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Chapter nineteen
All is Lost
“Youcannotgoto search his lodgings on your own,” Moll said. “I forbid it. It is too dangerous.”
Lucinda looked at her incredulously. “You forbid it? You are sounding like McCrae.”
“Tis more I have a nose for trouble. You need to in my line of work. I also know tis better to work in pairs. It might be the perfect opportunity to search Corvacho’s place, but if something goes wrong you will need help.”
“Hmmph.” Moll really was turning into McCrae. “The problem is,” Lucinda countered, “I can make up some reason for being called away at short notice, but we cannot both leave the academy at the same time.”
“Why not? Ferguson is here. Your father is here. Your grandmother is here. The men can fetch their own drinks for a change. We do not need a fabricated reason. We could just tell the truth.”
Lucinda looked at Moll even more incredulously. “The truth?”
“Well a version of it. Sometimes the truth is the best cover for a ruse. We simply say the purse has been returned, and we thought it best to take it to Corvacho with due haste, not give him any more opportunity to befoul Whitefriar’s reputation.”
Lucinda thought about it for a moment. There was only one flaw in the plan as far as she could see. “The only difficulty will be the timing. We cannot leave too early since Father and Grandma both heard Corvacho say he would be out all day, but if we leave too late, we risk finding him already at home.” The timing was tight, but it was certainly perfectly possible. “Are you sure you need to come with me? If I went on my own, I could leave earlier and add another errand as an excuse.”
“You are not going without me,” Moll insisted. “I have the purse and I will not give it to you until we are at Corvacho’s door.” Moll would not budge from her position, and Lucinda knew better than to argue with her. You would have as much success in changing her mind as making the Thames flow backwards. Far better to swim with the tide than struggle against it.
All was in place ready for their plan to be executed when McCrae showed up again. He had the most diabolical talent for arriving at precisely the wrong time. Immediately he sought out Lucinda.
“I need to speak with you urgently,” he said gripping her by the arm.
She shook his arm off in no uncertain fashion. “It will have to wait,” she snapped. “I am leaving on an errand for my grandmother that I cannot change on your whim.”
He had the good grace to look slightly mollified. “Very well. When will you be home?”
“Two or three hours at most.”
“I shall wait here.” He nodded curtly, and Lucinda went in search of Moll.
It would have been preferable to take a few additional weapons, but with McCrae constantly watching her, and Father and Grandma both in the training area, she could not squirrel anything away. She had to be content with only a short-handled dagger strapped to her calf as her means of defense.
Once they were well clear of the academy and halfway to the footbridge over The Fleet, Moll pressed Corvacho’s purse into her hands.
“You should keep this. If we were stopped by The Watch and they found it on me, they would assume I stole it and lock me up.”
Lucinda took the purse from Moll and settled it inside her bodice, all too aware of the contaminated object nestled next to her breast. Corvacho must have handled the purse thousands of times so it felt like his own hand groped at her flesh, which made her want to fling it into some cesspool, but the thought of the unknown woman’s hair coiled inside it only served to harden her resolve. She simply must find the proof to link Corvacho to his heinous crimes.
They did not talk much on the way, neither being inclined to engage in idle conversation, apprehension dragging at their shoulders like a sack full of stones. It was quite likely the riskiest thing she had ever set out to do. It was certainly most unwise and far from prudent, but it was also the right thing to do. She could not turn her back on seeking justice for her friends. There was no room for doubt or fear. Her conscience allowed only one choice, to carry on as planned, one foot after the other, until they finished what had first started when she attended the poor girl in the ropemaker’s house.
As her mind gnawed over the potential gains and pitfalls of her hastily hatched plan, her feet propelled themselves onward as if they acted independently of her thoughts, tramping down Fleet Street, past Temple Bar and Saint Clements, along the whole long length of The Strand. The closer they came to Westminster, the finer the horses and clothes. Plain brown or cream linen gave way to black velvet, and rich crimsons. Clothes instantly marked people as rich or poor, laborer or merchant. Like a wool grader assessing a fleece, you could tell at a glance the value of a person, their worth and position writ clearly in the fiber of their clothes. They were already at Charing Cross, the Court Gate not far up ahead, a location she could have determined without the need for geographical features for as you neared the court there was a striking leap in the size of the ruffs. Ridiculous items. Like gaudy peacock feathers they served no practical purpose other than to impress. Not long now to Westminster Palace, only a skip and a hop to Corvacho’s lodging. She let out a sigh that came up from her toes and straightened her dress.
They found his place at Whitehall easily enough. As they came closer the sound of music grew louder. DeGuerra had told her the Spanish were accommodated very close to where the court musicians rehearsed, and it really was loud enough to feel like you were part of the privileged audience at court.
“Of course!” Lucinda cried out, turning to Moll, clutching at her arm and pulling her to an abrupt stop. “That’s it! Don’t you see?”
“See what?” Moll said, her face growing all the more confused as Lucinda jumped up and down on the spot.
“The music!”
“I can hear music but as for seeing it…”
“I knew McCrae had been going down the wrong path. DeGuerra is not the one. The tune the rapist sings was performed once at Hampton Court but that does not mean it was the only time it could be heard. Anyone who lives near here could have heard it many times over as the musicians rehearsed, even more reason for it to stick in the mind.”
“Which only proves what we already know from the contents of his purse,” Moll said. “Corvacho is the villain, as I have been telling you.” The look on Moll’s face managed to be both grim and smug.
