‘What, keep to the house?’ Betsy broke in indignantly. ‘I will not, sir! In case you forget, I’m supposed to be your wife. Besides, the only undue attention I’ve attracted so far has been through getting pushed into the canal. As for Lacy …’ She paused. ‘There I’ll agree with you. He’s hiding something – and more, he regards me as a threat. Though why he should accuse of me being in Downing’s pay, I cannot know. It would be useful to find out, would it not?’
‘It would.’ Crabb was nodding. ‘But more important, to my mind, is finding this fellow who was about the Papenhoek. Whoever he is, he’s at the heart of it – I’d swear to that.’
All three fell silent. Betsy, though shaken by Gorton’s death, realized that she was now more determined than ever to solve this riddle. Plots hatched on foreign soil – and by Englishmen – alarmed her more than she liked to admit.
‘Would anyone care for some wine?’
Mullin’s question broke her train of thought. She looked round to see him opening the door. He called Alida’s name, added a few words in Dutch, then turned back to the others.
‘Thirsty work, all this cogitation,’ he muttered. ‘I find a cup of something strong focuses my mind.’ He sat down heavily. ‘Then, since I seem to be over-ruled at every turn, let’s lay out our stall, shall we?’ He eyed Crabb. ‘I suppose you could try and track down the false priest, but you don’t speak Dutch. I, on the other hand, could contrive to run into Lacy, get him drunk and see what he spills, while—’
‘I don’t speak Dutch either,’ Betsy broke in. ‘But Alida does. After our experience yesternight, I believe she’ll be willing to go with me and do what I ask.’
After a moment, Mullin nodded. ‘Then why not go to the Papenhoek again and make more enquiries? I don’t believe the old priest will tell more, but you might poke about a bit.’
‘I might,’ Betsy agreed, ‘but I’ve thought of a better idea.’ And so she had, though for the present she had a mind to keep it to herself. ‘As a gentlewoman with a servant at my disposal, I don’t believe I’ll come to any further harm in daylight,’ she added. ‘So, with your leave, sir, may I pursue it?’ She smiled at Mullin, to let him know that she cared little whether he gave leave or not.
‘Why of course, my dear.’ The captain threw her a wry look. ‘In which case, I’d better blunder into Lacy.’ But it was clear that his customary spirit was returning. When the door opened and Alida appeared with a tray, he brightened visibly. ‘However, you, too, have become rather a familiar sight in Delft, Crabb,’ he observed. ‘Where do you propose to venture?’
‘I said I’d go where Beatrice goes,’ the young man answered. Though there was unease on his face.
‘It’s all right, Wrestler,’ Betsy said. ‘I’ll be safe – please go where you will. If I don’t return by nightfall, you might come looking for me at the Bok.’ And with that she turned to Mullin, and waited for him to pour the wine.
Having got her way, she couldn’t help feeling elated. But less than an hour later she was on tenterhooks again, as she stepped out of the rain and entered the inn where she had first met Thomas Lacy.
To her relief he wasn’t there – but someone else was, who knew her at once. Seated at the same table where she had sat before was Lacy’s friend, the down-at-heel poet Henry Churston – and the moment he saw Betsy, he started like a nervous rabbit. ‘Mistress Mullin …’ The man got to his feet as Betsy drew near. Alida was behind her.
‘Mr Churston.’ Betsy smiled brightly. ‘An unexpected pleasure … May I buy you a glass of something?’ Whereupon the fellow blinked, and sat down again. Beside him was a ragged young woman, the sorriest-looking slattern Betsy had ever seen. At once she scowled, but when she looked past Betsy, her mouth fell open.
‘Alida!’ she exclaimed, getting to her feet. Betsy looked round to see her servant looking uncomfortable – and realization dawned. Here was an explanation for how Mullin had managed to hire her so quickly: from among the sort of women best known to him.
‘I see my maid and your friend are acquainted, Mr Churston,’ Betsy said drily. ‘Here’s a half-guilder … why not tell them to go and share a mug?’
Churston hesitated, then muttered some words in Dutch. Betsy, meanwhile, met Alida’s eye and nodded. Without a word the girl jerked her head to Churston’s friend, who moved off with a final glare. Ignoring her, Betsy took the vacant stool and seated herself. When the drawer appeared, she pointed to a glass. But when she turned to Churston, she saw him eyeing her suspiciously.
‘If you seek Lacy, he’s not here,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I haven’t seen him all day.’
‘That’s no matter, sir,’ she answered: it was not Lacy she had sought at all. ‘I’m merely eager for the company of my compatriots. Indeed, I’ve a weakness for poets – and playmakers too,’ she added, smiling. ‘Are you acquainted with Mr Shadwell, or Mr Wycherley? They’re friends of mine.’
‘Oh?’ Churston frowned. ‘How is that?’
‘Why, I’ve seen them at the theatre,’ Betsy answered. ‘We’ve often conversed together after a performance.’ Whereupon she gazed into the distance, and recited:
‘Poets, like cudgelled bullies, never do
At first or second blow submit to you;
But will provoke you still, and ne’er have done
Till you are weary first with laying on.
‘Are the lines familiar to you, sir?’
‘Perhaps.’ The man coughed, then turning away, spat heavily. Betsy blanched, but kept her smile.
‘It’s generous of you to pay for my drink,’ he resumed, without much warmth. ‘Yet I fear I’ll be poor company. I’ve lost touch with England. As for London’s literary men …’ He gave a weary sigh. ‘They would scorn you for spending time with me – if any of them remembered me at all.’
‘Come sir,’ – Betsy put on a reproachful look – ‘you an Oxford man? Why, Mr Lacy himself said he’s never known such a learned one as you.’
‘Lacy says a lot of things.’ There was an odd look in Churston’s eye. ‘And with your leave, madam, I don’t care to discuss him.’
Betsy nodded, then decided to strike. ‘Then there are other things you and I might speak of, sir,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘One of them being the prison you were unfortunate enough to get yourself into. Which one was it? My own brief holiday was spent at the King’s Bench.’
Churston stiffened, but made no answer.
‘Forgive my boldness, but I recognized the look,’ Betsy went on. ‘I saw it on the faces of many, not knowing if they would eat that day, or the next …’ She paused. ‘A friend of mine was even killed while I was there. A man called Venn, found in the jakes with his throat cut….’
She looked up as the drawer appeared with a jug and cups. After he had gone, she looked deliberately at Churston again. The man was staring at her, and now there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes. Seizing the jug he slopped wine into a cup, spilling some on the table, then picked it up and drank greedily.
‘Your pardon,’ Betsy sighed, and filled her own cup. ‘I’ve stirred bad memories. I meant only—’
‘Who are you?’
The question startled her. But taking a sip of the strong red wine, she faced the other calmly. ‘I’m the wife of Captain Mullin, sir,’ she began – then flinched. Churston’s hand had shot out to seize her arm.
‘No, you’re another of them! Come to get me soused, then play me like a bagpipe, have you? Well you’re wasting your time. I know nothing about anything, and I care even less!’
Carefully, Betsy put down her drink and glanced about the smoky room. Then, when no one seemed to be looking, she leaned close to Churston’s unwashed face. ‘I’ve a poniard strapped to my thigh,’ she said gently. ‘If you don’t let go of my arm, I’ll stick you with it.’
But the other did not let go. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he breathed. ‘Any more than I think you’re a gentlewoman who’s married to that rakehell Mullin.’ He stifled a cough, a
nd it was all Betsy could do not to gag at his sour breath. ‘So I ask again: who are you, and what do you want with me?’
‘Very well!’ With an effort, Betsy met his eye. ‘I’ll speak plain if you will,’ she said. ‘But I know you’ve been in prison as I have. And let’s leave Mullin out of it – he’s nothing to me. I want to hear what you know about Thomas Lacy – a man you despise even as you let him pay for your drinks.’ Then she frowned. ‘And what did you mean, you’re another of them – another of what?’
A moment passed before, to her relief, Churston let go of her arm. Taking up his drink again, he drained what was left and banged it down. ‘I thank you for the wine, madam.’ He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. In a moment he would be gone and this chance lost. So, on impulse, Betsy placed her hand firmly on top of his.
‘If you go,’ she murmured, ‘I’ll tell Mullin you put your hand up my skirts. I think a man of your sensibilities may imagine what he will do.’
Without looking at her, Churston swore profanely. But when he tried to withdraw his hand, Betsy pressed on it harder.
‘What do you want of me?’ he spat. ‘I’m nobody – I have nothing you want! You’re not the first rummager to come here from England – the Provinces are riddled with them. Now, let me be!’ And with that he gripped her hand and thrust it away – but at that moment something caught her eye. It was only a brief flash of silver at the man’s neck, but it was enough.
‘In fact there’s another man I seek,’ she said. ‘He dressed as a priest once – yet he was no priest, but a rogue. He hid himself in the Papenhoek for a while – an area I think you know well, Mr Churston. Who’s your confessor, Father Martins?’
But at that Churston jerked back, gazing at her wildly. ‘You can’t know what you speak of,’ he said, with a sudden twitch of his face. ‘You’re angling in the dark … and if you value your life, you’ll get out of this country – take ship for England, today! Now go away and leave me be!’
He lurched to his feet, sending his stool flying. ‘I may live in the gutter here, mistress,’ he cried, ‘but I’m a free man! So do your worst and—’ Then suddenly he doubled up, coughing uncontrollably. People stirred and, as Betsy stared in alarm, the drawer appeared, a frown on his face. When he spoke to her in Dutch, she spread her hands. Churston coughed and coughed, leaning on the table. Finally he retched and sank to the floor, wheezing.
‘Wat gebeurt hier?’ the drawer said sharply. Betsy shook her head, looking round. One man was getting to his feet. Uneasily she scanned the room – whereupon there was a shout. To her alarm, a figure came hurrying out of the tobacco smoke: the ragged-looking woman who had been with Churston. The next moment she was in Betsy’s face, shrieking at her like a fishwife.
‘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.
Chapter Fifteen
‘ANGELS 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.
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