Today, Elisabeth had sent her shopping, which involved a long walk, since the Great Fire had burned down a lot of businesses. She was wary of going out, frightened that Abigail might send someone after her. She glanced left and right, as she walked briskly towards the Exchange. It was a while before she paused to cross the street and became aware of someone fast approaching behind her: a flash of black coat, a pulled-down slouch hat.
Abigail’s threats came back to her, filling her with cold dread. The thought of the sedate, overstuffed interior of Seething Lane suddenly seemed like a sanctuary. She quickened her step, tying the strings of her purse round her neck and tucking it down inside her bodice out of sight. A glance over her shoulder and she was disconcerted to see the man still following, closer now, so she could hear the ring of his heels. Panicked, she broke into a run. A thud of footsteps behind her. She sprinted in and out of the alleys, hoping to lose him, not daring to turn until she came to a cobbler’s shop with its door standing open. She dived inside, relieved to see a man hammering there.
‘There’s a man following me,’ she panted, ‘a footpad.’
The cobbler put down the shoe and, armed with his hammer, followed her outside to look. The alley was empty. There was no sign of the man in the black coat. She exhaled a sigh of relief. She had lost him. Knowing she appeared foolish, she felt obliged to spend a long time purchasing a pair of bootlaces and thanking the old man for his trouble.
Looking to left and right, she emerged onto Thames Street, and seeing no sign of ‘black-coat’, she took a shortcut between two buildings, intending to get to the market to buy the hooks, as she’d promised, and then catch a ferry. Her heart was still beating so fast it made her faint.
Outside a haberdasher’s she leaned on a window frame and stared in through the window, breathing hard. She did not notice the rows of bobbins, the rainbow colours of the cards of braiding and threads. What if Abigail’s spymaster was following her?
She was contemplating this when another face appeared behind hers in the glass. She froze, unable to move. The man’s arms came either side of her head, trapping her to the glass.
She whipped round. It was the man who had followed her, but now he was so close she saw the rheumy eyes, the pockmarked, prominent nose. Constantine’s man.
‘What do you want?’ she said, glancing sideways, searching for an escape route.
‘Mr Constantine told me you keep Mrs Pepys’ purse. I’m to relieve you of it. A bad debt, he said.’
‘No, please. I’m to buy goods for my mistress.’
‘Then your mistress will have to go without, like the rest of us.’
As a party of gentlemen passed the end of the alley, Deb saw her chance and dodged to the side. But the man was too quick for her. He twisted her arm behind her, shoved her back until her ribs pressed against the wall.
‘Help me!’ she shouted, but a sweaty palm clamped her mouth shut, and the passers-by who glanced down the alley turned aside and hurried on.
Black-coat probed down her bodice for her purse, drew it out, and tugged hard at the thong about her neck. The leather was sturdy, and Deb winced as it cut into her neck. There was a glint of something metal, and a knife appeared at her throat. A ripple of silver as the knife sliced across the cord and he yanked the purse free.
‘Did you think I’d slit your throat?’ He laughed. ‘Not this time. I’d want a hand up your skirt first.’
‘Let me go!’
‘Not yet,’ he said, leaning close to her face. ‘Constantine said to warn you. He wants his account settled. Either that, or the sailors paid.’ He traced the point of the knife down her bodice until the tip lodged over her heart. ‘You need to sweet-talk your Mr Pepys. Word is, he has an eye for a skirt like you. But if he won’t play, I’ll take payment in kind, if you like.’
Deb stayed still, tried to act calm. ‘I’ll get the money,’ she said.
He pushed the purse into the pocket of his greasy coat. ‘One week you’ve got,’ he called. ‘Or I’ll be back. Mr Constantine, he don’t like to be kept waiting.’
Chapter Thirty-three
ELISABETH PULLED SAM’S SUIT from his closet and held it out at arm’s length before examining it through his magnifying spectacles. She was looking for signs of Deb. That girl was always on her mind these days. Hadn’t she given her a whole five shillings last week, and what did the careless girl do? Lose her purse. Elisabeth dare not mention the missing money to Sam. He might take a birch to her the way he had their last maid, Dolly, and with Deb, who knows what might happen then? Oh la. It would surely give him an excuse to touch her on the derrière.
The Medway affair had kept Sam busy and away from the ladies, but these days he had too much time for dalliance. With Sam, it was a disease and she must guard against it; an outbreak could happen at any time.
Elisabeth scrutinised her husband’s collar again for Deb’s wavy brown hairs, but found nothing except a greasy stain from yesterday’s meat pie. Jane said that Sam had given Deb the key to his office. Ever since Elisabeth had found out this titbit of information, she’d wondered if Sam sneaked away at night to the office while she slept. She tried to try to catch him at it, but found herself wide awake as Sam snored on. She had now given that task to Jane.
It did nothing to allay her fears. Something was happening between him and Deb, she was convinced, even though she had found no shred of evidence for it.
Yet.
She bundled the suit back in the closet, not caring any more that it would crease. Deb could iron it again, she thought. Serve her right.
She pulled open her closet door and trailed her hand over her skirts, screwing up her nose at the pungent balls of camphor hung there to keep the moths off. Tonight, Sam was intent on taking his ‘girls’ to Bartholomew Fair, and worse, he’d arranged tickets for a tented play, because he knew that Abigail Williams was to be in it. Another trollop if ever there was one.
Elisabeth pulled out a beribboned brocade skirt, made a whimpering sound and then shoved it back. There was nothing showy enough to keep his attention. Not when it was Deb he really wanted to take to the fair, she thought bitterly. She, Elisabeth, was expected merely to drag along behind, the convenient excuse he made to himself for going at all.
Bartholomew Fair was the biggest event of the year, but Abigail Williams was not in any mood for celebration, or for being on stage. Joan’s death had sapped the colour from everything. What was the point of working like this, Abigail thought, pretending to be someone else? She was already just a façade. And what damn use was money, now there was no Joan to fritter it away?
Piet had been to see her and given her one last warning. She’d seen nothing of Deb Willet for two weeks. The fact she could not control Deb’s behaviour with verbal threats was worrying. The intelligence to Piet had run dry again, and he was a snake who could strike at any time. Worse, if Deb did not deliver, and that state of affairs continued, Abigail would have the unpleasant task of silencing her. She had never had to do that to another woman.
Abigail pushed impatiently through the throng, with gnawing frustration at her slow progress, tiptoeing her way through the squelching mud from yesterday’s rain. Past coffee traders dressed as Turks, past the rouged and painted ladies with songbirds in cages, past the stalls of glistening jellied eels and hot pies. Every stall boasted a drum or a horn to attract attention, and the cacophony of rattles, drums and fiddles made her poor head throb like the devil.
Any sort of serious acting would be more or less impossible in this noise, she realised. Fortunately, the play was Marry Andrey, one she knew well and could perform in her sleep. In the tented tiring house, she ignored the other actors’ chatter and banter as she changed into her scarlet gown. She skewered her feathered hat into place by feel, as there was no mirror. At the canvas door, she took a quick peek, and sighed to see the benches already packed with rowdy revellers.
Lukeman, who was to play her husband, peered out of the tent over her shoulder. ‘L
ooks like a good house.’
She ignored him. ‘Courage,’ she said to herself, sliding a flask from her hanging pocket. She tipped it back, drained it, grimacing at the sudden fire in her throat. Then she hurried up the makeshift stairs to the raised platform.
Concealed behind a painted flat, she looked down at the audience from the wings, despising them for liking something so low. She was glad Lord B could not see her; she had not confessed to him what play she was in. She remembered when she could command everyone’s attention on the fine stage at the Duke’s, but now she was hardly ever offered anything but these potboilers. She was getting old, she realised, losing her glamour.
The liquor began to warm her, numbed her thoughts, turned the world soft and fuzzy.
She heard her cue, took a deep breath, and swept on-stage. She was partway through her simpering act, cajoling the audience with quips and asides, when she spotted Mr Pepys on the second row. She felt her face heat with annoyance, that he should see her in such tripe.
A quick glance, and then she saw her. Deb Willet, wedged between him and his wife. Deb’s eyes were fixed on her. Abigail’s lines kept coming, but Deb’s scrutiny disconcerted her. She dropped a line and floundered for a moment until Lukeman prompted her, hissing, ‘What are you playing at? It’s “No, my Lord, I won’t.”‘
After her line she was supposed to go to fan herself at the side of the stage. She cracked open the fan and flapped it before her face. From the corner of her eye she saw Deb push away Mr Pepys’ hand when it strayed onto her lap, and Mrs Pepys’ expression turn as sour as cheese. With difficulty, Abigail dragged her thoughts back to the script.
At the end, she smiled, and catching Pepys’ eye, bowed extravagantly to him. He stood to clap and cheer, but Deb was still and silent, as if stuck to the bench. Nor did Mrs Pepys deign to applaud. Abigail made for the wings to watch them go, but was near enough to hear Mr and Mrs Pepys arguing on the way out in hushed whispers. Abigail caught the words ‘hussy’ and ‘dreadful’ and had to shut her ears to it, bile rising in her chest.
So Deb Willet was too above her to applaud, was she? She should try it, making people laugh when inside you felt like weeping. The sight of Deb still sitting there staring at the stage filled Abigail with steely rage. The girl would have to be made to follow instructions. At least if she wanted to survive. Abigail hurried down the steps from the stage, still in her gaudy costume and greasepaint.
‘You should have delivered last week.’ Abigail could not keep the anger from her voice.
Deb recoiled, looked for help from her master and mistress, but they had gone on ahead.
‘I saw you in the audience,’ Abigail said. ‘You’re late delivering. And I warned you I wouldn’t stand for it.’
‘I know. I was busy.’ Deb’s eyes shifted to the muddy, flattened grass at her feet. ‘Elisabeth wouldn’t give me time off.’
‘Don’t give me excuses.’
‘Deb!’ Samuel’s voice calling over the hubbub of the street.
‘You want honesty?’ Deb raised her chin, looked at her with the same defiant look Abigail used to see on Joan’s face. ‘I told you. I don’t want to touch your underhand business ever again.’
‘You don’t know what’s good for you, do you?’ Abigail said. ‘I’m trying to help you.’
‘I know that spying’s no good for me,’ Deb said.
‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake!’ Abigail took hold of Deb’s shoulder, to steer her somewhere more private, but Deb jumped back as if she’d touched her with a burning brand.
How could she get Deb to comprehend? She was just like Joan, stubborn. Didn’t know what was in her own best interests. She’d have to make her understand; that was all. In one swift movement Abigail swept the hatpin out of her hat and deliberately thrust it deep into the flesh of Deb’s upper arm.
Instinctively, Deb’s hand shot up to clutch her arm, face frozen in shock.
Abigail withdrew the long steel needle and leaned down until her mouth was near Deb’s ear. ‘Either you work with us, or against us. There are no half-measures in my line of work. If you lie to me again, next time, the stab will be to the heart. I expect you to deliver tomorrow.’
Deb looked down at her sleeve. A tiny hole in the material oozed blood where her arm throbbed. When she looked up, Abigail was already gone, the scarlet silk of her costume swallowed into the crush of people.
Deb could not think. Even her thoughts had scattered, hidden themselves for fear. She peered over the heads of the crowd for Mr Pepys, afraid they’d leave without her. She scurried across the street and waved frantically to her mistress, who was standing by the coaches and scanning the crowds.
‘Where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting.’ Elisabeth’s voice was filled with disapproval.
‘I thought I saw someone I knew,’ she said. Her voice sounded reassuringly normal, despite the shivering that would not stop.
‘Who?’ asked Mr Pepys.
‘Just … a friend from school. But I was mistaken. And then I could not cross, there were too many carriages.’
‘You’re cold,’ Mr Pepys said.
‘No, I—’
‘We’ve been standing here for an age.’ Elisabeth was not placated. ‘You should have told us where you were going.’ She turned to Mr Pepys and gave him a look that clearly meant: see what a bad maidservant she is.
Deb tried to make an excuse. ‘I thought you were talking to—’ She saw Elisabeth’s forehead crease into a frown, thought better of it and hastened to apologise. She dipped her head. ‘Beg pardon, Elisabeth.’
‘I should think so, too.’
Mr Pepys cast her a sympathetic look as soon as Elisabeth’s back was turned, tried to hook his arm in hers, but the gesture made her feel worse, not better.
She had not realised Abigail’s acting skill. Abigail was a professional, Deb realised. Skilled at becoming someone else. Not someone who did a little spying for the money, but a spy who would be quite ruthless in pursuit of her aims. Deb licked her lips; her mouth had turned dry as parchment.
The next morning Deb examined her arm. The puncture was deep, but it had stopped bleeding, and she hoped it would not fester. That any woman could do such a thing in cold blood made her feel faintly sick.
Constantine’s debt preyed on her mind; she could not endure the thought of having to watch for his man as well as Abigail or her maid, Poole, following her. So she counted out her savings, laid it out in rows of tens: the farthings and halfpennies, the few half-sovereigns –all the money that once had been meant for Hester’s schooling. The coins she had earned from spying for the King, except that now she knew she had not been spying for the King at all, but for the Dutch.
How could she have let herself be duped so thoroughly? Bitterly, she got out a pouch for Mr Constantine. Enduring Mr Pepys had all been for nothing. She was going to lose it all. As if reading her thoughts, Mr Pepys called her from below.
A sudden rage against him made her smash her fist down on the pile of coins so they flew up and clattered away, rolling over the floorboards. It was his fault that Constantine was to take her money: Constantine had turned against her the minute she said she worked for Mr Pepys.
‘Deb?’ Mr Pepys’ cajoling voice again.
She scrabbled to gather the coins together again. Life was suffocating her in every direction she turned. She did not want to work for Abigail Williams. She did not want to play the ‘lost key’ game any more. And the thought of letting Mr Pepys trawl his fingers on her bare skin, just to get a few papers, sickened her.
But she thrust the money back out of sight in her drawer and slowly descended the stairs. She was in too deep –Abigail Williams and her mysterious spymaster would kill her unless she supplied them with the information they craved. She was afraid, deep in her bones.
At noon the following day Deb took her savings and went to The Grecian. Constantine’s man was leaning up against a wall, a pipe stuck between his lips. He took it out lazily
as he saw her coming.
‘There’s an end to it,’ she said, handing him the purse. ‘My uncle’s debts are paid.’
Black-coat thrust the pipe back in his mouth, took the purse, felt its weight.
‘I’ll wait. You can bring me a receipt,’ she said.
He raised his eyebrows and grinned through his yellow-stained moustache, in a way that made Deb instantly alert. He’s going to pocket it, she thought, with sickening certainty. He swung away inside, and a few moments later she was aware of someone else watching her.
She looked up and saw the burly figure of Constantine gazing down on her through the open window. ‘There’ll be no interest on this debt, if you get Pepys to pay our sailors,’ he called.
Interest. She should have known. It wasn’t the end at all.
She waited another half-hour but no receipt came. She dare not go inside and was close to weeping from the unfairness of it all. ‘You’re a damned fool, Deborah Willet,’ she told herself.
Two weeks later, the bill from the school at Bow arrived, and she knew she could not pay it unless she carried on copying more of Mr Pepys’ diary. As soon as the Bateliers, who had been supping with them, left, she waited in the parlour for the inevitable sound of Mr Pepys calling her name.
The bells tolled a mournful clang outside, and she was reminded of how they had rung the bells for the plague-ridden to put out their dead. Perhaps it was because she felt sullied already. Last time, he had made her strip to the waist before he would give her the key to his study.
‘I like a maid that loves her books,’ he’d said.
As if she would really do that – let him paw her breasts – just for the sake of a chapter of Homer. But if that’s what he wanted to tell himself, if that was the role he had cast her in, she would not enlighten him. Anyone else would do the same if the alternative was a knife in the heart.
She passed Jane on the stairs again with the coal scuttle as she went down. Jane was often on the landing as she went down at this time of night, Deb noticed. The fires seemed to need an inordinate amount of attention, and always when Mr Pepys called for Deb.
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 22
