Authors: John Pilkington
I
N THE MID-MORNING
, Betsy rose and took a dish of porridge in Mother Curll’s kitchen. Apart from a taciturn servant, nobody seemed to be up yet and the house was quiet. Not wishing to stay indoors, she ventured outside to look around.
The house, she now saw, stood on the edge of the little country village of Egham. There was a stable at one side, and a pathway leading off through some trees. Betsy took it, finding herself at last by the Thames, which flowed gently eastward. There were small boats upon the water, and men fishing on the far bank, while in the fields beyond sheep and cattle grazed. The place was tranquil, yet she was uneasy. Slowly she began walking by the riverside, pondering the bizarre set of events that had led her here. She was still deep in thought when
hoof-beats
behind startled her. Looking round, she saw Marcus Mullin riding towards her.
‘Here you are!’ he called, as he reined in. ‘I thought I’d find you indoors.’ He dismounted, then dropped the halter. The horse dipped its head and fell to cropping grass.
‘Indeed?’ Betsy said. ‘And how long would it be before someone assumed I was for hire, like the other occupants?’
‘Nonsense,’ the captain retorted. ‘It’s a perfect hiding-place …’ His gaze wandered to the river. ‘Anyway, I have tidings. Let’s take a stroll, shall we?’ So the two of them began walking, while Betsy listened to his news.
‘Windsor is abuzz with those here for the racing, at Datchet Mead,’ Mullin told her. ‘Across the water in Datchet village it’s
the same. Plenty of trade for the locals – especially the ferryman, who takes people back and forth. I was glad to find him a talkative fellow. Like everyone else, he can’t wait for the King’s arrival. So I ventured to ask him if he knew of any
odd-looking
group who may have rented a house nearby – and I was lucky. In short, I believe Prynn and his fellows are here already!’
Betsy started. ‘Won’t they be using false names?’
‘No doubt they are,’ Mullin replied. ‘But they stand out from the usual sporting men. A party of three or four strangers, the ferryman says, have taken over a near-derelict cottage opposite Black Potts – that’s an island in the river, where the King
sometimes
goes fishing. They’ve been here for days, yet they don’t fish – and one of them sounds to me as if he might be Thomas Prynn.’
‘Then why delay?’ Betsy was anxious now. ‘Surely you must inform the nearest authority—’
‘What, some dim-witted constable?’ Mullin gave a snort. ‘That could ruin everything! We have to be sure of our ground – which means waiting until they show their hand. Only when the scheme is laid bare can I make a move and spoil their game, otherwise where’s the evidence?’
‘You mean, wait until the assassin breaks cover?’ Betsy said, aghast. ‘But that would mean putting the King’s life in danger. Anything might happen!’
‘It might.’ Mullin looked behind to where his horse was quietly grazing. ‘But I see no other way. Once I’ve managed to get a look at Prynn’s little “family” as Venn called them, I don’t intend to let them out of my sight. All through the races I’ll be close by the King – and the moment one of them tries to get near him, I’ll be ready.’
‘Mullin, listen.’ Betsy faced him. ‘You can’t do this alone. Even if Wrestler’s told Mr Lee everything by now, he may not be able to help us. The King will be on his way here already—’
‘Yes, yes …’ The captain sighed. ‘But come what may, I have to stop the assassin.’ He hesitated, then, ‘Let’s say it’s become a matter of pride.’
‘Well … then what about our disguise?’ she asked, seeing there was no persuading him. ‘Are we still to be Sir Girvan and Lady Mullin?’
‘Ah – I’ve had thoughts about that. It would mean moving to Windsor or Datchet, where either of us might meet people who know us – especially you. Supposing the King has Nelly with him? She’d soon recognize you. She may be as coarse as a heifer, but she’s no fool.’
At that Betsy fell silent. There was no doubt that, as a woman of the stage, she was recognizable – as she and Nell Gwyn, the former actress and now one of His Majesty’s mistresses, were acquainted. Moreover, among the collection of noblemen, gallants and hangers-on who followed the King about, there would likely be others who knew her. She tried to think of some solution, when suddenly Mullin brightened.
‘By God, I have it: I’ll become a jockey!’
‘Well, that might serve,’ she replied, in some surprise. ‘You’re a good horseman, if somewhat tall for the role.’
‘No matter – it’s perfect!’ Quickly Mullin warmed to his idea. ‘That way I can be in the thick of things without attracting
attention
– and for that matter, so can you.’
‘Me? How do I fit in?’
‘You can be the horse’s owner – or rather, his wife. Fashion a tale about your husband being too ill to attend … You’ve come in his place, to cheer your horse on. Think of a new name – wear a lot of paint and powder, perhaps. I don’t need to advise you on your appearance, do I?’
‘Not if, as it would appear, you’ve decided upon it,’ Betsy said drily. ‘Perhaps you’d better find me a large hat, whereby I can keep my face hidden—’
‘And I’ve another idea,’ Mullin broke in, without listening. ‘You should lodge in Windsor or Datchet after all. A jockey can stay anywhere, but a gentlewoman needs a good room, and a maid to attend her. Provided you remain discreet and stay clear of people you recognize, you should fare well enough.’
‘And how do we pay for that?’ Betsy enquired. ‘I’ll need new clothes.’
‘That’s my idea!’ The captain wore a look of triumph. ‘My horse isn’t a true racer, of course, but he’s the better of the two. Your mare, on the other hand, we can sell!’
‘But … she isn’t ours to sell,’ Betsy faltered. ‘What if—?’
‘Oh, the devil with that!’ Mullin waved a hand. ‘Once it’s all over, Williamson can pay.’ He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Just to see the look on that skinflint’s face, would be worth any risk! Now, I’d better go back to Mother’s stable and get your horse. Are you coming?’
Back at Mother Curll’s house, however, Betsy was unwilling to go inside. She couldn’t help but think she would be in the way – and perhaps take up a chamber that was needed for other purposes. She waited while Mullin tethered his mount, then accompanied him into the stable … where both of them stopped.
A man in shirtsleeves stood with his back to them, grooming a sleek, dappled-grey horse. Hearing footsteps he turned round and Betsy stiffened. She realized this was the person Mullin had meant, who seemed familiar to him. She saw a slim,
well-proportioned
man in his thirties, who peered at her from a pleasant, if weatherbeaten, face. When she put on a faint smile, he spoke up.
‘You didn’t mention that your companion was such a beauty, Mr Dark,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Your cousin, I
understand
. Is that not so, madam?’ And he returned Betsy’s smile, while with his eyes he let her know that, like Mother Curll, he didn’t believe that tale for a moment.
‘We’re here to fetch the mare, Blunt.’ Mullin addressed the other man haughtily. ‘Don’t let us detain you.’ He stepped past him to the furthest stall, and busied himself saddling Betsy’s horse. But the man who used the name Blunt continued to pay attention to her.
‘What brings you to this spot, madam?’ he enquired.
‘I’m merely passing through,’ Betsy answered. She, too, was suspicious; as whorehouse bullies went, this man looked an unlikely sort for such a job.
‘To the races?’ Blunt went on. ‘Indeed, it’s the best time to be here. I’m trying my luck with this one – Silverfoot, I call him.’ He patted the grey horse affectionately, at which the animal tossed its head.
‘You mean, you’re a jockey?’ Betsy was taken aback. Over by the stall, she knew Mullin was listening.
‘Of a kind,’ Blunt answered. ‘There’s to be a race at the end of the first day, open to all comers. It’s a new event – The Roman Plate. The King himself will reward the winner with a silver platter. Worth a try, eh?’
With that he grinned, turned away and resumed brushing the horse. But Betsy’s heart had jumped, and when she glanced towards Mullin she caught his eye: The Roman Plate.
Once again, she saw Venn’s haggard face in the prison yard, as he spilled his testimony. Williamson had not understood that part, but now, the intelligencers knew better. The Roman Plate was a horse-race, open to anyone – and the King would present the prize. That was when the assassin would strike.
She turned quickly and went out. A moment later Mullin appeared, leading her horse. They looked at each other, but no words were needed. And very soon, after the captain had helped her into the saddle, the two of them were riding the short distance upriver to Windsor. After a while they spoke of Blunt and what he had said, and were in agreement.
But though he racked his brains for a memory, Mullin still couldn’t remember where he had seen the man before.
By the end of the afternoon, all domestic matters had been settled.
Once again, Betsy had to give credit to Mullin for his speedy work. In a matter of hours he had sold her hired horse to a dealer in Windsor, who, by good fortune, was too near-sighted
to notice the brand on its flank. He had then brought her baggage from Mother Curll’s and, newly in funds, hurried about purchasing second-hand clothes for the two of them. So it was that, by evening, Betsy was established in the last available chamber at the Five Bells Inn in Datchet. Though she had talked Mullin out of hiring a servant: even if one could be found at short notice, that was an extravagance too far.
Instead, she made the best of the frocks and petticoats, relieved to find that he had bought garments of about the right size. There was also a hat, and a good outdoor gown. For his part, Mullin had obtained tight breeches and a close-fitting blouse of the kind jockeys wore, along with a new coat,
stockings
and shoes. Thus attired, the two of them felt equipped for their roles – even if the difficulties they faced seemed as stark as ever.
‘Remember: you’re the wife of George Smith, a gentleman farmer from Yorkshire,’ the captain reminded her. ‘I’m merely your husband’s jockey, so treat me like one. And don’t pretend to know about horses. You’re merely here—’
‘To see ours run,’ Betsy finished wryly. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget, am I? Now, to borrow your phrase, shall we cease this prating? I want to know what you’ve found out about the men up at… where is it? Back Potts.’
The two of them were in her chamber overlooking the street, finishing a hasty supper. Mullin had come in half an hour ago, having been out on a foray. From outside came sounds of activity: Datchet, a village scarcely any bigger than Egham, was already swollen to twice its size with visitors. Here, at the nearby manor house, the King would stay. Betsy meanwhile, must play yet another part: again, a role for which she would receive no credit.
‘
Black
Potts, yes …’ Mullin dabbed his mouth with a napkin and got up from the table. He was restless, as nervous of the morrow as Betsy. Moving to a window seat, he sat down.
‘I rode by there, without getting too close,’ he told her. ‘The
cottage is easy to find, though shaded by trees. The island’s wooded – and there’s a rowing boat moored nearby.’ He grimaced. ‘Too easy to escape, for my liking – they could cross the river before anyone reached the ferry. As for the occupants …’ He paused. ‘Now, here’s a curious thing: there appear to be but two men there.’
‘I thought the ferryman said there were more,’ Betsy said.
‘He did. Perhaps the others have gone – I know not. But the important part is, one of them is indeed a white-haired fellow who fits our picture of Thomas Prynn. The other’s a younger man …’ A frown creased his brow. ‘I didn’t get a proper look, but something troubles me. For, try as I might, I can’t see him as our assassin.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Betsy asked sharply. ‘Neither of us has ever seen him. Only Wrestler could identify him—’
‘I know that.’ Mullin glanced outside where lights showed at the houses opposite. ‘But this man was too portly; he doesn’t look the part. Our quarry’s as agile as a cat – and far more dangerous. Which is why I think he’s not with them – indeed, he may not even be here yet. Their plans could have changed in the time we were still in the Provinces – or more likely, the fellow stays apart, so the three won’t be seen together. Yet they haven’t called the scheme off, or they wouldn’t be here.’ Turning from the window, he faced her. ‘I see only one solution: to confront them and get at the truth.’
‘What?’ Betsy was aghast. ‘You said we must let them show their hand – catch the assassin in the act!’
‘But think of our position now,’ Mullin countered. ‘I don’t know where the killer is; he could be under our very noses, in some disguise. I can’t watch everyone. By the time he made his move I could be too late – and we have but a day left.’ He sighed. ‘I know what you’ll say,’ he went on, ‘that I should tell the constables, or hire some other help.’
‘No, I won’t say such.’ Betsy, too, dabbed her mouth, and sat back. ‘Perhaps there’s a way for me to get close to the King,
while you move about …’ She frowned. ‘You aren’t really intending to race your horse, are you?’
‘Of course I am!’ Mullin retorted. ‘I’ll enter for The Roman Plate. If I don’t, yet go about dressed as a jockey, I’ll stick out like a fool. Don’t you see – one sniff of a trap, and our man will be away!’
‘I do see,’ Betsy replied. ‘And I also see that a jockey might find it difficult to get close to the King. You’ll be on horseback – by the time you dismount, it could be too late. And what if you fell off, or—?’
‘Thank you, Brand!’ Irritably, Mullin got to his feet. ‘I can stay on a horse, I assure you. And despite your low opinion of me, I might even win the race – had that not occurred to you? In which case I’d be in a good position to protect His Majesty when he presents the prize, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, flap-sauce!’ Betsy, too, stood up. ‘That’s hoping for a little too much, isn’t it? Not only is your horse unfit for making such speed, so are you! Could you outrun that slippery fellow in Egham – Mother Curll’s flirtatious servant?’