their sorrows,’ he added, with another glance at Crabb. ‘I speak of others more discreet.’ Seeing that he had everyone’s attention, he risked a smile. ‘One lives near the
Papenhoek
– it was she who told me of the new priest. Of course, it may be coincidence, but—’
‘She?’ Betsy echoed, arching her eyebrows, at which Mullin let out an elaborate sigh.
‘Yes, madam,’ he retorted. ‘She’s a widow, past sixty years – her husband was an old friend, from happier times. Does that excuse me?’ He turned as Eleanor came up, and accepted a mug from her with a grateful smile. ‘But that’s enough gossip,’ he went on. ‘Let’s share our findings, shall we?’ Deliberately he faced Betsy again. ‘With your approval of course, madam?’
And all she could do was nod. Mullin may have failed to charm them this time, but he had at least redeemed himself.
That night, in the chamber she occupied at the rear of the house, Betsy awoke from troubled dreams. She had thought herself in the King’s Bench again, with Sarah coughing. She sat up and listened, but all seemed quiet. Delft slept peacefully, but for how long? she wondered. Was war really coming?
She shivered, hunched down beneath the covers, and thought of Marcus Mullin. The captain had been as good as his word and left her alone; this night too, even though for once he had not gone out. He and Crabb were sharing a room downstairs, while Eleanor had been given the front chamber, which was nearest the stair-head. The girl had been first to retire, after the group – Mr Lee’s Family, as Mullin called them – had pooled their findings round the kitchen table. After all was said and sifted the intelligence was meagre, but there were paths to be followed. Mullin was intrigued by Betsy’s account of Thomas Lacy, though it seemed he hardly knew him, and was far from the close acquaintance the other had claimed. But it was agreed that he and Betsy should take up the offer of the man’s hospitality. As for Father de Smet: he would need to be approached with caution. This was difficult, for Mullin was known to some in Delft. And how Betsy might contrive to meet the priest had still to be determined.
Thinking on it now, she grew restless. She had taken on this venture for the best of reasons, she reminded herself. Yet she was at sea here – and had been from the start, in more ways than one. In spite of herself, the thought amused her. She sighed, yawned and turned over … only to jerk bolt upright.
For a second she thought she was mistaken – then she knew she wasn’t. In a moment she was tumbling from the bed and groping in the dark for a night-gown. Dragging it on, she hurried to the door. As she ran out to the landing, she heard shouting.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried. ‘I heard a scream!’
She stopped: Mullin was hurrying up the stairs, half-dressed. ‘It came from up here!’ he snapped. ‘The front—’
There was a crash from downstairs. Both of them started, hearing Crabb call out. More noise followed: running feet, a door banging. For a moment the two hesitated – then the same thought struck them both.
Eleanor …
Betsy whirled round and ran to the front chamber, finding the door ajar. Shoving it wide, she stepped inside. In the dark she stumbled over something, causing her to cry out. But a flame appeared, as Mullin came in bearing a tinder-box. He held it aloft – to reveal a sight which made both of them freeze. At the same time they heard a groan, and Betsy fell to her knees, her breath catching in her throat.
She had stumbled over Eleanor.
The girl lay in a heap beside the bed, as if she had fallen out in her sleep. But in the half-light, the room told a different tale, the most lurid sign of which was the blood. It streaked the bedclothes: a glistening stripe … and in horror Betsy followed it down the side of the bed, to where a pool was spreading across the floorboards. It came from Eleanor, whose shift was soaked
Papenhoek
– it was she who told me of the new priest. Of course, it may be coincidence, but—’
‘She?’ Betsy echoed, arching her eyebrows, at which Mullin let out an elaborate sigh.
‘Yes, madam,’ he retorted. ‘She’s a widow, past sixty years – her husband was an old friend, from happier times. Does that excuse me?’ He turned as Eleanor came up, and accepted a mug from her with a grateful smile. ‘But that’s enough gossip,’ he went on. ‘Let’s share our findings, shall we?’ Deliberately he faced Betsy again. ‘With your approval of course, madam?’
And all she could do was nod. Mullin may have failed to charm them this time, but he had at least redeemed himself.
That night, in the chamber she occupied at the rear of the house, Betsy awoke from troubled dreams. She had thought herself in the King’s Bench again, with Sarah coughing. She sat up and listened, but all seemed quiet. Delft slept peacefully, but for how long? she wondered. Was war really coming?
She shivered, hunched down beneath the covers, and thought of Marcus Mullin. The captain had been as good as his word and left her alone; this night too, even though for once he had not gone out. He and Crabb were sharing a room downstairs, while Eleanor had been given the front chamber, which was nearest the stair-head. The girl had been first to retire, after the group – Mr Lee’s Family, as Mullin called them – had pooled their findings round the kitchen table. After all was said and sifted the intelligence was meagre, but there were paths to be followed. Mullin was intrigued by Betsy’s account of Thomas Lacy, though it seemed he hardly knew him, and was far from the close acquaintance the other had claimed. But it was agreed that he and Betsy should take up the offer of the man’s hospitality. As for Father de Smet: he would need to be approached with caution. This was difficult, for Mullin was known to some in Delft. And how Betsy might contrive to meet the priest had still to be determined.
Thinking on it now, she grew restless. She had taken on this venture for the best of reasons, she reminded herself. Yet she was at sea here – and had been from the start, in more ways than one. In spite of herself, the thought amused her. She sighed, yawned and turned over … only to jerk bolt upright.
For a second she thought she was mistaken – then she knew she wasn’t. In a moment she was tumbling from the bed and groping in the dark for a night-gown. Dragging it on, she hurried to the door. As she ran out to the landing, she heard shouting.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried. ‘I heard a scream!’
She stopped: Mullin was hurrying up the stairs, half-dressed. ‘It came from up here!’ he snapped. ‘The front—’
There was a crash from downstairs. Both of them started, hearing Crabb call out. More noise followed: running feet, a door banging. For a moment the two hesitated – then the same thought struck them both.
Eleanor …
Betsy whirled round and ran to the front chamber, finding the door ajar. Shoving it wide, she stepped inside. In the dark she stumbled over something, causing her to cry out. But a flame appeared, as Mullin came in bearing a tinder-box. He held it aloft – to reveal a sight which made both of them freeze. At the same time they heard a groan, and Betsy fell to her knees, her breath catching in her throat.
She had stumbled over Eleanor.
The girl lay in a heap beside the bed, as if she had fallen out in her sleep. But in the half-light, the room told a different tale, the most lurid sign of which was the blood. It streaked the bedclothes: a glistening stripe … and in horror Betsy followed it down the side of the bed, to where a pool was spreading across the floorboards. It came from Eleanor, whose shift was soaked
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