Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  Two o’clock went, and three. Deb blew out the candle, but lay tense between the sheets. Surely if Piet was right, and Abigail intended to harm her, she would have taken her chance before now? She was too fanciful, imagining Abigail’s watchful manner. Abigail had dismissed Poole just to be kind. Tomorrow they would breakfast as usual, and Abigail would confess she was leaving for France and say ‘goodbye’ to her as any woman might.

  Deb let her body sag a little. Piet’s instructions seemed like a bad dream, not part of real life at all. Her thoughts became hazy, her eyelids heavy as lead. She was dozing, seeing pictures of the past, of her mother and her brothers at home in the apple orchard, her father’s angry face. She was about to shout back at him, when she heard a noise.

  A very quiet click.

  She lay motionless, lest the sheets rustle and mask any more sounds. Was that the noise of footsteps? The soft pressure of bare feet on floorboards? She held her breath. Her fingers crawled for the razor under her pillow, and closed round the ivory casing, careful not to touch the sharp edge. There was a barely perceptible rattle as the latch was lifted. Deb wanted to speak but found she could not.

  The door swung open to reveal a candle lit in the main chamber. Abigail was there, paused on the threshold, listening as if to gauge whether she was asleep.

  ‘Abigail?’ Deb found her voice.

  ‘I can’t sleep. I wondered if you were awake too.’ Abigail came in clutching a knitted blanket around her shoulders and sat down on the bed. Deb relaxed.

  ‘No, I—’

  There was a sudden movement, and the blanket pooled on the bed. A flash of silver. By instinct Deb shot backwards and to the side, grabbed a pillow to her chest. The blade of Abigail’s razor missed her shoulder by a hair’s width.

  ‘Don’t come any nearer!’

  Abigail lunged to grab her by the hair, but Deb slashed wildly with the razor and felt it meet flesh. Abigail fell back. Blood flowered on the fabric of her sleeve. A splatter of dark on the pillow.

  A moment of horrified silence. ‘Vixen! You too.’ Abigail pressed her other hand to her right arm. Her voice was loud in the small room. ‘I see. Piet’s trick – the razor.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Do it then, you are younger and stronger. What chance has an old woman against you?’

  Deb shrank back, the pillow pressed to her heart. She felt the wooden rail of the bedhead dig in her back. She would not fall for Abigail’s tricks. ‘No, I know enough of you to know you’re not as weak as you—’

  A swoop like a hunting owl. Deb saw the blade just in time and rolled aside. The edge of Abigail’s knife cut into the timber rail. Deb threw the pillow at her and leapt out of the room. Jamming her shoulder against the door to keep Abigail locked in, she pushed with all her strength. Abigail was stronger. It inched open. Deb pressed a moment more then let it go and turned and ran across the hallway and into the parlour. She dare not turn. A second might mean Abigail’s blade would reach her. She made a dash for the door to the stairs.

  The bolt was on.

  Should have left it off, she thought. Her shaking fingers fumbled to free it, but it was stubborn and stiff. She tried to get a grip on it, her sweating fingers sliding on the metal knob. She had to find another way out.

  No time. Abigail was behind her.

  She turned back, held out the razor before her. ‘Leave me be!’ she cried.

  Determination lit Abigail’s eyes before the blade flashed, but Deb was ready; she dodged to the side. Abigail’s arm hit the door and her shoulder followed with a judder. The knife fell to the ground.

  With a cry of frustration, Abigail stooped to retrieve it, stretching out her hand, but pain made her clumsy and slow. Deb took advantage, whipped behind her, touched the razor to her cheek.

  She felt Abigail freeze, swallow.

  Deb kicked Abigail’s blade out of reach and bent the razor close to Abigail’s eyes. ‘Be still!’ she said, hoisting Abigail’s blood-soaked arm up behind her back. ‘Listen to me, or I’ll cut your face so deep you’ll never work again.’

  Deb brought the quivering edge of the razor close to her throat.

  Abigail repressed a whimper.

  ‘You’ve ruined me,’ Deb said. ‘I never wanted to do this, to be this. You trained me to it. If I’m good at it, you’ve only yourself to blame.’

  ‘So you’re to kill me. Why wait?’ Abigail feigned nonchalance. ‘I beg you, make it quick.’

  Deb placed the metal edge on the thin skin of Abigail’s neck, but it twitched away as her hand refused to press.

  Abigail sensed it, turned her head. ‘Did I teach you nothing? If you don’t dispatch me, Piet will kill you.’

  Deb kept the razor at her throat. ‘We can outwit Piet. You want rid of it all, and so do I. I don’t want to be watching my back every minute. It’s not beyond us both, is it, to think of something?’

  ‘So take the knife from my throat.’

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ Deb said, tightening the grip on her arm.

  ‘Nor I you, Deb dear.’

  Deb felt a sneaking admiration for her bravery. ‘So there, we are equal. But there is no one else to help us.’

  Abigail was silent. Under Deb’s fingers, blood stuck Abigail’s sleeve to her arm in a dark wet stain.

  In a sudden movement Deb let her go, dived for the other razor and scooped it up. She circled Abigail at a safe distance, both weapons before her. ‘You’re bleeding. You weren’t quick enough. It’s only a matter of time; if not me, then some other girl will end it. Piet thinks you’re finished, too old to be useful. But we could work together.’

  Abigail got unsteadily to her feet. A nick on her neck dripped a runnel of blood. ‘What for, if I’m finished?’

  ‘We are women, not supposed to be able to think or to reason, yet I know you to be one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met. You would be dead by now if you were not.’

  ‘You flatter me.’ She scrutinised Deb, but did not move to the door. ‘What would be the point?’

  ‘I need you. We need each other. To stop.’

  Cradling her injured arm, Abigail propped herself against the wall. ‘Suppose I was to think about it. Piet’s men know about you, know about both of us. They’d soon find us. They would not be as merciful as you.’

  ‘Only Tromp knows of me. Maybe some of his confederates,’ Deb said. ‘But they only know me by the name of “Viola”. I’ve never met anyone in person but Piet.’

  ‘Viola.’ She barked a laugh. ‘Prettier name than Dr Allbarn.’ She paused. ‘I have met some of Piet’s Dutch friends, years ago, but none of them were big fish. The Dutch keep us isolated deliberately, in case something goes wrong.’

  Deb saw her thinking, the twitch of her gaze.

  ‘The London spies would be nothing without Piet. He controls the network.’ Abigail paused, looked down at her slashed sleeve, the sticky red stain. She swayed and put a hand to the wall.

  ‘Just think,’ Deb appealed to her, ‘we could help each other. Find a way out of this. I’m sick of being fearful every moment. I want friends, a proper home. You could have the life you want, with Lord Bruncker.’

  His name made Abigail’s shoulders slump. ‘Roses round the door too, I suppose. I was like you once. Had dreams. Lord B wanted to marry me. Me!’ She shook her head, as if she could not believe it. She took a step nearer, examined Deb’s face again through naked eyes. ‘You’re right, I am tired of all of this. Too tired. Have you ever been to Piet’s house?’

  ‘No, never. I have to send messages through the King’s post, to a Mr Johnson, at a holding address – Noon Street – as you do.’

  ‘We could watch his contact at Noon Street, trail him. I followed a man once – the fool looked all around but never saw me. I was in plain view, but they just don’t expect a woman.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘The idea of giving Piet a draught of his own physic is appealing.’

  Deb was wary. Abigail seemed to be actually considering i
t. But she still did not trust her. Deb’s body was tense, poised, ready to run or to fight.

  Abigail drew herself up. ‘Are you serious about us working together? With your help it might just be possible.’

  ‘You mean, hand him over to the authorities?’

  ‘No. Not that. We could be traced that way. We could finish him. The spy’s way. Where no one sees.’

  Deb shook her head.

  ‘Such a squeamish little flower. Did you tell Piet about Berenger and his little wife?’ Deb lowered her gaze. ‘I’ll bet they have holes in the skull by now, thanks to you.’

  The thought shocked her. It couldn’t be true. ‘I didn’t know, I didn’t think …’

  ‘Piet’s not safe unless he’s dead. We have to make sure. And be certain the finger points away from us.’ Abigail sighed. ‘It’s all right. You can leave that side of it to me. But I’d need your help. The thought of never having to worry about Piet again has a certain charm. But I need to trust you.’

  ‘And I you,’ Deb said.

  ‘Touché. Swear to me that you mean me no harm.’

  ‘I swear.’ There was only one way out. Deb took a deep breath, and sending up a silent prayer threw the weapons down towards Abigail. They clattered onto the floorboards and slid to her feet.

  Abigail watched them skitter to rest. She looked back up. Her eyes had turned glassy. ‘My God,’ she whispered, ‘you really meant it.’

  Abigail knelt and reached for the razor and Deb’s spine stiffened. But then Abigail slowly straightened, pressed it neatly closed with her thumb.

  ‘Come,’ she said, walking to the table, leaving the other one where it lay. ‘Let’s sit and see what we women can do.’

  They talked through the night. By candlelight, Deb helped Abigail to bandage her arm and then to dress in one of her loosest gowns. The cut on her arm was a clean wound, not too deep, the one on her neck a mere scratch. Both women were girlish, giggling, as if an escape from the grim reaper had brought forth all the lightness in them. Neither went back to bed. Their new-found trust was still too fragile, too brittle for that.

  ‘Did you ever find out anything more about your mother?’ Abigail asked her, as they sat together to plan what they should do. It was not quite an apology, but Deb answered her as if it were.

  ‘No. But I know where she is. Someone I know traced her. But I wouldn’t want her to know me now. She wouldn’t want to see me like this … doing this. What I had to do with Pepys, with Crawley …’

  ‘Are you ashamed?’ Abigail poured a dribble of brandy from a flask and pushed the cup towards her. ‘Mothers always love their children, no matter what the circumstances. You’ll understand, when you have your own. I loved my daughter, even though I knew well enough what she was.’

  Deb put down the cup and swivelled to look at her. ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter. Where is she? Why haven’t I ever met her?’

  ‘She’s a whore,’ Abigail said bluntly. ‘Was. She’s dead.’ The words were cast before her like stones. ‘May, last year.’

  Deb did not speak, but laid a comforting hand on hers.

  ‘I miss her so …’ Abigail’s mouth trembled and she began to shake with a great tremor. ‘Don’t look at me. Don’t look!’ She stood, pressed her hands to her eyes, but the tears came in a tide no sea defences could stem. A great wash of sobbing and keening, like the worst of winter storms.

  Deb stood and tried to gather her in, to comfort her, but Abigail shrugged her away, hid her face, as if emotion was something no one should see. She clutched her arms around herself, locked into her own tight circle of grief. All Deb could do was watch helplessly in the flickering light until it blew itself out and the tears abated.

  ‘Here. Brandy.’ Deb thrust her cup into her hand.

  ‘Can’t seem to take it in, even now, that she’s gone. Still worry that she’ll wake up one day with a man who’ll beat her black and blue. Stupid, isn’t it? She’s dead of the pox nearly a year, and I still fear for her like I used to. Still wake wondering where she is.’ Abigail slumped into a chair, put her elbows on the table, leaning her head into her hands.

  Deb reached out to gently rub her shoulder.

  She turned. ‘It’s why I did it, the business with Piet, spying on Lord B. Right to the end I had such dreams for her, to get her out of Clement’s Yard, to buy her a little house somewhere, give her a place to go and have a chance. A better chance than I ever had.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She didn’t want my money. She had too much pride. Wanted to make her own way. I had to stand by, watch her waste her goddamned life. If you’d seen her … she was only young … her pride finally ate her to death.’

  ‘Oh, Abigail—’

  ‘You can’t live their lives for them. Your mother will want to see you. The picture, your miniature, it’s Lizzie Willet, isn’t it? She’s a good woman. She’s seen a lot worse than you. She tried to help my Joan.’

  ‘I know. Jem Wells told me she was teaching at a school for poor children.’

  ‘She’ll be glad you’re still alive to tell the tale. That’s all that matters. Life. That blood still beats in your heart. I used to think life was cheap, but that was only because I didn’t really feel the true cost of it, hadn’t understood the pain of losing someone. When we’re free of Piet, go and find Lizzie, tell her you did what you had to because you had no choice – just as she did, just as I did. Anyone who lives in Clement’s Yard has to understand.’

  Hoof beats, and the rumble of wheels outside.

  The birds were just beginning to twitter their dawn chorus. Abigail went to the window and peered down into the dark. ‘It’s my carriage, come to take me to the docks.’

  ‘You can’t go. Like you said, Piet or his men might be waiting for you and Berenger there.’

  ‘I know. You should have been more careful with your mouth. First law of espionage. A single word in the wrong ear can mean life or death. Go down and send the carriage away. Then we’ll make a proper plan.’

  Deb watched in fascination as Abigail calmly primed her pistol with powder and shot.

  For her own part, she wrote a note to Piet: “It’s done. Viola.” Then she went out at the first glimmer of dawn and sent a beggar-boy runner with the message, told him to deliver it to Mr Johnson at Noon Street. She watched with trepidation as the boy ran off down the street, the letter trailing a long red ribbon attached with sealing wax.

  The wheels were set in motion now and there was no going back. Deb had a sudden urge to stop it all, this tomfool plan. To go back to yesterday, back even before that, to when the world was safe and she was full of bright-eyed optimism. But it was too late. Dressed in one of Deb’s nondescript cloaks, Abigail had already crept down the gantry steps, and through the back alleys to fetch a hired gig.

  Chapter Fifty

  ABIGAIL DROVE DOWN LONG LANE straight to Noon Street and tethered the horse and gig to a hitching post by the Priory of St Bartholomew’s. From there she walked briskly alongside the Priory walls, before taking up a position behind them to watch the house. Here, the stone was black and gritty under her touch, and had crumbled to give her a good view of the street. The Priory walls had protected this area from the Great Fire, and now she was grateful for their shelter. From here, she kept her eyes fixed on the house with the apothecary’s pestle and mortar sign.

  After only fifteen minutes she was gratified to see the messenger boy arrive, and a bespectacled man in a nightshirt take the beribboned letter. His expression said he did not like being woken so early. Less than a half-hour later, the same man came out, this time fully dressed in coat and breeches, coughing plumes of breath into the chill.

  Abigail recognised the red flapping ribbon as he went, and followed him surreptitiously on foot along Cock Lane, past the Fortune of War Tavern, and down Farringdon Street. The linkman turned once to look over his shoulder but ignored her. She smiled to herself; women were invisible. She tailed him for only a few more streets,
to Bear Alley and a busy baker’s shop with rooms above. It was one of the few shops trading, for now it was light, there would be no respectable man dared lift a finger, for it was the Lord’s Day, and all must rest.

  The smell of baking hot cross buns made her stomach growl, but the man went round to the side alley, knocked a rhythmic four knocks on a peeling, smoke-stained green door.

  In this area the houses had survived the fire and were cramped together, leaning in towards each other. A shutter swung open. Piet’s tall figure appeared as a dark shadow at the upstairs casement. So this was his hidey-hole, right in plain view.

  Abigail held her breath, pressed her back into the shadows of the doorway of the butcher’s shop opposite, not daring to move. Just the sight of him gave her a tight feeling in her throat. The linkman held up the letter to Piet as a signal to get him to open up. Abigail ducked her head further under the hood of her cloak, grateful that the sun was not yet over the tops of the houses. A few minutes later the bespectacled man sauntered back out onto the street without the letter.

  Abigail had seen what she needed to see. She cut back by Smithfield, and fetched the horse and gig. Deb was waiting, dressed respectably in a hat and cloak as Abigail reined the horse to a stop outside the house in Whetstone Park.

  ‘Ready?’

  Deb climbed in.

  An hour later, the gig was standing close to the bear-baiting ring, and Abigail waited by the butcher’s on the corner of Bear Alley, her shoulders and jaw stiff with tension. Deb knocked on the green door, exactly as she had instructed her to do.

  Steady, girl, Abigail willed her. Don’t lose your courage.

  The shutter at Piet’s window opened a crack. Abigail held her breath. She moved herself further round the corner out of sight. Piet mustn’t see her. She had to do this right, for Deb’s sake. Under her cloak, the flintlock pistol was a cold weight. Despite the chill, her palms were wet, slippery. She clutched the grip of the gun tighter, her eyes fixed on Deb’s neat grey back.