‘You sent him!’ she cried, sitting bolt upright. ‘It was you who tried to have me killed—’
‘Of course he did!’
Mullin had jumped to his feet, wearing a look of grim triumph. Taking a step towards Lacy he lifted his truncheon, and involuntarily the man’s hand flew up.
‘Don’t!’ he cried. ‘I’ve said we’ll do business! If you leave the country, I’ll call off—’ He stopped, but too late.
‘Call off whom?’ Mullin stood menacingly over him. ‘Your hired assassin, who climbs through windows?’ He grimaced. ‘It’s I who should have guessed sooner,’ he went on, half-turning to Betsy. ‘Our friend here is the purser – their treasurer! He stays abroad out of harm’s way, handling disbursements, while the ones in England take the risks. Though if anyone comes prying, he has a mastiff to call upon.’ He glowered at Lacy. ‘Who is he?’ he demanded. ‘Some ex-seaman you’ve bought, who can handle a short-sword? Or an old soldier, one of those embittered souls who drift about Europe?’
‘No, he’s more than that.’ Now Betsy too was on her feet: it was all falling into place. ‘He’s the false priest,’ she said.
A look flickered across Lacy’s features. It was gone in an instant, but she knew she had hit the mark. Her heart was pounding, whether from anger or triumph, she didn’t know. ‘He’s the one who didn’t scruple to kill Eleanor,’ she went on, ‘any more than he’d scruple to kill me! It was he Churston warned me about, when he said I should leave the country if I valued my life! He’s the one Venn spoke of, who was still in the Provinces, but would return in November.’
‘You’re too late – he’s already left!’
Betsy started, and so did Mullin, but at once Lacy sprang from his chair. Neither of them had expected it, and the captain was caught off guard. He swung his truncheon, but with surprising agility the other man ducked under it. Then he leaped for the door – but Betsy was quicker. With a rapid movement, she kicked out: a step that would have pleased the dancing master at the Duke’s Theatre. With a cry Lacy stumbled over her leg and fell headlong to the floor – and at once Mullin had him.
‘Get up!’ Gripping the neck of the man’s gown, he yanked him to his feet. Lacy writhed, swinging a fist, but it missed by a mile. The next moment he found himself thrust back into the chair he had just vacated, where he sat red-faced and breathless.
‘Now I’ve truly had enough.’ Mullin’s voice was icy. ‘I want to know who it is who’s already left and what he means to do. And as you suspect, sir, I’m no gentleman. Either I get answers or you die here among your treasures.’ He waved a hand at the room. And to show that it was no idle threat he dropped his cudgel, reached inside his coat and pulled out a small dagger. Lacy gulped.
‘This will avail you nothing!’ he cried. ‘Matters are set in motion. I couldn’t stop them if I tried! Leave me, and get out while you may, or there’ll be a price on your head!’
But with a snort of derision Mullin gripped Lacy about the throat, forced his head backwards and put the dagger to his neck. ‘First, the name of the killer,’ he said. ‘The one who went as a priest.’
A sheen of sweat stood on the other’s brow, but with a rapid movement, he shook his head.
‘His name!’ Mullin repeated. ‘Then I want to know what he intends to do, and when. The projection – what is it?’
Still there was no answer. Lacy’s hands shook, and his eyes swivelled towards Betsy. ‘You’ll listen, won’t you?’ he said. ‘It’s too late: the die is cast. Take my offer – a hundred gold guineas! More may follow … Don’t you understand? You’ll be rewarded – you could live as I do, once it’s all over—’ Then he yelped. And even Betsy flinched, as blood appeared: Mullin had pricked his ear.
‘The projection!’ He pressed the dagger to the man’s neck again. ‘The Roman Plate – wasn’t that it?’ His question was snapped at Betsy, who nodded, recalling Venn’s hurried testimony – then her heart gave a jolt.
‘Oh, cods!’ she cried.
With a frown, Mullin turned.
‘The horse races … the location changed from N to D.’ Betsy stared at him. ‘The Roman Plate must be a trophy. The King goes to Newmarket in early November, then to Datchet for the last race.’ She swallowed. ‘They’re planning to kill the King!’
Mullin froze. Then, slowly, he faced his victim again. Lacy’s face had a ghastly pallor now. Blood dripped on to his collar, while he eyed his interrogator.
‘Name your price!’ he hissed. ‘Whatever you wish for, it can be arranged. In God’s name, use your heads! There’s nothing you can do to stop it. Get away while you can!’
But neither of the others spoke. Betsy stared in horror, half-hoping she’d been wrong, but she knew she wasn’t. The truth was out. Financed by this zealot, a group of desperate Republicans had hatched the boldest plot of all: to rid themselves of their hated king. They would do it when he was most exposed: at the races, where he mingled freely with jockeys and friends alike. The audacity of the scheme stunned her. Small wonder Venn had been killed if they thought him a risk … and no wonder Lacy had tried to have her killed too!
‘You suspected me from the first day, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘You sent your assassin to find me, and an innocent girl was murdered instead! That’s why you were shaken when you saw me at the Katz house: you thought me dead!’
‘So he had his tame mastiff try again, and this time another almost died.’
Mullin had found his voice at last. Thrusting his face closer to Lacy’s he breathed heavily, his hand shaky as it held the dagger. Fearing what he would do, Betsy was about to speak, but a cry rang out.
‘Don’t kill me!’ Lacy yelled. ‘I promise you money – more than you’ve ever dreamed of! You know I can do it …’ He swallowed, talking rapidly between breaths. ‘Or I can help you in other ways. I have friends in many countries – dukes, even princes – you’ll want for nothing! Let me go, and I—’
‘Let you go?’ Mullin swore, an oath of contempt mixed with disbelief. ‘Do you think me mad? I’ve done some questionable things in my time, Lacy, I won’t deny it. But you …’ He shook his head, almost in admiration. ‘I spit on your pleading, as I do on your promises – and on your politics! God knows I’ve no love of Papists either, but nor do I wish for an England run by men like you!’
He stepped back, as if in disgust. ‘No, I won’t let you go,’ he went on. ‘And though you say we’re too late, I throw that back at you too!’ He turned to Betsy and, at the wild look in his eye, she gave a start.
‘We’re taking ship for England – immediately,’ he said. ‘We’ll spill our tale too, and see how fast our friend Mr Lee can move. Meanwhile we give chase: I’ll ride to Datchett myself. I’m as good a horseman as any in the King’s service!’
Her heart thudding, Betsy met his eye. ‘Then at least we’ll have tried,’ she said, nodding. ‘And this one and his friends will pay the price.’ She looked at Lacy who misunderstood. In terror, he shrank back.
‘No, not in cold blood …’ he began, then faltered. To his surprise, Mullin was putting his dagger back into his coat. With a casual movement, he picked up his truncheon and gestured with it. ‘There’s no need to wet yourself, sir,’ he grunted. ‘I’m no murderer. When I said we’re taking ship, I meant all of us. You’re coming too – to face English justice. Now, on your feet, before I spike you again!’
Chapter Seventeen
BY NIGHTFALL, THE old house had become a hive of activity.
Peter Crabb was awake, sooner than expected; clearly his colossal frame needed a stronger draught than the one the surgeon had provided, though Betsy insisted that the big man eat supper and rest while she packed. The plan was to take a coach to Rotterdam at once – that night, if possible. Mullin had been out all afternoon trying to arrange it. Meanwhile Thomas Lacy, dressed in travelling clothes, was locked in the cellar, having endured a forced march through the streets with Mullin’s dagger pressed to his side. Crabb would take charge of the prisone
r on the journey to England. Indeed, now that events had forced a rapid return, the young man was in better spirits than Betsy had seen for days, despite the terrible plot that had been uncovered. As far as the false priest was concerned, it merely made him more eager to pursue the man. His wound wasn’t serious, he claimed; a few days, and the sling would be off.
‘And when we find that murdering devil, I want to be the one who grabs him,’ he’d announced. ‘He won’t slip by me again if I die in the attempt!’
Now he stood in the hallway, his bandaged arm under his loose coat. His pack was ready, along with Mullin’s. When Betsy and Alida came downstairs with the last of her bags, he lifted it with his free hand and stowed it beside the others.
‘What about her?’ he asked. ‘She’s not coming, is she?’
Betsy glanced at Alida, who had been very quiet since their return. ‘I can’t see how she can,’ she answered. ‘But Mullin will have to tell her.’
The two of them went into the parlour. Crabb had been told of events at Lacy’s house, and now he spoke of them again, remarking how it was Betsy who had pieced everything together. ‘If you hadn’t insisted on going into the Bok that first day,’ he said, ‘we’d still be groping in the dark. Now, see what a snake-pit we’ve uncovered!’
Since the morning, Betsy had barely had time to ponder the matter. ‘And if I’d known Lacy would set a murderer on me, within hours of meeting him …’ She shook her head. ‘What kind of man is it he uses – one who dressed as a priest, yet would stab a woman to death in cold blood?’
Crabb’s face darkened. ‘If the captain allowed me half an hour with Lacy in the cellar, I’d find out everything there is to know,’ he muttered. ‘Instead, he means to dump the fellow on Mr Lee for questioning, then charge off to Datchet.’ He sighed. ‘Why did nobody think of the race-track? For an assassin, it’s an ideal spot. The King sometimes takes to the saddle and races himself … a real sitting target.’
Betsy said nothing. The notion of an attempt on the King’s life still took her breath away. But a moment later there came noise from the street, and she gave a start.
‘Hoofs – he’s found a coach!’
It was true. Soon they were at the front door, to greet a sweating but triumphant Marcus Mullin. Outside stood a rather fine coach, drawn by a team of four black horses. Betsy gaped.
‘You haven’t hired this, surely? We’ve no money!’
‘I know that,’ Mullin said. ‘It’s being loaned to us – can you guess by whom?’ And before she could reply, he supplied the answer.
‘Meneer Katz?’ She echoed. ‘How on earth—?’
‘Not him, Mevrouw Katz,’ Mullin corrected. ‘It was her idea. Her husband didn’t like it, but the poor fellow wasn’t allowed to get a word in. In fact she insisted, as soon as I arrived. She’d heard I’d been around the town trying to borrow a coach, but no one seems to trust me.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘No matter, we have our conveyance, we even have a coachman: the Katz’s own. Generous, eh?’
‘Generous indeed …’ Betsy was frowning. She had hardly thought of Madam Katz in recent days; now she was uneasy. ‘Why did she agree so readily?’ she went on. ‘What reason did you give for needing a coach urgently?’
‘Simple enough,’ Mullin replied. ‘I said you’d received urgent news from England – a relative lies close to death. It’s your grandmother, if anyone asks.’
‘Cods, Mullin!’ Betsy eyed him. ‘Must you always fashion such tales? Why not say … well, Wrestler’s had an accident, or—’ But Crabb interrupted her.
‘The less people know the better,’ he said. ‘Though from what I hear, I wouldn’t trust Madam Katz an inch.’
‘Nor do I,’ Mullin said impatiently. ‘But we’re in no position to refuse the offer. I’ve promised a payment for the coachman. Once we’re at Rotterdam, he’ll set us down and return to Delft. So let’s cease prating and get aboard!’ With that he turned and shouted in Dutch. Betsy’s eyes went to the man seated on the driver’s box, who raised his whip in reply. So, thrusting doubts aside, she went indoors – and at last, relief swept over her. They were going home, though not quite in the way she had imagined. Whereupon a different anxiety surfaced: the thought of another sea crossing.
But some hours later, even that was forgotten. For, despite all that had happened since Betsy first arrived on the windy quay at Nieuwpoort, the events on the journey to Rotterdam would throw everything into a new light.
They were five in the coach, for to Betsy’s surprise Alida was with them. Mullin insisted on it, though in the haste of embarking he hadn’t explained why. And once they’d clattered through the East Gate of Delft and turned south, neither Betsy nor Crabb pursued the matter. She was busy with her thoughts, while the other had enough to occupy him. In a corner sat Thomas Lacy, sullen and silent in his cloak. Crabb was on his left, an end of rope in his right hand. The other end was tied to Lacy’s wrists, which were bound. Opposite the prisoner sat a bemused Alida, with Betsy between her and Mullin.
‘She’s here for appearance’s sake,’ Mullin murmured, nodding to indicate the girl. ‘A gentlewoman needs a maid … Besides, I’ve another use for her when we arrive.’
The coach swayed, picking up speed, while above the rumble of wheels the driver’s whip could be heard. ‘What sort of use?’ Betsy enquired, then frowned. ‘This payment for the coachman,’ she began. ‘You don’t mean …’ She glared at him. ‘You wouldn’t!’
‘What, act as her pander? Of course not,’ the captain replied. ‘She’s never ridden in a coach before. When I told her she could travel back to Delft alone in high style, I couldn’t have stopped her if I’d tried. But if she wants to do business with the coachman on the way, who am I to interfere?’
‘Flap-sauce, Mullin!’ Betsy sighed, then gave up. She glanced at Crabb. His wound clearly pained him, but he would bear it stolidly as always. Her eyes slid to Lacy, huddled like a black presence in the corner. The man’s hat was pulled low and he appeared to sleep. So she sat back and looked through the coach window, as another mile of open countryside went by. The leather flaps were down, although chinks of moonlight showed. She glimpsed fields, and the occasional light of a distant farmstead. Beneath her, the floor shook….
Then the unexpected happened.
The first thing they knew there was a shout, followed by a startled neigh from one of the horses. The coach lurched, slowing abruptly. Betsy, Alida and Mullin were thrown backwards, while Crabb and Lacy shot forward into their laps. Instinctively Crabb righted himself and jerked the rope, pulling his prisoner back. Everyone looked about, even Lacy, for something was going on outside: shouting, and hoofs stamping. And all the while the coach slowed, until with much jangling of harness it drew to a halt. Mullin reached out for the window flap – then froze.
‘All of you, come out!’
The flap was thrust aside and a face appeared: that of a heavy-set man, glaring at those within. The next moment the barrel of a horse-pistol was thrust through the opening. Alida let out a squeak and put her hand to her mouth.
‘Come – now!’ The man opened the coach door and threw it wide. There were voices, and Betsy glimpsed the silhouettes of figures on horseback. Then, with Mullin’s hand on her arm, she was clambering from the coach and stepping out into the chill night air. The others followed, to stand in a ragged line beside the vehicle, whereupon the captain spoke up.
‘If you want money, you’ll be disappointed,’ he said, facing what they assumed were highway thieves. ‘We’re humble English travellers, going home—’
‘Silence!’ The man who had ordered them out waved his pistol menacingly. Beside Mullin, Peter Crabb stood as rigid as a tree. Heart pounding, Betsy saw three other men on horseback, watching them closely. There was more movement: the coachman, climbing down from his box. For a moment the fellow stood there, regarding the highwaymen, then he thrust out a hand, and clasped that of the leader. An exchange in Dutch followed – and Mullin groaned.
‘What’s going on?’ Betsy began, whereupon all became clear.
‘You people!’ The man with the pistol spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. ‘You charged with stealing this coach, the property of Meneer Franz Katz of Delft. You will come back with me, to face justice!’
For a moment, the only sound was that of horses blowing and stamping. In disbelief, Betsy glanced at her fellows. Mullin was tense with anger, while Crabb had assumed his stolid look. Alida’s eyes were everywhere, while Lacy …
Lacy was smiling. Lifting his hand, he showed the rope which tied him to Crabb, and called out in Dutch. Mullin groaned again. ‘He says we’ve kidnapped him,’ he muttered.
‘Stop talking!’ The Dutch leader pointed his firearm, then called over his shoulder. A second man dismounted and came forward, and he too carried a pistol. Approaching Crabb, he motioned to him to release Lacy. But Crabb simply shook his head, as if he didn’t understand.
‘Let go of the rope!’ the leader cried. It seemed he was the only one who spoke English. ‘You had no right to take this man: he’s Dutch citizen!’
‘No, he’s an English traitor.’ To the others’ alarm, Mullin took a pace forward. Then he went into a stream of Dutch, which apparently confused their captors. The two on foot looked at each other, then at the coachman, who shrugged. But Lacy spoke again, his voice rising in indignation.
Switching to English, Mullin half-turned to Peter Crabb. ‘Better do what they say and let him go,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure who they are, but they’re not constables—’ He broke off, as once again the leader brandished his pistol.
‘Release this man now,’ he ordered. ‘Then we go back to Delft. You walk in front, we ride behind. The coach will follow.’ He turned and gave orders to the others. Betsy glanced at Mullin, her hopes crumbling. Already, in England, the King’s life might hang by a thread … She flinched, as the leader turned back to them.
Then mayhem broke out.
The Judas Blade Page 15