‘You the physician, sir?’ When Catlin signalled his assent, the boy went on: ‘My father bids you come – quickly if you please. Mother’s been in labour since this morning, and the baby don’t come!’
Catlin nodded to Peg, who walked off. Then taking his coat from its hook he pulled it on, questioning the child as he did so.
‘Is there a midwife attending?’
The boy shrugged. ‘Likely so. Half the neighbours be crammed in the house – tis like the fair.’
‘And is your mother in much pain?’
The boy nodded vigorously. ‘She does scream the street down, sir. We fear for her life!’
Betsy had found Catlin’s bag and was holding it out. With a glance at her he took it. ‘I may be gone for some hours,’ he said. ‘Lock the door after me.’
She gave a nod and glanced down at the child, who was eying her without expression. Then as Catlin stepped through the doorway, he pointed up the street in the direction of Holborn and trotted off. The doctor strode after him.
Betsy closed the door, turned the key, then walked down the hallway to the kitchen where she caught Peg in the act of lighting a pipe. At Betsy’s appearance she started, choked on the fumes and fell into a coughing fit. Finally the coughs subsided, whereupon Peg sucked hard on the pipe and blew out a cloud of smoke.
‘What he don’t know won’t hurt him,’ she croaked, and indicated Catlin’s tobacco jar. ‘Want a puff?’
‘I’m for bed,’ Betsy said with a shake of her head. ‘The street door’s locked. Will you bolt up the back, and see to the window latches?’
Peg nodded absently, frowning at the pipe. ‘This Spanish tobacco’s a mite strong,’ she muttered, then glanced round. ‘Tom’ll be out a good while, won’t he?’ But Betsy was walking tiredly towards the stairs.
When she awoke, it was pitch dark. Groggily, she raised herself on one elbow, wondering what had startled her. She listened, but there was no sound; Peg must have gone to bed. As for Tom Catlin, it was likely he had not yet returned. Urgent calls upon his skills, sometimes at night, were not uncommon. Betsy yawned, sank back on to her pillow and closed her eyes – then sat up with a jolt.
It sounded like a cry. She cocked her head towards the door, and to her alarm, it came again. It came from downstairs, and there was no mistake: someone had cried out, in pain or in fear, she could not tell. But in an instant she had risen and was pulling on a gown. Groping about in the dark, she found her leather mules and stepped into them. Then she stumbled to the door and wrenched it open.
‘Peg!’
There was no answer. Glancing along the landing, she saw no light from Catlin’s chamber. Uneasily she made her way to the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a faint glow from the rear of the house. Standing on the top step, Betsy called Peg’s name once more, and after a moment there came an answering shout, which made her pulse quicken.
‘In the kitchen!’
It was almost a shriek. Betsy started downstairs, the wooden heels of her mules thudding on the boards. She imagined housebreakers, and briefly considered going into the parlour for a poker or a candlestick. Then chiding herself, she dismissed the idea. It was Peg’s voice, so there must be some explanation. She reached the bottom step, saw that the parlour was in darkness, and turned towards the kitchen. The door was ajar, and the light came from there. Had Peg not gone to bed?
Now there came a muffled sound from beyond the kitchen door. Betsy hesitated, sniffing: there was an odour which at first she failed to recognize. Then she realized that it was lantern oil.
‘Peg?’
This time there was no answer. Berating herself for her timidity, Betsy strode forward and pushed the door open. At first she saw nothing amiss. There was a candle on the table, its flickering light reflected off Catlin’s best pewter dishes, racked above the sideboard. There too was the tobacco jar which Peg had plundered. She stepped into the room – then froze.
Peg sat motionless on a chair, still in her workaday clothes, staring wide-eyed at Betsy. Her hands were on her lap, tied together with an end of rope, and they were trembling. But that was not why Betsy stood rigid, struggling with the wave of cold fear that washed over her.
To Peg’s right, and slightly behind her, stood the man Betsy had once known as Julius Hill; a supporting actor of indifferent talent, who had played the doctor in Macbeth. And he was smiling.
‘Mistress Brand, you’ve taken your time. Do join us, won’t you?’
His voice was soft. And having forced herself to meet his gaze – which did not waver – Betsy’s eyes strayed downwards, to see the reason for Peg’s immobility as well as her terror.
Hill – now that she saw him, she could think of him by no other name – had his left arm about Peg’s shoulder, resting his hand upon her, almost affectionately. On the right hand however, he wore a leather glove. It was a well-tailored glove, and it had been made to a most unusual design. For at the end of the middle finger was a little cap, somewhat like a thimble. Except that this was a thimble in reverse, so to speak, since it ended in a sharp point: a thick darning needle or a bodkin had been securely fixed therein, so that it stuck out alarmingly, a deadly extension to Hill’s finger. It was a cunning device, and as she stared at it Betsy’s breath caught in her throat, for in a trice, a mystery was solved.
Here was the means by which Tom Cleeve had been pricked as he stood in the scene-room, mug in hand, toasting the success of Macbeth. Here too was the means by which Alderman Blake had been pierced in the neck. No doubt this was how Ned Gowden had also received his wound, a quick stab by a customer who brushed by him, unnoticed in the semi-darkness of the bagnio. Somehow Joseph Rigg, too, had received his pinprick – several in fact, for good measure.
And now the fearful spike was levelled at Peg’s neck, its tip barely an inch from her skin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘The natives call it curare,’ Hill said softly. ‘In the jungles beyond the Spanish Main there’s a vine. They extract a substance from it which they boil up, making a deadly ichor to dip their arrows in. Once the flesh of the victim is pierced, animal or human, it cannot live.’
Betsy stood still, her eyes flicking from Hill to Peg and back. She could think of no other course than to let the man talk.
‘It took me a deal of trouble to obtain it,’ he murmured, giving a bleak smile. ‘A curious turnabout, is it not? For in sending me to the other side of the world, my enemies enabled me to find the means to take my retribution.’
Peg caught Betsy’s eye, and there was desperation in her gaze. Somehow Betsy must distract the man, or at least get him to take the terrible pin away. Only now did she see the thick brown paste with which its tip was coated.
‘Your enemies have paid a heavy price,’ she said, managing to keep her voice steady. ‘But Peg isn’t one of them … she’s done you no hurt. Will you not release her?’
Hill’s smile faded, to be replaced by a hard look. And if Betsy needed further proof that he was not the unassuming, diffident man the Duke’s Company had once taken him for, it was about to follow.
‘You mistake me,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s you who have done me hurt. Dogging my footsteps, poking about … even setting traps!’ His face twitched, and Betsy resolved to tread carefully: this man was not merely dangerous, he was close to madness. As she watched, he withdrew his free hand from Peg’s shoulder, keeping the other close to her neck.
‘Stand up!’ he ordered. ‘And no sudden movements.’
Slowly, Peg stood up.
‘Now – change places.’
For a moment both women hesitated. ‘Change places, I said!’ Hill cried. ‘I’ve been put to enough difficulty already on your account, Mistress Brand, so sit down before I spike this maid’s neck. Which would be a pity,’ he added, ‘for it’s a pretty neck.’
Betsy walked round the end of the table and sat herself down in the chair Peg had vacated. At once, Hill gave Peg a shove which sent her staggering, and moved hi
s gloved hand quickly to rest on Betsy’s shoulder. She heard the soft scrape of leather, close to her ear. She even smelled the faint, aromatic odour of the poison.
‘Put your hands forward, and press them together,’ he ordered. When Betsy did so, he glanced at Peg and jerked his head towards the floor. ‘There’s another cord in there – take it out, and tie her wrists.’
Betsy had not noticed the open sailcloth bag which stood near the wall. Keeping her head still, she let her eyes follow Peg, who stooped with difficulty since her hands were still bound, and fumbled inside the bag. Drawing out the length of thin rope, Peg hesitated.
‘Bind her!’ Hill shouted, his voice filling the room. And now, both women sensed the well of pent-up rage within the man. Peg moved towards Betsy, and falling to her knees before her began to wind the rope clumsily about her wrists.
‘Knot it securely,’ Hill told her. With trembling fingers Peg managed to tie the rope. Then with a glance at Betsy she bent forward, gripped the end in her teeth and drew it tight.
‘Beautifully done.’ With a thin smile, Hill signalled to Peg to stand and move back. Then he bent, leaning so close to Betsy that she could feel his breath on her face.
‘In a short time,’ he said, ‘this house will be aflame … and your bodies will burn with it. Your landlord, the good doctor, I have chosen to spare.’
At once Betsy understood: it was Hill who had sent the boy, and drawn Catlin away on a wild goose chase.
Keeping his hand on Betsy’s shoulder, Hill looked round at Peg. ‘You, too, I had a mind to spare,’ he murmured. ‘However, your little venture into the Bermuda Straits made you an accomplice, so you too must pay. I say this …’ he turned to Betsy again, ‘I say it because I wish you both to know why you will die. All those I’ve despatched had time – but a short time, I admit – to reflect upon their fate before they expired. Hence you too should be afforded that small luxury.’
Fighting panic, Betsy met Peg’s eyes. If she was to act, it must be soon. But first the smell of lantern oil was explained, for with his free hand, Hill gestured Peg towards his bag.
‘There’s a bottle and some rags in there,’ he said. ‘Take them out.’
Peg stooped again and reached inside the bag. This time she took out a horseman’s leather flask, fumbling with it in her tied hands, and placed it on the table. She returned to the bag and pulled out a bundle of dirty rags.
‘Now,’ Hill drew a deep breath, ‘pour the oil out.’
Peg stared, as if she did not understand.
‘Pour it!’ he snapped. ‘On the floor, about the door and the walls. If there’s any left, drip it on the rags. Then take them and scatter them down the passage, as far as the door.’
Still Peg did not move, and suddenly Betsy felt Hill’s hand tremble. Trying her best to sound calm, she spoke up.
‘Julius Hill,’ though she knew it was not his true name, she would use the one she knew him by, ‘won’t you give me some answers first? I want to know what hurt the Duke’s Company have done to you. I know Tom Cleeve betrayed you … Long Ned too, but Rigg—’
‘Be silent!’ Hill’s voice rang in her ear. ‘I owe you nothing. I came back for vengeance, and I’ve taken it!’
‘Joseph Rigg,’ Betsy persisted. ‘What quarrel had you with him?’
There was a moment, then Hill sighed. ‘None,’ he replied at last, then gave a short, barking laugh. ‘You’ve seen how the fire salamander moves, I think,’ he added. ‘Ignorant folk have never understood its ways. Salamanders carry their young for eight months, almost as long as a human term. Yet they give birth not to one, but to many!’
Now, Betsy felt a chill along her spine. Peg was gazing at the man as if transfixed.
‘You mean, there are others?’ Calling on all her acting skills, Betsy kept anxiety from her voice. But Hill squeezed her shoulder with his bony fingers, making her flinch.
‘Some may find that out, after I’ve gone,’ he hissed. ‘But you will die in ignorance!’ He gestured impatiently to Peg. ‘Now spread the oil, as I told you!’
Trying not to shake, Peg picked up the flask. Her eyes met Betsy’s again, then they strayed to the candle, barely two feet away from her. And suddenly a look of understanding passed between both women. Holding Peg’s gaze, Betsy signalled furiously with her eyes.
Hill was watching Peg suspiciously. ‘One sudden movement,’ he said, ‘and I will pierce Mistress Brand’s neck as I would yours. It makes no difference to me whether she dies by poison or by fire!’
Betsy began to talk rapidly. ‘If you had no quarrel with Rigg, what then of Prout?’ she asked him. ‘Can’t you see what ruin you’ve brought upon the Duke’s Company—’
‘Stop!’ Hill cried, and Betsy felt the tremor along his arm. ‘You dare to question me?’ he demanded. ‘You know nothing of what I’ve suffered. I’ll take vengeance on anyone I choose! As for that simpering dandy of a dancing-master, he was no longer of use.’ He turned abruptly to Peg. ‘Enough delay – do as I ordered!’
Peg picked up the flask, drew out the stopper and tilted it. As the oil ran out on to the floor, she began to move round the table towards Hill and Betsy, spilling it as she went. Hill watched her as she moved past him – then suddenly she stumbled, and tipped a splash of oil over him. Some of it fell on his coat, more ran down his stockings and on to his shoes. The man gasped, and an oath flew from his mouth.
‘You stupid girl!’ Hill spat. ‘By the Christ, I’ll make you suffer for that!’ He looked briefly down at his clothing, and that second was all Betsy needed. Tilting her head away from the deadly needle, she raised her right leg and brought the wooden heel of her slipper down as hard as she could on Hill’s foot.
The man yelped, but even as he sensed the danger, Peg’s tied hands shot out like a crab’s claw and grabbed his wrist. And in a moment the two of them were locked in a battle for control of Hill’s hand with its wicked device. But it was enough for Betsy: struggling to her feet, her arms thrust out before her, she lurched over to the table and seized the candle by its holder. At the same time, however, both Peg and Hill slipped on the spilled oil and crashed to the floor together, locked in a wild embrace that almost suggested the throes of passion.
It was a bizarre tussle. Hill seemed as surprised by Peg’s strength as he was by her determination, though he made no allowance for her sex, cursing and hitting out at her with his free hand while she kept a vicelike grip on the one with the fearsome glove. But when Betsy came to Peg’s aid, the man was outnumbered.
Putting the candle down, she ran to the struggling pair, dodging a chair which was sent flying across the floor by Hill’s flailing leg. Desperately she kicked the man in his side. He grunted with pain, whereupon she kicked him again, causing her right mule to fly off and land somewhere across the room. Cursing under her breath, she commenced kicking him with her left foot, until to her annoyance the other mule came off.
‘Oh, cods!’ she breathed. The struggle was becoming ridiculous. Hill was a snarling figure, his breath coming in shorter bursts. To his consternation, he found himself on the defensive. And when Betsy dropped to the floor and grabbed his free hand between both of hers, bending it backwards until the pain made him cry out, he realized he was losing.
Peg scrambled to her knees, then levering herself up with her bound hands, fell deliberately on to Hill’s chest. Her full weight drove the wind from him, and quite suddenly it was over. His eyes popping, the man let out a great gasp, fighting for breath, even as Betsy scrambled up and stumbled to the table. Peg too struggled to her feet – but Hill saw their intention. And if he had not already guessed that Peg’s spilling oil on him was deliberate, he did so now.
Picking up the candle Betsy turned to him, as Peg let go of the man’s wrist at last, and fell backwards against the kitchen wall, panting. But Hill’s eyes never left the candle. As Betsy took a step, he got painfully to his feet, winded but fully alert.
‘Stand still, or I throw it.’
; Her voice was ice cold, and meeting her eye, Hill saw the steeliness in her gaze. Warily, half-crouching and still breathless, he watched as she raised the flame and held it out in front of her. The stench of lantern oil filled the room now, along with the waxy smell of the guttering candle.
‘You won’t,’ he muttered, then winced with pain and pressed his ungloved hand to his side. It was clear Betsy’s kicking had done him some hurt, before she found herself barefoot.
‘If she doesn’t, I will.’ Peg’s voice was hoarser, but equally resolute. Hill’s eyes flicked towards her as she leaned against the wall, her hair sticking out in all directions. There the three stood, in silent tableau: the Salamander and his intended victims, bruised, breathless and smeared with oil. But then, Hill did something neither Betsy nor Peg expected.
Straightening up, his face relaxing into a grim smile, he eyed each of them in turn. ‘Throw it,’ he said softly. ‘And let’s see which of us walks through the flames.’
There was a brief silence. Then Hill raised his gloved hand and made a jabbing motion in the air.
‘You can’t kill the Salamander,’ he said.
Betsy raised the candle higher. ‘Your clothes will burn at once,’ she said. ‘You’ll be a living torch.’
Still pointing, Hill closed three fingers and pressed them down with his thumb, so that only the middle finger with its wicked needle was extended before him. ‘You lose,’ he said, raising his voice slightly. ‘Before you could throw, I would spike you!’
From near the wall, Peg gasped. ‘Don’t let him close,’ she said, and took a step away. Fortunately for them both, they were between Hill and the doorway. The tension in the room was almost unbearable, but the Salamander seemed to feed upon it. It was as if a naked flame could do him no harm. Deliberately, he took a pace forward.
‘I walked through the Fire,’ he said; and the words of Praise-God Palmer rose at once in Betsy’s memory.
After the Fire Page 15
