Few watermen worked at night; there was enough business to keep some afloat till midnight, but not many. Toby knew he must be patient, yet it was hard. He watched, frustrated, as bow lanterns appeared feeble to his right, grew brighter, then shot past toward the city. The boats carried the late traffic from Whitehall, yet none of their passengers seemed to want to alight at the Temple Stairs. Finally an empty boat appeared and Toby stepped into the stern. “Do you know Scammell’s yard?”

“’Cos I know Scammell’s yard. Where do you think the boats come from?” The oarsman spoke truculently, still leaning on his oar.

“I wish to go there.” Toby tried to contain his patience.

“At night, sir? At night!” The man laughed at him, then turned round to his fellow waterman. “Hear that, Jake? Genn’l’man wants to go to Scammell’s yard at night!”

The bow man grinned in the light of the torch. The first man looked back at Toby. “Can’t do it, lad, can I? It’s dangerous down there at night. Damned great pilings in the river, rotten they are, they’ll have the bottom out of this sooner than you can pay me. No, sir, not at night. I’ll land you at the stairs, that’s different. What do you want? Paul’s or the Bridge?”

Neither would do. Toby had reasoned, hiding in Mrs. Swan’s parlor, that Scammell’s yard would be closed up at night, the easiest ingress being from the river. He leaned forward, smiling. “I wish to lighten your darkness.” Toby took out a gold coin that he had borrowed from Campion’s hoard. “I wish to be landed at Scammell’s yard.”

The stroke oar looked at the coin, then at Toby. “One each?”

“This is all I have.”

“Might be done. We can have a try.” He grinned. “Very good, sir, we’ll see how much light you can throw on our path.” He nodded, a signal to his companion, and at last the boat left the treacherous flame-light of the stairs.

The oars moved in to dark water and turned the boat, the current helping them downstream. Yet Toby knew he was late. The oars’ rhythmic beat seemed to sound the endless message. Too late, too late, too late.

Eleven

Thomas Grimmett waited for Scammell in the hall. He was grinning. “Priest’s out the back, sir. He’ll be here in a minute.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen whence came the sound of someone being violently sick. Grimmett looked hopefully toward the shut study door. “You want me to help look after her, sir?”

“No, no. She’ll be out soon.” Scammell was shaking, his foot hurting. He wanted to marry Dorcas, yet he had never thought it would be like this. He did not like it, yet he was much too frightened of Cony’s big henchman to protest. He waved toward his dining room. “I’ll wait in there.”

“Yes, sir. You do.” Grimmett might call Scammell “sir,” but he made no attempt to hide his scorn for the plump, frightened man.