Authors: John Pilkington
But the other wouldn’t let go. ‘Odd thing for a friend to do, manhandling her like that,’ he grunted.
‘Er … Mr Wrestler.’ Betsy put on a smile. ‘I’m most grateful – you’re a true gallant. But—’
She broke of, for footsteps were approaching. And at last the big man released his captive, whereupon Venn spoke to the warder who hurried up. ‘No harm done,’ he said. ‘Just a tiff.’ And with that he walked briskly away. The guard watched him go, then glared at Betsy.
‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘I’m new, and I’m—’
‘I know who you are!’ the warder retorted. ‘And
what
you are.’ He turned to the wrestler. ‘I warned you, this isn’t the Bear Garden. Next time, you’ll get a lashing!’
‘Please,’ Betsy forced a smile. ‘This man’s done nothing wrong—’ But when a truncheon was thrust under her nose, she gulped.
‘Don’t wrangle with me!’ the jailer growled. ‘Your kind always bring trouble – get back inside!’ And after giving her a shove, he stalked away.
Betsy’s heart was pounding. With a last look at the giant she started off, but to her alarm, the man drew close.
‘You need to take more care in the King’s Bench,’ he murmured, in a different voice. ‘Folk aren’t always what they seem.’ And when Betsy looked up sharply, he dropped his voice to a whisper.
‘I’m here to help you. My name’s Peter Crabb, and I serve the same masters as you. It’s I who’ll fix your escape when you’re ready. All you need do is pass me in the yard, and tell me you saw a white rat.’
And with that he turned abruptly, and was gone.
T
HREE MORE NIGHTS
passed in the prison, and by the morning of her fifth day, Betsy was close to despair.
It wasn’t the smells, the dirt or the hunger, or even the lice she had picked up from her wretched companion that troubled her; she had grown used to those. It wasn’t the dark looks she got from her male cellmates, or the leering glances of guards, who wondered why she had yet to offer herself in return for an easier life. Nor was it the sullen silence of Venn, who had not spoken to her since their encounter in the yard. The biggest strain of all, she found, was keeping up her performance as a common trull who’d been unlucky.
In those few days Betsy had learned a lot about prison – and about herself too. So far her resolve had held firm, which was a comfort; thinking about why she was here helped. And if her spirits flagged, especially at night, she managed to revive them in the daytime when she walked the yard, the rain having given way to sunshine and clouds. The lack of food was a worry: she knew she couldn’t live like this much longer without growing weak. A greater fear was illness: even if she escaped whatever disease the shrivelled woman had, she might contract another. An alarming number of the prisoners were sick, she discovered.
But what surprised Betsy most was discovering how soon she had tired of her role, and how she yearned to cast it off. For as long as she could remember she had wanted to go upon the stage. And though the life was hard at times, she wished for no
other. Her friends, all those she loved apart from Tom Catlin and Peg, were people of the theatre. Even the noisy London audience with their boos and catcalls – they too were a part of her life outside. Now, each time she used the vile, stinking prison jakes, or forced down another mouthful of watery gruel, or scratched her own skin, her desire to stop acting grew. She began to long for home, and for comfort. To wash herself, put on a clean chemise and stockings, and have Peg dress her hair. In a very short time, such luxuries had begun to seem
impossibly
remote. In fact, thinking of them only made her feel worse. Which was why, on the fourth day, she made a decision. Somehow she must contrive to speak to Venn again soon, and get something out of him: anything that would serve to show Lord Caradoc she’d tried her best. If not, she would have failed; whereupon her only course, it appeared, was to find Peter Crabb and tell him she’d seen a white rat.
Like Venn, the young giant had not been near her since that first morning. And though she saw him outdoors, he always refrained from looking her way. Today – it was Friday: she had been careful to count the days – was no exception.
Eyes down as usual, Betsy moved listlessly around the yard. In her pocket was a crust of hard bread which she’d saved for later. The air was chilly, but she no longer noticed. A layer of grime coated her body, which perhaps protected her a little. She sniffed, realizing she no longer noticed how her clothes stank. And she realized something else: the disdainful sniff she’d adopted for her role had become part of her too. Idly, she wondered if she would lose it when she finally got out of here; assuming she did get out, of course.
She stopped. Suddenly she heard Peg, warning her about
falling into the mulligrubs
– one of her favourite expressions. Then she pictured Tom Catlin in his russet waistcoat … and before she knew it, her eyes filled. Neither Tom nor Peg knew where she was. She’d been forced to concoct a tale about staying with an actress friend who was ill – more deceit. Though even
those lies paled compared to the ones she had told Betterton and others at the Duke’s Theatre – at the thought of which, she bent her head in shame. There in the yard she dug her nails into her palm, while tears ran down her cheeks. She was wiping them with her sleeve when a low voice spoke at her shoulder.
‘I had to wait, to be certain. I’d have given it more time, if I could. But we’ll speak now, if you’re willing.’
Slowly and rather dully, Betsy lifted her head to find herself face to face with Venn. Instead of replying, she merely stared at him.
‘You’ve stayed longer than I thought,’ he said. His eyes roved about anxiously. ‘You must understand: I can’t trust anyone. But I don’t have a deal of choice, so we’d better talk. You said you knew Tom Prynn – but how did you know me?’
‘The birthmark.’ Betsy’s mouth was dry. But faintly, almost reluctantly, hope stirred within her. ‘On your right hand. The hammerhead.’
Venn nodded quickly. ‘And Tom – what can you tell me of him? Is he a dark man, or is he fair? Tall, or short? Speak now – I must be sure of you.’
‘He’s neither.’ Betsy eyed him. ‘He’s of middling height – and what hair he’s got is white. Does that answer you?’
Then she waited. Venn couldn’t know that she had just used up the last fact she knew about Thomas Prynn, a man she’d never set eyes on; but mercifully, it was enough.
‘Thanks be to God!’ Suddenly, the other sagged. ‘Your pardon, mistress, for what I did when you accosted me,’ he muttered. ‘I was angry – I thought you were … well, you can guess, can’t you?’
Weak with relief, Betsy gave a nod. The change in the man was remarkable: he now looked desperate. She found herself looking round too, almost as anxiously as he had done.
‘It’s forgotten,’ she lied, thinking fast. ‘I … I’ve got no news, as such. Have you?’
‘I have – and in God’s name, I’m mighty glad to tell it!’
Quickly Venn took her arm. ‘Walk with me,’ he said. ‘I may not get another chance – likely one in our cell’s a trepanner. I thought it was you …’ He screwed up his eyes. ‘I daren’t rest,’ he went on. ‘I spend the nights with this in my sleeve.’ Glancing down, Betsy saw the glint of a pocket dagger, which he quickly stowed away. And though she had no idea what a trepanner was, she kept quiet; the man was as eager to talk as she was to listen. At once, they began walking.
‘First, tell me your name,’ he said.
‘It’s Beatrice.’ She used the cover name given her by Caradoc.
‘Well, Beatrice,’ – Venn squeezed her arm – ‘I pray you have the means to get word outside – for I can’t.’
‘I have such,’ Betsy told him, hoping he wouldn’t ask her for details. But he was too impatient for that.
‘Then listen well,’ he said, ‘for there are matters that must be addressed. I would have passed word on, if I hadn’t been taken. You must tell Prynn – or John Phelps, or any of them. They’ll have to move swiftly.’
He walked faster, forcing Betsy to keep up. But at what followed, she grew anxious. For soon the man was babbling.
‘Our man’s still in the Provinces,’ he said. ‘I believe he’s safe, but the country’s full of holes – like a Dutch cheese!’ He grimaced, which Betsy guessed was the nearest he came to smiling. ‘Someone must go there: to Delft, I think. They must find him – he may be dressed as a priest. Tell him the projection’s still set for late November, but the venue’s been changed from N to D – the Roman Plate. The family will be nearby, but I don’t know where.’ He turned to Betsy. ‘Now do you mark that, Beatrice?’
‘I believe so.’ Betsy swallowed. ‘Your man’s likely in Delft, dressed as a priest. The projection’s set for late November, D not N …’ She hesitated, whereupon Venn broke in.
‘The Roman Plate! Do you have
that
?’
Though she nodded, Betsy’s pulse was racing. She was hungry and weak, and her mind was not at its sharpest. ‘And the family…?’ she began.
‘Never mind … he won’t see them. They’ll find him. Now heed me, because this is most important.’
Venn glanced round furtively, and to her alarm she almost laughed. The man looked every inch the stage conspirator, as played by the weakest of actors, but then unlike Betsy, he was no player. She gave a sniff and bent close.
‘There are trepanners among the Dutch too – famblers and decoys of every sort,’ Venn said. ‘Our man must tread more carefully than ever, or it’ll all be over before it’s begun!’
‘Before what’s begun?’ The words were out before Betsy could stop them. Inwardly she cursed: asking such questions would arouse his suspicions. But to her relief, the other was already talking.
‘I’ve a friend who’ll bring news from abroad,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow – or that’s my prayer.’ Abruptly he stopped walking. ‘Come to me near the end of the day, before lock-up. I should have something then. You must get word out – can you do it?’
For answer Betsy put on her brazen look, flicking her gown aside briefly. ‘What I said, when I first came here, it wasn’t all bluff,’ she murmured. ‘I know one of the turnkeys. I can get more than just news out: I can get myself out, if I wish—’
But quickly she broke off. For if she had expected some sort of approval, she found she was badly mistaken. Instead Venn drew back, frowning. ‘You would truly play the whore?’ He peered at her. ‘I could never ask such! These creatures in here would use you cruelly, then cast you aside. Is there no other way?’
She blinked: despite everything, the man was a prude! All at once she recalled Caradoc’s term
Cromwellians
. Perhaps some of them hankered for more than the fall of the monarchy, she thought: they wanted a return to a Puritan past, too.
‘I pray you, don’t judge me so readily,’ she answered. ‘I merely speak of promising more than I would deliver.’ She bit her lip, and sounded resentful. ‘Do you not yet trust me?’
For a moment Venn regarded her, before lowering his eyes. ‘I do – what choice have I?’ He sighed. ‘But tread warily – your gaoler may play you false.’ Then, at another thought, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
‘And beware that oaf, the Wrestler! You know no more of him than you do of anyone else here. Why did he take such pains to play the kindly rescuer – have you thought on that?’
‘Well, I confess I had not,’ Betsy replied, maintaining a casual air. ‘I’ll be more careful … I was flustered that day.’ She put on a hurt look. ‘That was your doing, wasn’t it?’
At that Venn’s face fell, and to Betsy’s surprise he slammed his fist against his thigh. ‘Again, I ask your pardon,’ he said bitterly. ‘This pit of wickedness has tainted even me.’ He met her eye. ‘Find me tomorrow, then whether I have the news I wanted or not, get yourself out by whatever means you can. Otherwise at best you’ll sicken, Beatrice. At worst …’ He gave a shrug. ‘There’s no knowing when I’ll be set free,’ he added. ‘The charge was false. And I still swear there’s a trepanner here, set to watch me. So trust no one!’
Then turning away from her, he walked off.
Head spinning, she began shuffling about the yard once again. An hour seemed to have passed, though it was only a matter of minutes. But in those minutes, all had changed. She kept her eyes down, for despite everything she was excited. She’d learned more than she ever expected – and if much of it made little sense that was not her fault. Caradoc or others must puzzle out the information – her task, she realized with rising elation, was almost done! One more night and day, and then she would act as Venn had told her: whether he had more information or not, she would find Peter Crabb and give him the word. And soon after that she would be free. It was almost too much. Which was why, when she returned to her cell, she was at pains to look glum, and to work harder than usual at playing a hard-bitten trull.
But on the following afternoon came news that threw
everything
into disarray.
It was carried on whispers that travelled to every part of the King’s Bench: from cell to cell and outside to the yard, where people received it in various ways – some with alarm, some with indifference, others in shocked silence.
Venn had been found with his throat cut.
T
HE DISCOVERY SHOOK
Betsy to the core.
All morning she had wandered the yard, exchanging a word here and there but generally keeping to herself. In the
afternoon
, however, she grew uneasy when she noticed that Venn seemed to be absent. Her other cellmates were taking the air, like all those whose faces had now become familiar to her. Thus far the day had been no different to any other: the prisoners rising at the opening of the doors; the man in fustian – whom Betsy now knew as Dyer – and his companion grumbling and dicing; Venn silent as ever. Apart from Sarah, the sick woman, as soon as permission was given they had all left the cell.
Betsy had avoided looking for her informant, meaning to wait until the last moment as he’d told her. So that afternoon, when a ripple of excitement began to spread, at first she felt only curiosity. Seeing Dyer standing with another man, both wearing expressions of alarm, she wandered over to them.
‘What’s ruffling everyone’s feathers?’ she asked with a sniff … then received a surprise. Because for once Dyer didn’t answer her in his usual contemptuous tone. Instead, with a shake of his head he delivered the news.
‘It’s Venn, the silent one,’ he said, in a voice of disbelief. ‘He’s dead – murdered!’
All about the yard, voices were rising. Even those who habitually stayed apart were gathering. Betsy turned aside, trying to collect herself. After that she merely listened, as the grim picture took shape.
Venn had been found in the jakes only minutes ago. He was lying in a pool of blood, and holding a pocket dagger – his own, Betsy surmised. Whoever cut his throat had placed it in his hand, to make it appear that he’d taken his own life. That notion, however, didn’t hold water: the prisoner, some warders knew, was left-handed, while the weapon was in his right hand. The one with the birthmark, Betsy thought, still struggling to take in the news. Then she realized someone was addressing her.
‘Did you hear me? They’ll suspect us – those of his cell!’ Dyer was staring at her in fear. ‘God knows I detested him, but murder …’ He shook his filthy locks. ‘It’ll bring disaster upon us all!’
‘Don’t talk like a fool.’ Quickly Betsy summoned her anger, fighting off the fear that threatened to grip her. ‘We’ve been outdoors the whole day … all save Sarah, and she’s so weak she can hardly stand, let alone kill anyone.’
‘Yet people will point the finger!’ Dyer countered. ‘What of you, for one? You were talking to him yesterday, walking
arm-in
-arm, I heard. He’s never said a word to anyone before – what was it about?’
Though her heart jumped, Betsy’s reply was swift. ‘What do you think?’ she snapped. ‘If I don’t do business here soon, I’ll starve.’ She threw him a scornful look. ‘But don’t go thinking I’d let
you
near me!’ And with a toss of her head, she swept away.
But by the wall she stopped, gazing across the yard. Most of the guards had gone indoors, while those who remained were tense, gripping their truncheons. Then she saw the figure of Peter Crabb, standing a head taller than those near him, and at once she knew what to do. Indeed, it was the only thing to do, now that her reason for staying here had been taken away, and in such a terrible manner. Picking up her skirts, she circled around until she stood in the big man’s field of vision, then caught his eye.
‘Wrestler!’ she called. ‘Over here!’
The other men in the group glanced at her, before resuming their conversation. With a casual air, Peter Crabb left them and ambled towards her, whereupon her words spilled out.
‘I’ve seen a white rat,’ she breathed. ‘Can you get me—?’ Then she yelped, as without warning the giant grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly aside.
‘You dirty blowze!’ he cried. ‘I should have steered clear of you – now leave me be!’ With that he pushed her away, but as he released her he lurched, as if he had lost his balance.
‘Tonight,’ he whispered. ‘Be ready!’ Then he lumbered off.
That night, her fifth in the King’s Bench, was the longest Betsy had endured since she had arrived. Then, she expected as much – though she had not expected the silence.
The death of a prisoner was hardly a rarity – but
cold-blooded
murder was, especially by daylight.
Trust no one
, Venn had told her; the sentiment had bitter currency now. Presumably the murderer was still within these walls – was that why the place was eerily quiet? There had been no further news since the discovery of the body; nor were there whisperings along the passage this night. Apart from Sarah’s coughing there was no sound in her cell either, save for the rustling of straw. The death had stunned them all, but through the evening nobody spoke of it. Even Dyer and his younger companion, whose name was Gorton, barely addressed each another. Instead they had lain down, huddled on their pallets against the walls, each seemingly busy with his own thoughts.
Venn’s pallet had been taken away, his corner left bare. Those in the cell shunned the spot, as if the ghost of the dead man might haunt it. But after dark, Sarah, who had heard the grisly news without comment, spoke to Betsy.
‘It happens in here,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘There’s nowhere to hide. Them with grudges or scores to pay off – they can always take their revenge, if they’ve a mind.’
The two of them sat against the wall, pressed together for warmth. Betsy was on edge, and could not help flinching when Sarah’s hand sought hers in the dark. But she took it, feeling its coarseness, and the bony fingers that closed about her own.
‘I’ll be next, my duck.’ Sarah’s voice was thick with phlegm. ‘There’s doom in this cell. So listen to me: don’t keep ’em waiting any longer, or they’ll come for you.’
‘For me?’ Betsy echoed. ‘Who do you mean?’
‘The turnkeys,’ was her reply. ‘You’ve stretched your luck, girl. They won’t wait for ever. Lift your skirts …’ Sarah coughed, her voice weakening. ‘You can get yourself took to a better room. You’ll have food, fresh linen – I told you, anything you want …’ She began wheezing, which prompted a curse from across the room.
‘Shut your mouth, you vile heap of rags!’ Dyer spat his venom through the dark. ‘Let me sleep, can’t you?’ Angrily he turned on his pallet. From Gorton there was no sound.
After a moment Sarah withdrew her hand, but before letting go, Betsy squeezed it. She was moved, more than she could have foreseen. This dying woman, whose crime Betsy never learned, had been her only comfort. She would have like to tell Sarah that she
was
getting out – this very night, if Crabb was as good as his word. Instead she touched her companion on the shoulder, bidding her lie down. Then she settled back to wait.
It was an ordeal, of course. As on her first night in the cell she did not sleep, tired as she was. Doggedly she remained by the wall for hours, until finally, with the men snoring, she judged the moment was right to move. Carefully she rolled off the pallet, shivering at the touch of cold stone. And after that, she crawled.
She had no difficulty in finding her way, for like the others she knew every square inch of the room; every mark on the walls, each crack in the flagstones. Soon, with only a little rustling of straw, she had manoeuvred herself to a place beside
the door. And there she sat, hunched in her gown, hands clasped about her knees.
That last hour, she decided, was the worst. Yet she withstood it, strengthened by hope, until she sensed that dawn was approaching. At times she had to fight despair, thinking of all that might go wrong. Could she be certain Crabb would arrange everything as he’d claimed? Could she even trust him? She pictured the big man as she had first seen him, bearing down upon Venn – which brought the latter’s words back:
You know no more of him than you do of anyone else here
….
She stiffened: she could not afford to think like this. Savagely she jabbed her palm with her nails; it had helped her gather her wits before, and it did so now. Venn was dead and gone, she told herself through the pain. But what he had told her – his testimony, as she thought of it – was burned on her memory.
Once again, as she had done many times that night, Betsy went over his garbled account as if rehearsing a speech for the theatre. And it was that which helped her endure the final minutes, when at last the moment came for her deliverance. Though it came not with stealth, as she had somehow imagined, but with a bang on the door only inches from her ear, and the rasp of the lock. The door opened, waking everyone, and a voice called out.
‘Where’s the harlot?’
A lantern’s beam swept the room, blinding Betsy as it fell upon her, then a shadow loomed behind it. ‘Get up, woman. You’re coming with me!’ And before she could move, the guard seized her shoulder and pulled her to her feet, slamming her against the door.
The pain made her gasp, before one thought overwhelmed her: she was getting out. And the next moment, to her own surprise, she was shouting! Only later did she realize that she had played her role so long, it must have become second nature.
‘Get off!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll spike your eyes, you stinking rogue! Where are you taking me—?’
A crack across the mouth silenced her. Tasting blood, she was shoved outside. The cell door slammed, the lock squealed, and she was being dragged through the echoing passages of the King’s Bench, blinking yet wild with elation – until a sudden pang of doubt struck her, chilling her to the bone.
What if this isn’t Crabb’s doing
? she asked herself.
Suppose Sarah was right: the turnkeys are going to violate me
… and to her dismay, her legs buckled. But even as they slipped from under her, and the guard cursed at the sudden weight, she heard a voice that wasn’t his. In fact, it seemed familiar … She struggled to right herself, but her strength had gone. Half-dazed with fear and pain, she found herself set on her feet by a pair of strong arms, while from nearby came the squeal of a bolt being slid. She was yanked through a narrow doorway, and a gout of cold air hit her. She was outside! Then a door slammed, and she was in darkness. Breathlessly she looked round, to see a huge shape leaning over her.
‘It’s me, Crabb – you’re free.’
Shakily Betsy reached out and, as if to make sure he was real, she touched him. ‘Free?’ she muttered vaguely. ‘Then … why did the warder have to be so rough?’
‘To make it look right,’ came the reply. ‘Are your legs working now? There’s a boat waiting.’
A boat?
she struggled to take it in. They were in a narrow street, in the shadow of the prison wall. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘To Tower Wharf,’ Crabb told her. ‘Lean on me if you like … but come on!’
The night was cold. Betsy shivered in her filthy gown, but she didn’t care. Freedom, after those days in the King’s Bench, was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. Dawn was breaking as, walking at the best pace she could manage, she and her rescuer threaded their way through the grimy streets of Southwark, to emerge by the river. To her left the bridge loomed, while across
the Thames lights twinkled … and at the sight of it, she could have wept.
But there was no time to give vent to such feelings. As Crabb had promised, a boat was waiting at a jetty, its stern lantern lit. Still shivering, Betsy clambered down the steps, grateful for the hands of the waterman who helped her aboard. She sat down, lurching as the young giant’s sudden weight almost capsized them. But soon he was seated beside her, exchanging words with the boatman. The man put his oar to the jetty and pushed, and in a moment the vessel was propelled into the current. Then they were out on the river and at last, Betsy sagged with relief.
‘I can only thank you, Wrestler,’ she said. ‘Though it’s not enough – not by a mile.’ She looked up at Crabb, as a thought struck her. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming too …’ Then she recalled his words, on her first day in the prison. ‘But if you serve the same masters as me—’
‘Not now, sweet Sister.’
Crabb bent close to her, gripping her arm. He was smiling, but his eyes flew to the boatman who, head down under his hat, was heaving at the oars. ‘We’ll talk when we get home,’ the young man went on. ‘You’re weary, and our father’s waiting.’
Weak though she was, Betsy understood; and suddenly a weight came down upon her – one she had thought she was free of. ‘As you wish, Brother,’ she answered. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to lean against his solid bulk, as unyielding as a tree-trunk. Then, as so often in recent days, she chided herself silently for her carelessness.
She wasn’t Betsy Brand, not yet: she was an agent of the Crown, if only a temporary one. Secrecy was her watchword and, as in the prison, she could not let her guard slip.
Trust no one
… now Venn’s words filled her with foreboding.
But later, when they reached Tower Wharf and climbed up to the quay, she began to feel better. In fact, by the time she was accompanying Peter Crabb through the London streets, with
chimney smoke swirling and people already astir, her spirits had risen considerably. Leaving the riverside, they walked by Tower Street to Mark Lane, then turned into Crutched Friars. From there they passed through the warren of alleys that gave on to Fenchurch Street, before rounding the corner into Leadenhall. There at last, outside a very ordinary looking house, Crabb halted and turned to her.
‘We’re here,’ he said. And only then, standing in the early morning light, did he observe Betsy properly for the first time. ‘There’s blood at your mouth,’ he added.
‘It’s no matter.’ She glanced at the house, which was
shuttered
. ‘Where have you brought me?’
Instead of answering, Crabb rapped on the door. He rapped twice, waited, repeated the pattern, then knocked four times. ‘It’s just a house we use,’ he said at last. ‘They’ll have clothes for you, and water for washing. After you’ve supped and rested you’ll be ready to talk.’
‘Talk to who?’ Betsy asked absently – then gave a start as the door opened. A young maidservant in a plain apron and cap stood there, bobbing nervously.
‘Welcome, sir and madam,’ she said. ‘Your rooms are ready.’ With a polite smile she drew back, allowing them to enter. Betsy found herself in a flagged hallway with a staircase. Dog-tired, and only too aware of how she looked as well as smelled, she faced Crabb.