Instead of strapping the britches beneath her boots, she pulled her boots on over them, and then braided her hair tightly. She pinned the braids on top of her head and crammed the boy’s greasy cap over them. Without a mirror, she had no idea whether she’d created an image that would pass muster in the streets of Rotterdam, but Phoebe was fairly certain no one would mistake her for Lady Granville, whatever else she might look like.
She felt both sick and hungry and as an afterthought swallowed a few spoonsful of breakfast porridge, hoping to settle her stomach. The she tackled the cabin door. It flew open with a shove from her shoulder, and she stepped out into the passage.
She had to find Brian and follow him. It seemed the most sensible course, rather than heading off blindly in search of the Black Tulip, where she might miss Cato. If she kept Brian in her sights, she was certain he would lead her to Cato. Surely then there would be an opportunity to warn Cato before Brian sprang any unwelcome surprises.
Phoebe climbed the companionway and emerged on deck trying to maintain the air of one who had every right to be where she was and who knew exactly what she was doing. But she needn’t have worried. No one had time to notice her. The deck was abustle as the cargo was unloaded from the hold onto wagons waiting on the quay, patient horses in the traces blowing steamy breaths in the early morning air. It was warming up quickly, though, as the sun climbed higher, promising a lovely spring day.
She glanced up at the quarterdeck, but there was no sign of the captain or the quartermaster, although the bosun was directing operations from the shore.
There was a secondary gangplank at the rear of the ship, and Phoebe headed to the far side of the ship, intending to approach the gangplank from the back. Two sailors on their knees were scrubbing the decking with the great holystones they called bibles. Phoebe slipped past them, and they didn’t so much as look up as the unremarkable pair of boots stepped delicately over their newly cleaned decking.
Phoebe jumped down the gangplank to the harbor and felt immediately more secure. No one would stop her now. Purposefully she approached the red-brick building. All around her she heard a harsh guttural tongue that increased her sense of unreality. Did Brian speak Flemish? Did Cato? Curiously the question had never occurred to her before.
The door that Brian had entered was ajar. Was he still inside? She hadn’t been able to keep the building under observation the whole time, so he could have left already. In which case she’d just have to find the Black Tulip.
Phoebe hesitated for only a second before she edged through the half-open door and into a dim square room lined with bales and crates. It was a warehouse of sorts, lit only by a couple of small unglazed windows high up on the walls.
She pressed herself against the stone wall and listened, ears straining to catch the slightest sound. Then she heard it. The low murmur of voices from the far side of the warehouse.
She couldn’t distinguish any words at this distance and cautiously slid around the wall until she could dart behind a pile of bales. It was like being in a maze, she discovered. She could thread her way across the floor, concealed by bales and cartons, using the sound of voices as a compass.
The voices became more distinct and now she could distinguish Brian Morse’s nasal tones. He seemed to be arguing about something. But he was speaking in English.
Phoebe stopped when she was as close as she dared, and quivered behind a bale of striped cotton ticking, barely daring to breathe. A mouse skittered across the straw-strewn floor at her feet, and she barely suppressed a startled cry.
“I want four men onto it,” Brian said. “I know this man, I tell you.”
“We got t’other agents with Johannes and Karl,” his interlocutor said, his voice thickly accented. “They’re good.”
“But not good enough to get Strickland as well,” Brian snapped. “This time we get Strickland as well as the agent. And there’ll be no mistakes.”
The other man only grunted and Brian continued in clipped and decisive tones, “You don’t know our quarry, my friend. Granville is as wily as they come. Get Pieter and you join us yourself.”
“Let’s see the color of your money.”
“There’ll be ten guilders for you, I told you!” Brian’s voice rose a notch. “You pay the men what you want and keep the rest for yourself. I’ll be asking no questions.”
“Let’s see your purse” was the implacable response.
“It’s on the ship. You don’t think I’d be fool enough to go on such an errand with that kind of money on my person?” Brian demanded angrily.
“Fifteen guilders, and half now, half when we’re done,” the other man said after a minute. “You fetch the money and I’ll send for the others.”
Phoebe could hear Brian’s noisy breathing as he wrestled with this expanded demand.
“Twelve,” he said finally. “Six now, six later.”
There was a short silence, then the other man grunted again and said, “Be back here in an hour.”
Brian turned on his heel, his boot grating on the stone floor, and strode from the building.
Phoebe settled down to wait.
Brian cursed as he returned to the sloop that had brought him in pursuit of his stepfather, but the vile mutter was more for form’s sake then from genuine annoyance. Twelve guilders was more money than he’d intended to pay, but it was worth it to achieve such a coup. The ever troublesome Walter Strickland eliminated; Cato dead, his stepson’s inheritance secured; the certain accolades of the king… Oh, yes, it would be worth it.
He glanced at the White Lady as he hurried up the gangplank of his own vessel. Where was Phoebe? He’d watched her dart on board at Harwich. Had she stayed? Was she even now below decks on the graceful three-masted schooner?
He’d find out later, once he had Cato spitted on the point of a sword. It would be done before nightfall. It was as certain as the sunset.
His hard little eyes narrowed as he counted coins out of his purse and dropped them into his britches pocket.
No, all in all, for twelve guilders the job was not overpriced. He hurried back to the warehouse.
Phoebe was still crouched behind the bale of ticking when Brian returned. In his absence three other men had arrived, but they were talking incomprehensibly in Flemish. From the tone it seemed as if the discussion was on occasion acrimonious, but the language was so harsh and strange that she couldn’t be sure whether she was interpreting the tone correctly.
“Is everyone here?” Brian spoke as he crossed the floor towards the group. “Good.” He shook hands with the newcomers before saying brusquely, “Granville will have gone first to the Black Tulip to try to get news of Strickland…”
“Strickland’s there already,” one of the men said.
Brian spun around on him. “How do you know, Pieter? The man hasn’t been seen in three months.”
Pieter shrugged. “He’s come out of hiding, then. He’s shown himself at the Black Tulip, according to my source.”
“Who’s reliable?” Brian snapped the question. It was received in sardonic silence that carried its own answer.
Brian controlled his anger. His companions were hired assassins who operated according to their own rules. If they decided they didn’t like him, or the job, they’d drop both without compunction. And he needed them. He needed to be able to trust them to watch his back. Their loyalty was given in direct proportion to its financial worth, and he considered he’d paid over the odds for it, but he still couldn’t risk antagonizing them.
“So presumably Strickland has some information to impart,” Brian mused as if the previous awkwardness had not occurred. “Important enough to let himself be seen by anyone on the watch for him.”