‘That I should.’ Mullin put on a sober look. ‘Still, what’s done is done, so now I’ll come to the nub of it.’ He reached into his coat and drew out a small package. ‘That matter is, I thought you had a right to a share in my good fortune, madam,’ he went on. ‘A small token of my appreciation – and our friendship, of course. After all, one of the horses I sold was yours, so to speak.’
In silence, Betsy took the packet.
‘It’s a trifle – a scrap of lace,’ Mullin went on with a casual air. ‘But good stuff… Flanders, of course. It’ll serve to trim a collar, or cuffs.’
‘I thank you,’ she said.
‘Best tuck it away before you go,’ Crabb put in. ‘Some thief will have it off you otherwise.’
‘I will …’ She eyed him, then Mullin. Nothing more was said: it was time for her exit and all of them knew it. So she rose and tucked the gift into her bosom. After that it only remained for the men to stand too and bid her farewell. It seemed unlikely they would meet again; and though Betsy was about to leave the two with whom she’d shared so much, she would not stay. When Crabb said he would see her safely to the street, she nodded. At the door, she looked back to see Mullin still on his feet. He smiled and made her a low bow; then she turned and went out.
In Brydges Street, the link-boy was still waiting. Drawing her whisk about her, Betsy took farewell of Peter Crabb with a hug and, without speaking, left him.
Then she was walking back down Little Russell Street, facing straight ahead.
Epilogue
TOM CATLIN WAS in the parlour when Betsy returned to the house in Fire’s Reach Court. As she came in, he glanced up from reading The London Gazette and nodded a greeting.
‘Was your sister in good spirits?’ he asked.
‘She was.’ Avoiding his eye, Betsy moved to a couch and sat down. Then, putting her hand down her gown, she pulled out Mullin’s package. It was wrapped in coarse frieze. She frowned. In the moment of parting, she hadn’t noticed how heavy it was.
‘What is that?’ Catlin enquired with mild interest.
‘A gift, from a friend.’ Rather hurriedly, she began opening it. There were several folds to unwrap before the small strip of lace was revealed. She picked it up … then caught her breath, while Tom Catlin gave a start. Both stared in amazement, at the shower of gold coins that fell out and clattered to the floor.
‘A gift?’ The doctor stood up. ‘Then this friend is most generous … not to say wealthy.’
Betsy didn’t reply. She gazed at the gold guineas and half-guineas lying scattered on the floorboards. Some were still spinning, glinting in the firelight. There were more than a score of them… twenty pounds, at the least. Finally she looked up to see alarm on Catlin’s face – and at once she understood.
‘Now, you don’t imagine I’ve been selling my favours?’ she asked drily.
‘No – why would I?’ Catlin frowned at her. ‘And how could you think so harshly of me?’
She swallowed. ‘Your pardon … I don’t. I was … this money is … well, it’s a shock.’
‘So I observe.’ After a moment, the doctor moved to a side table. ‘You’d better take some sack,’ he murmured. He poured out a glass for each of them, while Betsy stooped to pick up the coins. Sitting down again, she set them in her lap and counted them carefully: twenty-four pounds in all.
‘Cods,’ she muttered under her breath. The price, she knew at once, was well over half of what the horse would have fetched – even when the seller was Marcus Mullin. ‘More likely it’s the whole sum,’ she breathed, then looked up. Tom Catlin was holding the glass out to her.
‘Let me explain this later,’ she said, rather shakily. ‘For now, I’d like to present you with ten pounds. I know I’m late in keeping the promise I made you before I went away, but I do so now, in the hope it will stave off your creditors. Shall we call it a year’s rent in advance?’ She took the glass from him, and drank it down in one gulp.
Speechless, Catlin stared at her.
‘I swear it’s my money,’ Betsy said. ‘And that I’ve done nothing wrong to get it … nothing very wrong, anyway. I want you to have the sum – this is our home after all. Peg’s and mine, I mean. We’d simply hate you to sell it.’ She paused. ‘Please don’t be tiresome: take it as a favour to me.’
Still Catlin didn’t speak. His eyes went from Betsy’s face to the money in her hands, then back. ‘But … what of your father?’ he said at last. ‘Surely he needs this more than I?’
‘Ah yes …’ Betsy put a hand to her brow. It was damp, but then the room was quite warm. ‘I neglected to tell you,’ she went on, thinking fast. ‘My sister has raised a good sum from a family friend … it will go some way to helping our father in his plight. Together with the amount I will give her, I think matters will resolve themselves.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Indeed, I’m planning another visit to Chelsea soon, to talk of our good fortune – see the money is well spent, and so forth. All in all, it should be a happier time ahead.’
‘So it would seem.’ Glass in hand, Catlin moved slowly back to his desk. At one side was the familiar stack of unpaid bills, weighed down with a pebble. He glanced briefly at them, then sat down. ‘By the heavens, Betsy,’ he muttered.
There was a footfall on the threshold, and the door swung open. Peg stalked in, sleeves rolled and cap at one side.
‘Before you retire, I’ll need two shillings for the butcher’s boy tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Does Master think he can scrape up that much?’
She stared insolently at Catlin and, when he didn’t answer, turned to Betsy. But when her eyes fell on the money, she faltered.
‘Good Christ!’ she blurted. ‘Where did that come from?’
For a moment neither of the others spoke. Then as the women’s eyes met, Peg’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Your pardon …’ She caught her breath. ‘Someone’s died – is that it?’
‘No one’s died, Peg,’ Betsy said. ‘At least, no one that I knew. So there’s no need to ask pardon.’ She smiled up at the servant, then picked out a half-sovereign and held it up.
‘Take this for the butcher’s boy,’ she said. ‘And tell him to be sharp about giving you change. Then take what’s left, and use it to pay off whom you will – the ones who won’t wait, I mean.’ Still smiling, she faced Tom Catlin.
‘And out of that rent money, sir, I hope you’ll take some to your wig-maker,’ she went on, ‘and order something better than that … doormat you’re still wearing. I’d hoped when I went away, to see the last of it.’
There was a short silence. Then shaking herself out of her inertia, Peg stepped forward and took the coin from Betsy.
‘Leave it to me,’ she said, and sniggered. ‘As for the wig-maker, he’d be less than pleased.’ She jerked her head towards Tom Catlin. ‘Hadn’t you noticed? That’s not the same one he had on – it’s new! Talk about cheap, eh?’ And with that she gave a shout of laughter, and went out.
Betsy looked at Catlin – not at his face, but at the top of his head – and saw that it was true.
‘Well, at least the fuel’s of good quality,’ she murmured. She turned and looked into the fire – whereupon a coal cracked and hissed, letting out a spurt of blue flame.
‘Gas,’ Catlin said.
Then he turned away, and took up his paper.
By the Same Author
The Ruffler’s Child
A Ruinous Wind
The Ramage Hawk
The Mapmaker’s Daughter
The Maiden Bell
The Jingler’s Luck
The Muscovy Chain
After the Fire
Children’s Fiction
Rogues’ Gold
Traitor!
Revenge!
Thief!
Non-fiction
A Survival Guide for Writers
Copyright
© John Pilkington 2012
First published in Great Britain 2011
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7198 0806 7 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0807 4 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0808 1 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9352 7 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of John Pilkington to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
The Judas Blade Page 22