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Authors: John Pilkington
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her gown about her neck, she tried to compose herself, whereupon the other sighed.
‘Well now: regarding my lateness, I received word of your arrival only yesterday,’ he said. ‘I was in Bruges, which is why I couldn’t get here sooner – the roads are muddy. As for the performance, I thought I’d begin as we must continue. Now, shall we proceed? I gather you have intelligence to share – even rumours of a conspiracy?’
With an effort, Betsy composed herself. ‘I spoke to one of the Projectors in prison,’ she said. ‘A man named Venn. He might have told me more, but he was murdered – the very next day.’
‘How unfortunate,’ Mullin observed, frowning. ‘No doubt one of his fellows got to him, after you were seen talking.’
‘What do you mean?’ Betsy blinked. ‘Are you saying—?’
‘That you caused his death?’ He gave a shrug. ‘It’s a common enough occurrence. Men like Venn live on fear, panicking at every trifle. They’re more afraid of each other than they are of the Pope!’ He gave a snort of laughter, then his frown deepened. ‘And yet, this smacks of something bold, I’ll admit. You’d better tell me what you know. Then I’ll decide where to start looking.’
But Betsy was barely listening. Instead she pictured Venn, wild-eyed, pouring out his testimony in the prison yard. She heard Dyer, telling her she and Venn had been seen arm-in-arm … and now she faced the truth: the man’s brutal murder might be due, in part at least, to her actions. Dismayed, she looked up to see Mullin watching her.
‘It’s best not to torment yourself with such thoughts,’ he said gently, ‘or you won’t last another day in this game.’
‘Game?’ Betsy’s temper rose again. ‘That’s what all this is to you, is it? Just another stage, on which to strut about.’
‘Well, is it not the same for you?’
‘No!’ She shook her head, staring at him defiantly. ‘I had other reasons for coming here.’
‘Money, you mean?’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Well, of course. You think I’d be here otherwise, in the bog of Europe?Though in the matter of reward, dear Mistress Brand, I should warn you that you face disappointment. You’ll get no thanks from Williamson for what you do. Moreover – to put it plainly – I haven’t been paid in four months.’
‘Oh, flap-sauce – you’re merely trying to annoy me!’ Betsy cried. ‘Mr Lee – Williamson if you must – wouldn’t deal with me in such a manner. Nor would Caradoc! He’s a … well, he’s …’ But she was faltering, and they both knew it. Chest heaving, she looked away.
‘Perhaps I should ask your pardon.’ Mullin’s tone softened. ‘You’re tired and unnerved … why shouldn’t you be, on your first foray into this blighted profession?’
With a sigh, he stood up. ‘It’s almost dawn, and I haven’t slept either,’ he added. ‘We’ll confer in the morning. You’d best call your servants – I mean your friends.’ He hesitated. ‘Don’t fret yourself – I’ll smooth things with the big fellow. I may need him, if things turn sour.’
After a moment, Betsy stood up too. ‘That’s well,’ she replied, though her mind was elsewhere. ‘Until the morning.’ She yawned. ‘Before you leave, will you answer a question?’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Can you tell me what a trepanner is?’
At first Mullin looked as if he would laugh. But instead he met her eye and said, ‘A trepanner’s many things: a swindler, a sharper … call him what you will. The sort who befriends others only to draw them out, then betray them.’ And when Betsy stiffened, he gave a nod. ‘You understand me. Such men – and women – may be found in many places: prison is one. I’ve performed such services myself, more times than I care to recall.’
He moved to the bed, took up his cloak and hat, then walked to the door and threw it open. Immediately Peter Crabb appeared, filling the entrance. But at sight of Mullin
‘Well now: regarding my lateness, I received word of your arrival only yesterday,’ he said. ‘I was in Bruges, which is why I couldn’t get here sooner – the roads are muddy. As for the performance, I thought I’d begin as we must continue. Now, shall we proceed? I gather you have intelligence to share – even rumours of a conspiracy?’
With an effort, Betsy composed herself. ‘I spoke to one of the Projectors in prison,’ she said. ‘A man named Venn. He might have told me more, but he was murdered – the very next day.’
‘How unfortunate,’ Mullin observed, frowning. ‘No doubt one of his fellows got to him, after you were seen talking.’
‘What do you mean?’ Betsy blinked. ‘Are you saying—?’
‘That you caused his death?’ He gave a shrug. ‘It’s a common enough occurrence. Men like Venn live on fear, panicking at every trifle. They’re more afraid of each other than they are of the Pope!’ He gave a snort of laughter, then his frown deepened. ‘And yet, this smacks of something bold, I’ll admit. You’d better tell me what you know. Then I’ll decide where to start looking.’
But Betsy was barely listening. Instead she pictured Venn, wild-eyed, pouring out his testimony in the prison yard. She heard Dyer, telling her she and Venn had been seen arm-in-arm … and now she faced the truth: the man’s brutal murder might be due, in part at least, to her actions. Dismayed, she looked up to see Mullin watching her.
‘It’s best not to torment yourself with such thoughts,’ he said gently, ‘or you won’t last another day in this game.’
‘Game?’ Betsy’s temper rose again. ‘That’s what all this is to you, is it? Just another stage, on which to strut about.’
‘Well, is it not the same for you?’
‘No!’ She shook her head, staring at him defiantly. ‘I had other reasons for coming here.’
‘Money, you mean?’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Well, of course. You think I’d be here otherwise, in the bog of Europe?Though in the matter of reward, dear Mistress Brand, I should warn you that you face disappointment. You’ll get no thanks from Williamson for what you do. Moreover – to put it plainly – I haven’t been paid in four months.’
‘Oh, flap-sauce – you’re merely trying to annoy me!’ Betsy cried. ‘Mr Lee – Williamson if you must – wouldn’t deal with me in such a manner. Nor would Caradoc! He’s a … well, he’s …’ But she was faltering, and they both knew it. Chest heaving, she looked away.
‘Perhaps I should ask your pardon.’ Mullin’s tone softened. ‘You’re tired and unnerved … why shouldn’t you be, on your first foray into this blighted profession?’
With a sigh, he stood up. ‘It’s almost dawn, and I haven’t slept either,’ he added. ‘We’ll confer in the morning. You’d best call your servants – I mean your friends.’ He hesitated. ‘Don’t fret yourself – I’ll smooth things with the big fellow. I may need him, if things turn sour.’
After a moment, Betsy stood up too. ‘That’s well,’ she replied, though her mind was elsewhere. ‘Until the morning.’ She yawned. ‘Before you leave, will you answer a question?’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Can you tell me what a trepanner is?’
At first Mullin looked as if he would laugh. But instead he met her eye and said, ‘A trepanner’s many things: a swindler, a sharper … call him what you will. The sort who befriends others only to draw them out, then betray them.’ And when Betsy stiffened, he gave a nod. ‘You understand me. Such men – and women – may be found in many places: prison is one. I’ve performed such services myself, more times than I care to recall.’
He moved to the bed, took up his cloak and hat, then walked to the door and threw it open. Immediately Peter Crabb appeared, filling the entrance. But at sight of Mullin
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