“Moll!” a voice exclaimed.
The door opened fully and Moll and Tom went in.
It was a small inn but it was packed with about twenty or thirty people sitting at a long table, chattering among themselves. As soon as they saw Moll and Tom, they bustled about making a space at the table so that the two new arrivals could sit down.
“Let me introduce you,” Moll said to Tom. “That’s Black Bob.” She pointed at a man who was actually rather pale. “He’s a highwayman. And so is One-eyed Jack…” She pointed to a second man. “…Snatcher Sam and old Shagbag, there at the end of the table. Dick the Dealer there is a card sharp.” She nodded at a man with a little pointy moustache and the man waved back, a pack of cards suddenly appearing from nowhere in his empty hand. “Over there are the Bird Brothers.”
“London’s finest burglars,” the brothers – two plump men in identical green doublets – chorused in unison.
And then Tom remembered what Moll had said. “They’re all crooks…” She had been speaking literally. Everyone at the inn was a thief of one sort or another. There were more pickpockets, several confidence tricksters, a passport forger, two hookers, two curbers and two divers. Tom wasn’t sure what all these actually did, but they certainly looked very villainous with squinting eyes and wide, toothless smiles. It felt a bit strange to be the only person in the room who hadn’t committed some sort of crime but then the food arrived and he soon found himself joining in the party with all his doubts forgotten.
It was a wonderful Christmas feast. There was a peacock pie, a goose and a pair of ducks. A whole boar’s head arrived, chewing on an apple and even managing to look fairly cheerful considering it was being served up on a wooden plate. When that was all gone there was a pudding – a model of the Tower of London made entirely out of marzipan – which was carried into the room to cheers and applause. Finally there were hot chestnuts and more mulled ale and then someone brought out a fiddle and everyone began to sing, though, unfortunately, not the same song.
Nobody had minded Tom being there and during the meal the card sharp had shown him how to strip out an ace and one of the confidence tricksters had tried to sell him London Bridge. But he had spent most of the time telling Moll about the Garden Players. He also told her about some of the mysteries of the past few days – the man with the scar who had come to the ship, Florian’s warning and the strange marks on the arms of Dr Mobius and the actor called Ferdinand. Moll had made no comment on any of this but her eyes narrowed and as the meal went on she became quiet and thoughtful.
Outside, the sun was beginning to set and Tom considered that it was time to go. He got up and slipped out of the door. Moll came with him and the two of them stood for a minute in the dying light.
“Thank you, Moll,” Tom said. He suddenly felt guilty. “I’ve got no money,” he added. “How can I pay for my food?”
“I’ll pay your share,” Moll said. “You can pay me back when you’re a famous actor.”
They shook hands. Tom was about to leave but Moll stopped him. “The Garden Players…” she said, suddenly.
“What about them?”
“Nothing about them sounds quite right. A comedy that isn’t funny. Dr Mobius. The way they just hired you without even hearing you read.” She scowled. “When that boy, Florian, spoke to you, you said he was talking in a foreign language. You don’t know what language it was?”
Tom shook his head. “All I know is, it wasn’t English.”
“Could it have been French? Or Dutch?”
“I don’t know, Moll.”
“No. You wouldn’t.” Moll sighed. Inside the tavern, there was a peal of laughter and clapping from the rest of the assembly. “I’ve got to go back in,” Moll said. “But remember, Tom, if you get into any trouble, you only have to ask for me by name. Ask anyone – a beggar, a street-boy, a porter, a water-carrier. Just tell them to fetch Moll Cutpurse. They’ll know where to find me.”
“I’m not in trouble…” Tom began.
“Not yet. But you might be.” Moll shook her head, then turned round and went back into the inn.
Tom walked away. “I’m not in trouble,” he had said. But he hadn’t even taken ten paces and he was. Someone stepped out from behind a tree. The blade of a knife flashed in what was left of the fading light. A hand reached out and grabbed him roughly by the shirt, twisting him round.
“Good afternoon, Tom-Tom,” Gamaliel Ratsey said in a soft, sing-song voice. “I thought I might find you here.”
“Ratsey…!”
“My dear fellow! You don’t know how glad I am to see you.” Ratsey touched the point of the knife against Tom’s neck. “Happy Christmas, by the way.”
“How did you find me?”
“Oh, I heard that you and Moll – what’s her name? – Cut-throat had teamed up together, so I’ve been keeping an eye on her. She led me here and I’ve been waiting ever since.” He shivered. “Jolly cold, Tom-Tom. Deadly cold, you might say.”
“What do you want with me?”
“I would have thought it was obvious. I must say, you rather let us down running off like that. The Slopes were very disappointed.”
“I’m not going back to Framlingham!”
Ratsey smiled and waved the point of his dagger in a circle around Tom’s head. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said.
“You’re going to kill me!”
“It does rather look as if I’m going to have to,” Ratsey agreed. “The thing is, you see, you know too much about me.”
“I won’t tell on you, Ratsey,” Tom pleaded. “I’ve got a new life now, in London. I’m an actor. You can forget about me.” He took a step back, trying to buy time, desperately searching for the right words. He had always been afraid of Ratsey and knew him for the killer that he was. But he wondered if there wasn’t some way he could appeal to him. Surely there had to be some good in the man? “You can’t just kill me in cold blood,” he went on. “You’re not like that…”
“But I am.” Ratsey sighed, and for a moment he looked genuinely sad.
“No! You were a soldier. Captain Ratsey! You told me yourself. You fought for the Queen!”
“And what did the Queen ever do for me?” His eyes blazed. “Oh yes, I was once like you, Tom-Tom. A nice boy. A good boy. Fighting for the Queen to save the country. But when the fighting was over and the war was won, what happened? They gave me nothing! No pension. No reward. I was abandoned, left to starve, all on my own…”
“You had parents…”
“I’d run away from home. They didn’t want to know me. There was no one to look after poor old Ratsey so I had to learn to look after myself. And that’s what I’m doing now, Tom-Tom. I like you. Yes, I do. But, you see, you know too much. And maybe, one day, you’ll whisper a few words … just by accident. Maybe in your sleep! I can’t let that happen. I can’t take the risk.”
It was no good. Tom glanced left and right. They were standing in an open field, underneath a tree. Thick snow lay all around them and in the branches above. There was nobody in sight. Ratsey had led him away from the inn and Tom knew that even if he did call for help, he would be dead long before anyone arrived. Suddenly he felt very cold. Despite his new boots, the snow was reaching up to his ankles, penetrating his bones. The wind blew and a trickle of snow fell out of the tree and on to his neck.
The snow…
“So let’s get this over with,” Ratsey said. “I’m sorry, Tom. I hope you understand – it’s nothing personal.”
“Wait a minute, Ratsey!” Tom brought his hands together as if to plead for mercy. He was hoping he had learned something about acting in the last few days. “You can’t kill me. I’m only a child!”
“It’s never stopped me before…”
“But I’m unarmed…” Now Tom turned his palms upwards. “Look! I don’t have a weapon…” Slowly, Tom raised his arms.
“Most of the people I kill don’t have weapons,” Ratsey said, reasonably. “It makes it a
lot easier.” His fingers tightened on the knife. “Now stop all this nonsense, Tom-Tom. Time’s up!”
Tom’s hands were now over his head. There was a branch directly above him. His hands closed over it and with all his strength he pulled down.
A great clump of snow fell out of the tree, both on to Tom and on to Ratsey in front of him. Tom had been ready for it. Ratsey hadn’t. Ratsey cursed, momentarily blinded. At the same moment, Tom turned and ran.
He was only seconds ahead of Ratsey. The highwayman had recovered fast and scooping the snow out of his eyes had launched himself after Tom. It was a strange, soundless pursuit. They were almost running in slow motion as their feet came down in the thick snow and even the sound of Tom’s rasping breath was smothered by the frozen air.
Tom had no idea where he was going but realized – when it was too late – that he had managed to curve away from the inn where he might have found help. As he stumbled through the snow, almost slipping, scrabbling forward, he caught sight of a group of people, weaving slowly down a lane. Should he make for them? No. It was hopeless. They were probably half-drunk and before he could even begin to explain what was happening, Ratsey would have cut his throat.
“Tom…!”
He must have slowed down. Ratsey had almost caught up with him. The knife flashed through the air and Tom cried out as the very tip of it caught him on the shoulders, slicing through his shirt and drawing a line across his skin. The pain and the shock of it propelled him forward. Ratsey stumbled and almost lost his balance. Tom surged ahead.
He reached a row of houses, found an alleyway and ran through it. But it was then that he made his fatal mistake. Even as he ran, he looked back. His legs carried him the next ten metres before he knew what he had done and by the time he saw where he was it was too late.
He was near Bankside. He had entered a long, wooden jetty, stretching out into the River Thames. Unfortunately, the jetty only continued for another twenty metres and stopped. It was a passage to nowhere and before Tom could double back and regain dry land, Ratsey had reached the other end, blocking it.
The man and the boy stopped and stood there, gazing at each other. Ratsey was breathing heavily. His dark hair had flopped across his face and he threw his head back to clear it. His eyes, when they were revealed, were alight with pleasure.
“You’re a fast mover, Tom-Tom,” he panted.
“Leave me alone, Ratsey…” Tom took two paces back. Two paces closer to the end of the jetty and the River Thames.
Ratsey lifted the knife and took another step. The jetty creaked underneath him.
“Tom, Tom, the piper’s son…” Ratsey had begun to sing. “Cannot hide and he cannot run.”
Tom had reached the end of the jetty. A wooden ladder led down to the Thames but there were no boats. Ratsey was getting closer. And then, in an instant, Tom knew what he had to do. Without taking his eyes off Ratsey he grabbed hold of the ladder and lowered himself down.
Not into water. Onto ice.
Ratsey stared for a moment, then darted forward. But he was already too late. Tom had backed away, wobbling uncertainly, but still standing upright on the ice.
“Come back!” Ratsey squealed. His eyes flared and, slipping the knife between his teeth, he turned and launched himself down the ladder. But his feet had barely touched the ice before there was a sharp crack and with a shuddering scream he disappeared into a gaping hole that had suddenly appeared beneath him. If he hadn’t been holding on to the ladder he would have been sucked into the black, freezing water. As it was, he barely had the strength to pull himself out and by the time he was back on top of the jetty, his teeth were rattling with cold.
“T-T-T-Tom!” he tried to call out. Tom was standing only a few metres away but now they could have been a world apart. “C-c-come back!” Ratsey grabbed hold of himself as if trying to squeeze out the icy water. He no longer had the knife. He must have dropped it when he plunged into the river. “The ice! It won’t hold your weight!”
“No thanks!” Tom slid backwards, not daring to lift his feet off the ice. He could feel it straining under his weight. Nobody else had tried to cross the Thames yet. It had been cold, but not cold enough. The ice was thin. In places it was almost transparent with the water oozing blackly through. But Tom was certain about one thing. He would sooner disappear through the ice and drown than go back to the jetty and face Ratsey again.
He kept walking. He didn’t need to look back at Ratsey. He was a boy, small and underweight, and the ice was only just supporting him. Ratsey, as he had already proved, had no chance. Tom turned round and cried out as the ice gave away beneath him. One of his feet shot through into the water which closed around his ankle, instantly sucking out all feeling. Tom twisted sideways. Fortunately the ice was stronger here. With his foot dripping, he fought for balance and found it. For a moment he stood in the middle of the river, wondering which way to go, wondering if he could even find the courage to move.
Hunching his shoulders against the wind whipping up the river from Westminster, Tom continued across. It was much colder than he had thought. Out in the open, with nothing to protect him, his whole body was quickly growing numb. It was also much further than he would have liked. After ten minutes on the ice he wasn’t even half way to the other side. A fist of loose snow punched into his face, forcing him to close his eyes. When he looked back, he could no longer see Ratsey. The highwayman must have given him up for lost.
He pressed on. The ice groaned and creaked but gradually the buildings on the other side of the river loomed up ahead of him, almost invisible in the darkness. Another wooden jetty reached out, water lapping at its legs. He took another step. The ice cracked. He yelled out and toppled forward, his arms flying out. Somehow his hands caught hold of wood. One leg disappeared into the water, soaking and freezing him all the way up to the thigh. But then he was out, pulling himself up on to the jetty. Behind him, shards of ice closed over the hole he had just made. More snow fell.
But he’d made it. He was safe.
It was night-time before Tom got back to the ship where the Garden Players were housed. It had taken him two hours to get there, partly because he was cold and exhausted, partly because he had been afraid of bumping into Ratsey. Although it was Christmas Day, the night watchmen were still out. Once he glimpsed a figure carrying a lantern and with a staff resting on his shoulder and he heard the familiar cry:
Eight o’clock, look well to your locks, your fire and your light. God give you goodnight.
The night still held one final surprise.
Tom had just got back to Bermondsey and was approaching the ship when he saw a man coming down the gangplank. The man came close to him and although he didn’t see Tom, Tom recognized him by the monk’s hood and robe he was wearing. It was the man with the scar, the one that Dr Mobius had called Sir Richard. The man hurried off into the night. Tom waited until he had gone, then walked over to the gangplank and went up on to the ship.
He had hoped to make it to the cabin without being seen, but he had barely moved before a door opened and Dr Mobius appeared, climbing up from below.
“Tom…?” Dr Mobius had a glass of wine in one hand, a pipe in the other. His cabin was lit by the soft yellow glow of a candle. He stepped out on to the deck.
“I have some good news for you!” Mobius stretched out a hand, his rings glinting in the candlelight. He laid it gently on Tom’s head, stroking his hair. “We are going to perform The Devil and his Boy in three days’ time.”
“That’s wonderful,” Tom said.
“It is better than you think, my dear friend. We have been greatly honoured. Yes, indeed, it is an honour. The performance is to take place in the Palace of Whitehall.”
“A palace?” Tom’s mind was beginning to spin, but there was more to come.
“Yes, Tom.” His lips curled in a slow smile and something brighter than candlelight gleamed in his eyes. “In Whitehall Palace. And we’ll be performing in front of the Qu
een.”
first night nerves
The next three days were a whirlwind of activity. There were still lines to be learned, movements to be discussed, fights to be choreographed and costumes to be sewn. And then there were the props and scenery. Like most plays, The Devil and his Boy didn’t need much scenery – the audience was expected to imagine it. But there were a lot of props and it was one of these that led to a strange and unpleasant incident.
The prop was a pitchfork.
Tom was rehearsing on the deck in the cold morning sunlight. The entire cast was there, some of them acting, the rest sewing or painting. Florian, he noticed, was looking very downcast. In fact, the older boy had barely spoken a word to him since the night of the warning. However, he noticed Florian glance upwards sharply as Dr Mobius appeared from his cabin, carrying two pitchforks.
“This is for you, Tom,” Dr Mobius said, handing him one. “When you disguise yourself as a devil, this is what you must carry. Please handle it with great care.”
The pitchfork was about two metres long and taking it, Tom was surprised by its weight. Examining it, he soon knew why it was so heavy. The actual prongs themselves were only wood but the length of the pitchfork was a hollow metal tube – if it hadn’t been for the prongs, glued to the top, Tom would have been able to look right through it. There was one other slightly strange thing. At the end of the tube, on the inside, some sort of line had been cut. Tom ran his thumb over it, feeling the sharp metal edge pressing into his flesh. Obviously the metal tube had been used for something before it had been turned into a fork. But why hadn’t Dr Mobius used a broom handle or even a roll of paper? It would have been lighter and easier to handle.