The Last Protector

by Andrew Taylor

  She shrugged. ‘That’s what she thinks, in any case.’

  I ignored this, though I knew she was right. ‘Keep your wits about you when you go out. The house is at the sign of the Rose, on the south side. As for Scotland Yard, you can leave the letter with the porter at the main gate. There will be no danger if you’re careful. And I promise you won’t regret it.’

  I was reluctant to send one of my own people with the letters, in case they were seen. Both Sam and Stephen were conspicuous, each for his own reason, and I needed Margaret here. Using Chloris was a risk, but a calculated one.

  She shrugged. ‘All right.’

  ‘Go down to the kitchen. I’ll send for you when I’m ready.’

  She was still looking at me. I took a deep breath and turned away. I took off my cap and scratched my scalp, partly because it was itching, and partly to avoid her eyes.

  ‘Do you want me to comb your hair first, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I reckon you got lice, the way you was scratching. And there will be eggs, as well. As sure as the coat on your back.’

  My face grew warm. It was true that my head had been itching lately. Now that I wore a wig in public, I had my head shaved occasionally. But I had not had it done for several months, and my own hair was growing back. Usually I had Stephen comb me for lice but I hadn’t for some weeks; the lice were less troublesome in winter.

  ‘Where’s your comb?’

  ‘In the drawer of the dressing table. There’s a bowl of water over there.’ My voice sounded thicker than usual, as though I had a cold.

  I heard her footsteps cross the room and the sound of the drawer opening. I stared at my hands on my lap. Her footsteps returned. I did not look up at her face. Her hands, I noticed, were long-fingered and unexpectedly delicate. The nails were clean.

  She stood very close to me, her thigh touching my arm. I felt the comb, moving across my scalp, and the touch of her fingers, which seemed to tap and probe the very bone beneath the skin. It was a long time since a woman had touched my head so gently, so intimately. Every now and then, she would deposit the lice and their eggs in the water, and wipe the comb on her sleeve. I was conscious of everything she did. I could not think of anything else.

  ‘You’ll be glad I did this, sir.’

  Her very voice, it seemed to me, was an invitation. I sensed her willingness, her desire to please. I stared at my hands, willing them not to move from my lap, and willing myself not to look at her.

  ‘That’s enough.’ I spoke curtly. ‘Leave me.’

  ‘Sure, sir?’ She had a low voice and it sounded somehow warmer than before, like a caress.

  ‘Leave me,’ I repeated, my voice louder than before. ‘I must write those letters.’

  I went down to the parlour. I wrote the letters at the table, sealed them and sent for Chloris. It was still light when she went out, but she had no fears for her safety, despite the holiday crowds.

  ‘It’s not what happens outside that scares me,’ she said when I asked if she was sure. ‘It’s what happens inside.’

  ‘Do you want me to look after your gold for you? It’s a great deal to carry around with you.’

  ‘No, sir.’ She grinned at me. ‘What do you take me for?’

  I told her to go to Scotland Yard first, and then to Henrietta Street. I gave her the names of the recipients in case she wasn’t able to read them herself.

  The Scotland Yard letter was for Mr Williamson. I had no idea where he was this evening. He would probably not receive the letter until the morning. But in case I was prevented from seeing him in person, it seemed wise to let him know what had happened. I had found evidence that the attacks on the bawdy houses were politically inspired, I wrote, that they were designed to undermine the government and the authority of the King. I judged it wiser not to mention that Buckingham was orchestrating the riots. The letter might fall into the wrong hands. I said I had been seized by some of the Poplar rioters and confined in the bawdy house in Dog and Bitch Yard. I had escaped from there and was now at my house.

  My letter to Cat was short and, I hoped, would not upset Hakesby if it chanced to fall into his hands. I begged her pardon if I had offended her by accident the other day, and asked her to send word how she and her husband did.

  While I waited for Chloris, I tried to distract myself with Raleigh’s History, perhaps taking in one word in ten. The light faded, and I ordered more candles. Margaret brought them into the room.

  ‘What’s that Chloris doing?’ she demanded. ‘It’s getting dark.’

  ‘I don’t know. I was expecting her back by now.’

  ‘Maybe she’s run off. You can’t trust a girl like that.’

  ‘Peace, woman,’ I said.

  Margaret sniffed. ‘Did you mark the quality of her cloak? The silk lining? That’s no servant’s cloak.’

  I kept my eyes fixed on the open book. ‘I expect her mistress had no further use for it and gave it to her.’

  There was a silence. But Margaret didn’t leave.

  ‘That will be all,’ I said when the silence had become unbearable.

  ‘Sam’s sharpened his sword twice, and now he’s started on yours. And all at the kitchen table, and me trying to prepare your supper. He’ll drive me to Bedlam one day. I tell you fair, master, I don’t like this.’

  ‘Nor do I.’ I looked up at her worried face. ‘I don’t have any choice in the matter. And nor do you.’

  She scowled at me. I scowled back.

  Half an hour later, to my great relief, Chloris returned. She came through the gate to the yard – which was barred, of course, but she and Sam had arranged a signal for him to let her in. He brought her up from the kitchen, slowly because of his lameness, and quite unnecessarily since she knew the way. I could hear him talking to her on the stairs. He flung open the parlour door.

  ‘Here she is, master,’ he announced. ‘Safe and sound, just as I said.’

  Chloris came into the room, blinking in the candlelight. She was still wearing Margaret’s old shawl and her shoulders were hunched; I would not have recognized her if I had passed her in the street.

  ‘All well?’ I asked. ‘Why were you so long?’

  ‘The streets are crowded, you can’t hurry.’

  ‘And the letters?’

  ‘I left the one at Scotland Yard, as you said.’

  Chloris took out the letter for Cat and dropped it on the table. The seal was unbroken. I frowned.

  ‘I tried to leave it with the porter at the sign of the Rose.’ She unwrapped the shawl. ‘But he said she wasn’t there, Mistress Hakesby, I mean. He said a man had just that moment called for her, and she’d gone with him, and I could catch her if I ran. He pointed her out, at the end of the street. Couldn’t miss them, he said, because he’s such a tall fellow. So I went after her.’

  I felt a sudden chill.

  ‘I caught up with them in St Martin’s Lane,’ Chloris said. ‘But I didn’t give the lady the letter.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I seen the man before, sir, that’s why. At Dog and Bitch Yard.’

  ‘Was he a … a patron?’

  ‘No. And I only saw him once. But a man that tall, that thin, you don’t forget.’

  I said, suddenly suspicious, ‘But surely it was dark when you saw him just now?’

  ‘Not quite, not then. Anyway, it was outside a tavern, and I could see his face quite plain by the light from the window.’

  ‘What was he doing at Dog and Bitch Yard? Was he there recently?’

  ‘Last week. He came up to the drawing room. I was in there, with Ma and one of the other girls, but he wasn’t interested in us. He said, where’s Durrell, he should be here, and Ma Cresswell said he was not quite at leisure yet.’ She shot me a sly glance to make sure I understood her meaning. ‘He was with Dorinda, in fact – you remember her?’

  I nodded. She was the whore who looked no more than a child, whose arms were covered in bruises, old and new
.

  ‘This man, he knew what Ma meant too, and he looked down his nose, all disapproving. Then he started reading some papers … He didn’t even glance at me and Amaryllis. There’s not many men you find like that at Ma Cresswell’s. I didn’t hear his name, though.’

  ‘He’s a clergyman called Veal,’ I said. A thought struck me. ‘Which way were they going just now? Up towards St Giles’ or down to Charing Cross?’

  ‘Charing Cross.’

  I could guess where Veal might be taking Cat. I hoped to God I was wrong.

  ‘I followed them.’ Chloris’s face was sharp and intelligent. It had a reddish tinge, from the candlelight. She looked like a vixen. Then she confirmed my guess. ‘The parson took her into Wallingford House. Why would he want to do that?’

  I ignored the question. I said, ‘Did she seem willing?’

  Chloris’s mouth twisted and for a moment she looked much older than she was. ‘She wasn’t putting up a fight, if that’s what you mean.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Wife’s Duty to Her Husband

  Easter Monday, 23 March 1668

  THE EVENING OF the holiday. Night comes. Master gone to drink.

  Ferrus lies by Windy in the kennel. Ferrus weary but cannot sleep. Kindness turns with a click in the memory. Like a key.

  Maybe it was the lady this afternoon. Who gave him the penny. There are no words for her.

  The penny is shiny and new. The head on it is different from the head on Mistress Crummle’s. He has put the new penny next to the old penny. Now both pennies are hidden in the kennel between the planks with Windy to keep them safe. If he stretches a hand over the dog’s sleeping body, he can touch their cold, curved edges.

  It’s the mazer, Ferrus thinks, the mazer makes the kindness happen. All those years ago, when Mistress Crummle lived at the Cockpit, the sewer’s roof fell down and blocked the whole run. They had to dig the whole thing up, which made Master curse and swear and kick Ferrus. Mistress Crummle came down to see the sewer open to the air, before they rebuilt the roof and put the earth back on top.

  Only Ferrus was there.

  Mistress Crummle saw the stone with the mark on it: xXx, cut with a chisel into the brick, said what’s that? And Ferrus said (he had the words then) maybe the maker’s mark, mistress, from olden days. Look, he said, see the hideyhole behind this brick.

  She put her finger to her lips. Our secret, says she, yours and mine. And she smiles at him.

  Three bricks along, she says, counting, then two up from there. That’s where the secret place is.

  Put this in the place, she says, and she gives him the thing to put there. Let it stay there until I send for it. What’s your name?

  Ferrus, he says.

  She puts her finger to her lips. Protect our little secret, Ferrus, she says. Tell no one. Here, take this penny. One day there will be more.

  The next day the soldiers come and Mistress Crummle and her people go away for ever and ever.

  That is the day everyone gets mad with drink because the King is coming back soon. When Master and his friends want Ferrus to tell them what Mistress Crummle wanted with him. What he was doing for her.

  Ferrus won’t tell them. No, no, no. Mistress Crummle is kind and gave him a penny. She said protect her secret, and he will protect. Tell no one.

  Master grows angrier and drunker, and redder and drunker. And if you don’t tell me, he says, by God’s blood you’ll never tell anyone anything again.

  Master calls for his tools and more wine. Give me my pliers and my knife, he says. Five men hold Ferrus down on the ground and laugh and spit at him.

  And then Master cuts out Ferrus’s tongue.

  And Ferrus has no words. Ever again.

  The evening of Easter Monday dragged by. Pheebs sent out the boy for a jug of ale to help time pass. When there was a knock, he thought it must be the boy returning. But when he opened the door, he found Mistress Hakesby shivering outside. He stared at her and blinked.

  ‘God’s name, mistress. What’s happened to you?’

  There’s a pleasure in seeing a pretty woman looking like a drowned rat, especially one you can’t have, not in a million years, because the bitch would spit in your face soon as look at you.

  ‘I slipped and fell in the gutter,’ she said, hurrying past him towards the stairs.

  ‘God save us all,’ Pheebs said. Christ, he thought, she stinks. ‘Anything I can do to help, mistress?’

  Like undress you, he thought, though not until I’ve put you under the pump in the yard to wash off all that shit. Shit all over you.

  She glanced back. ‘Is anyone upstairs?’

  ‘No. Mr Brennan’s not in the way, and your maid went off to see her mother in Bow.’

  ‘What about Mr Hakesby?’

  ‘Not back yet.’

  Strange, thought Pheebs, the old fool usually keeps her close, especially when he goes out. Scared she’ll find herself a lover, no doubt.

  She hesitated, frowning, hand on the newel post. ‘He’ll be back at any moment, I expect. Tell the boy to bring me some water at once. Cold will do, I can’t wait for them to heat it. Two buckets.’

  Off she went, climbing the stairs two at a time and giving Pheebs an agreeable view of ankles and calves.

  Upstairs, Cat broke open the parlour fire and set a pan of water to warm. Only then did she take out the package that Ferrus had given her. She probed it with her fingers. It was filthy, but then so was she.

  The outer covering was made of some sort of oiled skin and encrusted with dirt. There was something soft within, perhaps an inner wrapping, and then, underneath that, what felt like a narrow container eight or nine inches long.

  A line of stitching ran the length of it. The ends had been tucked under and sewn even more securely than the rest. Someone had known what she – or just possibly he – was doing with a needle.

  Was this really what all the fuss had been about? Or was it instead something irrelevant and probably worthless that the poor man had picked up down there rather than come back empty-handed? His wits were obviously wandering far and wide. But it was obvious that someone had wrapped the package with great care. Best assume it was valuable.

  She heard the boy coming up the stairs with the water. She tucked the package behind the fire irons on the hearth. The boy knocked and stared wide-eyed when he saw the state of her.

  ‘Leave the buckets here,’ Cat told him. ‘And go away.’

  She locked herself in the closet by the bedchamber, took off her clothes and scrubbed herself clean. First, she knelt by one of the buckets and plunged her head under the water, scraping her fingers through her hair. When the hair was as clean as she could make it, she dried it quickly and bound it in a towel. Shivering violently, she stood between the buckets and used the brush mercilessly on her skin. One bucket for the brush and the filth; the other for rinsing herself clean. Then the cloths to dry herself. Her skin tingled.

  Afterwards, Cat pulled on the old clothes she used about the house. The water on the fire was now warm, and she used it to wash her face and her hands and feet again. The clothes she had worn lay in a foul heap on the floor. She bundled them into the bag for soiled linen, wrinkling her nose as she did so. Thank God someone else would have to deal with them.

  All this took time, and darkness was falling. She lit a candle, set more water to warm on the fire and sat down to wait – for the water, and for her husband. She was increasingly worried. She couldn’t understand why Reeves and Veal hadn’t yet brought him back to Henrietta Street. He was no longer of any possible use to them. He could only be a hindrance.

  The time dragged. It was unnatural to be doing nothing but worry, and her eyes were drawn again and again to the carefully wrapped packet on the hearth, half concealed by the fire irons. It wasn’t hers to open. Besides, she did not want to touch it.

  She would give it to the Cromwells intact. That, God willing, would be the end of it. She didn’t want anything more to do wi
th that cursed family.

  Tiredness overwhelmed her. She slipped into an uneasy trance-like state, half awake, half asleep. The day’s events chased through her mind. So that, she thought, was the King. He had seemed so ordinary. She could not equate her image of the sovereign, with his power of life and death over them, with the shabby, hen-pecked gentleman she had seen at the Cockpit, who had seemed far more interested in his missing spaniel than his harridan of a mistress.

  She woke with a start, snatched back to consciousness by the sound, faint and far below, of someone knocking on the street door. She sat up and straightened her clothes. She waited, praying that it would be Hakesby.

  The usual rule was that, if a stranger called, Pheebs would send his boy to enquire if the lodger wished to receive him. That was the point of having a porter. But not in this case. The footsteps mounting the stairs were steady and deliberate. Not a stranger, then, and not Hakesby either, because his footsteps were slow and halting.

  She panicked. A visitor might see the package on the hearth. There was no time to think how best to hide it. She seized the shovel, scooped the roll into it, and dropped it into the scuttle. She piled lumps of coal on top of it.

  The steps mounted higher. The caller was coming to call on the Hakesbys. Cat flung herself back into her chair. She wished she had not dressed herself in such old clothes. The parlour was untidy, and it probably smelled like a sewer, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  Perhaps, she thought with a leap of hope as irrational as it was unexpected, it’s Marwood.

  There was a single knock on the parlour door. She had forgotten to bolt it after the boy had left. She rose, but the door opened before she could reach it. The light was poor on this side of the room. She made out the outline of a tall, lean man on the threshold.

  ‘Mistress Hakesby,’ said Mr Veal, ‘I’m glad to find you safely home. Your husband needs you. I’m afraid he’s had a seizure.’

  Her hand flew to her throat. ‘What? Where?’

  ‘He was taken ill as we were crossing the Park. We must hurry. Where’s your cloak?’