The Dandelion Seed (24 page)

Chalky, however, was anxious to get the day over and go up to Betsy. ‘No, not now, Katy,’ he said.

‘You don’t want me,’ Katy sobbed, throwing herself down on the bed. ‘You don’t want me now. Like all the men, you had what you wanted, and now I have to take the consequences.’

‘No, Katy, darling,’ Chalky knelt down beside her. ‘Don’t cry, you might upset his Lordship.’ He fondly rubbed her tummy, and Katy threw her arms around him, catching him was like a rat in a trap. He wanted to leave but was quite unable to do so. Half an hour later he had just dozed off to sleep in the arms of his passionate Katy, when a loud bump from upstairs aroused him.

‘Gawd, it’s Betsy. I’d better go.’ Chalky tried to disengage himself from Katy’s embrace but she held him tight.

‘Let the old cow wait,’ she said. ‘We are busy.’

And because he could not help it, Chalky stayed and slept the sleep of pure exhaustion for a while, only to be awakened once more but this time by the banging on the back door. It was Katy’s irate brother who had come to collect her.

‘What’s up with you two?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve been knocking for ages.’

It has been quite a session, Chalky thought, as he climbed the stairs wearily to his bedroom. I’d better take a look at Betsy. As he opened the door he saw poor Betsy lying on the floor, a huddled mass by the bed. Her head was bent backwards, vomit had filled her throat, and blood came from her nose. Poor Betsy had left this world and no one knew or cared. She had obviously tried to reach the chamber pot and fallen head-first from the bed.

Chalky knelt beside her for a while. Poor old Betsy, he did feel sorry. He ought to have come up when he had heard that thump. Then a terrible thought struck him. They might think he had done her in! Oh dear! Chalky ran to the window shouting out as loud as he could to the linkman who patrolled after dark. ‘Help! Come quick! Someone is dead!’

Soon the linkman brought the watch and the doctor who all certified that Betsy had died an accidental death. Chalky breathed a sigh of relief. He would give her a slap-up funeral with a nice big headstone: ‘Here lies Elizabeth White,’ it would read, ‘Wife of Samuel White who was drowned at sea.’

None of it was true but it didn’t matter. And at least she had died respectably. Chalky then went straight round to the church from the churchyard to put up the banns for his wedding to Katy. Nothing could stop him now. She had not been so bad, old Betsy.

13

The Waning Star

At the grand funeral of Henry Howard, the Londoners had come to stand and stare at the display of riches and grandeur of this wicked old man on his last ride. There had been many murmurs of discontent among the poor. Times were bad. Taxes were very high and even the middle-class merchants complained of the greediness of the Royal Treasury and of the King’s servant, that evil agent Topcliffe. It was he who still ordered the hangings and torture of those who held on so dearly and persistently to their old religious beliefs. The climate was so bad that many great families were planning to leave England – either to the placid Low Countries or to the New World, but there were many poor little birds who would not fly and could only stand in the street and talk and grumble about the hard times and watch their previously more fortunate fellows being dragged on hurdles to their deaths.

When the strange comet hung low in the evening sky, they all stood looking and wondering what there was in store for them. ‘The Queen will die,’ some said. Others claimed that the king would be assassinated. Rumours like these spread like a forest fire until the population became tense with fear and blamed any strange happening on the comet.

The crowds parted as the carriage of the grand Duchess Frances rolled by. There was no sign of her husband, Robert Carr, who still stuck vainly to the rôle of King’s favourite, always at the beck and call of King James. But alas, his power was waning, for King James had found a new boy to be his favourite, a beautiful blond vivacious lad, as ambitious and unscrupulous as any at the court. This was the famous George Villers, who was to become the great Duke of Buckingham and hold England in the palm of his hand. While the old king simpered and fussed over this new boy, Robert Carr was eaten up with jealousy, blaming Frances for trapping him into a marriage for which he had no taste.

The beautiful Duchess rode alone to the funeral of her Uncle Henry, her pale face set in an angry mask, as the dirty common people stared into the coach and shouted rude rhymes: ‘The Queen of Hearts made the tarts . . .’

Frances was beginning to get worried. Strange things were happening everywhere. Was her secret safe? Had she been as discreet as she could? The mind of this rich and beautiful woman was seething like a volcano as she watched and waited for the blow to fall. It had to come, there was no doubt. Robert Carr’s star was falling just as the Villers’ star was rising and shining as bright as the comet in the sky. And on top of all this, her beloved uncle had died. The world was a nasty, bewildering place.

After the funeral, the guests called at her house in Croydon but Frances wanted to be alone to consult Merlin. With Annabelle at her side, very silent and smartly dressed, the two women drove up the long drive flanked by green-and-yellow spotted laurels. To Annabelle’s surprise, by the silvery moonlight she could see Merlin looking out of the window in the direction of the road. A small crowd stood there looking up at him with his straggly hair blowing in the breeze while he gazed through his long telescope examining the heavens. The crowds were shouting and jeering while Merlin jeered and shouted back at them.

‘Scum!’ called Merlin. ‘Rotten, dirty scum! The end is near. Tomorrow we will all die, and disappear into flames, the whole dirty pack of you. Yaah!’ he yelled, waving his hands more and more erratically. ‘The end of the world is coming. I warned you – see, it’s getting nearer.’ He pointed up to the comet.

The people stared up into the sky. Some looked afraid and while others only laughed and egged Merlin on more for a bit of fun.

Annabelle dashed panic-stricken into the house. ‘God in heaven, Abe,’ she called. ‘What is Merlin up to?’

Abe sat staring wearily at the fire and puffed his pipe. ‘So, you’re back, then,’ he said quietly.

‘For God’s sake, go and get Merlin. The countess is here.’

‘He won’t come for me,’ said Abe. ‘He’s gone berserk, he has. It’s that comet what’s excited him.’

Annabelle dashed upstairs. Merlin was so pleased to see her that he came away from the window peacefully and went quietly back into his attic.

After her consultation with Merlin, Frances came downstairs and gazed disdainfully at the dust and disorder of the house. ‘I shall return to Holborn,’ she said. ‘You stay here, Annabelle, and get things straight.’ She picked her dainty way through the dirt towards the door where she stood in the porch, outlined by the silvery moonlight, her gown glittering with jewels, her hair shining with dusty silver and her profile clear, cold and hard.

The harassed Annabelle looked at her for a moment and a strange sense of foreboding crept over her. Something dreadful was going to happen. And after Frances had gone and there was only the empty doorway, Annabelle knew in her heart that it was the beginning of the end.

As she closed the door on her mistress, Annabelle’s face looked worried, showing that she had much on her mind. With her hair dyed and frizzed in the latest fashion and her face painted, Annabelle no longer looked like the fresh-faced wench who had lived in Essex at Craig Alva.

Abe sat surveying Annabelle’s tense expression as she bustled about cleaning up the kitchen. A chicken was cooking on the big open spit and Abe helped by preparing the vegetables. Annabelle’s face was hard, he thought, and she seemed pretty worried about something. It would not be long before he found out.

An hour later, they sat eating their supper. Merlin was thoroughly enjoying the chicken and onions but Annabelle ate very little.

‘I have something to tell you, Abe,’ she said quietly.

Abe looked up enquiringly, his brow wrinkled as if to ask what was wrong.

Annabelle came straight to the point. ‘There is to be an inquiry into the Thomas Overbury case. It seems that a young man has confessed to murdering him.’

‘I knew it,’ said Abe. ‘Someone done him in, but how they got at him beats me.’

‘But you will be questioned, Abe,’ said Annabelle. ‘So you must be very careful not to involve anyone.’

‘I can keep my mouth shut if I want to,’ muttered Abe.

Annabelle glanced at Merlin who was busy shovelling up the last remains of his meal. ‘I am seriously thinking of sending you and Merlin back to Essex,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Good,’ said Abe. ‘It will be nice to see Marcelle again, and the boy. He must be more than a year old now, and I bet he is bonny.’

Annabelle’s face became pathetic and her brown eyes filled with tears. ‘Marcelle is not there anymore,’ she whispered.

‘Not there? Well, where is she?’ demanded Abe in surprise.

‘She ran away. No one knows where she is.’

‘Ran away!’ Abe was shocked. ‘Where could she run to?’

‘No one knows. Her child was stolen during the winter and several weeks ago, Marcelle ran away to look for him half-witted with grief.’

‘Good God! Whatever has been going on? Tell me, please Annabelle. You were not implicated in this terrible crime, surely!’

‘No.’ Annabelle shook her head woefully. ‘I did not know of it until today.’

‘Dear me,’ Abe wagged his old grey head. ‘What a terrible thing to happen.’

‘Listen, Abe, I do know where the child is. He is with a relation of the Howards and is well cared for.’

‘I thought they were in it,’ muttered Abe with disgust.

‘That is why I want you to go to the lawyer’s tomorrow and try to trace Marcelle. You must also get a message to Thomas Mayhew. That is the best I can do. Believe me, Abe, I would not have hurt Marcelle for all the money in the world.’ Annabelle began to sob quietly.

Abe patted her head. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘Things may brighten up by the morning.’

But when morning dawned things were decidedly worse. At six o’clock a long line of mounted men arrived at the house. They were manhandled roughly outside while the sergeant-at-arms read the charge: ‘All three persons are to be arrested for being accessories to the murder of one Thomas Overbury by name.’

Later in a little cart, they were taken away. They sat huddled together, Annabelle covering her face with her hands, Abe sitting motionless with a grim face and Merlin protesting and waving his arms and calling out that the end of the world was nigh.

They had already been charged and were on their way to prison, followed by a jeering mob calling out insults and throwing filth. One hefty fellow with a cudgel in his hand tried to take a swipe at them as they swung along in the dirty old cart. Annabelle and Abe crouched down but Merlin sat bolt upright and returned their jeers. Suddenly he reached out and caught hold of the big fellow by the beard. Yelling out loud, Merlin stood up and pulled the beard hard, wedging its owner’s face against the tailboard. Then Merlin lost his balance and fell over the side of the cart, falling down under the wheels. With a wild cry, the mob pounced. Like a pack of wild animals they tore off Merlin’s clothes. The big bearded ruffian had recovered. Picking up his cudgel, he swung it high, and with one terrible blow, he shattered the side of Merlin’s head as he lay helpless on the ground. The wonderful clever brains of Merlin lay like a quivering bloody mass of jelly on the muddy road. Merlin’s body gave one convulsive jerk, and then lay still. The crowds drew back as the soldiers came to drive them away.

Annabelle had fainted and Abe’s face was covered by his hands as he gave way to tears. He had been useless to Merlin at this tragic moment, after guarding him so carefully all these years. Later that morning, the prison doors clanged shut on the heart-broken pair as they awaited their trial in the terrible Marshalsea Prison.

The trial was a farce and Frances, Annabelle’s mistress, did nothing to save the lives of the two she had used for her own ends. Abe was taken off to the Tower to be tortured in the vain hope that they would get the truth out of him, and Annabelle was hanged by the neck until she was dead.

Several people died over this terrible affair of Thomas Overbury – eight, all told, and every one a fairly innocent little bird who could not escape, while the real culprits, Frances and her husband, Robert Carr, remained free, for the time being.

Just as Annabelle was parted from Abe, dragged away by the soldiers, she whispered urgently to him: ‘The baby is at Brook House. Tell Marcelle.’

This message stuck in Abe’s mind, and during the terrible days when he was racked and pegged out naked on Tower Hill with no food or water, the words ‘Brook House’, tumbled around his brain, he repeated them over and over like a chant to pass the long hours away.

‘Tell all you know,’ his torturers had urged him, but Abe knew nothing, being only a cat’s paw for the great Duchess who was still free.

Frances’ trial had been postponed because she announced she was pregnant, but the postponement was only for a little while. Before long, they came for her as well.

The dreadful heat which had been hanging over London suddenly burst one day into a terrible storm. Long blue flashes lit up the sky and with sharp crackles the forked lightning split the thunderous clouds. There would be a breath of silence before the return of that long roll of thunder which began loudly and then rolled gradually away over the town to the open country, rebuilding its store of electric energy in order to return with equal violence. This continued all day and far into the night. In the morning, the streets were clean and fresh with the downpour of rain that had come with the storm, and there was a soft calm breeze. The Londoners emerged into the streets in cheery anticipation of a new lot of hangings and executions that they might have to brighten their day.