The Judas Blade (21 page)

‘First he will hide, while he chooses his moment.’

Moving to the bedside, Mullin peered down. ‘And since the King returns to London soon, it will likely be there! Is it not so?’

The other gave a nod. ‘I believe it is,’ he murmured. ‘I also believe there is one place he will go: his father’s old house in Bishopsgate. It’s empty and derelict, but it’s the only bolthole he has.’

‘Then we may yet move!’ Mullin cried, and at once, his
weariness
left him. ‘Tomorrow, at first light … by God, I’ll ride like the wind, and get to London if it kills me. Then that murdering devil will taste
my
vengeance!’

But when the next day dawned, to Mullin’s dismay matters took a different turn. For no sooner had he and Betsy risen, than a message arrived:

Joseph Williamson was in Datchet, and was awaiting them.

T
HE SPYMASTER WAS
furious.

They stood in what was still Betsy’s hired chamber at the Five Bells Inn in Datchet: she, Mullin and Williamson. Though it was barely three weeks, it seemed a lifetime since Betsy had faced this man in a room in Leadenhall Street and agreed to become his intelligencer. She had seen his impatience then – but she had not seen his anger.

‘You, Girvan, are a disgrace!’ he shouted.

Mullin, pale and tight-lipped, said nothing.

‘A disgrace, sir!’ Williamson repeated. ‘As if the tidings I heard from Crabb weren’t bad enough, I now learn that all our plotters have flown the coop. I can but thank the Lord that the King wasn’t hurt!’

Betsy and the captain exchanged glances. It was but an hour since the two had woken up in Mother Curll’s kitchen. Having stuck to his intention to drink himself senseless, Mullin had slept on the floor, Betsy in a chair. But even as they stirred the message had arrived, brought by a rider from Datchet. At his bidding they had ridden in at once, doubling up on Mullin’s horse.

‘Er, how is Wrestler – I mean Mr Crabb, sir?’ Betsy asked quickly, trying her innocent look.

‘He’s well enough to perform his duties – just!’ Williamson retorted. ‘As for Eleanor …’ He glowered at Mullin. ‘What happened in Delft was a dreadful business – as badly handled as any I’ve known! If I had time I’d demand your full report—’

‘Then you do know we’re wasting time –
sir
?’ Mullin spoke
up at last. He too was angry, and the worse for the brandy he’d consumed the night before. On first seeing Williamson he had tried to tell him of the events, but the man had brushed his explanations aside. ‘And I would say, with every minute that passes,’ the captain went on, ‘the murderer Kyte is further away. Likely he’s in London already—’

‘I know that – now!’ Williamson shouted. ‘I already have men scouring the haunts of known Republicans. Every road out of London will be watched – Prynn and Phelps will be caught, at least. As for that other devil, the false priest—’

‘Forgive me, sir …’ With a glassy smile, Betsy interrupted. ‘But we believe we know where he is. There’s a ruined house near The Spital Field, that once belonged to Kyle’s father, Blunt says. He—’

‘Who’s Blunt?’

‘I mean Dowell,’ she corrected herself.

‘Isaac Dowell – also called Richard Blunt.’ Her fellow-
intelligencer
put in, hiding his impatience with difficulty. ‘You’ll know him as number thirty-four.’ And when Williamson gave a start, he added, ‘And if I might venture an opinion, sir, there are others, too, who have managed this business clumsily. Two hands, neither of which knew what the other was doing – do you take my meaning?’

‘How dare you!’ the spymaster cried. ‘You need to be
disciplined
, sir … and besides, that’s not a matter I’d discuss with you!’ Then his agent’s words sank in, he frowned. ‘What … do you mean to tell me Dowell is here?’

‘He was stabbed, saving the King’s life,’ Mullin said coolly. ‘With the same blade that killed Eleanor and wounded Crabb. The man now lies at Egham, sorely wounded – it’s his horse I rode in pursuit of Kyte. Now, would you care to hear my tale, or are you deaf to all but your own opinions?’

The spymaster opened his mouth, then closed it. He fumed for a while, then to Betsy’s surprise turned to her. ‘Why don’t you tell it?’ he said. ‘And no embellishments, if you please!’

After a moment, she gave a nod. ‘As you wish, sir. But may I sit? It’s been a trying few days …’ She sank down on a nearby chair. Then, scarcely drawing breath, she delivered a concise report of all that had happened since she and Mullin had parted from Peter Crabb at Dover. That way, she hoped, there would be no more misunderstandings. When she had finished, she sat back and waited.

For some moments the spymaster didn’t speak. Betsy sensed his mind at work once again, sifting and reasoning. At last he moved to the window seat from where Mullin had watched the King’s arrival, and sat down stiffly.

‘So it was late afternoon when Kyte gave you the slip,’ he said, looking somewhat subdued. ‘Why, he and I could have passed each other on the road!’

‘Yet it isn’t too late – I’m sure of it.’ Urgently now, Mullin stepped forward. ‘Last night I feared the fellow would head for Dover,’ he added, ‘but now, I doubt it. He’s been thwarted, and he means to try again, so Dowell says, and I trust his instincts. I didn’t get a proper look at Kyte – indeed, none of us have. And the man who can recognize him is too sick to travel. Kyte doesn’t know London – he’s grown up in the Provinces. Yet he will know of his father’s house, by Bishopsgate. If we move swiftly—’

‘Yes, very well.’ Calmer now, Williamson eyed each of them. ‘That was quite a ride for a woman, Beatrice,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Dover to Egham, in two days….’

‘I’m flattered you think so, sir,’ Betsy replied. Then
emboldened
, she added, ‘I hope you’ll remember it when you come to pay me. I’m told you can be somewhat tardy in that respect.’ Pointedly she looked at Mullin, who made a choking sound, quickly turning it to a cough. But at that Williamson frowned.

‘Now you too try my patience,’ he snapped. ‘I meant there’s more riding ahead – provided you come to London with me, that is. If you prefer to remain here in comfort, I could pay you
off now – I’ll even settle the reckoning for this room. However, if you wish to return …’

‘I do wish it, sir,’ Betsy said. ‘Like Girvan and Mr Crabb, I’ve a desire to see Eleanor’s murderer caught – to look him in the face, just once. With your permission, of course?’ And she waited again, until the spymaster nodded.

‘So be it,’ he said.

Whereupon Mullin threw her a glance: and at last, the gleam in his eye was back.

Three days later, in the small hours of the morning, agents of the crown left the City of London by Bishopsgate, turned into Hog Lane and stealthily took positions about a large, broken-down house near The Spital Field. They were half-a-dozen men, and one woman. Marcus Mullin was in charge, and among the party was Peter Crabb.

Betsy had been heartened to see the young giant again. He was rested, his face less taut than when she’d last seen him. And, as promised, he had discarded his sling. ‘The arm’s usable,’ he told her. ‘But I take no chances – and anyway, my right hand’s enough for this.’ He showed her a light pistol.

Betsy shivered; the air was cold and she had had little sleep. Having been obliged to break her promise and endure the ride to London on a borrowed horse, she’d spent an uneasy night at the house in Leadenhall Street, where Crabb and Mullin also rested. Since their return, matters had moved swiftly. Williamson had laid his plans, and given Mullin the task of seeing them through: a chance to redeem himself in the spymaster’s eyes. Crabb had insisted on being a part of it, and none would deny him. Now he and Betsy stood on a narrow, dirty street in the shadow of a wall, almost opposite the house where the fugitive was believed to be, though there was neither light, nor sign of habitation.

‘I don’t like it, Wrestler,’ Betsy murmured. ‘And I think even Mullin has doubts as to whether Kyte is there. Yet he’s
determined 
to lay siege to the place.’ She peered into the gloom; the captain and the others were out of sight. ‘And he’s uneasy about me being here, of course,’ she added.

‘You’d have come anyway,’ Crabb observed with a smile.

‘And here you are – my protector once again.’ Betsy returned his smile, drawing her cloak about her. ‘So I’m safe. If you want to help the others, don’t let me spoil it for you.’

But at that Crabb grew serious. ‘I shan’t be as careless as I was in Delft,’ he said with a sigh. ‘When we first took ship for the Continent, I never thought we’d end up back in London still chasing the man we set out to look for – the one who would murder Eleanor.’ He shook his head. ‘I confess to you, it’s not a mission I’m proud of.’

‘As I recall, you had misgivings from the start,’ Betsy said. ‘So did Eleanor. And I never dreamed that matters would unfold as they have done. It’s more fantastical than a play!’

Crabb was about to reply, but at once there was a shout, and both of them looked round. From several points about the house, lights flared as Mullin’s men lit their torches. At another command, they began to close in. In the gloomy street Betsy and Crabb watched, and soon came the crash of a door being forced. It was followed by more shouts: the agents had stormed in.

‘I hope they’ve covered every way out,’ Crabb muttered. ‘As I hope I don’t have nosy neighbours to deal with …’ He jerked his thumb at the houses nearby. ‘If anyone asks we’re
constables
, in pursuit of a thief who stole your purse,’ he added. ‘You’re here to identify him.’

‘I know, Wrestler,’ Betsy said. ‘Though I suspect at the first sign of trouble, people will stay indoors – it’s that sort of parish.’

Crabb barely nodded; pistol in hand, he crouched. There were sounds of movement from the house but no further shouts, and Betsy’s hopes wavered. Not that they had been high to begin with: somehow, she couldn’t see anyone as cunning as Jerome Kyte letting himself get caught this easily. Nor, she
suspected, did Mullin, in his heart. To cheer herself, she spoke up again.

‘What of Thomas Pryn and the other conspirators?’ she asked. ‘Are they taken?’

‘I don’t know,’ Crabb replied, without looking round. ‘Though it should be only a matter of time …’ Suddenly he tensed. ‘Now what’s up?’ He was gazing at the top of the old house. It was roofless, open to the stars; indeed, to Betsy’s eyes the place offered little promise as a refuge. Even in the dark she could see broken-down walls and gaping window-frames.

‘What do you mean?’

‘See!’ Crabb pointed. ‘Someone’s up there!’

Betsy looked – and saw a dark shape moving along the top of the wall. But even as they watched, it vanished.

‘By the Christ, they’ve missed him!’ Straightening up, Crabb glanced at her, and at once she nodded. ‘You go, Wrestler,’ she urged. ‘Don’t let him escape again!’

For a moment the young man wavered, torn between his desire to catch a murderer and to protect Betsy. But there was no time to lose, and to emphasize it she gave him a shove. ‘Find Mullin!’ she cried. ‘Go on!’

So he went. And even as he ran towards the house shapes appeared, caught in the light of the torches. ‘The roof!’ Crabb called out. ‘He’s going to jump!’

There was an answering cry. Heart pounding, Betsy watched as someone ran out into the street. The man carried a
musketoon
: a short-barrelled musket, the sort horsemen used. He and Crabb exchanged words, then hurried off. Betsy looked up again – then her heart thumped.

From the end of a broken, jagged beam, a rope snaked
downwards
. A silhouette appeared, grasping it like an ape – and in a second, the figure had jumped from the wall and was shinning down at speed. All Betsy could do was watch as he neared the ground, leaped the last few feet, then disappeared.

‘Cods!’ She breathed. ‘He’ll get away….’

There was nothing for it: without hesitating, she stepped into the street and yelled from the bottom of her lungs. ‘Here! He’s down here!’

For a moment there was silence – then from the far side of the house came a shout, answered by another. Lights flickered again, then came rapid footfalls. From nowhere a man ran up, and to Betsy’s relief it was Mullin.

‘What the devil are you doing?’ he snapped.

‘He got down by rope!’ Betsy told him. ‘Look there …’

She pointed, and the captain whirled about. Men were calling to him. With an oath he sped away, calling over his shoulder, ‘Get off the street – knock on a door, or something!’

But though she moved back to the wall, Betsy had no intention of doing any such thing. Eyes darting about, she looked for signs of the fugitive, but saw no one. Mullin’s men were agile and well armed, but in the ruined house they were hampered. She heard men stumble over rubble, cursing. A torch fell to the ground and went out, and for a moment all was dark … until a black shape came hurtling out of the gloom straight towards her.

And the next moment, she was looking into the face of the killer.

‘You!’

He stopped dead. But though his surprise was great, it was far less than Betsy’s. For he wasn’t a man: he was little more than a boy! She gazed at him – then softly she spoke.

‘You tried to kill me.’

There was no answer.

‘But instead you killed a girl, who was but your age!’

Still the boy said nothing. No stranger to good-looking males, Betsy found herself staring into pale, delicate features. And though the face was dirty and bore the marks of a desperate flight, it was almost beautiful. She caught her breath … then something bright flashed in front of her. Involuntarily she stepped back – and slipped.

‘Then I will see it through now!’

Even as she fell, Betsy stared upwards. Jerome Kyte was bending over her; and to her dismay he was smiling.

‘Do you like my
chinqueda?
’ He held it before her, turning it about. She saw the broad blade Crabb had once described, with its terrible, glittering edge. Her eyes met those of the one who wielded it, and in them she read her own death.

‘She is Italian,’ the boy said. ‘Always faithful, and most
excellent
for concealment. Under a cloak, say, or a cassock.’

Betsy blinked: he had a Dutch accent! But of course, that was where he’d grown up….

‘It was my father’s,’ he went on. ‘He bade me draw it only to spill the blood of our enemies….’

Then his smile was gone. His hand went up… Betsy braced herself – until the night exploded in a burst of flame and noise that almost blinded and deafened her. There was a shriek, and the body of Jerome Kyte toppled forward, flattening her.

In horror she cried out, smelling rancid sweat: the sweat of the one who lay dying atop her, until it was replaced by a different odour. Gagging, she turning her head and retched … until all at once the body was lifted off her.

Mercifully the sickening smell of blood faded. With a jerk she sat up, her chest heaving. Peter Crabb stood nearby, holding his arm in agony. Beside him lay the smoking pistol he had used, and dropped to the ground.