Fly by Night (32 page)

‘Go on, then.’ He looked expectantly at Mosca, and she found she could not speak. Not that it mattered much, for Clent was uncurling the coloured ribbons of his story before she could draw breath.

‘Perhaps you are unaware of it, but a week ago this child was the Undoing of a Wild and Notorious Radical, known as Hopewood Pertellis. It was she who first reported him to the Stationers, having witnessed him presiding over the Infamous Floating School, where he cast Seeds of Evil into minds as pink and innocent as baby clams. It was she who informed them where they might find his Forbidden Books of Infamy. For you see, this man Pertellis—’

‘I know about Pertellis.’ The constable’s face did not look so tired now. He had an alert look as if he had glimpsed something round and white inside his oyster.

‘Very well, then. Overcoming the fluttering frailty and fears which belong to her sex, this intrepid young woman followed the Dissident through the dark and winding dockside alleys. And by the very waterside she saw Pertellis meet in a sly and sleekish manner with the captain of our river barge, and saw him offer him a purse of money, and depart with him. Clearly Partridge had some clandestine dealings with Pertellis . . . and perhaps he found out too much for the Vile Radical Conspiracy to let him live.’

‘Did she mention none of this before?’ The constable’s tone was sharp, but he seemed excited, not angry.

‘Oh, she did,’ Clent answered quickly. ‘But of course we were all far too interested in the Floating School to pay the rest of her story any mind, and for myself I had entirely forgotten it until she reminded me. She even went back to the captain’s barge herself the next day, so determined was she to uncover all evil doings, but he was not there.’

‘Is all this true?’ The constable looked directly at Mosca, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully, to show that he expected a response from her and not from Clent. Heat washed upwards from the base of Mosca’s spine to the tops of her unconvincing eyebrows.

She nodded just once, and the deed was done.

‘Then that’s a tale to gladden my heart indeed.’ The constable’s battered face relaxed into a smile. ‘You’ll sit and have a tot of Kill-grief? Wait . . .’ He left the room, returning a moment later with a jug and three pots. ‘The girl will have to identify him now, of course, and again in the trial, but it sounds like she has the right sort of mettle, so I don’t think she’ll faint at the task.’ His eye was far friendlier now when it fell upon her, and his voice was warmer and more confidential. ‘You cannot imagine the trouble we’ve had since we clapped the darbies on Pertellis. So many people seem to see him as some kind of hero, and we get stones thrown at the door of the watch house, or rotten eggs flung at the windows of our homes. And poor folks come by the jail with money they should be using to feed their families, and beg us to use it to make Pertellis a bit more comfortable. It boils me up inside. But once everyone knows he’s a murderer . . . well, no one will see him as a hero then, will they? No one will care if he lives or dies.’

Mosca took the offered pot, and sipped carefully. The gin stole the feeling from her tongue, and left the inside of her nose feeling stripped and cold.

The door opened and three petty constables in Duke’s colours entered, supporting a fourth man between them.

The blue-lensed spectacles were long gone, and every button had been pulled from his jacket. He was wigless and his brown hair had curled and matted itself into ingenious shapes. A chain linked the manacles around his ankles, and his arms were fastened behind his back. Red-rimmed, sleepless eyes winced at the dim light of the little room as if it were blazing sunlight. His clothes smelt of damp straw and despair.

‘Pertellis, do you know who is speaking to you?’ The constable asked coldly.

‘Yes, I think so.’ Pertellis’s face was dazed and deathly white, and he spoke stumblingly. ‘I’m terribly sorry but I . . . can’t remember your name. I’m not myself right now.’

‘You’re not likely to be yourself much longer, or anything else for that matter,’ muttered the constable with grim humour, and he walked over to stand before the manacled attorney. ‘We know all about the barge captain now.’ The constable bristled as Pertellis gave a short, mournful breath of a laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I lose track of all the things I’m supposed to have done. Everyone tells me that I’ve been running an illegal printing press, and I’m very much afraid I haven’t. And all week people have told me that I’m the leader of a radical plot against the Twin Queens, and I’m really not, you know. And this morning someone ran in to tell me that I’ve been melting down religious statues to make bullets. Which is quite a clever idea, but I never thought of it.’

‘Pity you didn’t think of a better way of getting rid of poor Partridge than throwing him in the river,’ remarked the constable drily.

Pertellis’s eyebrows drew up as he peered intently at the constable’s middle button. He seemed to listen for a few more seconds, as if the constable’s words were still echoing in his ears.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said at last, ‘but am I supposed to have killed someone?’

‘That won’t wash with me,’ the constable muttered through his teeth. ‘That pious act of yours may fool good and simple people into thinking that you’re some saint acting for the greater good, but you don’t kid me. I’m not some wide-eyed child you can fill with hell-skate ideas about equality and overthrowing rulers . . . poisoning their innocent minds . . .’

‘You have children,’ Pertellis said suddenly, his eyes widening.

‘How do you know?’ The constable sounded frightened and suspicious.

‘I’ve only just guessed. You worry for your children, and so of course you hate me.’ Hopewood Pertellis looked up at the constable, and attempted a smile. ‘How old are they?’

The constable did not answer. To tell the truth, he looked a little afraid, as if answering the question might give Pertellis the power to flit away from the jail like a genie and steal his children.

‘You were seen,’ he declared in a steely tone, ‘meeting with the said Halk Partridge, speaking with him, paying him a sum of money and walking away in conversation with him, after which time the said Halk Partridge was never seen alive again.’

‘Who says so?’ Pertellis looked simply perplexed.

It doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter he’s going to be hanged anyway and there’s nothing I can do about it
. . . Mosca was guided forward by the constable, in a kind but firm manner.
It’s too late now anyway because I nodded when they asked and it’s done, and now I don’t have any choice
. . .

Pertellis peered at Mosca as she stepped forward unwillingly, and a sad dawn of realization swept across his face as he recognized her. She stared back, her eyes wide and helpless with misery.

‘There now, child.’ Clent’s voice, warm and confident. ‘He’s manacled, he won’t harm you.’

‘Are you willing to swear on your oath that this was the man you saw? A nod will do.’ The constable’s voice, calmer now.

Pertellis gave her a faint smile that was sad but kind, almost encouraging.
It’s all right
, said the smile.
It’s all right
.
I know you have no choice
.

Mosca suddenly realized that she did have a choice.

‘No! You can’t make me say it, Mr Clent! It’s none of it true, an’ you can’t make me say it!’ Mosca’s voice, which had been trapped in her chest for hours, suddenly erupted, as shrill and unstoppable as steam from a kettle. ‘Every time I do what you say I tumble a bit further down this well of darkness, an’ this here is a drop too deep an’ too dark for me. I have to stop falling while I can still see a bit of the sky. Mr Pertellis never killed Mr Partridge. It was Mr Clent – I found him bendin’ over the body back at our rooms, puttin’ it into the old clothes chest. He told me to help him put the body in the river an’ I did, cos I knew he was a murderer an’ he would kill me if I didn’t, an’ I’ll swear to
that
if you need me to.’ The details of the dreadful night rushed out of her in a shrill torrent, and there was no stopping them.

Clent answered her flashing gaze with a look of utter shock. Behind his eyes stars were falling.

‘Beloved above,’ the constable muttered in disgust. ‘All right, take Mr Pertellis back to his cell – and throw this one into the condemned hold as well, until we can sort out a trial.’

Clent allowed himself to be led away, staring down at his hands as if they held the broken pieces of his perfect story.

‘And as for the girl . . . just get her out of my sight.’

Mosca found her own way to the door, and she ran until the river’s edge stopped her. A sharp wind was blowing from the distant sea, and she stood and heaved it into her lungs. She felt as if she had forgotten to breathe for a week, and had only just remembered how to do it.

P is for Prison

What now?

High above Mosca’s head, a small kite broke free. The larger, older kites tugged and trembled on their leashes, but they understood that if they did not go where they were pulled, their story would be one long fall with a soggy ending. The little kite only knew that it could not bear the wires any more. Now it was a bird with harlequin plumage rising to steal ribbons of blue from the sky.

Seeing a pale, thin girl squatting on a jetty, observers would not have guessed that Mosca’s soul was rising to do battle with the clouds. Her mind was cold and in a place full of dazzling and terrible perspectives, but it was free. She had been sleepwalking, letting Clent lead her every step, and now she could do whatever she liked. She was dabbling her feet in the icy water of the river to prove it.

What now? Staying alive seemed to be the most important thing for the moment. She would deal with everything else later. Mosca’s feet were wrinkled, and she was not sure how long she had been sitting there. She pulled them out of the water, and scrabbled for her stockings and shoes.

Word of what had happened would reach the marriage house before long, she suspected. Mosca had to get there before Word did, or her version of events would be lost. But the truth seemed to have rushed out of her too fast and washed away her strength. Her legs wobbled as she clambered to her feet.

Three men were lounging by the watch house, one whittling a spoon, two playing at cards. When a constable left the watch house, they abandoned these pastimes and trotted alongside him, like dogs flanking a chef with a joint. They caught at his sleeve and he relented, tossing them a few sentences like scraps. They looked sharply at one another, clapped the constable on the back, and then sprinted to the jetty.

The Word was already on the move, and it was not weak like Mosca, it was keen and as strong as a deer-hound.

Mosca began to run, but the three news-carriers were faster. One piled into a waiting scull and began plying his oars. Another ran to the nearest alehouse, which a moment later spewed out a dozen urchins, all with excited, purposeful faces. The third sprinted to the perilous edge of the jetty, where a coffeehouse was just pulling away, and cupped his hands around his mouth.

‘Ahoy and Hear Me – The Murderer of Whickerback Point is Uncovered, the Duke’s Men have arrested Mr Pennymouse Clent, for his bloody slaughter of a Riverboat Radical . . .’

The door of the coffeehouse swung wide, and a gentleman with a tight little bob wig appeared in the gap, steadying himself against the jamb to stop himself tumbling forward into the water. He tossed a pouch of coins to the runner, who was already holding up a hand in readiness. Excited voices were raised inside the coffeehouse, and someone started singing something that sounded like an anthem to freedom.

Mosca realized that the news-carrier in the scull had dropped his oars and was standing unsteadily in his boat so that he could call out to the cluster of little boats touching keels around the Sussuratch pillar. His voice was just audible to Mosca as she hitched her skirts and began to run in good earnest.

‘Ahoy and Hear Me – The Body of Whickerback Point Revealed to be a Waterman Spy named Pigeon, Horribly Murdered after Discovering a Reeking Radical Plot . . .’

On the street side a rabbit-featured boy in worn boots flung open the door of the Strangled Bird tavern.

‘News from the watch, word straight from the Justice of the Peace himself,’ he gabbled breathlessly. ‘A Great Radical Plot to Steal Statues from Every Church an’ Melt ’em Down an’ Pour ’em into Everyone’s Ears while they Sleep . . .’ He ducked too slowly to avoid the resultant coin shrapnel hitting him in the face, and had to fight off a swoop of other urchins with an eye to snatching his reward from the mud.