 Lamplight Audiobooks Presents Pleasing Mr. Peeps by Deborah Swift Narrated by Sarah Borges Act 1 1667 Chapter 1 September A metallic rattle, the key in the lock. Abigail Williams stiffened her spine as the draft from the downstairs door and the stink of the Fleet River blew round her ankles. Harrington closed the door and she heard him scratch the flint to light the wall sconces, lighting up time already. It had been daylight when she had broken into the house. With one hand she held her skirt closer to her thighs. With the other she gripped the flat-bladed knife, a small weapon, but the edge sharpened razor-thin. She pressed back against the wall behind the door as the light from the hall flickered across her kidskin shoes. Harrington's footsteps lumbered up the stairs, his breathing laboured. She tightened her hold on the knife, preparing herself. These breaths would be his last. She found death harder to bear than she used to, now she had seen so much suffering. Plague ears, the fire. Oddly Harrington paused on the threshold of the room, as if he could sense her waiting presence. Through the crack of the open door she saw him standing motionless, his steeple hat a silhouette in the wavering light, his head cocked, listening. He was an old hand, like her. She repressed a flash of compassion, the foolish urge to call out, to warn him. But then his dark back came through the door and he stepped in front of her, and without even thinking she moved like quicksilver. The knife slid easily across the side of his neck. With the other hand she pushed as hard as she could. She tried to turn, but it was too late. He was already falling, clutching his collar, blood slippery over his hands, hat rolling away under the table. Experience told Abigail it was enough. She ran, hoisting up her skirts, down the stairs, flinging the front door open, out into the cramped back alley. Nobody followed her. The passage to Fleet Street was empty. A brownish bog wreathed around her hem. When she finally slowed she took a rag from inside her sleeve and wiped her blade, wrapped it, and stowed it in the pocket hanging next to her petticoats. She had put a hand up to the bare skin at her chest, feeling the hot rise and fall of her breastbone. She emerged onto the main thoroughfare where the houses were lit with torches and walked, heart thudding, down towards the king's playhouse. Looking at the theatre, she saw Lord Bruchner's carriages where he had left it.