The Last Protector

by Andrew Taylor

  I set down the tools and tried the drawers. Both were locked. They fitted closely into the frame of the desk. I took up the smaller chisel and pushed it between the top of the left-hand drawer and the desk. I eased it from side to side, scarring the wood above and below, gradually enlarging the gap. It would have been faster to use the hammer to force the chisel deeper into the crack, but I couldn’t risk the noise it would make.

  But the chisel did its work in the end. When the gap was large enough, I pushed the wedge-shaped end of the crow into the hole. I glanced over my shoulder. Chloris was by the door to the landing, listening for sounds on the landing. She grimaced at me. I pushed the crow down. The wood cracked and split. I levered harder and wrenched the drawer open.

  My spirits sank as I picked over the contents. There were blank sheets of paper, ink, pens, sealing wax, a small knife and a shaker of sand. That was all.

  I attacked the other drawer. It was harder work than the first had been. I was tiring. Perhaps the gap was narrower.

  The chisel slipped in my sweating hand, and gouged a jagged groove down the front of the desk. I swore softly. It took me at least a minute more to enlarge the hole sufficiently to take the end of the crow.

  This time the noise was louder. The lock split the wood. The front of the drawer parted company with the rest of it and fell with a clatter to the floor.

  ‘God’s death, sir …’ Chloris hissed.

  I ignored her. My hands were shaking. I took out the remains of the drawer and laid it on the desk beside the other one. There was nothing but a loose pile of papers inside. The top sheet was covered with Buckingham’s rapid, sloping writing. I snatched up the whole stack.

  ‘Hush …’

  I turned. Chloris was looking at me, her eyes huge with fear, with her finger to her mouth. Silently her lips moved: ‘Someone’s outside.’

  I stuffed the papers into my coat pocket. I had left my stick in the attic of the house next door. I took up the crow in one hand and the hammer in the other.

  We stood still, listening. All I could hear was distant barking. Chloris was frowning. Then she shrugged and beckoned me to follow her to the closet door behind the screen.

  It was at that moment, as we both began to move towards the door, that without warning the screen lurched forward and fell with a clatter on the floor in front of us. Chloris gave a scream, instantly hushed.

  Merton was standing where the screen had been. He was almost as tall as the doorway behind him. He wore nothing but his shirt and nightcap but he was holding a raised sword. Its blade dropped and pointed at me. The tip swung towards Chloris.

  ‘No, sir,’ she wheedled, ‘no, Mr Merton. Don’t be unkind to poor Chloris. Not after all the pleasure we’ve given each other. See what I got for you …’

  There was no conviction in her voice. But she held out her hand, which was empty. For an instant the movement distracted his attention from me. I flung the crow at him.

  The iron bar caught him on the side of the head. Surprise as much as the force of the blow made him take a step back. Hammer in hand, I rushed towards him. I had no other choice. But he had already recovered and, with the speed of a trained swordsman, he riposted. The blade leapt towards my chest. It was too late for me to attempt a parry. Indeed the impetus of my own advance increased the force of his thrust.

  The tip of his sword hammered into my chest with a force that drove the air from my lungs. The impact flung me backwards. But the sword’s tip did not penetrate my skin. The blade recoiled.

  I glimpsed the astonishment in Merton’s eyes. Chloris seized a chair and hit him with it. He tripped on the corner of the hearth and staggered against the wall. Again he recovered, and jabbed at her with the sword. She screamed. I ran towards them. She dropped the chair and fell back. I swung the hammer down on Merton’s head.

  There was a dull thud, followed by a gasp. The force of the blow made him crumple. His head was now resting against the wall. I hit him again, harder this time and with the wall behind him. The head of the hammer sank into his skull. Something broke. The sword fell from his hand.

  I stood like one paralysed. Chloris stared at me, her face white, and her hand over her mouth. I could not believe the evidence of my eyes. I could not believe what I had done.

  Someone shouted down below. The spell broke. I left the hammer where it was, for I could not bear to wrench it out. I snatched up Merton’s sword. ‘Quick.’

  Chloris stumbled through the door, and I followed her into the closet and out on to the landing. There were voices somewhere, both men’s and women’s, shouting and shrieking. I pulled her towards the stairs.

  It was only when we reached the next landing that I saw the drops of blood on the bare boards behind us. Chloris had her other hand pressed tightly against her side to staunch the flow. But the blood was trickling between her fingers.

  ‘I need … I need to …’

  ‘We can’t stop.’

  I dragged her up the last flight of stairs. Mary took one look at us and she screamed. I put down the sword and let go of Chloris, who propped herself against the wall. I pulled the bed in front of the door. There was so little space I contrived to wedge it against the opposite wall.

  ‘I’m going through the window,’ I said to the girl. ‘Bring her over to me, and I’ll haul her across.’

  A greater fear drives out a lesser. I crossed from one window to the other as easily as if I had been doing it twice a day for years. Mary helped Chloris to the window. I gripped her wrists. I leaned across and, with Mary’s help, transferred her from one attic to the other. For a moment, as I dragged her through the window, her eyes met mine. Her eyelids fluttered. She slumped on to the floor and groaned.

  I turned back to the window.

  ‘What about me, sir?’ Mary said. ‘They’ll kill me.’

  I heard the hammering on the door.

  ‘They won’t. Tell them I held the sword to your throat.’

  ‘Take me with you. I beg you, master. She said you would.’

  I looked at the pale, unhappy child, barefoot and pregnant in her shift. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  I held out my hands to her and drew her over the alley into the attic. Compared to Chloris, she had no weight at all. I shut the window and latched it.

  There was a sharp cry behind me. Chloris had rolled on to her side and curled up her legs. The blood was pooling under her, spreading across the floor. Her face was white. She was trying to say something, but the words were inaudible.

  I knelt beside her. Her hand plucked at my sleeve. ‘Leave me,’ she said. ‘Take Mary, take her away.’ She released me and pawed at herself. ‘Give her my cloak. She—’

  Her hand fell to the floor. Her head slumped. Her eyes were still open. Mary cried out, a high wail.

  I heard the sound of splitting wood from the house over the way. They would be through the attic door in an instant.

  I snatched the cloaks from the bed. ‘Quick,’ I said to Mary. ‘Take her shoes and shawl.’

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ Pheebs said.

  The woman was standing in the street, and her head barely reached his waist. She looked up at him. She had a broad, high-coloured face. She said, ‘Margaret, sir. For Mistress Hakesby.’

  ‘What’s Mistress Hakesby want with the likes of you?’

  As Pheebs spoke, he ran his eyes up and down the woman. A plump partridge, he thought, not as young as he liked them. But big enough in the right places and probably soft if you squeezed her hard to make her squeal. Nothing wrong with a bundletail.

  ‘I take in washing,’ the woman said. Her dark eyes stared at him. ‘I do mending too, if needed.’

  ‘Touting for work. I see. Be off with you.’

  ‘But she asked me to come.’

  The woman looked past him at the boy, who was leaning against the wall, as the idle rogue always did when Pheebs wasn’t looking. He was carrying the kindling basket.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, send your l
ad up with my name. You’ll see. Margaret Witherdine. She asked for me most particular.’

  Pheebs shrugged. He said over his shoulder. ‘Hear that, boy? Margaret Withers for Mistress Hakesby.’

  ‘Witherdine,’ the woman said.

  Pheebs ignored her. ‘Hop up and find out if this one’s lying or not.’

  The boy abandoned the basket and ran for the stairs.

  ‘Stop,’ Pheebs shouted. The boy obeyed. ‘Take their kindling up with you, you numskull. Why haven’t you done it already?’

  One of the drawbacks of being a married woman was that it was difficult to be alone. But it could be done. This morning Cat had sent the maid to collect a pair of shoes from the cobbler and order their dinner. Her husband was upstairs in the Drawing Office with Brennan.

  Early yesterday morning, Cat had retrieved the package from the coal scuttle. Later, she had rinsed the worst of the filth from it with a rag soaked in the water the maid brought her to wash in. Yet again she had been struck by the fine stitching. She hid the package in the press where she kept the bed hangings and curtains for the summer months.

  The unwanted responsibility lay heavily on her. She had hoped that Elizabeth would call on her yesterday and remove the problem. But she hadn’t come. Why not? If Buckingham was still having the Drawing Office watched, he could hardly object to Elizabeth coming to see Cat, though he might think it an unnecessary risk.

  Cat was tempted to take the cursed package downstairs and let the night soil men take it away. On the other hand, though, the horrid thing had an unhealthy fascination for her, as did a guilty secret.

  She went into the bedchamber and opened the press. In a moment, she had the parcel in her hands. She carried it to the window and felt it carefully. A long box or case, she thought; in cross section it was rectangular but not square. A slight protrusion halfway down one side was probably made by a catch securing the lid of a box.

  If she opened the packet, at least she would know what she was dealing with. Was she not entitled to do so, since she was running the risk of keeping it? She felt in her pocket for her knife. The blade was thin with much sharpening, and it tapered to a fine point.

  She pushed the tip into one of those perfect loops of thread. The stitch sprang apart. She paused. Dear God, there were scores of stitches, if not hundreds, double- and treble-stitched as if the seamstress – it had to be a woman – had found it hard to surrender the package.

  Footsteps were coming up the stairs. Cat swore under her breath and pushed the bundle under the curtains at the bottom of the press. She straightened, brushing a fragment of thread from her skirt.

  There was a knocking. She went through to the parlour and opened the door. The porter’s boy almost fell into the room.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Oh the kindling. At last. There was barely enough this morning. Put it by the fire.’

  He obeyed, saying over his shoulder, ‘Mr Pheebs says there’s a woman asking for you. A washerwoman. Name of Margaret.’

  ‘We’ve already got a washerwoman,’ Cat said. ‘No – not by the scuttle. On the other side.’

  He set down the basket, took out the kindling and stacked it neatly on the hearth. ‘She said most particular that you’d asked her to call on you.’

  ‘I didn’t. I want you to chop some more kindling this afternoon. There’s never enough. Chop some of it smaller this time, would you? And we need more shavings, too.’

  He ducked his head, acknowledging the order. ‘Her name’s Wither … Witherdine.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Margaret Witherdine, mistress.’

  For a moment Cat said nothing. Then: ‘Yes, of course. That one.’ She hesitated. ‘Yes, I did ask for her. She takes in fine laundry. You’d better send her up. Off you go.’

  The boy clattered down the stairs. Cat waited. The parlour door was still ajar. She heard Margaret’s footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate. She came in, breathing heavily from the exertion, and curtsied.

  ‘Close the door,’ Cat said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Master sent me.’ Margaret sniffed. ‘In the middle of the morning, mark you, and me with a list of tasks to do that would fill a week.’ She took a letter, much creased, from her pocket. ‘For you.’

  Cat broke the seal. There was neither date nor salutation. It was unsigned. But she recognized the handwriting.

  It has been reported that you went to WH yesterday evening in company with a certain clergyman. They will soon bring you and H in for questioning. Send word by the bearer if you will talk to me first, and as soon as possible. It is most urgent, for your sake. I must know where you stand, and whether you might alter your mind. Pray destroy this.

  Conscious of Margaret’s eyes on her, Cat read the letter twice. Afterwards, she crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the fire. Pale flames flickered along the edges. When the paper was ablaze, she turned back to Margaret.

  ‘Did he bid you tell me anything as well?’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘No. Just to wait for an answer.’

  ‘How are you all?’

  ‘Truth is, mistress, the house is topsy turvy.’ Margaret’s face blazed, not with exertion but with anger. ‘It’s that cursed woman.’

  Cat stared at her. ‘A woman? What woman?’

  ‘Some doxy he brought back. Oh yes, she looks demure as you please, I grant her that. You’d think she goes to chapel thrice every Sunday. Master says she’s to help me in the kitchen for a day or two before she goes back to the country. Says she’s a maidservant. Oh no she ain’t, not in any way. I can tell a bawd when I see one. Sam doesn’t know what to do with himself, the poor fool. Master has her up in his bedchamber, all by themselves when he’s in his gown, and she gives him sly looks when she thinks I’m not looking. And besides’ – Margaret paused, squeezing her lips before launching her most damning argument – ‘she calls herself Chloris, and if that’s not a punk’s name, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ Cat was suddenly furious, and her voice was louder than she intended. ‘How did he find her?’

  ‘He came back with her Monday evening. He said he’d been set upon by footpads, and—’

  ‘Footpads? What happened?’

  ‘I only know what they told me, and that ain’t much. He’d lost his purse, and his wig and his shoes too. That’s true enough. He says she found him lying in the gutter and helped him back out of the kindness of her heart.’ Margaret inflated her cheeks and let out her breath in a rush of outrage. ‘If you believe that, you’d believe the fairies fill the pot under your bed with gold coins every night.’

  ‘Footpads …’ Cat repeated. ‘Do you know any more than that?’

  ‘Sam says he’s a sly dog, master is, didn’t think he had it in him. I give him a clout for that.’

  ‘Your master wants to talk to me.’

  ‘Oh please do, mistress. Talk some sense into him. If anyone can, it’s you. He went out with the whore at break of day – God knows where they are, but I can guess what they’re—’

  Cat held up her hand, and Margaret stopped. They heard the tap of a stick and slow, dragging footsteps in the room above their heads.

  ‘My husband’s on his way down.’ Cat had made up her mind. ‘I can’t come to Infirmary Lane. Mr Hakesby wouldn’t care for it.’ She hesitated. ‘Besides, if I leave the house, I may be followed.’

  Alarm flared in Margaret’s face. ‘Someone’s watching you?’

  The footsteps were already on the stairs.

  ‘It’s possible. For that reason, Mr Marwood can’t come to me here. Or not by the street door.’

  ‘What’s going on, mistress?’

  ‘But if he wants, he could come by Maiden Lane,’ Cat said, ignoring the question. ‘Do you know it? It runs behind Henrietta Street, and the back gates of our houses are on the left-hand side. Ours is the eighth one along. Tell your master to come at seven this evening. I doubt they’re watching the back as w
ell. I’ll be in the garden, and the gate to the lane will be unbarred.’

  Margaret repeated the message, first aloud in a whisper, and then to herself, her lips moving silently as she framed each word.

  The parlour door opened. Hakesby shuffled into the room, leaning on his stick. His face was drawn with pain or anxiety; perhaps both.

  He frowned. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘A laundry woman, sir – she takes lace and fine needlework, and she will do some mending for us.’ Cat turned back to Margaret. ‘Leave us. I’ll send for you when I need you. A trial piece first, I think, to see if I like your work.’

  Eyes downcast, Margaret curtsied low with uncharacteristic humility. ‘Yes, mistress. And thank you, mistress, thank you, master. God bless you.’

  She left the room. Hakesby continued his slow progress towards the privacy of his closet.

  Cat waited until she heard him bolting the closet door to ensure that no one could disturb him. Then, with a sudden spurt of fury, she made a fist of her right hand and hammered it on the table with all her strength. The pain made her gasp. It was all she could do not to shout.

  How dared Marwood indulge in such folly? To sport with a whore in his own house. She shouldn’t be surprised, she supposed. Now he had money, there was nothing to stop him in these dissolute times. All men were the same under the skin. Old or young, rich or poor, puritan or libertine – it made no difference. If you peeled away their outer seeming, you found that they all carried inside them the same muddle of lusts and failings. They cared only for themselves and for the satisfaction of their brutish needs.

  Not that it mattered. Not a jot. Not a tittle. She would see him as much for her husband’s sake as her own. She owed a wife’s duty to her husband, though in truth she cared nothing for any man. Especially not for James Marwood.

  With a last glance at Chloris’s body at the foot of the bed, I clambered down the ladder from the attic. Mary followed. We ran down the stairs as fast as we could. The old crow emerged from the rear of the house as we reached the ground floor.

  It was fully light now, and the old woman could see that I was no longer with Chloris. She started swearing at me. Then she saw the naked sword in my hand. She backed away but I rested the tip of the blade on her chest.