by Jo Macauley
Total silence followed.
The cast looked at one another. Beth’s cheeks were on fire.
“Uh, thank you,” Huntingdon finally managed to say. “I think that will be all.”
Beth scuttled off into the wings, not daring to look back, and settled in the furthest, most shadowy corner she could find...
* * *
Blessedly the auditions were soon over, and Maisie and Beth sat together in the retiring room. Maisie was so excited at the prospect of being a part of the production that Beth found she couldn’t dwell too long on her own atrocious performance. Her friend’s good mood was infectious.
“However did you learn to sing like that?” Beth asked her. “Even Lovett was impressed. That never happens.”
“I’ve been singing as long as I can remember,” Maisie smiled. “Since I was little, I mean. It started with the toil songs.”
“Because your mother was a transportee?” Beth knew that Maisie had come over on the ships from America after her mother died. Ever since she’d arrived, she’d been keen to locate her father, whom she believed was somewhere in London.
Maisie nodded. “They made us work hard, all the girls and women,” she said, without bitterness. “Every day, they drove us out onto the farms to harvest the tobaccy. It’s hot work, Mistress Beth, and deathly dull too. The singing helped, made the day go by a little sweeter.”
“But how old were you, when they started you to work?”
Maisie shrugged. “Soon as you were old enough to walk, you were old enough to lift a bundle. They sent us into the fields beside our mothers.”
Beth gave Maisie’s shoulders a spontaneous squeeze, shocked. “That must have been very tough.”
“I suppose,” Maisie said. “But I got to see America. I wouldn’t have missed that for anything!” She sighed. “You’d love it, Miss Beth. It’s such a beautiful country, so open and green and free. Here in London there are so many people and everything costs so much and it always smells so bad ... I sometimes lie awake at night and I think of America. One day I’ll go back. I know I will.”
Beth looked at her friend and smiled. She knew Maisie had come to London hoping that this was where her long-lost father was, but the love in her eyes for America made Beth hope Maisie got to go back there one day too...
Chapter Two - Burned
The best thing to do about her disastrous singing audition, Beth decided, was to laugh it off. That way, perhaps she wouldn’t cringe every time she thought about it. But it was much easier to laugh about things when you were telling the story to someone else, and with an unexpected wrench, Beth realized how much she’d missed her handsome friend and fellow spy, John Turner. They hadn’t met in ages and she missed his smile, she thought with a blush. Since the two of them, along with former street urchin-turned-agent Ralph Chandler, had foiled the last plot on the King’s life, the messages from their spymaster Strange had fallen silent. At times like this their secret spying life seemed almost unreal, submerged under the day-to-day.
She wondered if she should set up a meeting herself. Beth knew she wasn’t technically supposed to meet up with John unless they were working together, but surely she ought to, if only to check if he’d heard anything from Strange? It was good spycraft, she told herself, to make sure your fellow operatives were alive and well.
Yes. Smiling again now, she threw her cape over her shoulders. “Where are you off to, then?” Maisie called to her.
“Oh, just visiting a friend,” Beth said airily.
Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Ask no questions, tell no lies!” She tapped her nose, winked and went back inside.
“Indeed,” Beth murmured to herself as she set off.
* * *
Beth frowned as she approached the cobbled path near John’s house. Something was out of place – what was it? She stood still for a moment, listening, observing. Then it struck her. The silence. John had a large family, she knew that. But no children were playing in the street, and no voices were whooping or arguing from inside. She rapped on the door with one of the coded knocks Strange’s spies used. Three knocks, pause, then another.
John answered, and he looked surprised for a moment to see her, but the deathly look on his face made her own smile vanish.
“B— I mean, can I help you, miss?” he said, recovering his protocol.
Beth slipped effortlessly into character. “I’m so sorry to trouble you. My coach has lost a wheel out in the street and I need some strong arms to help lift the new one on. I don’t suppose I could ask for your help? I’ll pay, of course...”
John glanced back into the house and Beth could see from the doorway that much of his family was gathered in the kitchen: his mother and most of his brothers and sisters, including Polly, who needed crutches to walk. All of them looked grave. In the big chair in the corner of the room sat a man who must be John’s father, Arthur, holding his right hand in a pottery bowl. As he lifted it out for a moment, Beth felt a shock as she saw it was bright red and inflamed.
“I’m just going to help this lady change a cartwheel,” he called, and then quickly hurried out of the house.
“John, was that your father?” she said when they were around the corner.
John nodded, his face still pale and drawn. “He scalded himself at the ironworks and he’s not able to work. It was an accident,” he told her, quickly adding, “but it wasn’t his fault. It could have happened to anyone.”
They came to a halt and John sat heavily down on a nearby bench. Beth sat down beside him as he let out a huge sigh.
“It’s bad, Beth.”
She rested a hand on his arm. “My goodness, it sounds it...”
“There’s no money,” John continued. “I’m bringing home enough to pay the rent, but only just. My father’s trying to put a brave face on it for Mother’s sake and the children’s, but he’s eaten up with worry.”
“He’s healing, though, isn’t he? Surely he’ll be able to go back to work once he’s better.”
“We’re treating it as best we can,” John said. “Mother’s been grinding up herbs in a pestle and making dressings. We all wanted to get him a proper doctor, but Father’s boss wouldn’t pay for one and we can’t really afford one on our own...”
Beth knew what John meant. Doctors were expensive and John’s family was poor – and by the sounds of it much poorer now that their main breadwinner couldn’t work.
“Talk to Ralph!” she said. “His landlord’s an apothecary. Surely he can help?”
“I already did. It was Mister Culpeper who sold us the herbs, and at a generous discount too. Bear’s breeches and coltsfoot. He says there’s nothing better for a bad burn. Ivy leaves in wine would help keep it clean, but we don’t have any wine in the house just now.”
Beth wondered if John’s house had ever had any wine in it.
“He’s in a lot more pain than he lets on.” John shook his head wearily. “The burn’s deep. It’s gone septic. The herbs are helping, I think, but it’s so hard to tell. He won’t admit how badly it hurts him, because he doesn’t want us to worry.”
“He’s a good man,” was all Beth could think of to say. Just like his son.
“Well, I’m not going to let him down,” John said. “I’ve put in for extra hours at the Navy Board. It won’t bring in much, but every penny matters. And I’m going to ask Strange for as much spywork as he can give me. I’ll take anything...” He looked hopeful suddenly, remembering Beth’s visit was unexpected. “That’s not why you’re here, is it? You haven’t heard from him?”
“No, no, I’m afraid not. I’d just come by to check in with you – and I’m glad I did.” Beth’s stomach lurched to hear him say he was hoping to make more money from spy work. They both knew that the more dangerous a mission was, the more Strange would pay. A sense of duty was all well and good, but the promise of hard cash made men brave too. And if a spy didn’t survive, Strange would still make sure some money was passed to his family. He was very
discreet about such things – there were families who still had no idea their loved ones had been working for him. So far as they knew, some mysterious nameless benefactor had helped them just when they most needed it.
“I’m glad too,” John had been saying with a smile. He placed his hand on top of hers for a moment.
“Just be careful if you do speak to Strange for a new assignment,” she warned. “It’d break your mother’s heart if you were hurt too. Or worse...”
“You know what the Good Book says, Beth. “‘He who does no work, neither shall he eat.’” He lowered his voice. “And my family really do need food. They won’t go hungry. I won’t let them.”
“I’ll help any way I can,” Beth promised. “Especially when it comes to spy work!”
John flashed her a grin. “Going to keep an eye on me, are you?”
Finally, a glimpse of the old John, she thought, returning his smile.
“Somebody has to,” she quipped. “Can’t have you getting into danger without me to back you up.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure there is all that much danger right now. Strange hasn’t told us anything new about Vale for ages. Do you suppose he’s keeping us in the dark, or has that fiend finally given up in his attempts on the King?”
“It wouldn’t be like Strange to lie to us. I think Vale really has just gone quiet.”
The more Beth thought it over, the more certain she became. Like a hunted fox, Vale had gone to ground. Perhaps their efforts against the anti-royal conspirator and his men had finally paid off, and he was gone for good?
But as it happened, she couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter Three - Old Acquaintance
The last person Beth expected to see waiting for her at the theatre was Sir Alan Strange. She had to do a double take. At first she thought she must have been mistaken. The Strange she knew was a craggy, ominous man who lurked in shadows, shrouded in a cape. This man was smartly dressed, with a pleated ruff and a luxurious wig. He was carrying a bunch of flowers.
“Ah, Miss Johnson,” he said pleasantly. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m an admirer. I bought these for you.”
“How ... lovely,” Beth said, accepting them while eyeing him closely. Her mind was racing. Strange must be here to tell her something, perhaps to warn her? She tried to look around without making it too obvious. This scene they were playing out had to look natural, in case anyone was watching.
“If it’s not an intrusion, I’d love to talk to you about your acting. Might I presume to offer you a glass of sherry at my club?”
Beth swallowed. “That would be delightful.”
Strange signalled to someone out of sight. Moments later a carriage came clattering to a halt beside them, as if he had conjured it from thin air. Strange opened the door and Beth ascended the step into the carriage’s dark interior. He followed, and the driver set off without asking for directions. He already knew where he was going.
Strange’s face changed the instant the door was closed. The simpering gentleman was gone and the gleaming-eyed hunter was back. “Not my preferred means of contacting you, but unfortunately there wasn’t time to let you know I was coming.”
“I understand,” Beth said. “Did I—?”
“You performed passably well,” Strange interrupted. “You didn’t bluster, and you picked things up quickly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But next time a gentleman you don’t know invites you into his carriage, try to protest a little more before agreeing. You have your reputation to think of...”
Beth’s cheeks burned. She suddenly missed the days when Strange would summon his spies to St Paul’s using the bells. Of course, those days were gone now. The Great Fire of London had gutted the cathedral, bell tower and all.
“I’ve an important assignment for you,” Strange said. “We’ve had word. For some time now I’ve suspected Henry Vale was running a nest of agents right here in London. It looks like I was right.”
“How certain are you?”
“Not certain enough, and that’s why I need you. We may have tracked down Vale’s base of operations here. Several of his known agents have been spotted going in and out of a particular building on the bank of the Thames. It’s a tower, part of what’s left of Richmond Palace.”
Beth could hardly believe her ears. “Richmond Palace? Where the royal family used to live?”
“That was a long time ago, Beth. After the war, when the King had been murdered and Cromwell was in charge, the Parliamentarians had most of Richmond Palace torn down.”
“Why?”
“Partly out of hatred of the monarchy and everything it stood for. But they had another, more important motive: greed. They sold the very stones Richmond Palace was built from.”
Beth began to understand. It would suit Vale to live in the ruins of a royal palace, especially if his own side had had it destroyed. It would be like a constant reminder of his victory.
“Hardly anything of the old palace is left now,” Strange continued. “The few remaining buildings were sold to private owners.”
“One of whom could be Henry Vale using a false name.”
Strange nodded. “Precisely. And for all we know, he may even be there in person.”
Beth hardly dared to hope it might be true. The King-killer, holed up on their very doorstep, and they might even have one up on him. “So, do we break into that tower?”
“No.” Strange’s eyes flashed dangerously, then he closed them and became calm again. “Not yet. If we move too quickly we could scare him off and lose our one chance to capture him. I want you to take part in an intensive surveillance operation.”
As the carriage lurched through the London streets, bound for Heaven only knew what eventual destination, Beth listened while Strange explained the plan. She and some other agents would need to move into a safe house near the former palace and keep watch on the tower continually.
“And by that,” Strange said, “I mean twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. One of you must keep his or her eyes on that tower’s front door at all times. If you need to eat, you wait for your break. If nature calls, you call on another agent to watch for you. No excuses. Do I make myself clear?”
Unpleasantly so, Beth thought. But then, that was Strange’s way.
“Naturally, since this is a demanding mission, the rewards will be higher. You’ll receive half again of your usual rate. Of course, if you can’t leave the theatre for a week or so, I’m wasting my breath,” Strange said. “Is it feasible you could make some excuse to be away?”
Beth’s first thought was: What about the new production? I’d never be able to take part. Then it hit her. Missing this production, where all the main parts were singing parts, could be a blessing in disguise. Ever since her disastrous audition she’d been dreading Huntingdon’s casting decision, knowing she would be relegated to some minor part. But if she told him she wasn’t available, then neither of them needed to go through with it. It was a perfect way to save face. All she had to do was announce she was taking a holiday. Nobody could deny she’d worked herself to the bone over the last few weeks, could they? She was entitled to a break.
“Yes, it shouldn’t be a problem,” she said firmly.
“Excellent,” Strange said. He passed her a slip of paper. “Details are here. The first shift should begin at sunset tonight. I’ll assign you some other agents to work with.”
“You’ll ask John Turner, won’t you?” Beth said.
Strange frowned. “Are you telling me how to do my job, Miss Johnson?”
“Ask him,” Beth repeated firmly. For once, she didn’t care how hard Strange glared at her. “He needs the money. If he’s not in, then neither am I...”
* * *
“Playing house!” Ralph Chandler muttered. “That’s all we’re doing here. Playing bloomin’ house.”
“You’re only saying that because I’m beating you,” Beth said with a grin at her fellow spy. She pas
sed Ralph the dice. “Your turn.”
“I’m sick of backgammon.” Ralph stood up and stretched. “How long has it been now?”
“About fifteen minutes since the last time you asked,” John said from the window. “Check the clock if you want to know the time.”
He was sitting on a stool at the room’s only window, watching the tower door through a strange tubular device with glass lenses in it. Strange had told them it had once belonged to Doctor Dee, the master spy and astrologer who had served Queen Elizabeth I. It was called a telescope. A large clock loomed over the room from the far wall, marking the hours of their shifts with its chimes, governing them like some stiff and humourless wooden avatar of Strange. Still, Beth couldn’t help feeling quietly content to be back again with her colleagues – and good friends – on an assignment.
“Game of cards?” she suggested.
Ralph shook his head and went to join John at the window. “Look at that river. Teeming with fish, it is. I could pop down, catch us a nice fresh supper and be back before anyone knew.”
“If you can’t stand the waiting about,” John snapped, “why’d you sign up for this?”
“Believe it or not, I’d missed your pretty faces,” Ralph said with an arched eyebrow. “Even if you do keep thrashing me at cards. Oh, go on then, Beth. Let’s have another round of cribbage.”
If it weren’t for the tedium and for being stuck inside, Beth thought, this would be a nice relaxing holiday break. She shuffled the deck of cards with practised skill, ready for another victory.
Their temporary base was “Merrybank”, a boatman’s cottage just downriver from Richmond Palace. The upper floor was a cramped attic room with sloping walls and a single window, and the three of them had made a nest of it. Cushions, books and the remains of meals lay around the floor. Strange had forbidden them to make any light in case it alerted the quarry, so their sole entertainments – card games and reading – had to stop at dusk when they ran out of light to see by. It made for long, boring nights.
From the window, they could clearly see the lonely tower that was under suspicion out among the ruins. One at a time, they had taken turns to watch the door, but so far nothing had stirred. Still, John had a pencil and paper poised to note down anything they saw.
