her own vomit. Time had been running out because Parsimony knew that Cogg’s body would be found by someone else soon enough and then all hell would break loose. Put like that, there really had been no decision to make; she’d have to cut Starling free and make a proper deal with her.
When she returned to the chamber where Starling was stretched out, she found that her breath was coming short and fast. The young whore had been struggling against her bindings since Parsimony left and was becoming more and more frantic. Parsimony watched her from the door, knife in hand, and saw the rush of horror in the girl’s eyes.
“Don’t worry, dove, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to set you loose. But I warn you: one wrong move and I’ll fill you full of little holes.”
As Parsimony cut the ropes, Starling closed her eyes, clearly convinced the knife would slide into her flesh at any moment. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Parsimony said at last.
Starling rubbed her wrists, scarcely able to believe she was free. She sat up on the bed, astonished to be alive.
“Well?”
“Thank you, Parsey. I mean it, thank you. I thought you were going to do for me.”
“Would I harm my best girl? Come on, let’s do it. Half and half, you and me.”
“And Alice…”
Parsimony winced at the name. “Dove, I’m really sorry, but your cousin’s done for, drowned in her own puke while she was asleep.” She reached out and touched Starling’s hand. “Honest truth, dove, I’m truly sorry.”
Starling looked at her for a moment. Had she killed Alice? Not that it mattered now; for better or worse they were in this thing together with one less person to share the loot. The thing to learn was never, ever to turn her back on Parsimony Field. Once Parsey had her mucky grasp on the treasure, Starling was sure she would be as good as dead if she didn’t move sharpish.
They spent the day looking for a tenement lodging. They had to get away from the Bel Savage whorehouse; it would be the first place anyone who knew Cogg would look for them and the treasure. Eventually, they found a place across the river in Southwark. It wasn’t much, just a room with a window out onto the street, but it was in one of the better roads where they were less likely to be burgled. Once they had the stuff safely stashed away, they had to sell it. Then they could go their separate ways. But first they had to retrieve the gold and jewels from Starling’s hiding place.
The churchyard behind the ruins of St. Bartholomew the Great was a ghostly place at night. Starling led the way. There were still revelers about in Smith Field, drinking to the death of the Scots Queen, but the celebrations had been going on a long time, so the watchmen had been ordered to clear the streets and impose a curfew. Any drunks found were to be beaten home with clubs; the government wanted no disturbances at this sensitive time when invasion or insurrection were real fears. Starling and Parsimony dodged behind a wall at the northern end of Cock Lane. They stayed there, crouched down with the spades they had bought hours earlier. When the way was clear, they darted across the great six-acre square. They heard the cry of a watchman calling after them but sprinted on regardless until they were safely at the far side by the rubble where the old church’s nave had been pulled down fifty years ago.
“Where now, dove?” Parsimony said, panting.
“Round the back.”
The problem now was to dig up the stuff without being seen. Starling and Alice had buried it in a new-dug grave where the earth was fresh-turned. They had planted it two feet down, probably a couple of feet above the interred corpse. Starling and Parsimony worked by moonlight; they didn’t dare use pitch torches for fear of being spotted by the watch.
The earth was heavy and cloying. They took it in turns to dig. Starling hit an old stone from the demolished church nave and the spade clanged loudly. “Keep it down!” Parsimony whispered. “Do you want to get us strung up?”
“We must be there near enough,” Starling said. “We didn’t bury it too deep.” Suddenly she got down to her knees and scrabbled in the earth with her hands. “Here it is,” she said, grasping hold of the handles of the carpet bag. She yanked hard. “Here, Parsey, we got it.”
Something in the glint of Parsimony’s eye, silvery black in the moonlight, told Starling she had let her guard down again. Just as Parsimony lunged forward, Starling sidestepped, and managed to trip her, flailing, into the cold, damp earth.
Starling dropped the bag and leapt on Parsimony’s back, pushing her head down into the mud as though to suffocate her as, she was sure, Parsimony had choked Alice. It would be a fitting end for her.
But Parsimony was stronger and wrenched Starling off. Thrashing about in the thick, wet clay, they hit each other, tore hair, twisted limbs, and scratched. They fought to the point of exhaustion. Eventually neither could raise another punch and they lay back, panting for breath on the soft ground, side by side, their clothes filthy and torn.
“By God’s little finger, dove, I never thought you had it in you to put up a show like that.”
Nor had Starling known she had the fight in her; she rather wished she had had half as much fight a while back in Strelley when she was being beaten as black as coal by Edward. “It’s my one chance, Parsey, and you’re not taking it off of me.”
As they lay there, gasping, a kind of respect arose between them. More than that, they both began to come to a realization; they really did need each other. It would be impossible to conceal and sell all this stuff alone. Maybe, just maybe, they could work together.
“What about it then, Parsey? Shall we do this thing together? We could even buy a place with this plunder.”
“Go into business together?” Parsimony thought for a moment. “I’ve always wanted my own stew. You seem a likely partner, dove.”
“We could have a palace of a place.”
“Get the gentry coves in. Bit of gaming, too. Be the best place in town. All we need do is find ourselves a good broker and turn this little lot into coin. What a place we will have!”
Starling laughed. “We could call it Queens-because we’d be like a couple of queen bees. You and me, mistresses of the game.”
Parsimony struggled to her feet and brushed herself down as best she could. “Or we could call it The Queen’s Legs-we never close! You know, dove, it’s a shame you didn’t get to know Cogg better. He’d have loved you. You’re just his type, you are. Who was it who killed him? It looked like his eyes had been poked out.”
“It was a horrible man in dark clothes. He had a funny voice. Cold as a Christ-tide frost he was. He had this thin, black-handled skene that he used on poor Cogg. Stabbed him twice as I saw-once in each eye, up to the hilt, into the brain. Kill you as soon as swive you, that one, I reckon.”
Starling was standing now, the carpet bag gripped in her left hand. She looked at it and then, in a moment of trust, held it out for Parsimony to take.
Parsimony took the bag, fished out two gold bars and felt their weight; they dazzled her in the moonlight. Then she put them back in the bag and shook her head. “No. You carry it, dove.”
Starling nodded. “One more thing, Parsey. That killer-after he put his skene through Cogg’s eyes…” She paused, wide-eyed, remembering. “He crossed himself like a fucking priest.”
Chapter 19
Walking along Deptford Strand among the bustle of sailors, sailmakers, carpenters, shipwrights, and whores, no one would have noticed Miles Herrick in his workmen’s jerkin with the tools of his trade slung in a bag over his shoulder.
It was a crisp, bright February day, almost springlike. The last of the snow had melted or been washed away by the rain, and suddenly there was a new fire in men’s bellies. The world seemed brave and worth getting out of bed for. Herrick looked around him and examined the houses and shops that fronted the riverbank. His eye fixed on a chandlery, an ancient, leaning building of three stories with small windows. A sign outside said Room to let. That
