilt?’
‘None at all. Gerard Quilter went to his death like a wronged man, not like a skulking criminal. Frank talked so fondly of his father. He was a kind man, a gentle soul who avoided violence of any kind.’
‘How, then, did he become embroiled in a fight?’
‘That is one of the many things we have to find out, Anne. We have picked up the trail already. This evening, I accosted one of the witnesses from the trial.’
She was fascinated by his account of the visit to the Golden Fleece. Knowing him to be such a sound judge of character, she took his estimate of Bevis Millburne at face value. Anne was revolted at the idea that anyone could attend a public execution for pleasure before rushing off to sup in style at a tavern.
‘What sort of man would do such a thing, Nick?’ she asked.
‘It wounded Frank to the quick.’
‘I am not surprised,’ she said. ‘You mentioned that Master Millburne shared a table with three other people. Was the other witness, Master Paramore, among them?’
‘No, Anne. But then he is out of the country at present. That was something I gleaned from Bevis Millburne. Whom the two younger men at his table were, I have no idea, but I did hear the name of his other companion.’
‘And who was that?’
‘Sir Eliard Slaney.’
‘The moneylender?’
He was surprised. ‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘Yes, Nick.’
‘So had Frank Quilter,’ he said, ‘though nothing good about the fellow had come to his ears. By all accounts, Sir Eliard Slaney is a thorough scoundrel. What do you know of the fellow, Anne?’
‘Only what his wife has told me.’
‘His wife?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Lady Slaney is a client of mine. As it happens, I am making a hat for her at this very moment. She is one of our best customers.’