Authors: John Pilkington
‘Oh, cods …’ With sinking heart, Betsy backed away. But then Alida was at her side, tugging at her gown. She too spoke rapidly, though her words needed no translation. Together, the two women moved to the entrance. Men pointed at them, and there were dark looks, but mercifully no one tried to stop them. Finally they were through the door, and safely outside.
But, as they hurried away through the rain, sounds still
carried from inside the inn, and followed them along the street: the screeching of Churston’s woman-friend, and the noise of his cough. It sounded like a death-rattle.
‘A
NGELS OF MERCY
preserve me – what must I do with you?’ In exasperation, Marcus Mullin stared at Betsy. She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a posset, while he stood across from her. Both women had returned wet from their foray to the Bok, but Alida had stoked the fire, and the room was warm. Outside dusk was falling, and the girl was preparing supper. The captain had only just returned – in a poor humour – and what Betsy had told him merely worsened it.
‘That was rash in the extreme,’ he went on. ‘You were lucky not to get into a fight with Churston’s whore – in which case she’d likely have torn your eyes out! You should have taken Crabb instead of Alida. She’s not—’
‘I know what she is, Mullin,’ Betsy broke in. ‘And she did well enough. Where is Wrestler, by the way?’
‘How should I know?’ came the terse reply. ‘And please oblige me by not changing the subject! If you’d told me what you were going to do, I might have been able to assist. As it is you’ve simply put Churston on his guard. Though from what I hear the fellow’s just a hanger-on anyway, a ne’er-do-well Lacy amuses himself with. You’ve learned nothing new, apart from the fact that he’s a Papist. So are many in this town – it matters not a jot.’
But Betsy shook her head. ‘The man knows something, I’m certain. When he told me I was in danger and I should leave, he was in earnest. Which makes me wonder—’
‘Don’t tell me you think he’s a part of this damned conspiracy,’ Mullin interrupted. ‘The man’s too sick to climb a staircase!’
‘Indeed, I don’t know what to think,’ Betsy said, thinking of the sorry figure Churston cut. ‘May we talk of something else? Did you find Lacy and get him drunk, as you intended?’
‘I did not.’
With a sigh, the captain sat down. ‘It seems he’s gone from Delft, but will return tonight. I thought …’ He hesitated. ‘No, I’ve a better idea. I think you and I should pay the man a visit and confront him – put the fear of God into him!’
Betsy showed her surprise. ‘Aren’t you the one who’s being rash now?’ she enquired.
‘Perhaps. But in truth, I’m tired of walking on eggshells – I want some answers.’ In sudden irritation Mullin banged his fist on the table, causing Alida to look round.
‘We need answers, Brand,’ he repeated, lowering his voice. ‘And the one who seems likely to have them is Lacy. Apart from this phantom priest, of course …’ He frowned. ‘The Papists are a close community. Surely we ought to be able to trace the man – especially as he seems to have left the
Papenhoek
in a hurry. What mischief did he get up to, I wonder? Try to ravish a nun – or a novice?’
Betsy shrugged – then, as Mullin’s words sank in she gave a start. ‘Perhaps that’s exactly what he did!’ she exclaimed. All at once she had a memory of the nervous young acolyte who had admitted her to the Jesuit church. ‘Martins spoke of grave sins – perhaps too grave for his confessional. In which case, you should ask among the gossips yourself. After all, in your eyes I’m merely a blunderer. I’m surprised you want me there when you confront Lacy. At sight of me, he’ll throw a fit.’
‘But it’s precisely
because
your presence will unsettle him that I want you there,’ Mullin retorted, with a gleam in his eye. ‘Shock tactics, madam. I wasn’t an officer of horse for nothing.’
He sighed again, and began to relax. ‘For now, I confess I’m mighty hungry … what’s holding up our supper?’
But that night, the peace of the household was shattered.
It happened not in the small hours, but soon after midnight. Betsy had retired to her chamber, though she couldn’t sleep. Alida slept on a pallet by the window, and her snores filled the room. Mullin, who had the small chamber nearest the stairs, was not yet abed. Betsy had left him and Crabb talking in the parlour, the younger man having returned after dark with nothing to report. Outside the rain had ceased, but a wind had got up, and the old house creaked.
Wrapped in a bertha against the draughts, Betsy found herself frowning. The events of the past few days ebbed and flowed in her mind, as she tried to make sense of them. She was intrigued by the way things moved, but her thoughts were clouded by unease. Her inescapable conclusion, as Crabb had said, was that Mr Lee’s family were no nearer to breaking the plot she had stumbled upon, back in the King’s Bench prison. The thought was almost enough to make her lose heart.
Across the room, Alida turned on her pallet and muttered in her sleep. Betsy turned too, and tried to empty her mind. Usually, she only lay awake when she had speeches to
memorize
… and now her thoughts drifted to the Duke’s Theatre. She fancied she stood on its stage, in a part she didn’t know well: that of Lady Waspish, whom she had not played after all. She saw the footlight candles before her, and heard the crowd. At last her eyes closed, and she began to drift into sleep … until a loud crash shook her awake.
It was followed by a scream. For a moment Betsy thought of Eleanor, back in the house near the Oude Kierke – then she
realized
it had come from inside her room. She was about to call to Alida, when, in the half-light, she saw the girl sitting up,
apparently
unharmed.
‘
Mevrouw
!’ Alida clambered out of bed. But from downstairs
came shouting – and Betsy’s heart jumped. Some dreadful
repetition
seemed to be taking place, of that night in the other house!
‘Stay there!’ She was up, the bare floorboards cold under her feet. Then as more noises came from below, she turned to the door.
‘
Mevrouw
–
nee
!’ Alida cried, but Betsy ignored her: she knew something terrible had happened. She found the door, unlocked it and threw it open and, as she stepped out, Mullin’s voice flew up from downstairs.
‘Down here!’ he shouted. ‘Crabb’s wounded!’
Betsy froze. Behind her Alida stumbled from their room, whimpering. But she heard Mullin’s voice again – then another’s, low but unmistakable. Turning to the girl, she took hold of her by the shoulders.
‘Listen, Wrestler’s hurt,’ she said. ‘We have to help him!’ With that she hurried down the stairs. But, as she gained the ground floor, her spirits almost failed her.
Peter Crabb was lying sprawled on his back. Beside him in his shirt-sleeves knelt Mullin, swearing roundly. He was pressing downwards, apparently on Crabb’s upper arm. Light came from a lantern in the parlour doorway, where someone had seemingly left it.
‘Stir yourself! Find cloths, and tell the girl to fetch water!’ The captain turned on Betsy, his face livid – whereupon a grunt came from the prostrate figure.
‘Tie it,’ Crabb muttered. ‘Staunch the flow….’
‘Don’t talk – I know what to do.’ Mullin bent to him again, keeping pressure on his arm, while over his shoulder he proceeded to call out in Dutch. Hearing footfalls, Betsy looked up to see Alida descending, and quickly mastered herself. Leaving Mullin, she flew up the stairs, brushing past the girl. In her bedchamber she began ransacking her portmanteau for linen. Clutching an armful, she ran out again and got herself downstairs.
‘Tie his arm with this,’ she breathed, thrusting a silk stocking at Mullin. ‘Where is he hurt?’
‘Where do you think?’ He snatched the garment from her and jerked his head at Crabb – and only now did she see the blood soaking his shirt-sleeve. The captain was twisting the stocking into a cord. From the floor, Crabb spoke up again.
‘It was a short-sword again,’ he muttered. ‘I’d swear it … Italian, I think. I nearly got it off him … the same man …’
‘Quiet!’ Mullin ordered. He fumbled with the stocking, whereupon Betsy lost patience.
‘Give that to me,’ she snapped. ‘You tear his shirt open. Keep the pressure on while I fashion the tourniquet – you’ll have to lift him up so I can tie it.’ She thought the other would rail again, but instead he thrust the garment at her, his hands covered in blood.
‘Very well … give me a cloth.’ And, when she handed him a shift, he took it, balled it and pressed it to Crabb’s shoulder. From the kitchen came the sound of water pouring.
‘
Alida – haast u
!’ Calling over his shoulder, Mullin moved aside. ‘When I take my hands away, swab the wound,’ he ordered. ‘Then I’ll lift his arm while you slip the tourniquet under. Bind it tight, close to the shoulder. When I put my finger there, knot it again – can you do that?’
Breathing steadily, Betsy nodded. Side by side the two of them worked to save the life of the young man who had saved hers – and suddenly she found herself talking. ‘Don’t move, Wrestler,’ she said, as she fashioned the cord. ‘We’ll patch you up … though you won’t be jumping into canals again. Likely you’ll be excused duties … lie on a couch like the Grand Turk, while Alida feeds you. I’ll even feed you myself – how would you like that?’
‘I’d like it … well …’ Crabb’s voice came between breaths. Now Alida appeared carrying a basin, and Mullin issued instructions. The girl put it down and stepped away. Taking the blood-soaked shift from Mullin, Betsy dunked it in the water. When he tore Crabb’s shirt she leaned forward, trying not to look too closely at the ugly wound, and wiped the worst of the
blood away. Crabb twitched, then groaned as Mullin raised him, but Betsy moved quickly. It was only a moment’s work to thrust the tourniquet under Crabb’s arm and draw it tight. The captain lowered him to the floor and pressed his finger to the knot so she could tie it again. Then she sat back, breathing hard – but immediately Mullin got to his feet.
‘Stay with him,’ he ordered, moving off. ‘Give him brandy, and make him comfortable until I get back.’
‘Where are you going?’ Betsy asked, but he had disappeared into the parlour. Soon he reappeared, pulling on his coat.
‘To fetch a surgeon, of course.’
‘But … won’t he ask questions?’
‘He can ask whatever he likes,’ Mullin threw back. ‘It matters not, because Crabb won’t be here much longer. As soon as he can walk I’m sending him home. Now, lock up when I’ve gone!’ With that he unlocked the door, opened it with its bone-jarring squeal and went out.
Betsy turned back to Peter Crabb, to see him regarding her with a strained smile. ‘I like that … about home,’ he murmured. ‘For once I won’t argue …’ Then he closed his eyes and sank into unconsciousness.
It was dawn before the surgeon finished his work. Methodically he packed his bag, talking in Dutch to Mullin. He was an old man, grey-haired and bespectacled. Mullin answered him mechanically, his face drawn in the light from the parlour windows. Meanwhile Peter Crabb lay asleep on the broken couch, his legs draped over its end. His left arm was bound in a sling. Betsy sat beside him on a stool, where she had been for much of night.
‘The surgeon says he’ll sleep for a day,’ Mullin said, turning to her. ‘He’s sewn the wound and given him a draught.’
He looked away and spoke again. After a moment the surgeon bent his head to Betsy and moved to the door. Mullin followed him out. When he returned he found her on her feet, gazing at the sleeping figure.
‘So – to business,’ he said briskly. When she didn’t reply, he cleared his throat. ‘Alida will look after him,’ he went on. ‘You and I have work to do … and early morning’s the best time to do it.’
‘Work?’ Betsy faced him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean confronting Lacy!’ There was an angry gleam in Mullin’s eyes. ‘By the time I’ve finished with him, he’ll have told me everything – that’s a promise.’ Then his face clouded. ‘Or, perhaps you wish me to go alone,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I would understand, if—’
‘Would you, indeed?’ Betsy broke in. But when the captain braced himself for the expected onslaught, she flagged. She had been about to give rein to her anger; now it seemed pointless. ‘I still don’t know what happened,’ she said finally. ‘How the man got in, I mean …’ She shook her head. ‘Can we be sure it was the one who killed Eleanor – and who came to kill me?’
After a moment Mullin nodded. ‘I think we can. Crabb will tell us more when he wakes. I saw nothing – I’d fallen asleep. The first thing I heard was the sound of a struggle.’ He grimaced. ‘The fellow got in through a window in the kitchen, that much I know. The frame’s rotten … any fool could force it. Crabb must have heard him. They grappled … I suppose the fellow bolted after he’d drawn blood. Our friend’s lucky to be alive.’
‘Lucky?’ Betsy glanced at Crabb’s face and sighed. ‘Well then, how soon will it be before he can take ship?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mullin sounded impatient. ‘And there’s nothing more we can do for him now, except follow our course. But if you need to rest—’
‘No.’ Betsy met his eye, for her mind was suddenly clear. ‘I’m coming with you. Though if you go barging into Lacy’s house, you’ll have his servant to deal with – which may be no easy matter.’
But a grim smile appeared on the other’s face. ‘That’s not quite what I had in mind,’ he said. ‘Now, would you care to get dressed? We have some walking to do.’
In the early morning light Thomas Lacy’s house stood silent, its windows shuttered. The canal was quiet, boats swaying gently at their moorings. The streets too were empty, though smoke rose from nearby chimneys. Some distance away, on a corner, Betsy and Mullin stood gazing at the entrance from which she and Alida had fled, but two days ago.
‘You have your speech?’ The captain murmured.
‘I do,’ she answered. ‘But you’d better not take too long … my wits aren’t up to improvising at this hour.’
‘Remember, count to fifty before you move. And don’t—’
‘There’s no need to direct me, Mullin,’ Betsy broke in. ‘Just don’t disappoint me, either.’ Whereupon her companion gave a nod, turned and slipped away down the alley behind them.
Feeling somewhat foolish, Betsy began to count. Meanwhile her eyes swept the street, the canal and houses. To her relief nobody appeared, and when at last she reached fifty, she
gathered
her skirts and walked quietly to Lacy’s front door. Mounting the steps, she knocked, waited, then knocked again.
A minute passed, and there was no response. Anxiously she scanned her surroundings, starting as a whirring came from overhead. But it was only a flock of pigeons, that wheeled and flew off. Then the sound of a bolt alerted her and, as soon as the door opened, she went into action.