The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  The kind that sold secrets to Spaniards, betrayed his Queen and country, and swived young boys in a room a pig would be ashamed to call a sty. I wasn’t here to judge his living standards or his habits — that was for God.

  Still on the bed, I scurried over to the edge and began to throw off the clothes, shuddering as my hand stuck to bits of fabric, their odour thrown in my face.

  Beneath the clothes was a lovely old sea chest. Large, with a hinged lid, it was covered in ornate iron decorations. A single padlock sat on the front. Leaving the basket on the bed, I clambered off and, with care, squatted before the chest and ran my hands lightly over the trace work on the outside. As I suspected, this wasn’t simply decoration. Buried at intervals along the iron were keyholes. Small, they required a different key to open each one. I’d only ever heard of these treasure chests; they were rare and costly. Made by the Germans, they were also strong and cunning and said to outwit the best of lock-picks.

  Would it be the one to best me?

  I reached for the basket and from beneath the blanket took out the leather roll containing my tools. A shout outside made me clutch my chest, but it was only an oarsman calling to the sailors. This wouldn’t do. Nonchalance. Nonchalance. Samantha must adopt this as her mantra if we were to succeed.

  A simple twist with my pick opened the padlock. Unfastening it, I laid it on the dirty wood. That was the easy part. Now, to tackle each of the hidden locks. First, I dragged the chest away from the bed, grateful a shirt was caught under it, making my efforts relatively soundless. Then, I shut my eyes and trailed my hands over every inch of the iron. All together, I counted twelve separate keyholes. Twelve. I glanced at the door. This would take more time than I’d allowed or Thomas expected. I would have to work fast. I began at the back, inserting my picks, shutting out the caw of gulls, the slap of the water as it hit the hull, the low conversation of the sailors outside and the distant babble of voices. I also tried to shut out my fear that the captain would return.

  It didn’t take long to open the four locks at the back. They were easy, which instead of appeasing my anxiety, elevated it. There was something I wasn’t seeing here, I felt it deep in my core. Pushing on, the two locks either side proved no trouble either. It wasn’t until I tried to open the four on the lid that I encountered my first obstacle. One of the locks refused to give. It simply would not open. It didn’t matter how deeply or shallowly I inserted my picks, how slowly or fast I turned them, what tricks I used to defy the mechanism; the familiar click and wheeze of tumblers moving never occurred. Sweating now, I even forgot the smell of the room as I sought to open the chest. Leaving the locks temporarily, I focussed on those I could open.

  Finally, there were only the two on the lid remaining. Passing my hands over the chest again, I wondered what I’d missed. My instincts had been right. This had been too easy. The German who’d designed this chest knew it would keep precious possessions safe from the likes of me. The sun passed behind a cloud and I drew my hands away, falling on my heels, wiping the back of my hand across my brow.

  Think, Mallory, think.

  I glanced at the original padlock, the one that had rested against the chest and been so easy to open. Picking it up, I hefted it in my hand, examined it closely. It was heavy, beautifully formed. Perfectly symmetrical, it was engraved with an anchor which, when the padlock was placed back exactly where it had lain, sat in the exact centre of the entire chest … The exact centre. I stared at the chest, at the way the iron formed a bed for the padlock to rest in.

  That was it! Returning the padlock to its original position, I locked it once more. Putting my picks back into the keyhole, instead of twisting them I pushed down and lo and behold, the lock sank into the chest slightly. There was the welcome sound of springs releasing around the chest. The other keyholes were false, a distraction.

  Unlocking the padlock, I lifted the shank free, lay the whole thing on the floor and, praying fervently, lifted the lid.

  Exquisite fabrics, golden goblets with bejewelled stems and strings of lustrous pearls met my gaze. Shoving them aside, I buried my hands, my fingers urgently probing. There were leather-bound books, a sheaf of what appeared to be deeds to land tied with string, and a highly polished caliver in a sheath. I began to think Sir Francis may have been mistaken when my hand struck what I was looking for. Extracting the documents carefully, I held them aloft. Papers tied with a leather binding, a letter at the front, a seal at the bottom. How Sir Francis had known this detail, I wasn’t certain, but the description was perfect, as was my substitute, which I quickly pulled from the basket. I wondered what I was replacing the originals with as I returned everything I’d taken out. Closing the padlock, I was relieved to hear the tumblers grind back into place. Standing, I pushed the chest into position before strewing the clothes higgledy piggedly over it.

  I threw off my woman’s garb, rolling up the skirts and bodice and placing them in my basket, covering what I’d stolen. Casting around for something to toss out the window, my signal I’d finished, I spied a broken piece of plate. Hurling it out the window, I heard a splash.

  Then I waited.

  It wasn’t long before there were raised voices. I took one more look around … had I forgotten anything? Hefting the basket into my arms, I opened the door and strode onto the deck.

  ‘Get over here, now, lad!’ shouted Thomas. ‘We’ve been duped.’

  Standing on the pier beside Thomas, his arm draped around a rather dishevelled young woman, was the man whose fine appearance belied the state of his quarters. There was no doubting who it was — the description was perfect: Captain Alyward Landsey. A pristine ruff framed a face that, though clean, resembled a punched chaff bag. His well-cut doublet clung tightly to a body that was well fed and sin-soft. Swaying back and forth, screwing up his eyes as he tried to look first at Thomas, then me, it was clear the captain was drunk.

  ‘What’s going on? Who’s that —?’ He raised the jug clutched in his hand towards me.

  The first sailor pointed at me then Thomas, his words a jumble. The older sailor was trying to extract himself from the canvas. I didn’t have long.

  ‘Duped? You come here demanding your prog be let on board. I tell you, sir, he says this was your orders,’ insisted the first sailor, leaping over the side of the vessel, stomping up the dock and prodding Thomas in the chest.

  Thrusting the sailor away so he fell on his hindquarters with a yelp, Thomas turned to the captain.

  ‘Well there’s clearly been an error. My humbl’st, cap’n.’ He bowed deeply to Captain Alyward, who still had his eyes on me. ‘Come on, lad. We’ll be on our way.’ Thomas held out one hand while gesturing wildly with the other for me to climb over the rails; there was a look of concern on his face.

  Keeping one eye on the old sailor who was hauling himself to his feet, I threw the basket to Thomas, who caught it deftly and backed away.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked the old sailor, who’d finally found his feet and was shuffling towards me. ‘What’s in that there basket?’

  ‘Hold!’ called Captain Alyward to the sailor on the pier, who’d not only found his feet, but drawn his knife again. The old sailor also stopped in his tracks. The younger one did so grudgingly.

  Shoving the young woman with him into the other sailor’s arms, Captain Alyward came forward and placed a thick-fingered hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

  ‘If there’s been an arrangement to which I’m the beneficiary, I want to know about it,’ he drawled. His voice was effeminate for a man’s and his words slurred. ‘Who might you be?’ He looked at me, trapped on the deck, licking his lips. ‘For certes, you’re one of the prettiest morsels of flesh I’ve seen in a long time. A dark beauty, tall, too. If your width matches your height,’ he said, rubbing his crotch in an obscene manner, ‘I’ll not complain.’

  Surprising me with his agility, he leapt over the railing and onto the deck. Before I could move out of arm’s reach, he grabbed me. I tried to jerk away,
but failed.

  ‘Good, good,’ he chuckled, holding my wrists tightly. ‘You keep that up and you’ll keep me up.’ He gestured to the sailor on the pier. ‘Ned, bring the other one.’ He began to drag me towards his cabin. ‘The wig you’re wearing is a nice touch. You can leave that on.’

  Oh dear God, I forgot to put my cap back on and hide my hair. My feet slipped on the deck as I was dragged towards the stinking cabin. I began to fight harder, the captain laughing all the while.

  ‘That’s it, a fight’s what I like.’ Wrapping an arm around me, he tried to lift me off my feet. I could feel his excitement prodding me in the back. The old sailor turned away in disgust, while the younger one lifted the other girl — who was a young boy — over the ship’s railing.

  ‘Release him at once,’ shouted Thomas from the dock, the basket clutched against his chest. ‘Sam, Sam!’ he cried. ‘This is not part of the deal.’

  Redoubling my efforts, I kicked and struggled, then slammed my head back, connecting with the Captain’s chin. There was a yelp and a gurgle of laughter. Why, the bastard was enjoying this. That made me furious. Throwing the jug to the sailor, he brought his other hand to my chin, tipping my head back so he might kiss me. I could smell the wine on his breath, see the great pits in his skin, the slug-like tongue. Despite his expensive attire, he smelled of sweat, ale and his foul cabin. Allowing him to tilt my neck so far, I became compliant in his arms then, as his hand loosened, grabbed it with both of mine, brought it to my mouth and bit hard.

  He let me go, the hand I’d bitten flying to his mouth that was already filled with blood.

  ‘Why, you little bastard,’ he grinned, his teeth red. ‘Come here. I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry.’

  I slipped the knife from my breeches and held it before me. ‘Hold, Captain. As my friend there says, there’s been a mistake.’ I kept my voice deep, jerking my head towards the boy, who stood wide-eyed and bewildered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t share.’

  Swinging a leg over the railing, I paused, measuring the distance. Thomas ran towards me. The captain stepped closer.

  ‘You won’t regret it,’ he said, smiling wider, his hands fussing at his breeches. I glanced down, knowing what he was about to do.

  Before he could pull out his cock that was straining against the fabric, I leaned over and drew the blade sharply across his fingers, narrowly missing his member. Blood flowered. With a yelp of fury, he let go his laces and lunged at me.

  I tried to jump, but the captain grabbed a handful of hair, yanking me back. My knife flew again, cutting the locks he held. I toppled backwards towards the dock, bracing myself. Thomas, bless him, caught me.

  Panting hard as I found my feet, Thomas picked up the basket and backed away.

  ‘Why,’ said the captain, staring at the long dark strands in his palm. ‘That be no wig. This be … what are you? Lass or lad?’ His anger deepened. All signs of drink and lust disappeared. ‘What trickery is this?’ He shoved his now limp cock back in his breeches and drew his sword. Blood dripped from his fingers from the cuts I’d bestowed.

  ‘I told you,’ I said, standing my ground boldly, ignoring my heart straining against my ribs, ‘no trickery. I be a special one. So special, I don’t share — but you may have that keepsake —’ I jerked my chin towards his injury, ‘to remember me by. Be thankful I didn’t take one of my own.’ I drew my knife across my groin to reinforce my point.

  Sheathing the weapon, I slapped Thomas’s arm and together we turned and ran as fast as we could up the pier, disappearing into the lanes.

  ‘You little cockered bitch,’ roared Captain Alyward. ‘I’ll have my way yet. You’ll see.’

  The other sailor called something, but I couldn’t distinguish his words.

  Shouts of pain, confusion and fury followed, as did the heavy knowledge that I’d potentially ruined everything.

  TWENTY-TWO

  DEPTFORD

  The 4th of April, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  ‘That was close,’ said Thomas calmly when we reached the safety of our room in the Raven Inn. ‘Your hair confounded them.’

  Touching the area where I’d been forced to cut the hair from my scalp, I winced — and not just with pain. ‘Until the captain mentioned it, I didn’t realise I wasn’t wearing my cap. I’m sorry, it’s unforgivable. The chest took longer than expected to open and I was in such a rush to get out, I forgot I had to hide my hair. Zounds.’ I began searching through the basket. ‘I can’t find the cap.’ I stared at Thomas. ‘I must have left it on the ship.’

  Disappointment swamped me and, putting the basket down, I sank onto the end of the bed, my head in my hands. ‘I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I? They know I’m a woman … Captain Alyward … he’ll know something is terribly amiss. I mean, he held me, I hurt him … ’

  ‘Pfft,’ said Thomas softly, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘You managed to get the papers and, in the end, that’s all that matters. Though,’ he added, ‘had you taken the souvenir you threatened, there’d be many a lad thanking you, methinks.’

  I glanced up at him. With his glasses restored and his yellow hair uncovered, he looked more like the man I knew. I wanted to believe him, but I’d panicked and, in doing so, made a grave error that had put both of us and our mission at risk. It wasn’t good enough, and I knew Sir Francis would think the same thing.

  ‘Cast it from your mind,’ demanded Thomas, releasing me and undoing the hooks on his jacket. ‘It matters not they think you a woman. What matters is that they don’t know who you work for or why. You maintained your disguise even when parts of your costume failed. You did well. Now, get changed and compose yourself. We’ve a play to attend.’

  With our backs to each other, Thomas and I slipped into our usual clothes, leaving the ones we’d used for the innkeeper, who worked for Sir Francis, to dispose of. This time I made sure to tuck all my hair beneath my bonnet, smooth the sleeves of my jacket and ensure my skirts weren’t rumpled. Thomas chatted as we changed, assuring me that despite what happened and the consternation aroused, Captain Alyward was unlikely to look in the chest.

  ‘It’s why Sir Francis chose you, Mallory. You may have been imprudent, exposed yourself as a woman, but the last thing the captain would expect would be for his impregnable chest to be opened — let alone for the papers to be stolen. After all, what woman could do such a thing? What the sailors saw, and what Landsey will believe, is that we were a pair of opportunists — a procurer and his trull, not agents. Should Landsey look in the chest, he’ll see the papers you put there and all will be well, so wipe that frown from your brow and fix a smile to your pretty face. This is a day of celebrations and despite what has happened, we’ve reason to join them. The mission was successful.’

  Thomas was right. There was no point bemoaning the forgotten cap or anything else. The day wasn’t over yet, and I still had a role to play and papers to transport safely to London.

  If Sir Francis felt I’d jeopardised the mission or was concerned I’d been in grave danger, he never said so. The morning after Deptford, I sat in silence in his office as he read the report I’d laboured over throughout the night. When he finished, he stared at the pages and then raised his head. I touched my coif. The hair I’d sacrificed during my escape was barely noticeable. Nonetheless, I was glad my head was covered and evidence of my misadventure hidden.

  ‘This is very thorough, Mallory. You do not attempt to exculpate yourself, but readily acknowledge your mistakes. Mistakes, which, I’m relieved to know, Thomas feels didn’t imperil the mission — on the contrary, he said your adherence to your role and steady head saved it. The fact you have the documents —’ he held out a hand, and I extracted them from my basket and passed them over, ‘proves him right. All in all, you’ve done very well, Mallory. Very well.’

  Once more, I glowed in his praise.

  ‘It’s time for me to acknowledge that fact.’ He ope
ned a drawer, pulled out a purse and passed it to me. ‘For your pains.’

  Though small, the purse was weighty in my palm. It was my first proper wage as a watcher. Was I such a tickle-brained minnow that I wanted to open it then and there and count my coin? Instead, I placed it in one of the hanging pockets inside my skirt, patting the gratifying lump.

  Sir Francis rose and, with his back turned, unlocked his cabinet. Placing the documents I’d stolen inside, he withdrew a large book, the one I’d noticed before.

  He cleared a space and placed the unruly tome upon his desk.

  ‘Do you know what this is, Mallory?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Curiosity lured me closer.

  ‘This,’ he said, his fingers resting gently atop the leather, ‘is what I call The Book of Secret Intelligences.’ I almost gasped. Thomas had mentioned it. The book was regarded with a mixture of reverence and mystery and though I had longed to know what it contained, I never thought I’d lay eyes upon it, let alone have Sir Francis show it to me.