There was a rumble behind her, and she stepped to the side in annoyance as an enormous stinking cart lumbered up to the butcher’s shop. Two men hauled out the bad meat from the shop in a hurry, for it was after the curfew call, when all must be peace and tranquillity. The stink of rancid meat and offal made her almost gag.
But then she breathed out, took advantage of it and moved where the driver’s seat would mask her from the buildings. Good. Now she was closer. In range. A fly settled on her shoulder but she dare not move. Under her cloak, she slid the pistol to full-cock.
Deb listened. The wood under her knuckles had sounded uncommonly loud. She licked her lips, wishing she could run. But Abigail would be watching her every move, and she could not back out now. When Piet’s spider-like silhouette appeared at the window, she lifted her hand in greeting, smiled, and pointed to the papers she was holding. She could not see Piet’s expression, but waited, shivering, hoping he could not see her hand shaking.
Sure enough, the door opened a crack. Her eyes were level with the metal buttons on his coat.
‘How did you get this address?’ he said.
She fought back her fear. ‘In her things.’
He frowned down at her. At the eye contact, her stomach liquefied.
‘My man brought me the message,’ he said. ‘You had no need to come. And one of my men will collect and clear up … if that’s what is worrying you.’ He was about to shut the door – she must stop him, keep him there.
‘I brought these.’ She held out some letters. ‘They were in her things, too. I wasn’t sure … I just thought you might want them.’ She sidestepped just out of his reach, away from, and to one side of the door. What was Abigail doing? What if Abigail had left her, double-crossed her? In the distance a cock crew.
Piet leaned out, holding the door open with an elbow, to take hold of the sheaf she offered him.
But at the last moment he seemed to sense something amiss. His eyes flicked right and left, before his arm snaked out like quicksilver to hook her under her chin. A sudden jerk on her gullet.
‘What’s this?’ he hissed in her ear.
‘Nothing.’ She tried to speak, but he was hauling her backwards by the neck and the words were strangled in her throat. She grabbed for the door jamb. One thing she knew with certainty, once inside his house she might as well carve her own tombstone – she’d never come out. Her fingernails dug into the wood and her heels tried to gain purchase on the cracks between the flagstones. Abigail. Where was she? She could not see her.
Her fingers strained to keep hold, but they were slipping, slipping. In a moment the door would be shut to the world and she would be beyond anyone’s help.
In desperation, she let go. In one swift movement she pulled the hatpin from her hat, stabbed it hard behind her. A Dutch curse – an explosion of consonants. Piet’s hand loosened to go to his face. With an almighty twist, she dived forward and to the side.
A blast – so much of a shock she was momentarily stuck to the spot. Piet crumpled before her, his eyes wide, hands clutched to his chest, as if he might be able to claw the wound back together. His legs buckled, but he grappled for the door handle to keep himself upright. His hands were too slippery with blood. A groan, then his hand slid from the handle, and he slumped, a soft, heavy weight, like a sack of grain, half over the threshold. The hole in his ribs shone wet and black.
Deb coughed through the welter of smoke and sulphur.
‘Hurry!’ Abigail’s voice galvanised Deb into motion.
She scrambled to her feet.
Abigail took hold of her arm. ‘The gig’s round the corner,’ she said, setting off at a run.
Deb stumbled after her, and Abigail jerked the folding steps of the gig down, and Deb leapt in. The acrid smell of powder was still in her nose and the horse trod skittish and wild-eyed in its traces.
More gunshots. But no, it was the crack of the whip and Abigail setting the horse galloping.
Shutters banged open as people looked out, roused from their lying-in, bleary-eyed, to see what the disturbance was.
Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy.
They hied away, taking a twisting route through the narrow alleyways of the northern quarter, where there were still buildings to hide them, squeezing by parked delivery carts. A milkmaid jumped back out of their path. The city flew past in a rattling of iron wheels and blurred buildings, until the horse suddenly slowed and stopped and Deb was thrown forward. She was still clinging to the bloodied hatpin. She looked at it in horror and flung it away.
They were at the back of the Navy Offices, near the Three Tuns on Crutched Friars. Of course – Lord Bruncker’s; the safest place for Abigail to be, a place where he would provide an alibi. Deb got out, panic making her pant for breath. Abigail almost fell from the driver’s seat. She was white as whey and clutching her bad arm. The sun shone its pale orb above the houses.
‘Lord Bruncker’s papers, that you were copying,’ Abigail said, with great effort. ‘The ones I brought home to Whetstone Park a few days ago. We forgot them. They need to get back to his desk before he misses them. And there were others, plans of the docks from Crawley, navy minutes … so many things … besides, they’ll go into Noon Street, and then to Bear Alley to make enquiries. I don’t know whether Piet’s clean, what’s in his house, and we can’t go back to check. Better bring all the papers back to me here. Soon as you can. And look for new lodgings. Clean it all out. Leave nothing to chance.’
Deb nodded. Her tongue felt detached from her thoughts.
‘Is he dead?’ Abigail asked, suddenly grasping her by the sleeve. ‘Did we do it?’
‘Yes,’ Deb managed. ‘He’s not going to get up again.’ The fact of it was just beginning to filter through. She swallowed, tasting bile in her throat.
Abigail seemed to read her thoughts. ‘He would have taken you in the end. In his world, unless you can become the hunter, you are always the prey.’
Deb reached out to bid her farewell, and to take the reins, but her knees trembled so violently she could hardly stand. Abigail embraced her tightly. The gesture was unexpected, but Deb did not resist. They held each other a moment in wordless comfort, and Deb could feel Abigail’s heartbeat pulse through her back and into her hands. She caught the faint familiar aroma of lavender.
Abigail pulled away first. ‘We must be careful. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that this is the most dangerous time; if we relax our guard we might make mistakes. Promise me you won’t forget. Anything from the navy has to go back somehow. Bring me everything from Whetstone Park that relates to Dr Allbarn or Viola so I can sort it. Scour the whole place. Thoroughness is essential.’
‘I will, I promise.’
‘Find another place to stay as soon as you are able. I’ll pay off the landlord and forge you a good reference in a false name so you will be able to find a new position. Nobody need ever know we were associates.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll stay here a while, just as I usually do, tell Lord B I’m feeling unwell, that I have cancelled my theatre tour and need to rest a little. Though I’ll have to keep him out of my bed until my arm has healed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
A loud clanging made Deb start and look wildly behind her.
‘Only the end of curfew bell,’ Abigail said. ‘Take the gig back to Thames Street and find a way to get rid of it. You can walk from there, if you’re quick, before the constables are out. When you get inside, make sure all the doors are locked.’
Deb squeezed her hands. ‘Till later,’ she said. ‘Go safe.’
Abigail looked back at her with incredulity in her eyes. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, ‘that we’ve actually done it.’
As she went in through the gate, she turned, blew a kiss. It was a typically theatrical gesture and it made Deb smile. Deb blew one back and climbed onto the driving seat. She picked up the reins nervously. She hadn’t driven anything bigger than a pony and trap since s
he was a child, and hoped the horse wouldn’t sense her apprehension.
She glanced back at the solid outline of the Navy Buildings, the morning sun reflected at the windows, shining forth from the chambers where people like the Pepyses were just stirring, to wash themselves, toast their feet on last night’s embers, go about their normal humdrum lives.
She remembered her first sight of Seething Lane, the day she arrived with Mr Batelier and Aunt Beth. Aunt Beth’s words: ‘Make sure you please Mr Pepys.’ It seemed so long ago, a lifetime ago.
It was no use thinking of that now. She flicked the reins as she’d seen Abigail do, and urged the horse into a trot.
Chapter Fify-one
AN INSISTENT CLANGING of bells woke Deb from her exhausted doze. She sat up on the bed, her heart beating too fast. She must have fallen asleep because she was curled on her side with her boots tangled in her skirts. The events of the dawn washed over her in an icy rush. Pray God the ostler would have found the horses and carriage in Thames Street; she felt sorry for that abandoned horse.
More bells in the distance.
Ten o’clock already.
Everything had changed, yet the room was just as it always was; the stripe of sunlight across the floor, her familiar cloak dangling over the chair. She hugged herself tight, unable to rid herself of the suffocating fear that closed around her.
When she’d returned earlier, she’d lit every single candle, all the sconces, all the rushlights, even in the daylight, but it hadn’t been enough to dazzle her, to scour Piet’s face from her mind. Had he deserved it? She didn’t know. But she had sent him to his death. And the wound in his chest was fatal; she did not need to be a physician to know that. The memory of his expression as he tried to stitch his chest together with his fingers would not be shaken free.
She must make atonement for her sins, pray for Piet’s soul. It was the least she could do. Sunday. She could make the eleven o’clock service. But she could not go to St Olave’s – Crawley might be there, or Pepys, and she did not want a brush with either of them. She had a longing to see Jem Wells again, just to see his face, to bask in his goodness, to hear his blessing to the congregation. She knew she should not go near him, but he drew her. He need not see her, for it would be busy, and if she waited until the service had begun, she might be able to sneak in unseen. She would go there on the way to take everything to Abigail at Lord Bruncker’s.
She hurried to wash, change her rumpled clothes, burn the bodice that was spotted with Piet’s blood. She poked it into the fireplace, turned it as it glowed into ash, breaking it up until she was sure no trace remained. Abigail had not told her to burn the papers; did not trust her enough, she guessed. Probably needed to check them first, to return what was needed to Bruncker and the offices.
Deb went through the chambers with a hawk-like eye picking up anything that might have come from the Treasury, shoving it all into a leather bag. She untied the pillowslip beneath her skirts and drew out the batch of coded messages that Piet had sent her. She had been at pains never to leave Piet’s letters in their chambers in case Abigail should find them, but now she knew Abigail would be reassured to see them all, to know that she was hiding nothing from her.
The only documents she kept back were her collection of Pepys’ diary pages. These she still kept hidden beneath the folds of her skirts, and those only because she did not want to risk bringing more pain to that household if someone found them.
She didn’t want Jem to spot her in the congregation, so she tied a kerchief round her neck, before coiling her long curls under a hat and swinging one of Abigail’s dark unfamiliar cloaks over her dress. She curved her shoulders, jutted her chin. Abigail had taught her about disguise; she knew now that it was not just the clothes she needed to change, but her whole way of being in her body.
Her blurred reflection in the window, with its shifting face, reminded her of the gypsy, their strange encounter on Norwood Common. The woman had been right; the dark had drawn her in after all. She turned cold. She no longer recognised herself. Her father used to say that all life was predestined, that God had given everyone a role and they must play it out, even if it was the role of evil.
Another wave of panic and remorse forced her down the stairs and out into the chill air. When she arrived at the church there was a queue outside to go in, and she kept her head down and joined a threadbare family in the crush of people on the back benches. It was Dr Thurlow preaching, but she soon saw Jem – he was to read from the lectern and help with the communion.
She listened intently to the rector’s words, about the ability of Jesus Christ to resurrect even the blackest soul in the same way as He himself had been resurrected. Still, she could not bring herself to participate in the communion. The words ‘The body of Christ, the blood of Christ’ were too resonant for her to bear.
‘Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy.’ Her prayers were so fervent that she stayed on her knees a little longer than her neighbours. When she came to rise, Jem was staring straight at her, eyes questioning. Deb looked hurriedly away and tried to squeeze out from her pew, but the congregation were shaking hands, wishing each other good day, and the family were blocking her in, oblivious to her frantic ‘excuse me’s.
She glanced up. Jem was pushing his way out through the side door. Desperate to get away before he could stop her, Deb picked up her bag, then, apologising, forced her way past elbows and walking canes and voluminous skirts.
When she arrived at the front door, he was already waiting. He caught her by the arm. ‘Please, Miss Willet, just a few moments of your time.’
‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘Just a few moments. We can walk in the churchyard where we won’t be disturbed. I’m quite safe, you know. I won’t bite.’ His attempt at levity was replaced by a face so earnest she could not resist. ‘Please. I need to talk to you about Lizzie.’
She wanted to leave, but his words made it impossible. They walked in silence until they passed through the gates and onto the central path. She saw him cast sidelong glances at her, until he found a stone seat where they could sit.
‘It’s good to see you, Miss Willet. How is it with Dr Allbarn?’
‘It is well, thank you.’ It was a wooden reply; she did not dare look at him in case he should catch guilt in her face. The grey slabbed tombs accused her.
‘It’s just, you don’t look as happy as you did at the Pepyses’, and it bothers me.’
‘It should not bother you.’
‘But it does, because I care for you, because I still think of you every minute. I think about the times we used to walk out and look down over the bridge, and how it felt to kiss you. I miss those times. When you came into church today it was like the light had come in with you.’
The light? Surely not? Caught off guard, she looked up and his eyes hooked hers.
She shook her head, ‘Jem, I—’
‘You know, I told Lizzie about you, despite your misgivings, and she would like to meet you. She is convinced you are her daughter. Why not just meet her? I can take you there myself if you would like to go.’ He leaned closer towards her. ‘Of course, I would not like to press you, but she is such a good woman, a kind soul, and it would mean so much for her to find the family she lost.’
‘You don’t understand. She wouldn’t want this daughter.’
He took hold of her hand and pressed it. ‘Don’t be foolish. Of course she would, you’re everything a mother could be proud of—’
‘No.’ She jumped up, as if scalded, her voice rising. ‘You have no idea. If you did, you wouldn’t want to know me.’
‘Then give me the chance! I’ve thought about you every day for all these months, and I know you think well of me, too, or at least you used to.’
She turned her head away, afraid of her own emotion, but he tugged at her sleeve. ‘Why must you shut me out, Miss Willet?’ His eyes were soft and entreating.
Just for an instant, she grasped the possibility of collapsi
ng into his arms, of letting go of the weight of it all. But at the last minute she wrenched herself away and the moment plummeted. ‘Because I care for you … leave me alone. Just leave me.’
She picked up her skirts and ran, blundering away from him, through the double row of yew trees, between the upright stones of the wealthy dead. But she saw none of it, for it was not Jem she was running away from, but herself.
Jem watched her go, but did not follow. What had he said? She said she cared for him, yet then she’d fled. He couldn’t think how he’d offended her. But Deb had changed since working at the Allbarns’. The girl who had laughed at his jests was gone and he wished he could get to the bottom of it. He pressed his forehead into his hands.
A leather bag was lying next to him on the bench – Miss Willet’s bag. He grabbed it and shouted after her, ran helter-skelter down the path, but when he got past the church to the fork in the road there was no sign of her. He was already too late. But if she’d left it behind, then she might come back. He waited hopefully for a half-hour in the pale morning sun, but she did not return.
Still, it would give him another excuse to see her. He could send a note, ask her if he could call so he could return it to her. He wondered whether to look inside. His hand began to unbuckle the flap almost without thinking. But then he caught himself. It would be dishonest. He wrestled with his conscience a while before deciding that it would be a betrayal of her trust to look at her private things.
The ferryman held out his hand for his coin, and Deb clapped her hand to her mouth. Her bag. She searched around her feet in case she’d dropped it. She realised immediately what she’d done. She’d left it on the bench.
It was a disaster. She ran back to the park but Jem was gone, and so was the bag. Breathless, clutching the stitch in her side, she returned to St Gabriel’s, but it was locked. Heart full of foreboding, she tried the vicarage.
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 33
