Wasp (10 page)

‘Some kind of opium and she’ll want more of it soon enough. There are places in the city.’

Crabbe nodded. ‘Indeed there are.’

‘Are you going to take us to the House?’

‘I shall. That’s the prettiest lass I’ve e’er laid eyes on and she’ll line my pockets well, even if fairies are flitting around inside her head. Where’d you get her? From the cut of her cloth she’s no milkmaid. I thought you’d learned not to go dipping your fingers in this particular pot, John, so don’t tell me she’s your sweetheart.’

‘She fell out of the night and landed in my lap. I believe she’s from one of the big estates upriver.’

‘Baby’s a bastard, I take it.’

‘I believe so. Those that brought her to me would gladly be rid of it at my expense, but this isn’t just about my misfortune. The child’s life is in our hands.’

‘Your hands, you mean. You don’t so much get dogged by ill luck as throw yourself into its embrace. Did you see any sign of pursuit on the way here?’

‘Not so far, but these are men who won’t let the matter lie. You can cover our tracks, Crabbe. Making girls disappear, both high and low-born, is your trade.’

‘True enough. I don’t care for the darkie, though. He can get his rump back on the road.’

‘He comes with us.’

‘Done you a favour too, has he? Must have been a bloody big one to run this risk
 . . . 
So be it. The Abbess might have work for him.’

‘We have a bargain then?’

‘We do. But I take the whole purse, and if things go sour don’t come troubling my peace again.’

Crabbe leaned over the girl, who sat, hands spread in front of the fire, humming a pretty melody. Such a contrast between them, he with a face boiled by the seasons and curly hair that defied any wig to keep it contained. But he possessed a vain streak as wide as the Bristol channel. His fingers, fat with rings, embraced the girl’s head and drew her eyes towards him. ‘What’s your name, lass?’

‘I can sing,’ she said, ‘pretty as a nightingale. Everyone says so.’

‘That you can. And what might this songbird be called?’

‘Anna.’

‘Well, Anna, you’re going to have to travel some more. But first we’ll get you rested and some food in your belly. Then, when your wits have cleared a mite, we’ll talk about what needs to be done.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled, and this time there was no slackness in it.

Crabbe looked up. ‘Clean yourself up, John, and pick a coat. You know where they are. They never did much fit me anyways.’

‘I’ve got a nag and cart in the lane.’

‘Stolen?’

‘They belong to the docks.’

‘Right. I’ll leave ’em somewhere that’ll knock the pack off the trail.’

‘Just like the old days.’

‘Too much like the old days.’

Crabbe’s bedchamber also boasted a hot fire and the Fixer stole a few minutes to warm himself. The laudanum was wearing off and his cuts were beginning to hurt again. He couldn’t risk taking anything else. The darkie was right, the pain would keep him alert. He checked his brow, his neck, running surgeon’s fingers into his armpits and down his groin.
No fever,
he thought,
exhausted is all.

The wounds had stopped bleeding. His ointments had done their job, but he was coated in a dirty brown rime. He crossed to the wardrobe, shoes soft on Crabbe’s thick rugs, and gave the ewer a shake. Water sloshed inside. He poured some into the basin and splashed his face and hands. Refreshing. He peeled off jerkin, breeches and shoes. Beside the wardrobe was an empty drawstring sack and he bundled the clothes inside. After retying his dressings, he opened the wardrobe, glanced at the contents and selected new breeches, hose, shoes, shirt, waistcoat and jacket. His fingers worked intuitively on all the fastenings. Once clothed, he topped everything off with a tasselled tricorne and a cream neckcloth secured with a silver pin. When he gazed into Crabbe’s full-length mirror a phantom stared back.

I’ve lost weight
, he mused.

The door swung wide. ‘Your friend thought you might want supper,’ the darkie said, a trencher in his hands.

‘Where is he?’

‘Gone outside. The girl has been fed. Her child too. They are both asleep. No one else is in the house.’

On the trencher was bread, stew, a lump of cheese. ‘Take half the food for yourself. And here,’ the Fixer reached into the wardrobe, ‘put on this overcoat. I don’t aim for either of us to starve or freeze. Crabbe might not care whether you survive but I owe you a debt, my friend, and I’ve just enough honour left for that to matter. Does he know you understand our language?’

‘He did not even look at my face.’

‘Good. Don’t say anything. Knowing English would make you more valuable. Crabbe would sell you behind my back in a spit, no matter the risks. I should have warned you in the lane.’

‘You do not trust this man?’

‘So long as a profit is involved he’s entirely trustworthy, but his notion of a fair price doesn’t always match mine.’

‘A bad thing to say when you are wearing his clothes. Better than anything I’ve seen on missionary or trader.’

‘These were my clothes once. That favour he did before cost me plenty.’

‘I heard you both talk about money. Have I helped you save this girl so that she might be sold? Is that how it is done in this land also? You trade one another?’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘How so?’

‘She will have a life.’

‘Had I stayed in the slavers’ pen I too would have a life, but it would not lessen the bite of those chains.’

‘If I’m caught I’ll spend my life on a prison treadmill. Perhaps even hang. I don’t have any place else to run. Trust me.’

‘You do not trust Crabbe.’

‘I trusted you. I had faith that you would help us. That you wouldn’t run when I opened the pen or kill us and steal the cart.’

‘Perhaps it is I who has lost too much faith.’

‘Keep just enough to finish this journey. That’s all I ask.’

‘You have too many secrets.’

‘As do you. Now eat.’

Friends or Foes?

‘Just a moment.’

Curious thumps and bumps. Beth knocks again. The door is flung open. A wild-haired young woman, petite and bright-eyed, gazes out. She sneezes and a feather flies out of her mouth. ‘Well, patience isn’t one of your virtues,’ she declares.

‘I think I’m supposed to sleep here.’

‘And so you shall. Come in.’

Beth slips past her into the room. It looks like a storm has gusted through it. Clothes lie everywhere. Over the floor, across the dresser and draped on the backs of chairs. A huge embroidered quilt is scrunched up in one corner. Feathers float onto the carpet.

‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting,’ says the girl. ‘I’m forever getting into a fight with that quilt and I always lose. It’s like trying to shift an elephant. Not that I’ve ever seen an elephant, you understand, except in a storybook, but the size and the weight look about right. Still, now you’re here you can help. Perhaps we’ll get the cursed thing on the bed while there’s still some stuffing left.’

‘You’ve got a lot to say for yourself. In my village, women who gabble as much as you do get a scold’s bridle in the mouth.’

The other girl looks startled, then laughs. ‘Yes, I know I talk a lot. The queen of light conversation, that’s what the Abbess calls me.’ She crosses to the dresser. ‘Hummingbird’s my name. You know what a hummingbird is?’ She taps the picture on her cheek. A tattoo like the others.

‘No.’

‘A tiny, many-coloured creature that can hover in the air like a bumblebee.’

‘It must be a very peculiar bird.’

The girl tries to pull some sense back into her tousled hair, gives up and reaches for a brush. ‘Yes, it’s certainly different. Now, are you going to help me with that quilt or stand and watch me tie myself into knots? Might be good for a giggle but it won’t get the bed made.’

Beth doesn’t move from her place on the rug.

‘Right,’ Hummingbird puts the brush back down, ‘so I’m small. Well, a lot of men like that. You’d be surprised how many want me to pretend to be their daughter or niece. Women too. I’m sure Nightingale is half hoping I’ll end up servicing old men. Can you see me doing that? No? Well, neither can I.’ She made a face. ‘Are we going to sort this quilt, Kitten? It’s cool out tonight.’

‘Why does everyone call me Kitten?’

‘It’s a nickname for new girls. I don’t mind you sharing my bedchamber as long as you don’t snore. I’ll stuff a pillowcase up your nose if you do. Apart from that, I’m sure we shall make fine companions.’

She plumps down on the mattress in a rustle of petticoats and kicks off her slippers. ‘The Abbess warned me she was putting a Kitten in my room. I always seem to play mother. Well, a maid will soon be huffing up the stairs with two possets to warm our bellies. I’d sooner enjoy a snort of brandy, but this is the only nightcap we’re allowed. Here, would you help me with my fastenings? The chambermaid is so clumsy; her nails are always ploughing my back.’

‘Have you many servants?’

‘Oh, we’ve all sorts in here. Titles tend to slip a little.’

‘This is a brothel, isn’t it? You’re a harlot and soon I’ll be one too. I rotted in a locked room for six weeks. This place is just another cage. Are you to be my jailer, Hummingbird? Or are you a prisoner just like me?’

‘I’m nobody’s jailer and this isn’t a bawdy house. Bodies aren’t sold here, Kitten, only company. Didn’t the Abbess tell you that? All you have to do is look good, talk sweet and the rest will be easy. New girls are always full of questions. I was too, and I think I gave everyone a headache with my pestering. You belong to our mistress now. She can do whatever she likes with you. And will.’

‘She said I was dead.’

A hint of a smile. ‘We are all dead. You had better get used to it.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘How long is forever?’

‘Don’t you ever see your family?’

‘I’d rather hang.’

‘You hate them that much?’

‘Of course. Don’t you hate yours?’

A knock on the door. A round-faced woman blusters in, dressed in mobcap and apron. She lays a silver tray with two glasses on the bedside table. The candle glow catches her face, highlighting the pink scar on her right cheek. She notices Beth staring and says in a singsong voice: ‘You see something funny,
enfant
? Something to make you laugh perhaps?’

Before Beth can utter a word, Hummingbird scoops up a linen shift and tosses it to the maid. ‘Thank you, Eloise. Fix my quilt then take that shift down to the washroom.’

‘You knocked your bedding onto the floor. You can pick it up.’

‘Please?’

The maid flaps her hands. ‘Am I to do everything? You English girls are so prissy. You drink water and think you piddle fine wine.’

She leaves, muttering, the shift tucked under her arm. Hummingbird waits until the door closes then explodes into a fit of giggles. ‘Well, I thought it worth a try.’

‘She looked angry.’

‘Don’t worry about Eloise. If she didn’t complain I’d think her ill. Here, drink this. You’ll feel much better, I promise. And afterwards you really must help me with the quilt.’

‘Where am I to sleep?’

‘With me, of course.’ Hummingbird pats the mattress. ‘Sit down. I won’t bite. We’ve more than enough room. A pot is under the bed if the need arises. You’ve had a bath, I take it?’

‘Yes, I thought they were going to scrub me down to my bones.’ She touches her cap. ‘All my hair is gone. Even my eyebrows.’

‘A precaution, Kitten. All sorts of vile things crawl around in jails.’ She glances at the marks on Beth’s skin. ‘That’s where you were, wasn’t it? Jail, or somewhere similar? We’ve made ladies out of worse. What was your crime?’

‘The local squire’s son attacked me. ’

‘And you told on him, did you? Silly girl.’

Beth grimaced. ‘I thought I’d see justice done. I should have known better.’ She rubs her arms. ‘That man, the Fixer, he put some sort of ointment on me. It smells horrible.’

‘I’m used to his concoctions. The Fixer knows his business. Always do what he says and you’ll be well.’

‘He unsettled me. So did the dark man, and that Abbess woman. I thought I’d fallen into a madhouse, not been lifted out of one.’

‘A madhouse, was it? Your wits seem solid enough.’

‘It was a bid to silence me.’

‘We’ve all been cast into the gutter in one sense or another.’ Hummingbird picks up her glass and takes a sip. Beth does likewise. Honeyed milk, warm and sweet on her tongue.

‘The Abbess is devoted to this place,’ Hummingbird continues. ‘Kingfisher too.’

‘Doesn’t anyone want to leave?’

‘And go where? For all its pretty terraces, horrors fester in the streets of this town. Step off the path and they will cut you up. Be a good girl and you’ll enjoy food in your belly, clothes on your back and a roof over your head.’ Hummingbird put down her glass. ‘Where do you hail from? Your milkmaid voice suggests Sussex, or maybe the bottom of Hampshire.’

‘Dunston. A farming village mostly. I was no doubt quite the talk of the place for a while. I left by carriage. And what a carriage it was. People thereabouts must have had enough to keep their tongues wagging a whole season.’ She gulps her drink. ‘I’d forgotten a posset could taste this good, yet my mother used to make them every night.’