‘They stand well,’ Williamson answered. ‘In brief, two days ago a house in Coleman Street was raided, and a great deal of seditious material seized. But more importantly, a man who was hiding there was also taken: Thomas Prynn, of whom you know. He lies now in a place that’s also known to you: the King’s Bench. He has much to answer for.’
At mention of the prison, Betsy lowered her eyes. ‘And what of the other man?’ she ventured. ‘Phelps?’
‘Dead.’ Without expression, Williamson took a sip of wine. ‘He tried to shoot his way out, and paid the price. But what matters is, that web of treachery is broken. Of course there may be others, but …’ He shrugged. ‘The crown’s reach is long.’
Still wondering why the spymaster had asked to meet her, Betsy took a drink too. She hoped it was to pay her what was owed. The last few days, though filled with glad reunions – with Tom Catlin and Peg in particular – had been difficult. Money was still in short supply, and Catlin still troubled. As for her fellow-intelligencers, she had not seen Mullin or Crabb since she had left them in the street by The Spital Field, beside the body of the murderer Jerome Kyte.
‘And our work is endless – though you’ve grasped that already, I think.’ Williamson was eyeing Betsy with an intense look. So, seizing the moment, she decided to talk business.
‘I don’t wish to be importunate, Mr Lee,’ she began, ‘but I must touch upon the subject of my wage. I believe I’ve done my part in breaking the conspiracy. Captain – I mean, Girvan – certainly thought so.’
The other gave a brief nod. ‘That’s one reason I asked you to come. I believe the two of you worked well enough together. I’d like to ask you to consider the offer I made when we first spoke. In other words—’
‘I fear not, sir.’
Betsy spoke more sharply than she’d intended. ‘Or at least, not in the near future,’ she added, forcing a smile. ‘I … I find I’m not a good traveller. I’d hardly left London before my little adventure. As for the duties a female intelligencer might perform, I found them limiting – and more dangerous than I’d anticipated.’
‘Nonsense!’ the spymaster retorted. ‘From what Girvan says, you thrive on danger.’ He put on a mirthless smile. ‘Don’t tell me you prefer to return to a life upon the stage?’
‘That’s precisely what I prefer,’ Betsy replied. ‘I’m an actress, sir, who’s about to play a new role.’ She spoke the truth. The day before, she’d had a meeting with her employer and mentor Thomas Betterton at his house in Long Acre. Though displeased by her lengthy absence, the great actor was more than willing to let her return to the Duke’s Theatre; however the role she coveted was now gone to another actress. Instead of Lady Waspish, she would play the comic role of an ageing bawd. She thought to model it on Mother Curll.
‘Is it truly so?’ Williamson gazed at her, and when she nodded, a frown appeared. ‘Then you disappoint me, Beatrice. Of course I’ll settle my account with you, if you desire it. Though I’d hoped you might agree to defer payment until later, in which case a larger sum could follow. Do you understand me?’
‘I do, sir,’ Betsy answered firmly, ‘yet my mind is made up. So if you’d kindly let me have what I’m owed?’ She waited, until at last Williamson put a hand in his coat pocket, drew out a small pouch and tossed it on to the table.
‘Well, then you’d better count that,’ he said shortly.
Betsy opened the pouch and shook gold coins out on to the table top. Counting them did not take long at all. ‘Twelve pounds?’ she looked up. ‘That is all?’
The spymaster shrugged.
‘For this, I risked my life?’
‘You know there are always risks,’ Williamson said. ‘Crabb’s lucky to be alive; Girvan too, for that matter.’
‘As am I,’ Betsy replied. ‘I was nearly murdered—’
‘Yes, I’ve had their testimony,’ the other broke in. ‘I thought to do you the honour of a private meeting, instead of merely sending your payment by messenger. It’s not a courtesy I extend to other agents …’ He trailed off, and put on a somewhat different smile. ‘But then, you are not like the others. It occurred to me, should you wish for preferment, we might come to another sort of arrangement. A more personal one, perhaps, that would no doubt give pleasure to us both.’
And with that he leaned back and regarded Betsy deliberately, whereupon her heart sank.
‘Now it’s you who disappoint me, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘And more, I doubt it would afford me any pleasure at all.’
There was a moment, then Williamson sat up smartly. Betsy thought he would fly into a rage, but instead his face had become a hard mask.
‘Then you’d better take your money and be gone,’ he said icily. ‘Perhaps I’ve overestimated you. And, I might add, madam, that your first mission was somewhat less than a success. It has put me to considerable expense: horses, the cost of rooms … I’ve even had to arrange for the man Blunt to be conveyed to London by coach to recover from his wound. He’ll be unfit for weeks.’
‘Yet the King’s life was saved, without him even noticing it.’ Betsy’s temper rose quickly. ‘What if the assassin’s blade had killed Dowell – or Mullin? Forgive my calling him that, but I was Mistress Mullin for a while. It’s difficult to forget.’
Williamson gave a weary sigh. ‘I thought you understood enough not to expect thanks,’ he said. ‘Loyalty is its own reward – or should be. Others have given their lives—’
‘I know it,’ Betsy broke in. ‘I watched Eleanor die!’
The spymaster said nothing.
‘I saw her die – in my place,’ she went on, trying to master herself. ‘So I need no reminders, sir. I expect only fair payment for my service …’ Suddenly she gave a start. ‘I also asked you to pay a sum in advance, to my sister in Chelsea,’ she added quickly. ‘You agreed to do so.’
‘Did I?’ A puzzled frown creased Williamson’s brow. ‘I cannot recall such.’ With a nod, he indicated the coins lying on the table. ‘In any case, you have your payment now. What you do with it is your affair.’ He stopped, as without warning Betsy rose to her feet.
‘You lied to me!’ she cried. ‘You promised to do what I asked, as I tried to do your bidding! I was almost stabbed – not to mention nearly drowned, assaulted, half-starved and—’
‘You grow tiresome, Beatrice.’ The man’s frown was back. ‘You carried out your task and you’ve been paid. Had you been willing to work for me again, we might have discussed new terms – yet you’ve spurned my offer.’ Then he leaned forward, and raised a warning finger. ‘But let me remind you of something else,’ he added. ‘Everything you’ve learned since you entered my service – everything you’ve seen, heard and done – must remain utterly secret. On pain of death, I told you, and I repeat it now.’
Still on her feet, Betsy gazed back at him. One word sprang to her mind: betrayal. There were many varieties, she decided; some great, some small … With almost a shiver she recalled Marcus Mullin’s words, in a chamber in Neiuwpoort. To steady herself she lifted the cup, took a final drink of wine and set it down with a thud. Then she scooped up the gold coins and thrust them into her gown.
‘The Children of Judas … that’s what some call us, is it not?’ she said. ‘I find it apt – more so now, than I ever expected.’
‘No, you are wrong.’
The spymaster looked at her coldly. ‘The Judases are traitors – men like Venn, Prynn and Phelps. And those devils abroad: regicides who fled to save their miserable hides, like John Kyte, and madmen like Thomas Lacy! They’re the ones who must be dealt with – by whatever means available! Do you think your life so important, that it be set above the safety of England and her sovereign?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Betsy answered. ‘Yet I was foolish enough to think I was trusted – even valued. Instead, those of us who laboured in the Low Countries found we’d been marked from the start, merely because one of the King’s ministers and his own deputy don’t trust each other! And who li
ke boys, strive to outdo one another! Where does that rank in the scale of betrayal, sir, can you answer that?’
Stung, Williamson sprang to his feet, but he was too late. Betsy had delivered her parting line, and had no intention of letting anyone spoil it. Before the man could speak she was at the door. It banged shut, and all the spymaster could do was listen to her wooden heels clumping down the stairs.
Once outside, she began walking; there seemed no other way to work off her anger. She passed the Saddlers’ Hall, turned left into Old Change and then right, skirting the south side of St Paul’s. The sounds and smells of London were about her, as familiar as her own heartbeat. Breathing hard she threaded her way up to Ludgate, then left the City. Soon she had crossed the Fleet Bridge and passed St Bride’s – and at last, above the rooftops rose the Duke’s Theatre with its familiar cupola. Still she didn’t slow her pace until she had opened the side door and entered the pit. There at last she stopped, drew a breath… and blinked: the place was deserted. Then she remembered – it was Sunday.
With a sigh, she sank down on a bench and gazed at the empty stage. The festoon curtain was up, but the great candle-hoops had been lowered to the floor. At the rear, the sliding flats of the last scene played were still in place, but there were no actors. As always, without cast or audience the place was as dead as a mausoleum.
‘Betsy Brand, is it you?’
She looked round to see a figure standing by the scene-room door. Then recognition came: Hannah Cleeve, the widow whom Betsy had helped to the post of wardrobe-mistress, came forward with a look of surprise.
‘Why, you look like you’re lost!’ she exclaimed.
‘I did forget myself, Hannah.’ Betsy managed a smile. ‘I’ve been away, you know—’
‘That I do!’ Hannah broke in. ‘Who don’t know it? Some said you was sick, some that you’d gone into the country.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Me and a few others, we thought you might have got yourself into trouble – you know, Nelly Gwynn sort of trouble. Woman’s bane …’
‘What, you thought I was with child?’ Betsy blinked. ‘No, I swear not.’
‘That’s well …’ Hannah nodded. ‘So, you’re all right, then?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ With a glance round the auditorium, Betsy stood up. ‘And now I should get myself home. I’m to rehearse tomorrow; you’ll need to find me an old dress fit for a bawd.’
‘Those I have aplenty,’ Hannah said wryly. ‘Back home, I mean…’ She gave a start. ‘Here, I knew there was something: a fellow left a message for you.’
‘For me?’ Betsy raised her eyebrows. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday. I have it somewhere …’ Hannah rummaged in the pockets of her loose frock, then produced a folded paper, unsealed. ‘I can’t read, so I don’t know that’s in it,’ she said, thrusting it at her. ‘But I won’t forget the fellow who brought it: big as a mountain, he was. Built like a castle and handsome to boot!’
Betsy stiffened. ‘I thank you, Hannah,’ she said, and took the letter. Then with a nod she went out.
In Water Lane she stopped, gazing down at it. To her surprise, her hand shook a little. But without further delay she unfolded it, and read:
I leave on Monday for foreign shores, but nights find me at The Rose in Covent Garden. Will you take a farewell glass with me?
It was signed ‘A Captain of Horse.’
She stood in the lane and read it again, then crumpled it and thrust it into her pocket. Head down she walked up to Fleet Street where she halted. Her first instinct had been to tear up the paper and cast it away; now she knew she would do no such thing.
In fact, she found herself smiling.
And that was why in the evening, with a link-boy to light her way, she walked by Wych Street and Drury Lane to Little Russell Street, which led to the Great Piazza of Covent Garden.
There on the corner of Brydges Street stood the notorious Rose Tavern, haunt of rakes and rogues of all kinds: a fitting abode for Captain Marcus Mullin. Soon she was entering the noisy, smoke-filled interior – and the first person she set eyes on was Peter Crabb.
‘Wrestler!’
Her face lit up, as did Crabb’s – and at once he was elbowing his way through the topers to stand before her. The moment he drew near, Betsy put her arms about his huge body and squeezed.
‘I’m most glad to see you,’ she said, and stood back.
‘Have a care … my arm’s newly stitched.’ Somewhat flushed, though more with embarrassment than pain, the young man smiled at her. ‘We didn’t get chance to say farewell, the other night, did we?’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘He’s in the back … Will you come with me?’
‘I will,’ Betsy replied, whereupon the two of them made their way to the rear of the crowded room. The place stank of stale beer, wine and strong tobacco. Men drank, spat, laughed and shouted, and at sight of Betsy a few threw out ribald remarks – but a look from Crabb was enough to quell them. Soon they had reached a crowded table, where they stopped. At the same moment a familiar figure seated by the wall raised his head, then to her alarm cried out, ‘By God, it’s my wife! Now I’m caught!’
Marcus Mullin jumped to his feet, bumping into the man beside him. All those at the table were men: gallants and carousers of the sort to be found anywhere in Covent Garden. In surprise, they looked round, and laughter broke out.
‘Caught is it, Dark?’ one shouted. ‘Damn, I wish I’d someone like that to capture me!’
‘And I!’ another cried. ‘Why, I’d never leave the bedchamber! If you seek a rum cull, madam, I’m your man!’
‘She don’t seek one,’ Peter Crabb said. The fellow looked round, then upwards, and gulped.
‘No she don’t … and I pray you’ll excuse me, sirs.’ With a tipsy leer, Mullin pushed his way through the seated men, clapping some on the shoulder as he disentangled himself. ‘I’ll join you again,’ he said loudly. ‘Next week perhaps … who can say?’ And with that he turned his back to them and drew close to Betsy. Her instinct was to back away from him, drunk as he appeared, until she looked into his eyes.
‘At your service once again, madam,’ he said gently. ‘Shall we find a more salubrious spot to talk?’
They sat in a small back room, quieter than the rest of the tavern. The only other occupants were an elderly gentleman and a blowsy-looking trull, fumbling each other in a corner. But after a while they too departed, leaving the three intelligencers alone. Soon they had exchanged such news as there was, though little of what the men said was new to Betsy. Not wishing to dwell on it, she gave them a very brief account of her meeting with Williamson. But at that, Mullin grew animated.
‘The damned skinflint!’ he grumbled. ‘I had to wheedle to get my own money out of him, and still it wasn’t all I’m owed. I told him I’d not had a penny in four months, and strike me if he didn’t deny it! In the end I took payment for three, and bade him insert the remainder somewhere dark and unpleasant!’
Betsy glanced at Crabb and saw his look of amusement. ‘I hope you got paid, Wrestler,’ she said. ‘After all you went through. And I’m very glad to be able to thank you again for saving my life.’
‘I’ve been paid in full,’ Crabb told her. ‘Mr Lee needs a few like me, and he knows it. Besides, I come cheaper than gentlefolk.’ He gave her a shy smile.
‘You see we’re the best of friends now?’ Mullin jerked his thumb at Crabb, then picked up his mug. ‘I hope that pleases you.’
‘It does,’ Betsy answered. ‘Especially since each of you once swore to kill the other, as I recall.’
But Mullin waved a hand in the air. ‘That was the Dutch wine talking,’ he said breezily. ‘Why, even the Rose’s ale is an improvement.’ And as if to prove it, he took a generous pull. But, as he set his mug down again, he eyed Betsy keenly. ‘It’s fortuitous you got my message in time,’ he went on. ‘I had nowhere else to leave it, save at the theatre. I depart tomorrow – for the Low Countries again. Though not, thank heavens, Delft. It see
ms my talents are in demand at the Hague. Things are somewhat fraught there, I fear.’
‘You’re still certain there will be war?’ Betsy asked quietly, to which the other nodded.
‘Unavoidable,’ he said, with a glance at Crabb. ‘Early spring, as I said …’ He looked away. ‘And for what? So another preening monarch can plunder the bog of Europe?’
‘Let’s not speak of it now, Captain,’ Crabb said mildly. ‘Should we not toast our gallant companion instead?’
At that Mullin slapped a hand on the table. ‘Quite right!’ Raising his own mug, he knocked it against Crabb’s. Both men drained them to the last, then set them down.
‘And before we part, madam, there’s one other thing …’ A sly smile appeared on the captain’s face. ‘We’ve shared our displeasure about Williamson,’ he added, ‘yet I’ve news that may cheer you – indeed, I’m certain it will. It … well, it concerns a horse.’
In surprise Betsy met his eye … and caught a familiar gleam in it. She looked at Crabb and saw a knowing look there too. ‘How so?’ she enquired.
‘Not just any horse, I should say …’ Once again, Mullin seemed rather pleased with himself. ‘I speak of the one I rode from Dover to Datchet, then raced – a spirited beast. I was sorry to part with him, but needs must.’ He grinned. ‘In short, madam, I sold him to a dealer in Smithfield. He fetched a good price, I might add. Then I do enjoy a haggle.’
‘You sold the other hired horse?’ Betsy’s mouth fell open. ‘That was bold, sir, if not criminal.’
‘Do you think so, after all we did?’ Mullin shrugged. ‘I told you Williamson would pay the reckoning, and so he has, albeit grudgingly. A sum will be sent to the stable in Dover, so no man’s been ill-served. Except that skinflint, our master.’ He grinned broadly. ‘I enjoyed watching him rage when I told him the price of both our horses.’
‘But how did you explain their loss?’ Betsy asked. And when Mullin merely kept grinning, she looked to Crabb. ‘Wrestler, won’t you tell me?’
‘Well, from what I heard, your mare was stolen in Egham,’ the young man answered haltingly. ‘The captain’s mount was lost on Hounslow Heath. A fearful place for horse priggers, is that …’ He threw Mullin a look. ‘You should be more careful in future, sir.’
The Judas Blade Page 21
