‘I know all about it,’ I said, cutting him off.
Abbott looked hurt but only for a moment. He was not a man to nurse a grudge. Waving towards the dice, he said: ‘Would you care to—’
I didn’t hear the end of his sentence. I left the room and slammed the door.
It was after five o’clock when Elizabeth Cromwell left Mistress Dalton’s house in a hackney coach, leaving her father at work on his papers in the parlour. For decency’s sake, she was accompanied by two of her hostess’s household – the elderly manservant who had escorted her to St James’s Park on Monday, and one of the maids, a plump child terrified of her mistress and indeed of almost everyone else.
‘Make sure the girl attends you at all times,’ her father said as they were leaving. ‘I would not have you lay yourself open to malicious gossip. And Giles will keep you from harm if you should chance to encounter the rioters.’
The risk of malicious gossip, Elizabeth thought, was the least of their problems. And Giles, who was sixty if he was a day, was unlikely to be able to deal with a recalcitrant child, let alone with a crowd of drunken apprentices.
During the journey, she heard the church clocks striking the half hour. She wished the coachman would drive faster. Her fingers were tightly knotted together on her lap. So much depended on the consequence of this visit. Her father was increasingly infatuated with Buckingham and his intrigues. If her grandmother’s legacy were sufficiently substantial, Elizabeth would stand a far better chance of persuading her father to go back to the relative safety of Paris. Perhaps there would even be money left over for the rest of them.
The coach turned off Holborn into Drury Lane. Not far now.
It was fortunate that Catherine Hakesby was honest. She was also foolish. Why on earth had she married that terrible old husband of hers, who quaked like an aspen, and forced Catherine to work for their living? Her hands were red and chapped; not like a lady’s hands any more. Even with a regicide father, she could have done much better for herself.
The three of them swayed as the coachman took the corner into James Street too fast. The maid gave a squeal, instantly suppressed.
Everything depended on what Catherine had found in the Cockpit. On the principle that no source of assistance should be overlooked in a time of crisis, Elizabeth closed her eyes and prayed briefly and fervently that Grandmama’s legacy would consist of a vast quantity of gold or jewels, if not both.
Bless my father, she added as an afterthought as they turned into Covent Garden, and teach him to be wise. Through Christ Our Lord, Amen.
When Cat heard the knock, she was sitting at the table in the parlour and trying to restore the accounts to a semblance of order. Mr Hakesby had gone through a pile of invoices and receipts this afternoon. During his examination of them, they had somehow fallen on the floor and were now in a state of confusion.
‘Come in,’ she called, thinking it was Brennan or the maid.
The door opened, and there was Elizabeth Cromwell on the threshold. ‘Catty,’ she cried, advancing into the room with her hands outstretched and bringing with her a waft of expensively perfumed air. ‘My love – how do you do?’
Cat rose to greet her. ‘Thank you, I’m well. And you? And Mr Cromwell?’
‘Oh well enough. My poor father has a maggot in his brain at present and will not see sense, but I mustn’t trouble you with my woes. How did you enjoy the Duke’s party the other night? Isn’t Wallingford House fine? But some of the company was so dreary. I should have died of boredom if you’d not been there.’
‘Have you come here quite alone?’ Cat said, wishing that Elizabeth had chosen some other time to come. ‘Is your father with you?’
‘No – but pray don’t concern yourself – you are always so solicitous of others, are you not? – I’ve a maid below in the coach, and Mistress Dalton’s Giles as well. He brought me safely to the door, and your porter let me up unannounced. He remembered my face, and he knew I was a friend. You train your servants well.’
The devil could take Pheebs and welcome, Cat thought. She would have to speak to him about sending up people without warning. Elizabeth’s visit could hardly have been worse timed.
‘Pray sit down. Can I offer you—’
‘No, nothing, thank you.’ Elizabeth dropped her cloak on a chair and sat down. ‘Only – oh Catty, you must guess why I’m here. What you said to me on the stairs at Wallingford House. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Have you – have you found something?’
‘I wasn’t the one who found it. Ferrus did.’
Elizabeth looked blankly at her. ‘Who?’
‘The very tall thin man. Do you remember? The mazer scourer’s labourer, or whatever he was.’
Elizabeth gave a little shiver. ‘Oh yes. That one.’
‘It’s a package. He gave it to me on Monday afternoon, as I was leaving. I don’t know what’s in it. I assume it’s what you’re looking for, but I can’t even be sure of that. You see, Ferrus couldn’t tell me where he’d found it. He’s dumb, you know.’
The tip of Elizabeth’s tongue moistened her lips. ‘Is it … is it here?’
‘I’ll fetch it.’
‘Stay – where’s Mr Hakesby?’
‘It’s all right. He’s working upstairs. The maid’s out. No one should disturb us.’
Cat rose and went into the bedchamber, closing the door behind her, shutting out Elizabeth’s avid gaze. The package was where she had left it, in the press with the summer bed hangings and curtains. She retrieved it and, for a moment, weighed it in her hand.
On the other side of the road, St Paul’s clock struck the third quarter. She had not realized the time was so advanced. She had to get rid of Elizabeth and her cursed package as soon as possible. She was due to meet Marwood at seven. He would come, and he would be on time. She knew that without examining the reason for her certainty. She had already bribed the porter’s boy to leave open the garden gate.
She went back into the parlour, where Elizabeth was drumming her fingers softly on the table. Cat laid the parcel on the table before her.
Elizabeth touched it. She turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘Is this all?’
‘It’s all that Ferrus gave me.’
Elizabeth weighed the package in her hand. There was still dirt on it and she glanced automatically at her fingertips, frowning when she saw the dark smudges on them. Now that she had it within her grasp, she seemed in no hurry to open it. She examined the stitching.
‘I can believe my grandmother made these stitches,’ she said slowly. ‘She always sewed more than was needed when she mended something. She … she liked sewing, you know.’
‘Forgive me, but I’m pressed for time. Could you not take it away and open it later?’
‘But I must open it. Immediately.’
‘Then shall I cut the stitches for you?’
Elizabeth glanced at her, her eyes wide and dazed. She put the parcel on the table and pushed it towards Cat. ‘It can’t be gold, can it? Wouldn’t gold be heavier?’
Cat took the knife from her pocket and sliced through the stitches. She worked with deliberation, conscious of Elizabeth’s eyes on her, and conscious too of the other woman’s swift, shallow breathing. When the last stitch parted, the package remained wrapped. After all these years, the oiled canvas was reluctant to release its contents.
‘Pray let me,’ Elizabeth said, and stretched out her hand.
She unwrapped the package, peeling the canvas away. There was another covering beneath, this one made of thick paper, which she tore off with greedy fingers. Then came a layer of thick black broadcloth. She pushed it aside.
‘Oh,’ she said, and her lips made a perfect O.
Elizabeth lifted out a case covered with dark green leather and secured by a golden clasp. It had rounded corners and a lid that was slightly domed. In the centre of the lid was a small shield, made like the clasp of gold, for it was untarnished. She breathed on it, and the condensation thre
w the design into relief.
‘I don’t know the arms,’ she said in an undertone, to herself. ‘Five roundels … and at the top another, larger one. With something inside it?’
Her fingers shook like Hakesby’s when she released the catch. Despite herself, Cat craned her head to see what was inside. First was a folded sheet of paper, which Elizabeth brushed aside. And then—
‘Pearls,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And oh – what pearls.’
She held up the necklace. It hung from her fingers in a lustrous cascade. The pearls were large, perhaps half an inch in diameter or even more. They looked symmetrical and perfectly matched.
‘Oh,’ Elizabeth repeated. ‘Oh, Catty. This was worth the trouble indeed. My aunt Fauconberg once showed me a string of pearls she said was worth nigh on twenty thousand pounds. And they were not half so fine as this.’
‘And the paper?’
Elizabeth laid the pearls gently into their case. She unfolded the paper. ‘It’s my grandmother’s hand. “A gift to the Lady Protectoress, Mistress Cromwell, from the Grand Duke of Tuscany, April 1655.” There. That settles it, does it not? A personal gift to my grandmother. It belongs to her heirs, therefore, and to no one else.’
Cat doubted that the King or his ministers would agree. She stretched out her hand and, almost against her will, laid a finger on one of the pearls. It felt cold and unloved.
‘No, pray don’t touch.’ Elizabeth drew the case away from her and fastened the lid. ‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you’ve done.’ She smiled without warmth. ‘But I mustn’t trespass any more on your time.’ Her face changed. ‘That is – I hardly like to say this – do you think it possible there might be more?’
Cat frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well perhaps this man – what was his name?’
‘Ferrus?’ Cat’s anger was rising steadily.
‘Yes, Ferrus – perhaps he took this, but left other things. Who knows? Did the fellow strike you as trustworthy? Do you think he might—’
‘No.’ Cat said. ‘No. Pray leave it. Enough is enough.’
‘But my love—’ There were heavy footsteps on the stairs. ‘Is that Mr Hakesby?’
‘No. Someone’s coming up, not down.’
Elizabeth tried to push the case into her pocket, but there wasn’t room. She placed it on the chair beside her and covered it with her cloak.
The footsteps reached the landing. They paused. They did not continue up the stairs that led to the Drawing Office. Instead the parlour door flew open.
Roger Durrell’s large figure filled the doorframe. He stared at them. ‘Well, well. Your servant, ladies.’
He advanced slowly into the room, eyes roving from side to side. The sheath of his sword collided with a chair leg. The smell of beer and tobacco mingled with Elizabeth’s perfume.
‘Well, ain’t this a blessed thing?’ Durrell said. ‘The Lord be praised in all His glory. Two little birds with one big fat stone.’ He cast his eyes up to heaven. ‘But in fact I only want one of them.’
That evening I went alone. I had toyed with the idea of bringing Sam – he was a useful man in a difficult situation, and he could have kept watch for me. But his stump made him both slow and noticeable. Besides, this matter had nothing to do with him. It concerned Cat and me. After what had happened to Chloris this morning, I did not want to throw another innocent person in the way of danger.
Maiden Lane was no distance. I left the Savoy by one of the side gates. I carried a weighted stick but I was not otherwise armed. After this morning, I was weary of bloodshed.
It was raining, the moisture drifting invisibly and unkindly from heaven. Perhaps the weather would dampen the enthusiasm of the rioters. I crossed the Strand by the Black Bull Tavern and went up Half Moon Passage. Within a few yards, the alley widened and became Bedford Street. At this point, Maiden Lane went off on the right-hand side, leading east. The lane was blind, for the far end was closed off by the high garden wall of Bedford House.
It was growing dark, and I walked cautiously along the street to avoid both the gutter and the gathering shadows. To the right, or south side, was an irregular line of houses of the middling sort, whose residents would be neither wealthy nor fashionable. Among them were the entries of one or two narrow paths winding down to the Strand; they were best avoided after nightfall. To my left were outbuildings and gates. These belonged to the more substantial houses of Henrietta Street to the north, from which they were separated by their gardens and yards.
I counted as I went: the eighth gate along, Cat had said, and at seven o’clock. I found it about halfway along. It was more substantial than I had expected, and with an inset wicket. Beside it was an outhouse that might have been a coach house or stable with a loft above. From the lane, I could see only the top storey of the house, which was where the Drawing Office was. Its large windows glowed faintly with light.
I should not have long to wait. I raised the latch of the wicket and pulled it gently towards me. The gate opened. I stepped into the garden beyond. Something rustled behind me.
A cat, I thought, or a rat.
Ferrus watches the man open the lady’s gate. In he goes. He closes the gate behind him.
No dog barks.
All the time he has been standing in this piss-scented doorway, Ferrus hasn’t heard a dog bark behind that gate. He misses Windy. A sense of loss threatens to overwhelm him. He can’t recall a time when he slept without Windy’s warmth beside him.
Ferrus go through the gate? No Windy, but no dog to bark at him either. Perhaps he could find a place to sleep.
Near the lady.
Elizabeth Cromwell rose to her feet, gathering her cloak into her arms. ‘I shall leave you to your business, Catherine.’ Her eyes flickered towards Durrell. ‘The coach is waiting below, and my father will be wondering where I am.’
Durrell remained where he was, his body blocking the door. He glanced at Cat. ‘His Grace commanded me to bring you to him.’
‘Pray give His Grace my compliments. Tell him I’m engaged.’
‘No, mistress. He wants you now.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he’ll tell you when you get there.’
‘It’s not convenient for me. Tell him that instead.’
Elizabeth cleared her throat. ‘Move aside, my man,’ she said to Durrell in a voice that was not quite steady.
He ignored her. ‘I got a coach outside too,’ he said to Cat. ‘At least you won’t get wet and mucky.’
‘Leave this house.’ Cat’s anger was rising but her fear was rising faster. ‘You should not have been allowed in.’
‘Mistress.’ Durrell’s thick voice lingered on the word. ‘Either you come along with me, and everything’s pleasant and you’re back here in an hour or so. Or the old man comes too.’
‘My husband’s not at leisure to go anywhere. He’s working.’
‘He’ll come if he’s made to come.’
Cat stared at him. ‘Go away.’
‘I’ve a couple of men waiting in the coach. If the young lady’s obstinate, the Duke says, bring the old fool as well. It’s not right to allow a wife to have such shrewish ways. He said to remind you that he talked to you about that at Wallingford House the other evening.’ Durrell shook his heavy head in mock disapproval. ‘When you was being obstinate again.’
‘Catty,’ Elizabeth said, trying to edge round Durrell. ‘Catty, dear – what harm can there be, after all? The Duke’s a gentleman, and he honours your father’s memory. I’m sure he wants you for something important.’
Durrell still did not move. ‘Which is it to be?’
Cat said nothing for a moment. She stood perfectly still. The bully at Wallingford House thought himself above the law, as in practice indeed he was.
‘Catherine!’ Elizabeth said, her voice sharpening. ‘Remember where your interests lie. The Duke is our friend. Your husband’s patron, if you but let him.’
‘Ho
ld your clack, you foolish woman,’ Cat snarled.
She watched the shock grow in Elizabeth’s face, as plain speaking did its work as swiftly as an earthquake. In that moment, the fragile edifice of their friendship, if that was the right word for it, trembled and fell.
‘Well, mistress?’ Durrell said, as implacable as fate but more partial and far less patient.
A church clock struck seven.
After I came through the wicket I crossed a cobbled yard to another gate, also unbarred. I startled a cat, which hissed at me and slid away into the darkness.
Beyond the second gate was a small garden, screened by a fence from another, smaller yard. God be praised, there was no sign of a guard dog.
There was no sign of Cat, either.
I stood in the shadow of a bush for a few minutes. My cloak grew wetter. I tilted my head to look up at the house. Water streamed from the brim of my hat, and some of it trickled down my neck.
There was a sound behind me, and my heart missed a beat. I thought for a moment that someone might be standing there, just inside the gate to the yard. But I could see or hear no one.
Lights shone in at least some of the windows on all the floors. I knew that the building had been let to a handful of lodgers, who shared the use of the garden, the outbuildings and the services of the porter and his boy. The Hakesbys had the top two storeys and were the major tenants. I guessed there were two back doors from the house – one to the yard at the side, where the cesspit would be, and the other directly into the garden. If Cat were coming at all, she would probably use the garden door.
Time passed slowly. The rain fell and the air cooled. After the day I had had, I was weary and unhappy. As I waited, I grew increasingly disgruntled. I was trying to do Cat a favour, but she hadn’t even honoured the arrangement that she herself had made.
At that moment, as I was cultivating my irritation as assiduously as wiser men cultivate their gardens, two things happened.
The sudden, shocking noise of breaking glass.
And a woman screamed.
The stairs were wide enough for three.
Durrell walked between them, gripping both Cat’s arm and Elizabeth’s. Elizabeth had her cloak draped over her arm in such a way that the hand clutching the case of pearls was hidden. They went slowly, for Durrell was short of breath and a little unsteady, but Cat was aware of his bulk. Neither woman came up to his shoulders. His arm felt like the branch of a tree.
The Last Protector Page 32