She made a great noise of rattling it about, slammed the door hard behind her and made her footsteps loud upon the stairs. But still there was no sound. She must have been imagining it. There was nobody here.
Until, at the top of the stairs, she saw the light. There was a candle lit after all, in the main chamber.
‘Abigail?’ she called.
Silence.
The man turned as she came in. He was long-boned like a greyhound, but with watchful pale eyes. He was holding one of her maps of the docks in his hand. ‘Careless,’ he said, ‘to leave these papers lying around.’
‘Who are you? How did you get in?’ she asked, squaring her shoulders despite her thudding heart.
‘With this,’ he said, holding up a ring of what looked like iron toothpicks. ‘Most people call me Mr Johnson.’ He dipped his head.
She took a sharp intake of breath. The spymaster. She quelled the urge to run. ‘What do you want?’
‘Have you any refreshment? Some small beer perhaps?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll look.’ But she did not move. ‘What do you want of me?’
‘I wanted you to know that a locked door would not stop me if I had a mind to enter.’ He smiled, a mild smile that was more mockery than humour. ‘And I will not be leaving until we have discussed the business I have in mind, so we should make ourselves comfortable.’ He sat back down on the bench by the table, extended his long legs.
‘I will give you a quarter hour,’ she said.
He gave a near silent laugh and shook his head. ‘You will give me as long as I decide, as it is I who pay your wages, though perhaps Abigail does not see it that way. She left in a carriage for Lord Bruncker’s, did she not? So she will probably be gone overnight. Poole went with her, so we’re quite alone. Now, give us a little more light, won’t you?’
Deb struck flint to the rushlights on the mantel, concealing her trembling hands, one eye fixed on Johnson. Finally, she asked again, ‘What is it you want?’ She still did not sit, but stood warily in the centre of the room.
‘Abigail did not tell me you existed. Only through having you followed did I realise it is you who supplies her information.’
Deb’s thoughts raced. She had seen nobody following her. Not since Constantine’s man. The thought of it weakened her.
‘And here’s the proof.’ He held up the map she had been working on. ‘You might do better to keep it out of sight in future. As you might imagine, I am not the only agent with a set of skeleton keys. And many of them, especially the English, are much less polite than I.’
Deb waited for him to go on, her hands clasped tight in front of her chest.
‘I notice you have some attention to detail, that you know some little tricks Abigail has taught you. The door?’
Deb felt herself redden.
‘She’s arrogant,’ he went on, ‘to bring someone else in. You are a risk to which she subjected us all, without consultation. Abigail should watch her step. She is becoming, how do you say, a liability?’ He crossed his legs, looked down at his fingernails. ‘There is always danger, of course, when an agent becomes too close to the subject’s interests and begins to neglect her duties. As I feared, she is too involved with Lord Bruncker. She may be selling our secrets elsewhere.’
‘So what is that to me? I know nothing. I just do what she tells me.’
He gave her a sharp look, as if he did not believe her. ‘Her loyalty is in question and we want you to help us find her other contacts.’
‘What if I was to say “no”?’
He smiled. ‘I would not advise it, now we have met. There was a man named Harrington once, he said no. He is no longer with us, of course.’ He smiled again, seeing the expression on Deb’s face. ‘But we treat our agents well. They have the best protection, and a fine lifestyle.’
He wasn’t offering a choice, Deb realised. She would have to do as he asked. She hardened herself once more. ‘Let me think a moment,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch some beer.’ The kitchen door stood open. She went through and reached into the food press to bring out a pitcher. She gathered her wits. Running was too risky.
As she poured, she thought how strange it was that she had become so calm. Her hand was so steady on the jug that the ale streamed out precisely into the tankard. Johnson was asking her to play Abigail at her own game, and there was a power in that, though it would not be easy, because Abigail was as sharp as a rapier and would easily sense something amiss if she wasn’t careful. But why should she not? At least then she would be free of Abigail’s threats and have the spymaster’s protection.
She set the tankards down on the table. ‘Tell me what you need,’ she said.
‘There is an operation planned for the Chatham docks in six weeks’ time. A small act of sabotage. And as you have no doubt surmised, Abigail is supplying us with certain information – maps and so forth. I assume it is you who supplies her with this information from your contact, Crawley. We do not want this intelligence compromised at any cost. We simply need you to watch her. After all, you are close to her, you see where she goes.’
‘But how? She has told me we are not to be seen together in case it arouses suspicion.’
‘As I thought, she is trying to hide your existence, thinking to pass your work off as her own. Once an agent begins hiding from her paymasters, then who knows what other deceptions lie beneath? You will work directly for me now. You can use the code name “Viola” in our correspondence. Here is a name and address you must use to contact me.’ He held out two pieces of paper. ‘My holding address – I have someone in the sorting office who will put it aside for me, and then deliver. You must memorise it and then destroy it. The other paper is the master sheet for the cipher you must use if we need to send a coded message. It is not the same code used by Abigail’s “Dr Allbarn”. Sign your communications with “Viola”.’
Battling to keep up with this volley of new information, she took the papers from his hand, and scanned them quickly.
‘You can send the names and addresses of Abigail’s contacts separately in batches labelled as if they are a list of customers and their physic. I want to know names – everyone that Abigail Williams mentions. We need to know who she meets, where she goes, who her contacts are.’
‘And my payment,’ she asked, ‘what about that?’
He smiled. ‘You have a bold spirit. I think we will do good business. You will keep whatever Abigail is paying you and I will give you an extra ninepence a week if I get the information I need.’
‘It is not what I am worth, but I suppose I have no choice.’
He looked at her appraisingly. ‘Value depends on demand. I believe you lost your previous employment because of an indiscretion.’
‘I took a necessary risk, yes.’ She did not bow her head, but looked back at him as if she were his equal.
He gave a grudging nod. ‘Then we are in agreement. You can begin now.’ He slid a piece of paper before her. ‘Names, Miss Willet.’
She nodded, and sat down. A sup of ale eased her dry mouth. She uncorked the ink and dipped her pen.
Edward Skinner – blacksmith,
Thomas Player – hosier,
Hal Graceman – foreman, gunpowder mill,
Mrs Behn – actress,
Leo Berenger – printer
The list grew with the scratch of her nib over the paper. Her memory was acute and she knew most of the names to whom she had delivered post or messages. Finally she was done. With a flourish, she added Mr Johnson – apothecary.
He read them, barked out a laugh at reading his own alias there.
A moment of silence. With one fluid movement he was behind her, the cold muzzle of a gun hard against her temple. The click of him releasing the catch made her jerk away, but his other arm pinioned her easily by the throat.
‘Beware, Miss Willet. It does not pay to be too clever.’
Deb stayed absolutely still. A pulse twitched in her neck.
‘Better.’ H
e released her and thrust her away with such force she sprawled on the floor.
‘Get up,’ he said, sheathing the pistol in his belt. His voice was casual. ‘Pass me the list.’
She stood slowly, brushed the dust from her skirts, and with her eyes fixed on him, pushed the list across the table. He rolled it and tied it with a leather thong before putting it into his bag.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said. ‘By the way, Miss Willet, talking of Mr Harrington – it was Abigail Williams who removed him. She is experienced in – how shall I say? – “disposal”. So, in your own best interests, it would be wise to make sure she suspects nothing of our acquaintance.’
Chapter Forty-two
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF LONDON, Abigail picked her way down the ruins of the freezing dark alleys towards the vestiges of St Paul’s. The cold February weather suited her because it gave her an excuse to lace herself tight into stiff clothing and unforgiving boots. Since Joan’s death, she sometimes thought it was only the clothes that held her together.
Adjusting to living so close to someone else was difficult. Deb was always watching, and Abigail hadn’t quite managed to force her from the role of favoured friend into the role of servant. In Deb’s presence, Abigail had to put on another face when she got home, instead of slopping into a chair to grieve for her daughter. Often, seeing Deb there – so like Joan with her youth and her girlish figure – tears had threatened to overwhelm her. But, afraid Deb would see weakness, she had held them back.
She sniffed, speeded her step. No point grieving. Joan’s death was a release, she kept telling herself. At least this time she could pray without guilt, glad her daughter was free from suffering. But she had seen so many deaths, and all of them too early. Who had prayed for those other men’s souls, she wondered? She had never considered herself as a murderer, but now the thought of her victims haunted her.
The knowledge that Joan had been too proud to accept her help still chafed. That perhaps she would still have been alive, if …
If. If. No point in dwelling on ‘if’s. Lock it away in the invisible cabinet in her head, the one she would never open. Lock it up, along with all the other hurts from her past: the confusion of being a child-bride; her first husband’s taking her by force; the terror of birthing Joan at sea.
Abigail turned her collar up against the knife of the wind. Maudlin thoughts and too much sentiment. Joan had been a weakness. Like Lord Bruncker.
She hardened herself, hurried towards the printer’s shop where Leo Berenger worked as an apprentice. Leo’s Huguenot family had fled to England from France to escape religious persecution, and, when he was desperate for extra money, she had introduced him to Piet, who realised a printer’s apprentice could be an asset to his work. Now Leo had become an expert forger, and a reliable, if naïve, linkman for the documents Deb copied, the ones that needed to be delivered to Piet by hand.
Under the sign of the book and needle she saw a light burning within the frosted window, and the doorbell tinkled as she went inside. Leo was there, eyeglasses perched on his nose, face close to one of the enormous iron presses he was setting up with print. Fortunately, his elderly employer was nowhere to be seen. The room was hot with the lamps and smelled of the iron in the ink and of the rabbit skin glue boiling in the pot over the fire.
‘Mistress Williams.’ The young man with the receding hair stood up, squinted at her. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘How’s my favourite apprentice?’ She held out a map of the gates to the shipyard. It was one Deb had drawn from descriptions by Crawley. ‘Something else to go to Piet.’
‘Just a moment.’ He went back to his typesetting.
Abigail drummed her fingers on the counter impatiently. Usually he jumped to serve her, and she rewarded him with the full force of her charm.
He rubbed his hands down his apron and said, ‘I’ll take it this time. But I have to warn you, things have changed.’
‘What do you mean, changed?’
‘I’m getting married next week.’
‘I didn’t know you had a girl,’ Abigail said. ‘Who is she?’
‘I’m not saying.’
‘I’d hoped to wed you myself.’ She made a mock pout at her own jest, then laughed. ‘What’s so special about this girl anyway?’
He inserted another piece of paper into the press, but then stopped. ‘She’s not like us. She’s just an ordinary milliner.’
‘Sounds interminably dull.’
‘I’m serious. She’s, well … good, and wholesome – knows nothing of spiery, or plots, or double-dealing, or a stab that comes in the night. Once we’re married, there’ll be children, and I don’t want to be the sort of husband that leaves her to fend for herself.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Heavens! You have caught it, and no mistake. Does Piet know?’
‘Do you think I’m stupid? Of course not. But every time I act as his courier, I take a risk, just as you do. You know the feeling – like seasickness – that you can never rest easy. It’s like I’m drowning in it all. I just want to be free of it, to be an honest man—’
‘Nonsense. You won’t stop,’ Abigail said. ‘Nobody does. They know it’s not worth the risk.’
‘Harrington thought it was. I forged his papers. He just disappeared one night, took ship and went to France. If he can do it, then so can I.’
She picked up a seal from the bench and turned it in her fingers. ‘You didn’t hear about Harrington?’
‘No, what?’
‘It was in all the news-sheets. Sorry, Leo, but he never made it to France. They found him at his lodgings with his throat slit.’
Leo paled. ‘You jest.’
‘It’s true. Don’t do it, Leo. I’d miss you. It takes time to build trust, and with you I always know my copies are going into cautious hands, that there will be no … accidents.’
‘Likewise. It has been good to have friends, but I want a real life now.’
‘You know that this could be the most dangerous task you’ve ever undertaken, don’t you? To stop?’
He paused, wiped his hands with a cloth. ‘I know.’ He searched her face. ‘I’m fond of Lord Bruncker and his treatise on mathematics, and he’s been a good client of ours. A straightforward client who just wants his papers printing. And I shall miss you. You took an interest in me and introduced me to Piet, when I had nothing, so I owe my livelihood to you. And of all of them, you are the most …’ he searched for the word, ‘the most reasonable. But this is my one chance, to be free of it. To live without always looking behind me.’
‘When will you leave?’
‘I don’t know. As soon as the weather improves, as soon as I can find the courage. And as soon as I can persuade my girl she wants to live in France. She won’t be happy, but what can I do?’
Abigail shook her head. ‘Be careful, Leo. Be careful who you talk to.’ She held out the papers, and he took them.
‘I’ve talked to no one,’ he said. ‘Only to you.’
Elisabeth took the gloves from their box. Soft leather, with enough gauntlet to keep the wrists warm; they were for Sam. At last she had been given a proper household allowance of thirty pounds a year from him, and this gift was what he had agreed she should give him as her thanks. The allowance was guilt money, of course, she knew that, and it didn’t make up for the boiling feeling she still nursed inside.
She reached out to touch the gloves where they lay on the bed. The shape of them, so much like hands, brought back the image of Sam’s hand on Deb’s thigh. She stifled a groan, banished the thought and hurriedly wrapped the gloves back in the calico cloth. She must not think of Deborah Willet. She tied the string in a fierce bow. If she was careful and hummed madrigals in her head, she could almost get through a whole day without tears.
Later in the afternoon she went down to see if Jane was back with the list of things she’d sent for, and for some company. Though she hated to admit it, it was lonely with nobody to talk to. Not that
she would want another lady’s maid – oh la, certainly not. Except for dear Jane, of course, she was loyal; after all, it was Jane who’d told her about Sam and Deb.
Jane looked surprised when Elisabeth went down to help her unload the baskets from the market. Carefully, Elisabeth transferred the eggs from the bag into a punnet lined with straw, and then cut the yellow slab of butter into quarters. She picked up the wooden butter mallet ready to shape the pat for the table.
‘Everything’s there,’ Jane said, stowing the baskets. ‘Except I couldn’t order more rush-matting, like you wanted. The weavers are behind. It will be a month, they say.’
Elisabeth sighed. ‘The old ones will have to last a bit longer then. Though they are more hole than mat, I must say.’
‘We haven’t had new since Deb was here.’ Jane paused and twisted her hands in her apron. ‘Talking of Deb … Netty, the Mercer’s maid, thought she might have seen her with Mr Pepys again, in a coach.’
Elisabeth felt a great drench of cold run over her.
Jane gabbled on. ‘Netty thought Deb still worked for you, but I told her Deb had left, and why. Still, it was probably months ago. I told Netty she must be wrong because Mr Pepys had written to her, finishing it.’
Elisabeth felt her expression drop, her face turn hot with humiliation. She had not imagined that she would become the subject of wider servant gossip. ‘If I hear that you have been discussing Mr Pepys and that … that harlot with anyone else, I mean anyone, you will no longer be working for me. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, mistress, but I thought you’d want to know, you asked me to—’
‘I do not want to know.’ Her voice rose to a shriek, but she tried to bring it under control. ‘Not now she is no longer working for me. It’s gossip, evil, malicious gossip.’
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 27
