The Judas Blade

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The Judas Blade Page 14

by John Pilkington


  ‘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.

  ‘Jacob! Jacob, alstublieft …’ Gasping, she lurched forward and groaned. Ignoring the look of astonishment that appeared on the face of Lacy’s manservant, she fell weakly against the door. ‘Please help me,’ she muttered in English. ‘I m
ust see your master … Meneer Lacy …’ She sank to her knees, while to Jacob’s alarm her hands clawed at his clothing.

  ‘Wat gebeurt…?’ Clumsily, the man caught Betsy’s arms. He was in his stockings, a loose gown over his nightshirt. When she let out another groan, the man muttered under his breath. But to her relief, instead of pushing her out of the door as she had feared, he dragged her in across the threshold. Then she slumped on the polished floor of Lacy’s hallway, seemingly in a faint. Above her, Jacob cursed, but hearing a footfall, he stiffened. Even as he turned, however, Betsy threw her arms tightly about his legs – which was all the time Mullin needed. There came a sickening thud, then another. Still Betsy held on – then just in time, she slid aside to let the manservant crumple to the floor. Mullin was bending over him, holding a short black cudgel.

  Panting, she got to her knees. When the captain offered a hand, she took it and allowed him to help her up. Then she looked down at the prone figure, while Mullin stepped over him and closed the door. There was little doubt that Jacob was unconscious. Blood showed on his head, where Mullin’s blows had fallen.

  ‘Ebony,’ he said, gripping the truncheon. ‘Hard as iron – I needed it, for a thick skull like that.’ He was slightly out of breath. ‘It’s lucky I haven’t lost my touch as a picklock too. Are you sure nobody saw you?’

  ‘I don’t think so – though I couldn’t very well look back, could I?’ Betsy glanced round at the door to the room in which she had locked Lacy. She recalled the noise of splintering wood as she and Alida fled, but there was no sign of damage. ‘He must have had it repaired,’ she mused – then flinched.

  Her eyes flew upwards, while Mullin sprang to the stairs. The portly figure of Thomas Lacy had appeared above, staring down in alarm, but before he could speak, the captain was upon him.

  ‘Mullin … Great God!’

  But those were the only words the man got out before the other grabbed him. ‘My dear Lacy!’ he cried, taking him by the edge of his nightgown. ‘Forgive the intrusion …’ And with that he stuck his truncheon in the other’s face. ‘Our business wouldn’t wait, you see.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘I refer of course to myself and Mistress Mullin – she’s been so impatient to see you again. Now, shall we go downstairs?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT WAS THE second interrogation Betsy had seen Mullin conduct, but it bore little resemblance to the first. Instead of a dank cellar, they were surrounded by the splendour of Lacy’s showroom. And there was no Peter Crabb to threaten their captive: Mullin himself looked capable of that. With a determined air, he seated himself on a hard chair while his host, now his prisoner, sat opposite. Lacy was still in his ornate nightgown, and without his periwig appeared a diminished figure, his greying hair cropped short. The man knew there would be no help: Jacob, though now conscious, was securely bound and locked in his own kitchen. Yet despite his predicament, Lacy had not lost his powers of speech – far from it.

  ‘This is intolerable!’ he cried. ‘I could have you hanged, Mullin – do you doubt that? I have the ear of the Grand Pensionary himself—’

  ‘Indeed? How is de Witt these days?’ Mullin asked. ‘None too popular, I’d say. I incline to the Orange faction myself. I’m surprised you don’t, as a man who knows how the wind blows.’

  ‘You’re a rogue, sir!’ Lacy threw back. ‘You’ve broken into my house like a common thief – and you’ – his eyes flew to Betsy, who sat beside her fellow-actor – ‘I knew you for a harlot, the moment I saw you.’

  ‘Enough!’ The captain leaned forward. He had his truncheon, which he levelled at Lacy. ‘We’re not here to trade insults,’ he snapped. ‘I dislike the way you treated my wife – in this very room, I believe. I’ve a mind to give you a thrashing before I come to my questions. That should ease the wheels of discourse, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Your wife?’ Lacy sounded scornful, but there was fear in his eyes. ‘She’s no more married to you than I am. And were I to swear a warrant, who would be believed? This is how she served me!’ He pointed, and now Betsy noticed the bruise: a dark stripe above the bridge of his nose. The nose too was red and swollen.

  ‘Dear me, did I do that?’ she said. ‘Your pardon, sir, but you were threatening me. A woman must defend her honour.’

  ‘From your lips, madam, that word’s an insult!’ Lacy retorted. But he was blustering, and he knew it. ‘This cannot continue,’ he said, eyeing Mullin. ‘You know I’m not without friends in Delft. I advise you to cease this foolishness and go while you can.’

  ‘Believe me, I’d like nothing more.’ Mullin sighed; but Betsy was growing impatient.

  ‘Haven’t we spent long enough on banter?’ she said. ‘Ask him about Prynn and the others – and Gorton, too.’ She threw Lacy a disdainful look. ‘Then we can leave. The air’s stale here – is it your perfume? In London, men have long since put aside that fragrance.’ Stifling a yawn, she looked away.

  ‘How dare you!’ Lacy shouted. ‘And as for Gorton – you spoke the name before, and I said I know nothing of any such man.’

  ‘Well, he’s dead anyway,’ Mullin said, in a conversational tone. ‘He killed Venn, I assume because his friends deemed him a threat to their enterprise. His friends being a man named Thomas Prynn, and another called Phelps … shall I go on?’

  Lacy was reddening. ‘These names are but chaff to me,’ he snapped. ‘As for this enterprise you speak of, it sounds pure fancy. You should go upon the stage!’

  Mullin and Betsy couldn’t help exchanging glances. Whereupon as if sensing advantage, Lacy swung his gaze towards her.

  ‘See now – I know you’re bent on some trepanning,’ he said, with an effort. ‘Whether it’s for Downing or for someone else, is no business of mine. We’re English, and our loyalties are the same, are they not? Hence, why question me? I’m not—’ But he broke off, as with sudden force Mullin banged the truncheon on the arm of his chair.

  ‘Loyalties?’ He echoed. ‘Then what’s a loyal Englishman doing, here in Delft? Moreover, when Mistress Mullin spoke to you of Venn, she believed the name was known to you – is it not so, madam?’

  ‘It is,’ Betsy answered. And when Mullin raised an eyebrow, she sensed he was urging her to press further. ‘And now I think on it, perhaps Mr Lacy had good reason to leave England,’ she added. ‘As others have done, to save their necks – like the Regicides did, a decade back.’ She eyed Lacy. ‘I haven’t forgotten your words, when we first met in the Bok – and nothing you’ve said since has changed my opinion. A man can’t pretend such hatred of Popery – and hatred of our King too …’ but she fell silent, struck by a change in Lacy’s manner. A moment ago he had been angry and afraid; now a knowing look appeared.

  ‘Ah … I begin to understand,’ he said.

  ‘Understand what?’ Mullin snapped.

  ‘But of course – I should have known.’

  To their surprise, the man seemed to be relaxing. ‘What pains you must have been put to, to winkle all this out,’ he went on. ‘And I take back what I said – you’re not Downing’s creature, after all.’

  That part was addressed to Betsy. ‘Am I not?’ she asked, after a moment. ‘Then whose creature am I?’

  ‘Why, his!’ Lacy indicated Mullin. ‘And married or not, you make a fine couple.’ He managed a thin smile. ‘You should have got down to bargaining sooner,’ he added. ‘Not that I admit to any of this nonsense, but I admire your persistence. So …’ He shrugged. ‘Would you care to name your price?’

  Silence fell. Outside, Betsy heard the shouts of watermen from the canal. The people of Delft were up and doing business, and that was what was in hand now, in this darkened room. She glanced at Mullin, and saw him put on a smile to match Lacy’s.

  ‘My price?’ The captain hesitated. ‘Well now, my price, sir, would depend on what I’m selling. If you mean my silence, concerning your connection to the men I spoke of – men, I should add, whose mischief we’ve uncovered – then we may perhaps agree upon a sum. I
f on the other hand, you’re asking me for further assistance in some way….’

  ‘I’m asking no such thing.’ Lacy’s smile faded – and suddenly there was doubt in his eyes. ‘This … mischief you speak of,’ he went on, ‘what is it, precisely?’

  Betsy stiffened: despite the plight he was in, the man was turning the tables on them, calling Mullin’s bluff! For of course, they didn’t know what Prynn and Phelps and their circle were planning, and Lacy suspected as much. When the captain hesitated again, she spoke up.

  ‘Need we spell it out?’ she asked, adopting her brazen look. ‘Surely you’re in enough danger already? Venn’s dead, Gorton too … For all I know, since we left England the rest of your little band have been caught. All men will break under questioning, sooner or later – will they not?’

  Lacy frowned. ‘Gorton again? I’ve said I don’t know this man,’ he said quickly. ‘Were I even put to torture, I could tell you naught of him, nor the others you name. Now, can’t we bring this distasteful business to an end?’ He eyed Mullin. ‘You might have stumbled on rumours,’ he went on, ‘tavern talk … the sort of rant one can hear in certain quarters, on any day of the week. I care not what you know – or think you know – yet I’ll buy your silence anyway. And in that you are very fortunate.’ Whereupon the other two stiffened, as his voice dropped.

  ‘Mark it, sir – and madam,’ he went on, ‘for quite soon, no one will care. Your intelligence will be yesterday’s news, as stale as the Great Fire. So let’s waste no more time, but strike a bargain so you may go. And when I say go,’ he added, looking at each of them, ‘I don’t only mean from my house: I mean leave Delft, for somewhere far away. Not England.’ He shook his head. ‘That would be unwise. And you’ve been most fortunate of all, madam – I mean, by your very presence here. Do you follow?’ His eyes glinting, he gazed at Betsy – and in an instant she understood.

 

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