Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Please, somebody come,’ she whispered. She battered vainly at the door with her fists.

  ‘He’s gone out,’ the neighbour said, from an upper window, his expression sour with disapproval under his slouched hat.

  ‘Where?’

  The neighbour shrugged.

  ‘Had he a bag with him?’ she asked, trying to stay calm. But no, the neighbour had noticed no bag, and shut the window with a slam.

  Fortunately, her keys to Whetstone Park were on the belt around her waist, but she had no paper or a quill, and no money to buy writing materials, so she had to walk back to Whetstone Park before she was able to send Jem a note asking him if he had the bag. If so, she begged, would he meet her tomorrow at the evening service, and she’d fetch it?

  If that bag fell into the wrong hands, then Abigail would be linked to Piet Groedecker and his death. And it would all be Deb’s fault.

  When the note arrived, Jem was relieved, and replied straight away to tell Deb that, of course, he would keep it safe and return it to her the next day. He hoped he would have another chance with her. But right now the bag was the least of his worries. Bart had gone out the previous night without a word and he hadn’t come home.

  Jem had heard him clanking about in the dark, and when he went to ask what he was doing at this hour, Bart had snapped at him and told him to go back to bed. Jem could tell by his brother’s behaviour that something untoward was happening – Bart had girded on his sword and buckler, and his pistol was in his belt. Not only that, but he was obviously dressed in somebody else’s fine suit of clothes, despite hiding it under his thick dark cloak.

  Bart’s talk of armed rebellion had given Jem an uneasy feeling. By lunchtime, when Bart still hadn’t come home, Jem stopped off at the Black Bull tavern to see if he was there.

  Crawley waved at him from a corner by the fire to take a drink with him. ‘It’s on me. I’m going to ask my girl for her hand in marriage,’ he said, ‘so it could be my lucky day.’

  ‘My thanks. Who’s the girl?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you met her – remember, she used to be Mr Pepys’ maid – a little peach she is. We’ve been seeing quite a lot of each other.’

  ‘You don’t mean Miss Willet?’ The room became blurred.

  ‘The same. Mind you, she’s not let me have much of a slap and tickle yet, so I reckon a betrothal might loosen her up. I know she likes me, but she’s quite hoity-toity, and her employer doesn’t let her out much, so I’ve had to take it slow.’

  Jem stared down into his beer, his thoughts reeling. So that was it. That was what had been the matter. She was already promised to Crawley. He couldn’t imagine them together. He took a sidelong glance at Crawley’s pug-like face and greasy hair. What could she see in him? He took a gulp of beer, but it could not drown his disappointment, a sensation so tender he could not swallow. He spat the beer back into the tankard.

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’

  Jem curbed the urge to punch the self-satisfied bastard in the face. ‘Sorry, Crawley, I’m a bit distracted. It’s my brother, you see. He didn’t come home last night. I’ve been everywhere, but I can’t find any sign of him. I thought he might be in here. He’s got himself involved with a bad crowd – they were planning something. I worry he might have got himself into trouble.’

  ‘Bet it’s the trouble at the docks at Chatham. Chaps I work with at the Navy Office had an emergency meeting this morning. Mennes was all of a lather over it. I kept my ear to the door to see what was going on.’

  ‘Did they?’ Jem was only half-listening, his mind was still on Deb.

  ‘A skirmish, it seems. A set-up. Rebels planning an attack on the shipyard. It’s all undercover, and nobody’s supposed to know.’ Crawley tapped his arm, whispered, ‘But I’ll tell you, because you’re a friend.’

  Jem stiffened, instantly wide awake. Rebels. A shipyard. It sounded too familiar. ‘What else?’

  ‘King’s men have been drafted in as reinforcements. They’ve had a tip-off and they’re after someone called Tom Player … oh, and another one from the gunpowder works – Skinner, was it? Anyway, there’s going to be a rout. Gunpowder’s involved somehow. Could be a spectacle, eh?’

  Jem grabbed his arm. ‘Skinner, did you say?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ Crawley pursed his lips, shook his head. ‘Looks bad. If your brother’s gone in with him I wouldn’t fancy his chances. They’ll likely shoot the rebels on the spot. Or maybe they’ll wait – public execution.’

  Jem’s face turned grey. He would wager his life it was those two that Bart had gone to meet yesterday. ‘You’re sure? Sure it was Player and Skinner?’

  Crawley nodded. His eyes lit up at Jem’s horrified expression. He licked his lips. ‘Looks like you’ll be needing a lawyer. Or an undertaker.’

  Jem stood up, looked vaguely around, as if he might run, but didn’t know where. He’d got to stop them, warn Bart somehow.

  ‘You’ll never get there in time,’ Crawley said, plainly enjoying the spectacle of Jem’s distress. ‘It’s a half-day’s ride, and whatever it is, it’s planned for sundown.’

  Jem did not wait to hear more, but swiped up his hat and ran out, boots slithering on the cobbles. He had to warn Bart that the King’s men were on the way.

  A hurried scout around in the stables at the back, and … saints be praised! Someone’s horse, and still saddled. Hope it’s Crawley’s nag, he thought. Serve him right.

  Jem dug his heels in the horse’s flanks and set off at a wild gallop. His legs were unused to riding, and after ten miles on the Upnor road his thighs ached like the devil, but he dare not slow. The terrain was rough but marked by a well-ridden path through the wooded ‘hundreds’ of Northfleet and on through marshes to Rochester where he was finally able to water the sweating horse. He threw water over his own face, and risked a drink from the spring that fed the trough. He dare not tarry, despite his shaking legs; the sky threatened rain and he feared he had already taken too long.

  Long before he arrived at the dock gate he could see the buildings and masts on the horizon, and, across the river, the fort. A group of men were assembling there and boats were being made ready. From Jem’s vantage point they looked like little black rats. The feathers in their cocked hats identified them easily as the King’s troops. He wiped his sweating hands on the horse’s mane. A few boats bearing soldiers were already halfway across. ‘Please God, let me be in time,’ he prayed.

  As he galloped up to the gate, the heavens opened in an almighty downpour – so heavy he could hardly see where he was riding. At the gate, he slid down and landed with both feet in a slime of mud. Water slopped up his boots. One of the two guards demanded his papers.

  ‘Curate, is that right?’ One of them gave a cursory glance at them.

  ‘Yes, but don’t keep me. I’m to give prayers to a dying man,’ he said. It was half-true, he thought. If he did not get there in time Bart would be as good as dead. The King’s men would arrest him for treason against the Crown.

  ‘Not one of the inspectors is it?’

  ‘Might be, someone with the falling sickness, they said.’

  ‘Long as it’s not catching, eh?’ They passed his dripping papers back and waved him through. He dragged the horse by the reins behind him, but it was reluctant to move and he was getting more and more soaked. He lost patience and threw the reins round a post and picked his way down the treacherous slope towards the jutting masts and grey water. The muddy paths were slick with wet, and rain bounced off his shoulders. All sane men had retreated to shelter.

  Jem looked left and right but could see no sign of Bart or of his friends, Player and Skinner. He peered through the blur of rain at the big ship in front of him. About twenty yards away the street erupted with men, all running towards him. He stopped, unsure what was happening, why they were running.

  A blast like a clap of thunder shook the ground, followed by a searing white flash and a boom that seemed to come from
inside his chest. Instinctively he ducked, put his hands over his head. Nails and bolts and splinters of wood rained down around him.

  Bart. He had to find Bart.

  He ran down the hill. The ship belched orange flame from a gaping hole in the hull. The shock of the noise meant he couldn’t think, but he was aware of men running past him, in the opposite direction, away from the blast, and then the King’s men looming up through the blizzard of rain. The noise of the fire split the sky. A musket ball rebounded from a building to his left. Men were streaming from the buildings now to see what was going on.

  ‘Run, man!’ shouted someone from behind them, and another man cannoned into his back. Jem fell, winded. He was disorientated. Feet splashed past him, and a man tripped over him and sprawled facedown before heaving himself up and running away. Jem struggled to upright.

  A rough hand grabbed him, ‘What the hell …?’

  It was Bart, his hair plastered to his scalp, dragging him up by the arm so hard Jem thought his shoulder would leave its socket. ‘This way!’ Bart shouted, gesturing frantically for him to follow. He sprinted up the hill away from the river, but Jem’s legs were weary from riding and the ground was too slippery. His boots skidded in the mud.

  There was a yank on his coat, hands pulled on his waist and a militia man pinned him to the ground, a musket muzzle jammed against his temple. ‘I’ve caught one of them,’ yelled the soldier. Others came panting up and stood over him in a circle. They hauled him to his feet and one of them punched him in the eye.

  ‘That’s for pretending to be a man of the church.’

  The second blow took the world to black.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  DEB WAS WEARY. She had gone to St Gabriel’s as Jem asked, to meet him and collect her bag, but he was not there. Dr Thurlow was apologetic, but could supply no answers. Neither was Jem at home. The neighbour said that he often went over to the chapel at White Hall to meet with his friends, so the next day she set off in the bluster to walk the few miles there to see if she could find him. Two sleepless nights had passed since Piet’s death, and that morning a note had arrived from Abigail to say she was laying low at Bruncker’s and his Lordship was searching everywhere for his missing papers. Why hadn’t she brought them? Where was she?

  Deb’s skirts blew flat to her legs, making her aware of the papers beneath. She must find Jem and that bag. On the way, she stopped at St Paul’s Walk to buy a pamphlet with the latest news – to see if Piet’s body had been found. It was a peculiar feeling to be free of him, to have made a truce with Abigail. She still felt hunted, and could not stop looking over her shoulder – it was a habit that was not easy to drop.

  The finding of the body was news already, in the small print beneath some explosion at the docks. The fact that Mr Johnson’s lodgings showed no sign of his apothecary business was made much of, and speculation that he was a Catholic spy was already rife. Deb scanned down, combing the words. A ‘mystery woman’ it said. She tensed, but then her shoulders relaxed when she realised nobody had a good description. One said: ‘a woman in a dark hat’, another ‘a woman in a hooded cloak’. Nobody had seen faces. It was inconclusive. Nobody thought of two women.

  She crammed into the crowded ferry to White Hall and pored over every word in case any hint could lead them to her or Abigail, but there was nothing. She found her way to the chapel, still pondering the printed words, when a familiar voice reached her ears – Mr Pepys, regaling Will Hewer in his usual manner.

  He spotted Deb straight away, though Will had not, and, anxious to avoid him, she hurriedly followed two elderly matrons who were going down into the lobby of the chapel. There, the women met up with a well-dressed gentleman who was obviously waiting for them. Deb glanced behind, to check Mr Pepys had not followed, then asked if they knew the curate, Jeremiah Wells.

  The gentleman was most polite, said ‘yes’, he was often there, but that he had not seen him there that day. Disappointed, she took her leave of them and was about to mount the stairs again when Mr Pepys came puffing down towards her, all of a fluster.

  ‘Saints be praised, if it isn’t little Deb,’ he said. ‘How are you?’ His face glowed red, his hands pulling nervously on his waistcoat pocket flaps.

  She was not quick enough to avoid him, and found herself with her back to a wall.

  ‘Well,’ she said, guardedly, ‘but you must excuse me, I’m—’

  ‘We miss you at home. I mean, I miss you. Our little talks, seeing you about the place. I still think of you, Deb. My heart is not mended. It was Elisabeth made me write, and now there’s no one to talk books with, and I know you’d be interested to see my latest purchases—’

  ‘I have little time for reading now,’ she replied curtly.

  ‘Still, you’d like to see them, wouldn’t you? I tell you, the bindings are exquisite, hand-tooled calfskin, gold leaf …’ He closed in on her a little more. He seemed so large and solid, the coat of stiff wine-coloured velvet, his polished patent shoes almost too dainty to support his bulk. He looked down on her, his eyes beseeching.

  ‘My life is very different now,’ she said.

  ‘But still time for old friends, eh?’

  He put a hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it away, ignoring his pleading expression. ‘Pardon me, Mr Pepys, but I must be going, my employer—’

  ‘Is it far? Can I order you a hackney? Are you still at Allbarn’s?’

  ‘No, no need, it’s only a few minutes.’

  ‘If you have a day off, we can meet again—’

  ‘Best not, Elisabeth …’

  ‘I suppose not.’ He took up a lock of her hair, rubbed it between finger and thumb. ‘Still as pretty, my little Deb. Can’t we arrange something?’

  ‘Isn’t that Will, coming down the stairs?’

  Mr Pepys leapt away from her, eyes anxiously searching the lobby. Deb slipped to the side as he turned. When she glanced back over her shoulder he took a couple of steps after her, but she did not wait – she just hitched up her skirts and ran.

  It felt strange to ignore him. He still seemed like her employer. But she was impatient; she had more important things to worry about than Mr Pepys, like the death of Piet Groedecker and tracking down Jem Wells and that bag.

  Jem shifted against his shackles to try to ease his stomach. Two more days had passed, and he had eaten nothing but swill. His insides contracted against his ribs with what felt like an audible suck. Forced to kneel on the filthy floor by his iron bonds, he feared catching some pestilence; though now, he thought, it would scarcely matter.

  He could not summon a mood for prayer. He closed his eyes tight, cast his mind to God, but the ensuing silence only conjured up his past sins. Little failings, that seemed so small at the time, loomed large; things like not visiting his mother enough, or his harsh words with Bart.

  Never mind God, he was his own judge, and he could find far too many reasons why God should ignore his pleas now. He still could not quite believe it, that he was to die. He hadn’t had time to find out what life was all about, let alone death, and he couldn’t imagine a heaven; it was too far a jump from where he was now.

  He hadn’t had to wait long to find out his fate. The assizes had fallen, unfortunately for him, on Tuesday, and his trial, too politically sensitive for the public’s ears, had taken place hurriedly behind closed doors. It had been woefully short. The magistrate had produced evidence in the form of some letters that they said they had found at his house.

  It was all fabricated, of course. How could people make up such outright falsehoods? He protested most vehemently to anyone who would listen, and equally vehemently to those who would not. At the trial, he knew it was not helping his cause to rail and shout, but could not help himself. He supposed that calling the magistrate a ‘deluded fool’ hadn’t helped. He was branded a traitor and the verdict was a foregone conclusion. The sentence – death by hanging. But not even a clean death. His body was to be mangled into four quarters and he was to b
e made a public example, presumably to prevent any further such rebellions.

  His usual ebullient good humour ebbed away and he was frightened at the smallness of the man that was left. He thanked God he was sparing Bart this, about as often as he cursed him for leaving him to rot here with not so much as a word.

  Now he just longed for it to be over. What use was it to starve him here, when his death could be arranged so quickly? A bit of rope and a chair. But he knew the answer. The crowd would want their entertainment. On Friday he’d be put in the condemned hold, and when they finally hammered off the shackles he would have to shake the hand of the hangman. Not as a courtesy, but a way of assessing the length of rope needed to hang him. Then would come the two-and-a-half mile drag on the horse-hitched trundle, past the hollow peal of St Sepulchre’s bell, to the triple tree at Tyburn.

  It was this journey he feared most of all. He would be weaker by then, more afraid. He would have to summon his strength and somehow die with dignity, as an innocent man should. The jeers of the crowd would be the last sound he would hear. He hoped Deborah Willet, at least, would not be amongst them.

  Abigail barely moved from her curtained bed, telling Lord B she was suffering with a cold. It explained her red eyes and nose, for she was shaken by uncontrollable bouts of sobbing, intermingled with an exhaustion that made her legs as heavy as tombstones. Grief for Joan, mingled with relief that, at last, nobody was watching her. Today was the first day she was out of bed and she almost cheered when Deb finally appeared at Lord Bruncker’s door, though of course she was careful to hide her thankfulness to see her.

  The sensation of relief was short-lived though, when Deb explained that Jem Wells, a curate no less, was now in possession of all the documents from Whetstone Park. She’d spent the last few days trying to track him down. The tension bristled through Abigail’s body, shooting along its familiar pathways, knotting her shoulders and stomach.

  She sat down hard on the chair, pinching the top of her nose between finger and thumb in disbelief. She cursed herself. She should have asked Deb to burn it all, but she hadn’t trusted her enough. And she’d wanted to check Deb’s thoroughness, that she was not concealing anything against her.