Chapter Four
A long and gruelling night had left Francis Quilter pale and drawn. Plagued by memories of his father’s execution and spurred on by thoughts of revenge, he had been unable to steal even a moment’s sleep. Instead, he tossed restlessly on his bed or paced up and down the narrow room. His brain was in such turmoil that it threatened to burst his skull apart. When he could no longer bear the pain, he quit his lodging and hurried to the parish church, spending an hour on his knees in humble supplication. It took its toll on him. By the time he met Nicholas Bracewell, early the next morning, he bore little resemblance to the handsome actor who attracted so much female admiration whenever he appeared onstage with Westfield’s Men. His friend did not recognise him at first. Nicholas peered more closely at him.
‘Is it you, Frank?’ he asked.
‘Good morrow, Nick.’
‘A better day for me than for you, it seems. What ails you?’
‘Grief has dressed me in its ghostly garb.’
‘Then we must find some means to allay that grief.’
‘A hopeless task, unless you bring my father back to me.’
‘His reputation can at least be restored.’
They met in Thames Street, close to the busy wharf where vessels returned as they sailed up the estuary from the English Channel. Quilter was early but Nicholas had nevertheless been there some time before him.
‘We might have enjoyed an hour or two more in bed, Frank,’ he said.
‘There’s no enjoyment of sleep for me.’
‘I’ve made enquiry. No ship is due from France until late afternoon at least. It will be several hours before Cyril Paramore sets foot on dry land again.’
‘I’ll be waiting for him,’ vowed Quilter.
‘Try to rest beforehand.’
‘No rest for me until this business is concluded.’
‘You will need to show patience,’ warned Nicholas. ‘It will take time.’
‘However long it takes, I’ll not falter.’
‘I make the like commitment.’
‘Thank you, Nick,’ said Quilter, embracing him. ‘You are a true friend. I fear that I leant too heavily on your kindness yesterday. It must have been near midnight when you finally got back to Bankside.’
‘One day was indeed about to slip into another.’
‘Anne will blame me for keeping you out so late.’
‘There was no word of reproach from Anne,’ said Nicholas fondly. ‘She was waiting up for me last night. Anne is a willing convert to your cause. She appreciates the anguish you have been through and wishes to lend her own help.’
‘Sympathy is welcome from any source, but I cannot see how Anne can help.’
‘That is because you have only met her as my friend. You have not seen her manage her business affairs in the adjoining house. She employs four hatmakers and a bright apprentice. Her late husband would be proud of the way she has made his enterprise grow.’
‘How does this advantage me, Nick?’
‘Anne is able to reach places denied to us.’
‘Places?’
‘The home of Sir Eliard Slaney, for instance.’
Quilter was astonished. ‘Anne is an acquaintance of his?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but she knows his wife, Rebecca, very well. Lady Slaney is a woman of discernment. She’ll not buy a hat from anyone but Anne Hendrik. Now do you see how she may render some assistance?’
‘I begin to, Nick.’
‘When I saw Master Millburne last night, he and Sir Eliard Slaney seemed to be the closest of friends. Why was Sir Eliard present at such a celebration?’
‘To gloat over the death of my father.’
‘Why so? What did the moneylender have against him? Was there a falling out between the two men? Did your father have any dealings with Sir Eliard Slaney?’
‘None, to my knowledge. But he always spat out the man’s name with disgust.’
‘Anne may be able to find out why.’
‘I would not have her put herself in danger on my account.’
‘From what I hear,’ said Nicholas, ‘she will have little difficulty in securing answers to her questions. Lady Slaney never ceases to prattle about her husband and his wealth. She takes every opportunity to boast of her good fortune.’
‘What sort of hats does Anne make for her?’
‘Ones that catch the eye, Frank. No expense is spared to achieve ostentation. It seems that Lady Slaney has a vanity that would rival that of Barnaby Gill.’
Quilter smiled wearily. ‘Barnaby’s attire certainly demands attention.’
‘He likes to be noticed.’
‘Lady Slaney and he are birds of a feather.’
‘Not quite, I think. Barnaby Gill has no parallel.’
‘Forget him for the moment,’ said Quilter. ‘My interest is in Anne’s customer. This is a stroke of fortune, Nick. Any information we can gain about Sir Eliard, or about his friendship with Bevis Millburne, will be valuable. I beg of you to thank Anne most sincerely on my behalf.’
‘I have already done so.’
‘Good. But what does the day hold for you?’
‘First, I’ll share a breakfast with a certain Frank Quilter.’
‘No, Nick. I’ll not stir from here until Cyril Paramore’s ship docks.’
‘You cannot wait on an empty stomach,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Come, there are ordinaries aplenty in Thames Street. We’ll choose one that is but a stone’s throw away.’
‘Well, if you wish,’ said Quilter with reluctant acquiescence. ‘But I’ll want to be back here at my post before long.’
‘So you shall, I promise you. I must away to the Queen’s Head.’
‘What play do you stage this afternoon?’
‘Love’s Sacrifice.’
‘The work of Edmund Hoode, is it not?’
‘None other, Frank. The title is one that pertains closely to its author.’
‘In what way?’
‘When you know Edmund better, you will understand. No man has made sacrifices to love so often and so recklessly. He still bears the scars. My fear is that another sacrifice is in the wind.’ He put an arm on Quilter’s shoulder. ‘Let’s away.’
‘What’s this about another sacrifice?’
‘The signs are all too evident.’
‘I thought that Edmund was absorbed with his new play.’
‘So did we all,’ said Nicholas, ‘but his behaviour tells another tale. I’ll talk to you about Edmund while we eat. He is truly a martyr to Dan Cupid.’
‘Oh, treason of the blood! This news will kill us all!’
Lawrence Firethorn was so furious that the veins stood out on his forehead like whipcord and his cheeks turned a fiery red. It seemed as if flames would shoot out from his nostrils at any minute. Stamping a foot, he waved both arms wildly in the air.
‘This is rank lunacy, Edmund!’ he yelled.
‘It is a considered decision,’ replied Hoode.
‘I see no consideration of me, or of the company, or of our patron. All that I see is an act of gross betrayal. Where is your sense of loyalty, man?’
‘It lies exhausted.’
‘I’ll not believe what I am hearing!’
‘You hear the plain truth, Lawrence.’
‘Then it is not Edmund Hoode that speaks to me,’ said Firethorn. ‘It is some sprite, some devil, some cunning counterfeit, sent here in his place to vex and torment us. You may look like the fellow we know and revere, but you do not sound like him.’
Hoode smiled serenely. ‘I am in love,’ he announced.
‘Heaven preserve us! Now you do sound like Edmund.’
They were at the Queen’s Head and Firethorn’s voice was booming around the inn yard, disturbing the horses in the stables, waking any travellers still abed in the hostelry and keeping other members of the company at bay. When their manager was in a temper, sharers and hired men alike tried to stay well out of his way. Barnaby Gill had no such trepidation. Attired with his usual flamboyance, he rode into the yard and he saw what appeared to be the familiar sight of Firethorn in full flow as he upbraided Hoode for some minor solecism. He dismounted, handed the reins to George Dart and strode across to the two men without realising the gravity of the situation. Doffing his hat, Gill gave them a mocking bow.