The Judas Blade

by John Pilkington

  ‘The Bok isn’t the most salubrious of places,’ he said. ‘I only come here to catch the gossip. As do others, who at home might patronize more… fitting premises.’ His smile appeared fixed now, Betsy thought. Taking up the jug again, he refilled his glass. ‘Yet that can be something of a hindrance nowadays, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ she answered in a level tone. ‘As I understand why some of our countrymen have been forced to flee abroad – unjustly, perhaps. The King’s reach is a long one, is it not?’

  ‘The King? I don’t think I follow you, madam.’ Lacy raised his eyebrows, whereupon Betsy stiffened. Was the man as tipsy as she had assumed? Suddenly, she was unclear which of them was trying to draw out the other!

  ‘I simply meant that His Majesty keeps a close eye on this country, Mr Lacy,’ she said carefully. ‘As he does on others … France in particular, of course. We can never forget how strong his ties are to King Louis.’

  ‘Can’t we?’ Lacy was looking intently at her and now she understood. The man was trying to provoke her – daring her to state her position. This, she sensed, was an opportunity she must not miss.

  ‘No, we can’t,’ she answered flatly and, leaning forward, she lowered her voice again. ‘Moreover, unless I’m badly mistaken, sir, like me you wish both monarchs – one an unashamed Papist, and one who merely hides it – a speedy retribution for their sins. In short, that they be consigned to the Hell that’s prepared for them.’

  With heart thudding, she sat back and waited. But when Lacy’s response came, it wasn’t what she had expected. To her surprise, he threw back his head and shouted with laughter.

  ‘Capital!’ he cried, shaking his head. Betsy blinked, as several people nearby looked at them. But assuming some jest had tickled Lacy’s humour, they soon lost interest. She breathed a sigh – then received a jolt.

  ‘The fires of Hell are not enough!’

  Lacy’s voice was low, but the words were spat out with a venom that surprised her. He was leaning forward again, peering into her eyes, and there was something in his gaze she had not seen before: unfeigned anger. And so at last she understood: the man burned with the fire of the righteous, and of the dispossessed; those who feel shunned and unheard, and who yearn to take their revenge. Relief swept over her: her gamble had succeeded.

  ‘Your words lift my heart,’ he whispered. ‘Charles Stuart’s but a Papist devil! And if the Lord wills it, he may perish sooner than anyone thinks. So let’s drink to it, madam – and death to all our enemies!’

  Chapter Nine

  IN THE AFTERNOON Betsy, Peter Crabb and Eleanor returned to the house near the Oude Kierke, to find no sign of Mullin.

  It didn’t surprise Betsy; by now she had come to expect little of the man. She had been eager to tell of those she’d spoken to – particularly Thomas Lacy, who would surely be an introduction to republican circles in Delft. So when the captain had still not appeared by dusk she told Crabb and Eleanor, the three of them sitting in the candlelit kitchen.

  ‘He’s just another angry republican,’ Crabb said, after she had related her conversation. ‘Harks back to the days of the Good Old Cause, and swears damnation to the Stuarts. You’ll find men like Lacy all over this country, drinking themselves senseless.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make him a conspirator. Especially as he does good business exporting pots and tiles. From what I hear, he’s a rich man.’

  ‘What else do you hear?’ Betsy enquired ruefully. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me I’ve been wasting my time.’

  ‘No – but Lacy wasn’t the only Englishman in the Bok. Eleanor and I sat in the chimney corner with a fellow from Essex. Quite a gossip, wasn’t he?’

  The last remark was addressed to Eleanor, who nodded. ‘He was. Though most of what I heard was mere bawdy talk. Some of it was about that woman on the coach – Mistress Katz.’

  ‘What of her?’ Betsy asked sharply.

  ‘Seems she’s a sly one,’ Eleanor said. ‘They say she’s bedded some of the most powerful men in the land. Her husband’s a weak fellow – a cuckold, who isn’t master in his own home.’

  ‘Our Essex friend heard this from an Irishman,’ Crabb put in. ‘A papist, who lives by the Papenhoek. The priest there is a rogue and a lecher, they say.’

  ‘Did you catch his name, Wrestler?’ Betsy asked. Crabb shook his head, then turned. The street door had opened, and was slammed. All three tensed as Mullin came striding in.

  ‘Well, this is cosy,’ he said, his sardonic smile in place. ‘I trust you’ve supped and rested? Some of us, meanwhile, have been at work.’ And when no one spoke, he added, ‘I’ve learned of a priest by the name of Father de Smet … a newcomer. Worth tracking down, I’d say.’

  The others exchanged glances: it was as if Mullin had just overheard them. ‘Do you mean the one in the Papenhoek?’ Betsy enquired. ‘The lecher? We heard of him too.’

  A frown creased the captain’s brow. ‘Have you? How interesting. As it happens, this priest’s as pious as they come. Not your man at all.’

  After a moment Eleanor rose. ‘I’ve got some ale, sir,’ she said. ‘And almond cakes.’

  Mullin hesitated, then sat down. ‘That would be welcome.’ He glanced at Crabb, met his cool stare without comment, then faced Betsy. ‘I, er … should ask your pardon, madam,’ he said in a subdued tone. ‘For my churlish behaviour today.’

  ‘Most civil of you, sir,’ Betsy said frostily.

  ‘But then, I knew you’d be in safe hands,’ the captain went on, ignoring her reply. ‘I thought I’d visit one or two acquaintances … not the sort who frequent the Bok to drown their sorrows,’ he added, with another glance at Crabb. ‘I speak of others more discreet.’ Seeing that he had everyone’s attention, he risked a smile. ‘One lives near the Papenhoek – it was she who told me of the new priest. Of course, it may be coincidence, but—’

  ‘She?’ Betsy echoed, arching her eyebrows, at which Mullin let out an elaborate sigh.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ he retorted. ‘She’s a widow, past sixty years – her husband was an old friend, from happier times. Does that excuse me?’ He turned as Eleanor came up, and accepted a mug from her with a grateful smile. ‘But that’s enough gossip,’ he went on. ‘Let’s share our findings, shall we?’ Deliberately he faced Betsy again. ‘With your approval of course, madam?’

  And all she could do was nod. Mullin may have failed to charm them this time, but he had at least redeemed himself.

  That night, in the chamber she occupied at the rear of the house, Betsy awoke from troubled dreams. She had thought herself in the King’s Bench again, with Sarah coughing. She sat up and listened, but all seemed quiet. Delft slept peacefully, but for how long? she wondered. Was war really coming?

  She shivered, hunched down beneath the covers, and thought of Marcus Mullin. The captain had been as good as his word and left her alone; this night too, even though for once he had not gone out. He and Crabb were sharing a room downstairs, while Eleanor had been given the front chamber, which was nearest the stair-head. The girl had been first to retire, after the group – Mr Lee’s Family, as Mullin called them – had pooled their findings round the kitchen table. After all was said and sifted the intelligence was meagre, but there were paths to be followed. Mullin was intrigued by Betsy’s account of Thomas Lacy, though it seemed he hardly knew him, and was far from the close acquaintance the other had claimed. But it was agreed that he and Betsy should take up the offer of the man’s hospitality. As for Father de Smet: he would need to be approached with caution. This was difficult, for Mullin was known to some in Delft. And how Betsy might contrive to meet the priest had still to be determined.

  Thinking on it now, she grew restless. She had taken on this venture for the best of reasons, she reminded herself. Yet she was at sea here – and had been from the start, in more ways than one. In spite of herself, the thought amused her. She sighed, yawned and turned over … only to jerk bolt upright.

  For a s
econd she thought she was mistaken – then she knew she wasn’t. In a moment she was tumbling from the bed and groping in the dark for a night-gown. Dragging it on, she hurried to the door. As she ran out to the landing, she heard shouting.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she cried. ‘I heard a scream!’

  She stopped: Mullin was hurrying up the stairs, half-dressed. ‘It came from up here!’ he snapped. ‘The front—’

  There was a crash from downstairs. Both of them started, hearing Crabb call out. More noise followed: running feet, a door banging. For a moment the two hesitated – then the same thought struck them both.

  Eleanor …

  Betsy whirled round and ran to the front chamber, finding the door ajar. Shoving it wide, she stepped inside. In the dark she stumbled over something, causing her to cry out. But a flame appeared, as Mullin came in bearing a tinder-box. He held it aloft – to reveal a sight which made both of them freeze. At the same time they heard a groan, and Betsy fell to her knees, her breath catching in her throat.

  She had stumbled over Eleanor.

  The girl lay in a heap beside the bed, as if she had fallen out in her sleep. But in the half-light, the room told a different tale, the most lurid sign of which was the blood. It streaked the bedclothes: a glistening stripe … and in horror Betsy followed it down the side of the bed, to where a pool was spreading across the floorboards. It came from Eleanor, whose shift was soaked with it from her chest downwards. And then came another shock: the girl’s eyes were open, and she was gazing up at Betsy.

  With a curse Mullin dropped to one knee beside her. But even as they watched Eleanor gurgled, blood bubbling from her mouth. Then she moaned softly, and her head rolled aside.

  Footsteps thudded, and Crabb came running in. ‘He got away from me!’ he panted – then he lurched to a halt, staring down at the sight: Betsy and Mullin, kneeling over Eleanor’s body. Without a word the captain put his hand to the girl’s bare neck, then sat back heavily.

  ‘My God … why her?’ Crabb muttered. But the next moment he flinched, as Mullin rounded on him in fury.

  ‘Why her? Isn’t it as plain as daylight?’ And when Betsy looked at him, he turned his anger on her too. ‘The front chamber!’ he cried. ‘Don’t you see? We should never have put her in here … he got the wrong room!’

  Bewildered, Betsy met his gaze, then gasped.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Crabb demanded. But Mullin didn’t answer. Instead Betsy faced him, and her own words chilled her as she spoke.

  ‘He means it was meant for me,’ she said quietly. ‘Eleanor’s been murdered, because she was mistaken for me.’

  In the grey dawn, she sat huddled by the kitchen fireplace in her gown. She had drunk brandy, which Mullin had pressed on her. Thereafter, she turned away from the house and all that went on. She was aware of the two men moving about, but felt it no longer concerned her. All she did was stare into the embers, remembering how Eleanor had banked the fire up the night before. It was the last thing she had done.

  Betsy hadn’t wept, not even for Eleanor’s sake. Again it struck her how ill-suited the girl was for the task she had been given. Though she had been on secret ventures before, it was as a servant and an eavesdropper. Now she was dead, murdered by the hand of a man who believed her to be something more. Which begged a terrible question: who had wanted to kill Betsy?

  The last few days, she realized, had left her disoriented. Now, she forced herself to think about the people she had encountered. First, the couple on the coach – Franz Katz and his wife, who appeared to be a woman of influence, if not notoriety. Then Thomas Lacy, the angry republican, and his unhappy friend Churston … She frowned. The thought of any of them being involved in this desperate act seemed unlikely. Yet, someone wished her ill. And someone had managed to get into the house undetected, to commit cold-blooded murder.

  ‘It’s done.’

  Emerging from her reverie, Betsy turned to see Mullin, hatless and dishevelled.

  ‘What’s done?’ she asked in a dull voice.

  ‘The body … we’ve got rid of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think I mean?’ Finding a stool, Mullin slumped down on it. ‘We can’t let anyone know of this. The town fathers would ask questions, our mission would be spoiled—’

  ‘Our mission?’ Betsy stared at him. ‘Is that all that matters to you? An innocent girl’s been stabbed to death—’

  ‘I know!’ Mullin fixed her with bloodshot eyes. ‘It’s a risk we all take – Eleanor knew that as well as anyone. Our task here’s too important. How many more might die, if we were to abandon it – have you not thought on that?’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Suddenly Betsy exploded with anger. ‘This is your doing, Mullin!’ she cried. ‘If you’d been alert, whoever killed Eleanor would never have gained entry here, let alone carried out the deed! On top of which, he even got away … You should hang your head in shame!’

  ‘We all should.’

  Startled, she looked round to see Peter Crabb standing in the doorway in his shirt sleeves. The young man was sweaty and dirt-stained, and looked exhausted.

  ‘What have you done with Eleanor?’ she asked.

  ‘We buried her, of course.’

  It was Mullin who spoke, though less harshly. A brandy bottle was on the table, and he poured some into a mug. Getting up, he took it to Crabb, who drank deeply, then handed it back.

  ‘The room’s clear,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Though I can’t get the stain out … I’ll cover it up.’

  Mullin nodded and took a drink himself. ‘We can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go out soon, look for new lodgings. You’d better finish cleaning up – and burn everything she had.’

  But at that Betsy gave a start. ‘Is this how you work?’ she demanded. ‘Bury her like a dog, without ceremony, then wipe away every trace, as if she’d never existed?’

  ‘That’s exactly how, madam!’ Mullin’s patience was spent. ‘What choice have we? Would you prefer a church funeral? One look at her body and there’d be a murder hunt. We’d be the talk of Delft, our faces known to all – we might even find ourselves under suspicion! Is that what you want?’

  Lost for words, Betsy lowered her eyes. ‘Perhaps not,’ she said at last. ‘Yet I want no further part in this.’ She looked up. ‘Let Williamson find another agent. London’s awash with actresses – some less fastidious than me.’

  For a moment both men gazed at her. Then without a word, Mullin slammed the mug down on the table and turned away. He waited for Peter Crabb to step aside, then went out. Soon the street door banged.

  ‘He’s right, mistress.’ Crabb eyed her, grim-faced. ‘It’s our duty to continue. We owe it to our master, and to our King.’ He moved heavily to the table, and eased his bulk on to a stool. There he sagged, eyes downcast.

  ‘You should rest,’ Betsy said, her anger evaporating.

  But Crabb shook his head. ‘I’ve got things to do. Then, when we’re settled somewhere else, we can start in earnest.’ He looked up at her. ‘I speak of following every path until we flush out our quarry. For the one who killed Eleanor is among them – I’d swear to it. And when I find him …’

  He trailed off. Their eyes met, and now Betsy saw it: the young man too was grieving for Eleanor. After a moment, she moved to the table and sat facing him. ‘You got a look at him, didn’t you?’ she asked quietly. ‘The assassin. We heard noises …’

  ‘I was too late – too slow.’ Crabb sighed. ‘I only saw his back. Though I know how he got in: Eleanor hadn’t bolted the yard door. After he’d killed her he hid in here, then slipped out when the captain ran upstairs.’ He hesitated. ‘The way she screamed, she must have woken before he delivered the blow. She moved, or one stab to the heart would have despatched her. He had to take two or three thrusts. It was a broad blade: a short-sword rather than a dagger, I’d say. When it was done he flew, though by then we were awake. Another second, and I’d have grabbed him.’r />
  He fell silent, whereupon Betsy reached out and put a hand on his arm. ‘You mustn’t shoulder the blame, Wrestler. There were two of you down there—’

  ‘I’m the protector.’ Crabb stared at her bleakly. ‘Like in the prison yard, remember?’

  ‘And you did well,’ she said gently. ‘You got me out of that place – I’ll always be in your debt.’

  ‘But what of Eleanor?’

  ‘She shouldn’t have been sent here,’ Betsy replied. ‘And you were right: I should hang my head too. If I hadn’t wanted a chamber to myself—’ She broke off as Crabb withdrew his arm from her.

  ‘This serves no purpose, mistress.’ He dragged a hand across his brow, then frowned. ‘Were you serious about abandoning us here?’ he asked.

  Betsy met his eye. ‘I was.’

  ‘But are you still? It would be a pity, for there’s much you can do.’

  ‘Do you truly believe so?’ Betsy looked doubtful. ‘Moreover, do you think Mullin really wants me here?’

  ‘Of course he does,’ Crabb answered. ‘You’re a lady of fashion, who knows how to converse – and better still, when to hold her tongue.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘You didn’t know it, but I was watching you in the Bok. You had those men fawning over you.’

  ‘That was naught,’ Betsy said. ‘With others, I might find myself in a quandary. I could even ruin the whole enterprise.’

  ‘I think not,’ Crabb replied. Picking up the mug that Mullin had left, he drank what was left. ‘I’d better be about my work,’ he said, and got to his feet. He looked disheartened, Betsy thought … whereupon a feeling stole over her: one of resignation, mixed with fear.

  ‘Oh, cods,’ she breathed. And when Crabb looked at her, she, too, stood up.

  ‘I said I’m in your debt,’ she told him. ‘So if not for Mullin’s sake, I’ll stay and do what I can for yours. I, too, would like to see Eleanor’s murderer found – and to know who thought I was such a threat, that I should die in my bed.’