The Judas Blade (10 page)

‘That had occurred to me,’ the captain answered, looking somewhat smug. ‘You must go in black, and wear a veil – I’ll send Alida to the market for a cheap frock. Now I think upon it, you might say you’re in mourning for a relative. If you can manage a few tears, all the better.’

Betsy considered the suggestion, which she had to admit seemed practical. And, from the look on Crabb’s face, she saw that he approved of it too.

‘I’d better stay back,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep her in sight, but not know her. As far as anyone may observe, we’re strangers.’

‘Good!’ Mullin nodded. ‘Let’s to business.’ He eyed Betsy. ‘We must first choose your strategy.’

‘I’m glad you mentioned that – Husband,’ she said drily. ‘For I was awake half the night thinking on it. I don’t believe I can walk into the Papist church and ask if they know of a priest who’s really an English conspirator, can I?’

‘Quite so,’ the captain replied. ‘I hope you’ll say as little as possible. Though asking if there’s a priest in Delft who speaks English wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘But we don’t even know if the man we’re seeking is English,’ Betsy objected. ‘Venn spoke of
our man
, who was still in Delft. How do we know the fellow isn’t Dutch?’

At once Mullin shook his head. ‘He’s as English as the rest of them,’ he said. ‘I’d stake my life on it. From what Venn told you, it’s clear this man means to travel to England to rendezvous with his friends. You don’t think a Dutchman would go there now, do you?’

‘Very well …’ Betsy thought for a moment. ‘But what of your fear, that their man no longer passes himself off as a priest? This foray could be a mere waste of time, couldn’t it?’

‘Of course it could.’ Mullin exchanged a bleak look with Crabb. ‘I fear that’s part of the intelligencer’s life, madam. Weeks of futile, even foolish endeavour, spiced with an hour or two of danger – even terror. We can merely hope for a fair wind, and a pinch of luck. Now, have you any more questions?’

With a sigh, Betsy shook her head. Once suitably attired, she felt she could manage this role well enough. Though what to do if she found herself in the presence of a false priest who saw through her accent, she didn’t like to think upon.

Nevertheless, some two hours later, a figure swathed in black could be seen walking through the streets of Delft towards the
Papenhoek
, the small Papist quarter. Once there, however, she encountered an unforeseen difficulty: there was no church, or at least no building that resembled one. Fortunately, her
appearance
allayed suspicions. And after making signs to passers-by, she was at last directed to the Jesuit church: an ordinary house on the Oude Langendijk.

There she knocked, and was soon announcing herself to a young and rather startled acolyte. She gave her name as Mistress Cathleen O’Donnell from County Limerick in Ireland, who wished for a priest to hear her confession.

T
HE PRIEST WAS
not the pious Father de Smet that Mullin had heard of; nor was he a suspicious-looking Englishman. He was a frail, elderly Dutchman, so stooped that Betsy was taller than him by several inches. He gave his name as Martins, or Brother Iohannes. The surprise was that he did speak some English, albeit haltingly.

‘You are welcome, sister,’ he said as he greeted her. ‘Our house is called the Hidden Church by some – I hope you had not much trouble to find her?’

‘No, Father.’ Betsy had lifted her veil, and kept her hands clasped before her. The disguise, she knew, would serve; how far her Irish accent would take her remained to be seen.

‘And why came you to Delft?’ the old priest enquired, peering at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. Then he frowned. ‘I see you’re troubled – may I offer solace?’

‘In truth, I do hope so,’ Betsy answered sadly. ‘I have been travelling … I meant to take ship from France, but a tragedy has intervened. In brief, my poor brother died in the Spanish Provinces. He is – he was, a soldier there.’

A sympathetic look appeared on Father Martins’s face. ‘You are grieving… please, come first to the confessional. Then after we are done there, we may talk a while.’

So Betsy followed the old man to a curtained recess. She had a list of minor sins to confess, which she hoped would sound convincing: this was something she had never imagined doing,
in her entire life. And though she was as unhappy with the deception as she was with Mullin for concocting the idea, it went smoothly enough. A short time later, having been set prayers by her Father Confessor, she sat down beside him in the church. No one else was present. And soon, after the old priest had offered some words of comfort for her bereavement, she sought to change the subject. When she mentioned Father de Smet, however, Martins shook his head sadly.

‘Poor Brother Willem,’ he murmured. ‘He came to us only recently. His trials are many, yet he bears them with great
fortitude
.’

‘What trials do you speak of, Father?’

‘He is very sick,’ came the reply. ‘And his sickness worsens … yet God has provided us with a way to help him. Willem will stay here for the remainder of his days, and teach in our school. He is an inspiration to our young folk.’

‘You have a school here?’ Betsy enquired.

‘Close by,’ the old man nodded. ‘The faithful of Delft have always been generous in their support.’ He sighed. ‘I pray that will continue, yet I fear for the future. Our government seems bent on following the path to ruin.’

She murmured in agreement, but her mind was busy. Father de Smet, it seemed, was not someone she should concern herself with after all. ‘And are there others among the faithful here, besides you and Brother Willem?’ she asked. ‘Aside from the young man who admitted me?’

The old man turned rheumy eyes upon her. ‘There was another living in the
Papenhoek
,’ he said after a moment. ‘But I’ll not speak of him. He’s gone now, and we pray for him.’

‘Why won’t you speak of him?’ Betsy asked, hoping she didn’t sound too eager. But Father Martins’s ear, it seemed, was poorly attuned to her speech.

‘We pray for him,’ he repeated. Then, just as she was wondering if he were deaf, he eyed her again. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Sister. Curiosity is not a womanly virtue.’ A look of
disapproval crossed his features. ‘Yet we’ll pray for your brother too … What was his name?’

‘Er … Michael,’ Betsy answered, turning over what he had said. She wanted to pursue it, and his reluctance to say more merely increased her curiosity.

‘And he was a soldier, you say.’ Brother Iohannes sighed again. ‘I hope he was blessed before he went into battle?’

‘I know not, Father,’ Betsy answered. Opportunity seemed to be slipping from her, which meant that once again she must be bold. ‘This … the other person,’ she went on casually. ‘He wasn’t English, by any chance?’ And when the priest gave a start, she realized she had hit the target.

‘Forgive my curious nature,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s merely … Well, I heard a disturbing tale when I arrived in Delft. Of a man who dressed as a priest, yet was no priest … a most wicked deception.’ She fell silent.

‘I said I would not speak of him,’ the other answered, frowning. ‘Yet now I, too, am curious. Why do you ask about this person, Sister?’

Stuck for a reply, Betsy bowed her head. ‘Your pardon, Father,’ she said meekly. ‘I shouldn’t listen to idle gossip – it was always my downfall.’

‘Indeed?’ The old man paused. ‘Well, we are all but human. And it’s no surprise that word has spread.’ He shook his head. ‘Let me say only that you heard truly: he was no priest, nor was he of our church. Grave sins were committed here …’ He sighed. ‘Now, I must attend to my other duties. Perhaps we’ll meet again when you attend mass. How long do you remain in Delft?’

And there, to Betsy’s frustration, her enquiries ended.

A short time later she was back in the street, where she found Crabb waiting. He looked away at once and, adjusting her veil, she walked past him with head down.

She moved quickly, her thoughts racing. Along with the
frustration
, she felt excitement: her efforts had not been wasted, for
it seemed there had indeed been someone here, who might be the one Venn referred to as
our man.
Though the news that he had gone was disappointing – she could imagine what Mullin would say. So preoccupied was she, that she scarcely knew where she walked until suddenly, she realized she was lost.

She sighed: she had taken a wrong turning. There was nothing for it but to retrace her steps, back to the
Papenhoek
. Impatiently she started off, but when she rounded the next corner, she stopped. Walking towards her was someone who looked familiar, though at first she couldn’t place him. The man appeared ordinary enough, clad in a sober suit of clothes. Yet still, Betsy knew she had seen him before. She waited for his approach – whereupon he looked up, and at once recognition dawned.

‘Why – it’s you!’ she blurted.

The fellow halted – then he recognized her too, and a look of dismay appeared. And he would have veered away had Betsy not covered the few yards between them at once. In disbelief, she stared into the round, pinkish face of a man she had never expected to see again: Dyer’s dicing partner Gorton – her
cellmate
from the King’s Bench!

‘Your pardon, madam, are we acquainted?’ He was gathering his wits, but Betsy wasn’t about to let him go. Stepping so close that he flinched, she looked him in the eye.

‘You know we are,’ she answered. ‘One jailbird will recognize another!’ Whereupon the man gulped and, emboldened, she added, ‘You’re Gorton. We shared a stinking cell for a week – did you think I wouldn’t know you?’

‘Listen …’ The other swallowed, then quickly shoved a hand in his pocket. ‘You need money? I have some …’ But at Betsy’s look of contempt, he froze.

‘All I want is some answers,’ she retorted. ‘And if you try cogging me I’ll know it – do you doubt that?’

‘No!’ The man withdrew his hand quickly. ‘But see, I’m not Gorton … not here—’

‘Then who are you?’ Betsy demanded. ‘And if you’re
planning
to run,’ she added quickly, ‘you’re wasting your time. I know men in this town who’d track you down in an hour – and make you pay for wasting theirs!’

That was a bluff, but Gorton wasn’t to know it. He was not only convinced by her air of outrage, he seemed frightened. ‘I wasn’t,’ he said. ‘God smite me if I lie….’

‘I expect He will,’ Betsy snapped. ‘Meanwhile, I want to know what you’re doing here—’ Then she gasped, as realization swept over her.

‘It was you all along!’ she cried. ‘You were the trepanner in the cell! You were watching Venn. Which means you—’

Then she was struck.

She’d been about to accuse Gorton of being Venn’s murderer; instead, a sickening blow to the side of her head sent her reeling. She found herself being pushed backwards, then she was falling, from what seemed a great height – and too late, she realized what that meant.

The water crashed about her, freezing her to the bone. One minute she’d been in daylight, the next she was floundering in icy darkness, her limbs like lead. Her clothes billowed about her as she sank. Down she went … Then there was mud in her face, and her arms were flapping feebly, while she kicked out like a drunken frog. And all the while the ice-cold water tightened its grip, slowing her movements, until at last a voice in her head pronounced her doom: she couldn’t swim, and she would drown.

She struggled harder. Her clothes felt like swaddling, while her body seemed to have become one with the water. It filled her mouth, her ears and nose; wildly she thrashed about, seeing nothing.

Then there was something. One leg was grasped, and the sluggishness that had overwhelmed her gave way to violent movement. Now she was being dragged through the water – but she was choking! She tried to shout, but all that emerged
was a gurgle. Then, with a great burst of sound and light, she was lifted from the canal like a child to be dumped onto hard stone. The next thing she knew, she was turned roughly on her side – whereupon the real torment began.

A moment ago Betsy had feared she would die, now she feared that she wouldn’t. Such a coughing, retching and
spluttering
followed, the like of which she had never known. Limp as a cod on a fishmonger’s slab, she lay on the quayside and vomited foul, slimy water, while her lungs heaved. Dimly, she realized someone was pummelling her. Then her ears emptied, and she could hear. Only now did she open her eyes, to glimpse through a tangle of wet hair a crowd gathered round her, chattering and pointing. Then a familiar face leaned close, filling her vision.

‘Wrestler…?’

‘Thanks be to God!’ Peter Crabb was pressing her body, forcing water from her lungs. ‘Take deep breaths,’ he urged.

Betsy coughed and retched again, then started shaking. Her clothes clung about her like wet sailcloth, and her teeth
chattered
– but despite it all there was a dizzying sensation: one of huge relief. Panting, she looked about. Crabb was kneeling by her side and he, too, was dripping with water. Meanwhile passers-by continued to gather, peering down at her. Some, it seemed, were offering advice, which he ignored.

‘Stop, please …’ Weakly Betsy raised a hand and dragged hair from her eyes, whereupon Crabb stopped pushing. He was panting, his blond hair plastered to his face, as she had first seen it in the drizzle, back in the prison yard. But just now, she could have kissed him.

‘Wrestler,’ she croaked, ‘you’ve saved my life!’

‘It’s lucky I was near,’ he breathed. ‘There was some shouting, so I came over to look. I saw your black clothes …’ He frowned. ‘How did you manage to fall in?’

‘I didn’t,’ Betsy answered, and coughed again. ‘Please … get me back to the house, for I’ve a tale to tell.’

But when she did tell it, more than an hour later by the fire in the back parlour, the reactions weren’t what she had expected.

‘By the Christ, madam, you try me to the limits!’

Marcus Mullin sat facing her, fuming. Crabb was there too, in fresh clothes, glum-faced and silent. For what had become clear, was that the consequences of Betsy’s running into Gorton were graver than she’d realized: in short, she was now a danger to them all – and to their mission, too.

‘You’ve been recognized,’ the captain went on angrily. ‘And whoever that fellow is, you’re known. Which means that as an intelligencer, you’re all but worthless!’

‘Thank you for your frankness, sir,’ Betsy answered. ‘It’s clear I should have stayed indoors. I assure you that the encounter wasn’t planned. And as for getting hit on the head and pushed into the canal – I’ll admit that was most inconsiderate of me. If I’d drowned, of course, you could have disowned me and carried on as if nothing had happened. Or perhaps I should have stayed in London from the start – would that have been best?’

‘Indeed it might!’ Mullin retorted. ‘As it is, you’ve thrown my plans awry.’ Mastering his anger, he sighed. ‘And how we move from here, I confess I don’t know.’

Nobody spoke for a while. Betsy had on clean, dry clothes, though her hair was still damp. Alida was washing her linen, but the black gown she’d worn was ruined. Her ear still smarted from where Gorton had struck her, but no bruise would show. All in all, it appeared, she had been lucky.

‘You should have waited for me,’ Crabb said to her, for perhaps the third time. ‘I wasn’t far behind. You must never go off by yourself again – will you give me your word?’

‘I will, Wrestler,’ Betsy replied. ‘And since I owe you my life I’ll agree to anything else, within reason.’

‘Now you make too much of it,’ he said in some
embarrassment
. ‘The water in that canal’s only neck-deep. You could have stood up, had you not panicked.’

‘I was dazed,’ Betsy said indignantly. ‘And how was I to know—?’

‘For pity’s sake!’ Mullin broke in. ‘You’re wasting time … we have to form a new strategy.’

Betsy met his gaze. ‘Well, since I’m now surplus to needs,’ she said drily, ‘I suppose my strategy is to get myself back to Rotterdam, or somewhere else I can take ship for home.’

‘Oh, don’t play the martyr,’ the captain retorted, putting on his sardonic look. ‘I had a mind to keep you out of sight for a while, at least until I think what to do …’ He faced Crabb. ‘Yet my other fear is that you, too, are known to this man Gorton, from your time in the King’s Bench. Which makes our task all the more difficult.’

‘I know that,’ Crabb admitted unhappily. ‘But one mystery at least is solved: I’d swear it was he who killed Venn. He must have been set to watch him … by his own friends, perhaps?’

Mullin nodded. ‘As I’ve said before, such men are more afraid of each other than anyone else.’ He eyed Betsy. ‘And now I’m drawn to another conclusion: that this man knows our purpose here. It could even be that he’s the one who came to kill you – and killed Eleanor instead.’

At that, Betsy was dismayed. ‘Can it be so?’ she murmured. ‘I can’t think Gorton would have the nerve for such an act. He was frightened when he saw me. He’s a foppish fellow.’