Angel of Ruin (18 page)

“How soon, then?” Father was saying.

“In the next day or so, John,” Anthony replied. “And you’d do well to do the same thing. Reports have it many are already dead, and this hot weather is expeditious for the spread of such an illness.”

“I shall be sorry to see you go,” Father said, and after that evening’s insult, her father’s unmitigated affection for Anthony — an ill-educated oaf — cut her deeply.

“I shall come again, haply next spring. Until then, you still have your daughters.”

“Yes, yes. Deborah is a good scribe, and not a bad reader.”

Her heart lifted, and she knew it was coming: the disclaimer she wanted to hear.

“Did you know that Robert Entwhistle’s wife has a lover near Ludgate?” Anthony said. Damn him for changing the topic.

“I did not know. Does he know?”

Anthony nodded. “He allows it, for it is rumoured he has no interest in women.”

Father laughed and Deborah passed her hand over the mirror, returning the dark and the quiet. Gossip; that was what Father and Anthony did when nobody was around. And Father had the nerve to suggest that women were base and unintellectual. She wrapped the mirror and jammed it under her pillow, rolled over and kicked at her blankets.

A single thought plagued her.
I have been so sorely let down.
How to prevent it happening again? How to prevent this terrible feeling that she did not even know herself, or her reasons for acting as she did?

“Amelia,” she said softly. And in the dark, a resolve was formed.

Betty stood at the end of the alley, looking across at the Baileys’ house. No sunlight shone between the jettied houses, and the muddy street smelled of stagnant water. The tiny windows were dark and looked back at her like empty eyes. The Baileys were Catholics, and it was Father Bailey she was particularly interested in.

Too much time had passed since Liza had seen any evidence of the girls dealing with spirits, so much that Liza had begun to doubt what she had seen previously. “Perhaps ’twas just a man,” she had said last night when Betty had drawn her on it.

But a man — one glimpsed months ago by a spying maidservant — was not reason enough to order the girls to leave.

She needed somebody who could tell her — and later, John — what the signs of spirit possession were, to know for sure if the girls were dabbling where they shouldn’t be. And who better to provide that information than an exorcist?

So why was she hesitating? Was it because she could already hear John’s voice in her ears, deriding such Papish nonsense? Then she remembered the party the previous night: the way Mary had upstaged her with her singing, and the thorn of rage quivered again. She had to rid herself of them.

With purpose she crossed the road and knocked loudly on the door. A grey-haired woman opened it.

“Yes?”

“I need to see Father Bailey.”

“Come in, child.”

Betty followed her in, looking around. The rooms were dark and cramped with heavy, carved furniture. On every surface were idols: crosses, statues of Mary, pictures of Christ.

“Lettice? Who is it?” a male voice called from upstairs.

“A young woman to see you,” the grey-haired woman called in return. “Come down.” She turned to Betty. “My brother takes time to respond. Please sit down. I’m Lettice Bailey.”

“I’m Betty Milton,” Betty replied, perching on the edge of a hard chair.

Lettice’s eyebrows shot up. “Of the Artillery Walk Miltons?”

“Yes. I am John’s wife.”

“Well, I am very surprised to see you, as I’m certain my brother will be. I shall be interested to hear your reason for coming.”

“I would rather wait and speak directly to Father Bailey,” Betty replied, and Lettice conceded with a nod.

Father Bailey took his time. Betty sat on the hard chair, growing more and more anxious, for nearly half an hour passed before he descended the creaking stairs and approached her. He was older than his sister, stooped and white-haired, with only a half dozen rotted teeth in his warm smile.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Father Bailey. I’m Betty Milton —”

“John Milton’s wife,” Lettice added quickly.

Father Bailey hid his surprise well. “And how do you require my assistance, Betty Milton?” he asked.

“I need to ask your opinion on …” Betty glanced at Lettice, who was gazing at her eagerly. “Father, may we walk? I would speak with you privately.”

“Certainly. Wait here while I fetch my coat and hat.”

Betty waited another ten minutes while Father Bailey pottered around looking for coat and hat, and Lettice glared at her icily. When he was finally ready, he led Betty out into the street and down an alley to a walled garden. “I often come here to gather my thoughts,” he
said, opening the gate and indicating a fallen log under the giant spreading arms of a tree. “Please, sit down.”

Betty sat on the log, certain that Father Bailey would not be able to lower himself to the seat successfully. But he was surprisingly nimble for a man his age.

“Now, tell me.”

“I must tell you all this in the strictest confidence. John has enemies, and I do not want this information to fall into their hands.”

“I swear in Jesus’s name I shall not breach your trust.”

Betty hesitated, then decided to proceed. “I have reason to believe that my stepdaughters are involved in the calling of spirits.”

“I see.”

“The maidservant saw them with a man who then disappeared into vapour. I know it is hard to believe but I —”

“It is not hard to believe. Protestant girls may easily be tempted by the devil.”

“All I need from you at present is some information on how I could determine if the girls were possessed. Then I can decide what to do about it.”

“It will be obvious from their behaviour. Are they rude? Aggressive? Incontinent?”

She thought of Mary. “One of them is, yes.”

“Do they possess books of spirits and magic?”

“I know not. The youngest is always reading, but I believe they may be her father’s books.”

“Reading intensely is very dangerous for young women. They are best not taught to read.”

“As I was not,” Betty said proudly, then realised that a Catholic was not a person to impress. “Go on.”

“If they come by gifts or powers which seem to be beyond their reach —”

“Yes! The eldest has just began to speak clearly after a lifetime of being simple.”

Father Bailey shook his head in frightened awe. “Mrs Milton, you have devils in your house.”

Betty felt a cold shiver crawl across her skin.

“Do not wait another day ere you have somebody drive them out. I can come this afternoon if you wish —”

“No! I have to discuss all this with John. Tell me, Father Bailey, would you be willing to speak to John, to tell him what you have told me and help me convince him that the girls are involved in necromancy?”

“Certainly, if that is what you want. But I know of John Milton, and I believe I can imagine his response to my presence and my advice.”

Betty smiled. “I believe I can, too.”

“Better to have me come and drive the devils out when he is not there, and then the problem would be solved.”

But it wouldn’t be solved, because Betty didn’t want the devils driven out so much as she wanted the girls driven out. Cause to evict them was the reason she had come here, and yet now her superstitious heart clenched against the fear of evil in her home, even if so far it was confined to the girls’ attic room. “I’m unsure at the moment how to proceed,” she said. “Give me time to think it over and I shall return to ask your good advice.”

He shook his head. “Do not take too much time, Mrs Milton,” he said. “Evil has made its way into your home. It already has three young women. You may very well soon become its next aim.”

Amelia Lewis’s house was in chaos when Deborah arrived the next day. Gisela showed her into the withdrawing room, but all the cushions and tapestries were gone, the cats were gone and piles of books covered the floor. Amelia sat in the middle of it in a pool of black silk, sorting pamphlets and letters. “Amelia?” Deborah said.

Amelia looked up. “Hello, Miss Milton.”

“Where is everything?”

“I’m leaving London for a while. A great sickness approaches. It is not safe for me or my cats to be within the city walls this summer.”

“You’re going away?” The timing was impossible; Deborah had only just developed the courage to come to Amelia. “For how long?”

“Until the sickness has passed. Gisela is understandably anxious, and I feel the need to protect my own is greater than the need to help with a cure.”

“But —”

“But what?” Amelia said, putting aside a sheaf of papers and cocking her head. “Why have you come to see me?”

Deborah moved towards her and lowered herself to the floor between two stacks of books. “I want to be your apprentice,” she said softly.

Amelia smiled. “Wonderful. I’m delighted.”

Deborah looked around shyly. “So, if you go away …”

“No, no. You can still be my apprentice. Here …” She leaned over to select two heavy books from a stack, and handed them to Deborah. “Learn everything in these, and when I return to London, I will give you the demon key.”

Deborah was momentarily stupefied at the idea of learning everything in the enormous books. She flicked through a few pages of one: they were covered in tables and charts. Then she realised what Amelia had said. “What’s the demon key?” she asked.

“It is the tool with which one controls spirits. You’ll need it.”

“I am afraid, Amelia,” Deborah said. She thought it wise to be honest.

“Fear is your enemy. It will stop you from being who you truly are. Now go. You and your family
should leave the city too. Tell your Father, he is a wise man. He’ll know it is safer to go.”

“What sickness is it?” Deborah asked “And how do you know?”

“I know because I have seen the signs ere now,” Amelia replied. “Don’t treat my warning lightly. The plague is coming.”

“Damn Anthony.”

He had caught Mary going up the stairs — on her way out the window and into the secret room to meet with Lazodeus — and told her he had a message to be delivered to Trinity Lane urgently. Never mind that Trinity Lane was practically down at the river; never mind that she had other plans. Never mind that it was stinking hot and the last thing she wanted to do was to wander around all day looking for Anthony’s damned friend’s house. She had to go, because when she tried to refuse, Father’s voice rang out loud and clear from his study. “Mary, you
will
take the message.”

So she did, and now she was disoriented, wandering back through the city. She’d lost her way around Bow Lane, where an upturned cart blocked the road and a crowd of eager people had stopped to see if the driver’s injuries were fatal. She had tried a shortcut, too preoccupied with thoughts of Lazodeus to concentrate properly, and now she had no idea where she was.

No idea at all.

“Damn Anthony,” she said again. Lazodeus only came to her once a week, but when he did he bestowed upon her pleasures of an intensity she had never dreamed possible. The feeling was so addictive, that she sometimes tried to create the same pleasures by herself. But it was never the same.

She picked her way around a pile of horse dung and headed towards the light at the end of the narrow
street. Mary considered herself a woman these days. Even with all her previous lovers, she had felt girlish and callow. But now, she carried herself differently, knew herself to be more mature, wiser. Deborah had noticed. “You have grown very calm in the last weeks, sister,” she had said.

Very calm. Very satisfied.

She stopped and looked around her. No familiar landmarks. She heard the bells of St Paul’s in the distance, oriented herself on the sound and began to walk again. She found another alley and turned into it.

An awful stench hit her nose, and she immediately pulled out her kerchief to cover her face. Only death smelled that bad, and the smell was laid over with smoke. She began to regret taking this shortcut. As the lane meandered further into darkness, she noticed that some of the doors had red crosses painted hastily on them. Plague crosses. Sickness had been through this area. A fire roared in the middle of the alley, the city’s attempt to burn off the illness.

“Miss! Miss!” She looked up and saw a young gentleman beckoning to her urgently.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You should come away. Fourteen people are dead and the city hasn’t been to collect the bodies yet.”

She hurried her step, squeezed past the fire — unbearably hot on a day which was already steaming — and broke free out into the open air again. The gentleman took her arm and led her up towards Paul’s Churchyard.

“Is it very bad?” Mary asked. Her fear of the plague was acute: as a child, she had seen a young prostitute lying in a gutter, freshly dead, the enormous poisonous sores disfiguring her beautiful face and body. “Will it spread?”

The gentleman nodded. “The heat has made it much worse. Many people are leaving the city.” He dropped her arm and tipped his hat. “Good day.”

“We live outside the city, at the Artillery grounds.”

“It is spreading very fast. They are collecting all the dogs and cats within the walls for slaughter.”

“They’re killing the dogs?”

“And the cats, yes. Go home, get out of the city.”

Mary turned and began to run. If they were killing the dogs within the city walls, then it would take no time for them to start killing dogs everywhere else in London. She had to get Max out.

Sweat was trickling in uncomfortable lines between her breasts, across her stomach, down her face, when she arrived home. Flustered and panting, she went straight to Father.

“Father!” she exclaimed, falling at his feet. “Father, we must leave London.”

“Leave? What is wrong, Mary?” Bless him, for once he wasn’t harsh with her. He could hear the keen desperation in her voice.

“The plague. It is claiming dozens of lives and they fear it will spread.”

Anthony, who stood by Father, touched his shoulder. “I’m telling you, John, the girl is right.”