The Thief Taker (27 page)

Chapter Fifty-Seven

As the docks came into full view Charlie froze. Behind him he heard Maria suppress a little gasp.

The docks they had seen in the daytime were empty. All
abandoned
.

Now the thick stretch of water was covered in row-boats. There were over ten of them, their storm lanterns scattered in the dark like winking yellow eyes.

On the waterfront heavyset men were hauling loads from the boats into a single enormous wagon.

They had guessed right. Somebody was importing here. It must be Malvern.

‘He brings in bodies?’ whispered Maria, staring at the cargo. Charlie nodded. The cargo looked to be corpses, wrapped tightly in linen winding sheets.

‘We must get out of sight,’ he muttered. Charlie cast about for a hiding place and settled on an abandoned skiff by the side of the harbour.

‘Behind here,’ he said, pulling her by the arm.

Maria followed and they were quickly out of view.

Through the sails of the skiff Charlie let his eyes run over the operation.

The men doing the loading were a thick-skinned, tough-looking crew, and Charlie identified them immediately as professional smugglers. Most had the kinds of injuries which resulted from a lifetime’s fighting on the high seas away from any hope of medical treatment.

Limbs had been replaced with everything from spade handles to broken oars. Many had the open ulcers of scurvy.

Charlie’s heart was beating so hard he wondered that they couldn’t hear him. Smugglers were the kind of men who drowned each other for sport.

He took in the shape of the row-boats, trying to gain a clue as to where they might be from. Tax evaders shipped whisky from Scotland and wool from Yorkshire as well as luxuries like lace, wine and sugar from all over the globe. Trafficking routes were well established to every country in the colony and pirates would import
anything
for the right price.

‘Malvern!’ a rough sailor’s voice shouted up the docks.

Charlie stared in disbelief. Walking in amongst the men was a monster. There was no other word for it. The huge shape was swathed in thick canvas, with a long beak jutting down.

As it strode the docks a shaft of moonlight made a ghostly pattern on the head and, rather than revealing some gruesome spectre, Charlie saw it to be a man in a plague-doctor costume.

Malvern
.
So this was him. The man who had murdered Maria’s sister, fitted out in his killer’s disguise.

The size of him gave the shape an extra bestial quality. He was enormous – easily as large as three of his burly smugglers – and the effect of the huge figure beneath the thick canvas was grotesque. Its crystal eyes winked in the moonlight making it impossible to tell in which direction the figure was staring but giving the impression it could see everywhere.

‘We have to leave,’ Charlie whispered to Maria. ‘These men will kill us if they see us. And we have seen all we might.’

Maria nodded, her face ghostly pale in the moonlight. Slowly they crept back from the skiff and slipped quickly into the streets which ran behind the harbour.

‘We should go to where Bitey stays and hide there,’ said
Charlie
. ‘Then we might put together some kind of plan to see Malvern
captured
.’

They were already on the street where Bitey had made his abode.

Charlie felt a sudden pain and his hand went to his collarbone.

A line of blood ran down it. Someone had thrown a stone or a
missile.

He looked about in confusion and too late saw Bitey signalling from the second storey stable-block.

Then the road crowded in with men bearing torches and
pistols
.

‘Remember me?’ asked the buck-toothed man. Beside him the other constables moved closer.

Charlie felt Maria stiffen.

‘You are accused of being witches,’ said the constable. ‘And for the murder of an innocent girl. So we are here to take you to the prison so you might stand trial.’

‘We have done nothing wrong,’ said Charlie evenly, looking at the constable. ‘You waste time imprisoning us. For the real murderer goes free.’

The constable pointed the pistol.

‘We will discover if you are innocent or no soon enough,’ he said. ‘Country trials are not the same as those in the City. They are a great deal faster.’

‘But how will you assemble a judge in plague times?’ asked Maria in confusion.

‘Our judge lives in Wapping prison,’ said the constable, with an evil grin. ‘In this town we believe in the old ways of trialling suspects.’

The men crowded in on them, and Charlie realised what the constable meant.

In London justice was of a more modern kind. But before judges and courts, innocence had been determined by ordeal.
Convicts
were tied up and dropped into rivers, had fatal wounds administered, or were made to drink lethal poison.

If the suspect lived then it was deemed that God had intervened and shown their innocence. But no one ever survived the trials.

‘We will take you to Wapping prison,’ said the constable, ‘and there you will both meet your trial by Ordeal.’

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Charlie struggled as men grabbed his arms. He heard Maria shrieking in protest of her innocence.

Then they were dragged forward by their bound wrists, towards the part of town which held Wapping prison.

‘We are innocent!’ insisted Maria.

‘We will find that out soon enough,’ said the constable. ‘A poor girl has burned and you will both meet the same fate.’

Charlie assessed their surroundings and the number of captors. Now was not the time to try for escape, he decided. The men held loaded pistols, and he guessed they would not hesitate to use them. And even if he could struggle free and run, he couldn’t leave Maria.

He felt rather than saw Maria’s fear build as they approached Wapping prison.

Dawn was breaking and the heavy stone walls of the building inched into view.

They were quiet, contemplating the approach.

‘Do you think they mean to burn us?’ whispered Maria in a quavering voice.

‘Maybe they will find our innocence before they make us stand trial,’ said Charlie.

Maria clamped her mouth shut and stared straight ahead. There were tears in her eyes.

Charlie thought back to what he knew.

The murdered girl had been burned, according to the constable.

This was fire then. The third. He had assumed that the killing would stop outside London. It still didn’t make sense to him. Malvern the avenging soldier was high-born, scheming and clever. Malvern as a witch-killer . . . . His actions were illogical and
peasant
-like. Something didn’t fit.

Today was the day when Malvern’s plan was due for fruition. Had he already planned for a fourth girl to die? A water death, to complete his master spell?

The guard waved them forward into the prison.

Thick walls were joined by a heavy wooden door. Inside was cold and a set of steps led downwards. The guard gestured they should descend.

And as they were led down further below ground the air took on an oozing damp which seemed to catch at the lungs immediately. Maria began coughing violently, and Charlie remembered her laboured breathing on the road to Wapping. He wondered how much she had been hiding her ill-health, brought on by the
dysentery
.

They reached the bottom of the slippery spiral staircase and the guard led them along the length of corridor. Impossibly thick stone walls encased them on every side and iron grille as thick as a man’s arm enclosed the various cells.

At the end stood a dank open cell. In it were some thirty prisoners, standing or sitting dejectedly on the straw-strewn floor.

One man lay apart from the others, bearing unmistakable marks. He was in the dying stages of the plague. Even in the gloom Charlie could make out the distension at the neck. Plague buboils had stretched the skin obscenely taut, where it throbbed tight and shiny over deep swellings of hardening blood.

The shirt had been torn away to expose the map of infection across his tortured body. A network of bruises and raised claret-coloured veins twisted out from his armpits in heavy raised blisters and down to his groin in a web of black and green.

Maria froze and backed into the guard behind her.

‘You cannot make us go in there!’ she cried. ‘It is certain death! That man has the plague. Where is your pest house?’

‘This is the pest house,’ said the guard. ‘We are overrun with plague.’

‘We have not been convicted of any crime!’ said Maria. ‘And you condemn us to death.’

‘There is a barrel of plague water in there,’ said the guard, as he threw them into the cell and closed the bars behind them. ‘The constable will be along to begin your trial,’ he added, pressing his face at the iron bars to deliver the news.

Maria flung herself at the door as the guard exited and began shouting their innocence. Then having assured herself he had left she leaned back against the bars, her face wrenched into an expression of hopelessness.

‘We will stay back here against the bars,’ said Charlie, putting an arm around her waist. ‘As far back from the others as possible.’

He looked out at the dying man and the other prisoners, and then back at Maria.

Her usually tidy hair was in disarray and her dress was ripped at the collar where the guards had dragged her into the prison. Charlie had never seen Maria look so utterly defeated.

‘Come,’ he said, moving his hand to the fabric. ‘Here is torn. Let me see if I can reattach it. There. Now you may face the guards in your usual style.’

He looked up at her with a smile, but something in her sad face made his stop, with his hand rested on her collarbone.

‘It will be alright Maria,’ he said. ‘I will get you out of here.’

Her lips were on his suddenly, and he was kissing her back, pushing against the weight of her feeling. Steadying himself he caught her up in his arms. And for a long moment they were lost in one another, their surroundings fading away.

‘I am sorry Charlie.’ Maria pulled back, staring into his eyes.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘I wanted you. Back in that field. And my foolish thoughts of marriage stopped me. Now we are doomed to die and I will regret my pride forever.’

‘Shhh,’ he kissed her mouth. ‘You must not talk that way. We will not die in here, I promise you.’

She looked so sad that he could almost feel his heart breaking.

‘I swear it to you Maria,’ he repeated, making his voice hard with conviction.

‘They are going to burn us alive.’ Her voice was barely a
whisper
.

‘Look into my eyes.’ Charlie took her chin in his hand. ‘I will never let any harm come to you. Look at me. Do you believe
it now?’

She blinked, swallowed and then nodded slowly.

‘I do.’

‘We shall escape it, Maria. And when we do, I shall hold you to that guinea you owe me.’

She laughed weakly, and Charlie smiled back. But in his heart he could think of no way they might evade the dreadful fate which awaited them.

A jangle of keys alerted them to the sudden presence of the guard. He had returned with the constable.

Reluctantly Charlie and Maria drew apart to face their fate.

‘We must try you one at a time,’ announced the constable as he drew back the bars. His eyes rested on Maria. ‘She was asking about spells and the like. Her guilt should be determined first.’

Charlie’s arms went around Maria. ‘I shall go first,’ he said. ‘It is not right a woman should be tried,’ he added, releasing her reluctantly and stepping forward.

‘No Charlie!’ Maria’s eyes had filled with tears. She grabbed at his hand.

‘I will be back soon Maria,’ he said, with a half smile. ‘And when I return they will know my innocence and you will not need to be tried.’

Maria’s hand gripped his tightly. Then the constable and the guard grabbed hold of Charlie and manhandled him out of the cell.

‘You are good men, I know it,’ he said, as they tugged him down further into the prison. ‘Let her go, I beg you. She is innocent and has money to pay for your kindness besides.’

The constable gave Charlie a rough shove.

‘My Lilieth was murdered,’ he said. ‘And you will both burn.’

Chapter Fifty-Nine

‘We reserve a special cell for our trials,’ said the constable. ‘It is not so fancy as London courts, but we find it serves our purpose.’

Charlie let the words buzz in his head, keeping his attention on the construction of the prison and possibilities of escape.

The corridor was dark, narrow and damp. It wound around away from the other cells and ended in a single thick doorway.

The constable moved ahead and unlocked the door with a thick set of keys. It opened an inch on ancient hinges, and the constable shouldered his weight against it.

Slowly the room beyond was revealed. A single torch burned, flickering on stone walls glinting with slippery mould.

In the centre of the room, like a monstrous metal bed, was the place where Charlie realised his trial would take place.

A large metal plate had been roughly shaped into the limbs of a man. But the space where the head should rest was unfinished, leaving a hole.

At the feet and wrists were thick metal manacles. And under
neath the bed was a space for a brazier, already filled with fr
esh wood.

Charlie let out a slow breath, taking it all in.

The guard pushed him forward, and he stepped into the room.

It stank of burned flesh.

‘Be quick about it,’ said the constable. ‘Get him in and the manacles on.’

‘You’re very quiet,’ he added, as they pulled Charlie onto the metal plate and began binding his wrists. ‘Usually they are all screaming and crying by now.’

Charlie let his wrists feel out the manacles and angled his hands so they might be secured more loosely. But the guard tugged them so tight they cut away the circulation to his hands.

The constable strapped down his feet. Charlie let them lie still, but he thought they might not be so firmly bound as his hands. He let the idea float like a little firefly of warmth in the cold tumult of his mind.

‘The wood begins to burn by your feet,’ explained the con
stable. ‘So you might start to say your prayers when you feel
it warm there. Then the flames will catch along your body,’ he continued. ‘When they reach your head there is a hole there, as you can feel.’ The constable turned to include the guard in the conversation.

‘If you are guilty then the fire will quickly burn away all your hair. And then your brains will be slowly cooked in your skull.’

He leaned closer to meet Charlie’s eyes. ‘If you killed my Lilieth then this is a merciful death for you. For you will be dead in a few hours or less. Though you will feel pain like none other on earth.’

‘And if I am innocent?’ asked Charlie, his voice steady.

‘Then God will intervene,’ said the constable. ‘And we will come back here and find you alive, with no burns upon your body.’

The constable stood up and unhooked the burning torch from its holding. Then he bent and lowered it.

There was a crackling sound as the wood caught, and flames plumed up with smoke. Charlie felt the first warmth at his feet.

‘We will return soon,’ said the constable.

He stooped to dip his tankard in a barrel of plague water by the entrance to the cell and took a long sip. ‘And if you are guilty I hope to God you suffer with your trial.’

The door creaked shut and Charlie was left alone with the growing heat.

He twisted in the manacles and pressed all his strength into tugging his hands and feet free.

He had already begun to lose sensation in his hands, and pulsing pain was juddering through his fingertips where the bonds had been made tight.

His feet had been bound tighter than he initially hoped. He kicked and pulled, but they held firm.

He could feel the fire building now. His face and body had
broken
out in a sweat, and the heat under his feet and calves had grown from a gentle warmth to a strong heat.

Charlie turned his legs as far as they would move in the bonds, to move the heat to a different stretch of skin.

The fire was building fast now, and it was only a few seconds before the newly exposed part of his leg became unbearably hot.

His eyes swept the walls of the cell for some way to escape. The stone walls looked mercifully cool in their glinting damp. But there was nothing to help him get free.

The fire had reached his middle torso now, and the pain was becoming unbearable. He felt a stretch of blisters bubble out along his spine and gritted his teeth to stop from shouting aloud.

There was a scrabbling sound in the corner of the cell. Rats. Charlie felt himself wondering hazily whether they might eat his remains.

He shook his head, trying to bring himself back to logical thoughts.

The manacles were his only hope. Again he began twisting and pulling. But his hands were now burning in their own fire of blood loss, and the pain of pulling them was almost as bad as the fire beneath him.

Ignoring the pain, he dug in and pulled. He thought he felt the skin drag a fraction and then it stopped hard against the metal restraints.

Charlie felt a sweep of heat flare against his shoulder blades and knew it could not be long before the fire reached his head.

His feet and legs were blazing in a world of agony. Moving them even fractionally wafted hot air over the screaming skin.

The fire seared the plate under his neck.

Charlie closed his eyes and pulled and kicked with his feet. The movement felt like boiling oil was being poured on his burning legs. And they were held fast. The heavy metal was unmoving.

There was a fizzing sound and Charlie smelled the first burning hair at the nape of his neck.

He knew it could be only moments before his head was consumed in a ball of fire.

Charlie let the pain roll over him.

There was a sudden pressure on his wrists. The heat, he assumed, was now scorching on the manacles which held him.

Then the pain lessened, and he suddenly found his wrists had sprung free.

Without pausing to think he sprang up, away from the bed. A jet of fire pulsed suddenly behind him, where his head had been moments before.

His legs still burned, and he saw the shape of a person by his feet, opening up the manacles at his ankles.

Charlie rolled himself free of the burning metal bed and fell heavily into the dirt of the cell floor, panting in relief.

His eyes scanned for who or what had allowed his freedom. The person was hunched over where he’d been lying, half visible in the flickering torch light and the glow of heat from under the bed.

Charlie tried to stand, but his feet gave way.

Then the person straightened, and Charlie saw female features. It was a woman, perhaps forty years old.

‘Goid I nooit! Weinig Charlie Oakley,’ came her low voice i
n Dutch.

In his head the Dutch words reformed themselves into English.

I cannot believe it. Little Charlie Oakley.