The Thief Taker (32 page)

Chapter Seventy-Two

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

It took all of Mayor Lawrence’s attention. The restriction on his breathing had come so suddenly. He had heard of plague cases where a victim complained of a headache and was dead within the hour. But he had not even felt the headache. Only the sudden weight of breathing as his lungs began to stop working.

It has come so fast.

Lawrence tried to remember when breathing had first become hard, trying to calculate how long he had left. An hour? Two?

He saw Blackstone close on the doorway.

‘Keep away,’ he managed.

It occurred to Lawrence he should be embarrassed to be found crawling like a dog on his own office floor. As it was he was only glad Blackstone had returned.

‘Would you have me call a holy man?’

Lawrence smiled through the pain. Blackstone always knew the right thing to do. ‘There are none . . . there are none of my faith in the City.’ Talking was exhausting.

‘Some food then? Or water?’

Lawrence shook his head.

‘I have good news,’ said Blackstone. He did not wait for
Lawrence
to reply. ‘It is the King. He returns.’

‘The King . . . thinks . . . plague has died down?’

Blackstone answered carefully. ‘He knows of the good we do in keeping the streets cleared of bodies,’ he said. ‘And the numbers have fallen a little. It could be a good sign.’

Lawrence tried to focus.

‘Blackstone?’

‘Yes Sir?’

‘I have . . . There is provision. For you.’

Blackstone was silent.

‘I have made it . . . . Alderman. Appointed.’

‘Thank you Sir.’ Blackstone looked at the ground. He and
Lawrence
had been colleagues but they hadn’t been close.
Certainly
he had never expected to rise to any higher role on Mayor
Lawrence’s
recommendation.

‘There is something . . .’ said Lawrence.

‘What?’

‘In the City. Priests. Could you . . . send for one?’

Blackstone shook his head sadly. ‘All the Protestant priests have fled. Those you hear preaching now are Catholics. They have come to attend to their own people.’

‘Please,’ said Lawrence. ‘Any priest you can . . . find.’

Blackstone nodded, dumbfounded.

‘Do not tell anyone,’ said Lawrence. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

‘You must not fear for the City sir,’ said Blackstone.

‘There are papers in my office,’ Lawrence managed. ‘Amesbury. You must discover his connection to the Sealed Knot. I think he means to betray the King.’

‘I would help you to a bed,’ started Blackstone, but Lawrence shook his head.

Blackstone headed back into Lawrence’s room.

Scattered on the desk were a number of different papers. They numbered the figures of the dying which had steadily risen from February. The last balance sheet showed a hundred thousand dead.

‘A quarter of the City,’ he murmured. ‘And all the rest fled.’

Sifting through the documents he came across those which numbered the dead of the city officials. Lords, members of parliament, searchers and nurses. Death did not discriminate. Although the poor, as usual, were more vulnerable at the onset. Then he noticed something about the figures. Or more precisely, about the occupation of those who had died.

The rat catchers, he noticed, seemed to have a greater tendency to plague than any other profession.

He sat down for a moment to think about the discovery. And then he heard a loud voice from outside.

Blackstone looked out the diamond-paned window. What he saw outside brought his first real smile in months. Perhaps years. It was a Catholic priest. He had taken to a public pulpit and was preaching openly in the centre of London. Such a thing had never happened in Blackstone’s lifetime.

Sitting back at the desk he let the feeling of wonder wash over him. Then his eyes fell back down to the dead count. For the briefest of moments the gaze rested on a paper with Amesbury’s name on it. And a familiar symbol.

Slowly, Blackstone stood. He bundled the documents and pushed them into a drawer. Then he shut it carefully.

There was important business to attend to.

Chapter Seventy-Three

As Charlie approached Fen Church a low kind of groaning went up.

He remembered Wapping. That the dead crawled to die in the sight of a church.

As the doorway of the church came into view Charlie caught sight of a thick swathe of infected Londoners. Some were clawing ineffectually, trying to get inside, but many others were sat blankly on their haunches, staring at the building as if willing it to open up.

A handful could be mistaken for ordinary citizens, but most had more evident tokens. Blue fingers, or swollen necks or creeping purple veins inching over their cheeks. Between them they made a horrific hum of pain and despair.

Keeping back from the entrance Charlie slipped around the side of the church. To his relief no plague sufferers had migrated towards the graveyard and the fence was low.

He scaled it into the graveyard with relative ease. Inside the fence it was overgrown with grass and the ancient graves of long dead Londoners. Night had fallen properly now, and in the pitch-black the white of the tombstones stuck out like giant teeth.

Heading towards the back of the ancient graveyard Charlie drew a breath. Tombstones had been flung aside. He scanned the church for a route in.

Then he saw a huge pit, freshly dug, lay open in the middle of the cemetery.

He drew nearer. Deep in the bottom of the pit lay corpse after corpse thrown headlong over one another and wrapped winding sheets.

Plague pits are not filled with bodies wrapped in winding sheets. They are for pauper’s corpses.

There was a cooing sound. As if a flock of pigeons were nearby.

This was probably what Malvern transported, Charlie realised. Flung into this grave and disguised as bodies.

He looked up at the church. Knowing Malvern’s plans could give him an advantage for freeing Maria, if he was fast.

For a moment Charlie’s courage failed him. In the darkness it was impossible to tell whether the pit of dead was real or of
Malvern’s
construction.

Steeling himself he crouched and then leapt downwards. His feet collided with hard metal and the impact threw him painfully to his knees. The rabbit gun which Marc-Anthony had given him fell clumsily away, but to his relief it didn’t discharge.

Wasting no time, Charlie stuck his knife into the fabric and ripped into it. The hidden contents of the winding sheet now sparkled into the moonlight.

It held silver coins. Thousands of them.

He slashed into another, and the same glittering innards
spilled forth.

‘Shillings.’ He said it aloud as the tiny silver coins winked out into the grave. So this was Malvern’s cargo.
Shillings.

His first thought was that someone was financing Malvern to build an army.

But it didn’t make any sense.

Why would they send such small coins? Larger currency would be far easier to transport and smuggle in. Jewels, gold bars, there were so many better ways to provide illegal finance.

Unless . . . .

He reached into his coat and removed the map he had found in the confession booth. Then picked up one of the coins and studied it for a moment. In the darkness a slow understanding spread across Charlie’s face.

Counterfeits. They were counterfeit coins.

The crosses on the map didn’t mark the most populated places. They showed areas of high commerce. Markets, shops and taverns. Malvern chose locations where money entered the economy quickly and without trace. Outlets which distributed coins widely within London.

So this was the scheme. This was the contamination Malvern had planned.

The money was not to finance an uprising. It was to undermine the English economy.

Charlie let out a slow breath. So Malvern
was
spreading an infection in London. But it was not some contagious disease. He was masterminding the spread of false coins.

Charlie considered this. A few forged coins could be easily absorbed.

But release enough of a fake currency at once, and it would undermine the treasury. Prices would skyrocket as coins became lower in value. And then the bloated economy would
collapse.

Suddenly the plot became obvious. Malvern meant to cripple the King where it mattered most – his treasury.

Presumably whatever weapons he was amassing would be put to use afterwards. After the monarchy had fallen.

But to successfully undermine the treasury, Malvern would need to release thousands of coins, and all at the same time. How could he spend them all at once?

Then Charlie remembered Malvern’s bets at the gambling house. And it all made sense.

He doesn’t bet to win. He bets to lose those coins.

Malvern was betting to lose. And when he did the gaming houses would release his forged coins in a flood amongst the rich aristocrats of the west.

Using winding sheets to conceal the imports and burying the loot in a graveyard was another inspired touch. No citizen would come within a mile of a plague pit, far less open up the wrappings of a corpse.

Charlie realised he had underestimated Malvern. He had believed him a crazed man of spells and enchantments.

This strategy showed him to be far colder and more ruthless. Malvern was willing to see his entire country fall to take his revenge on the King.

Charlie stared up at the dark walls of the church. He knew he needed to stop Malvern’s plans. But first he must rescue Maria.

Praying Maria was inside the church, he sized up the dark walls, his mind racing with his discovery. Several trees grew alongside the belfry. If he could climb up and clamber onto the roof then he might be able to get inside.

Before climbing back out of the grave pit Charlie took a long last look at the rabbit gun. He couldn’t bring it, he decided. The long muzzle would only slow him down, and he had already nearly discharged it accidentally. Besides, it wasn’t powerful enough to kill a man. He decided to leave it lying with Malvern’s loot.

A shriek pierced the air, then a chorus of cries broke out in accompaniment.

As Charlie wrapped his arms around the trunk of the tallest tree and started to climb he made out a huddle of dark heads around the entrance to the church.

More of them were on their feet now and close against the locked door, petitioning to be let inside.

Charlie climbed along the thickest branch and over towards the top of the church.

Hauling himself onto the slate roof Charlie sat for a moment to get his breath back. Up ahead was the steeple and suddenly, as if timing his arrival, a light winked on inside the church.

Chapter Seventy-Four

Tip-toeing along the side of the roof Charlie made it to the bottom of the belfry. A little door was set into the side of tower.

It must have been built to allow people up to repair the roof, Charlie decided. And holding his breath he turned the handle. It opened, revealing a tiny set of dark stone steps.

Squeezing into the confines he paused to listen. The sounds of the plague victims outside seemed to be echoing into the nave of the church below. But as far as he could tell there were no noises from inside.

As quietly as possible he eased himself down the steps, hoping the cacophony outside would drown out any sounds he was
making
.

At the bottom of the steps he saw someone had hung a lantern in the centre of the church. It had been placed there so recently that it still swung back and forth, in and out of view of the window.

Charlie froze, scanning for any evidence of whoever had left the lantern. Then his eyes grew wide as he took in the contents of the large nave.

Food was everywhere. But all was rotten and bad. The smell was appalling.

Then his eyes settled on the cache of weapons. Rifles and swords were piled up. Enough for an army.

So this is where Malvern keeps his armoury.

There was a knocking sound. A slow steady tapping.

He waited for a moment, trying to match the sound with the source. And then he realised. It was the plague people outside, petitioning for entry to the church.

Turning away from the sound and into the light of the lantern Charlie saw it.

The crown and loop of knots.

It had been fashioned from shining nail-heads hammered into the side of a huge
sea-chest. Hewn of a dense teak, it sat squat and impenetrable.
Thick bands of black steel encased an intricate-looking locking
system
.

Charlie’s eyes travelled up to where elaborate metalwork hinged the mighty trunk. It was a Dutch design.

A Dutch chest.

Slowly Charlie’s hand went to the symbol at his neck. The
keyhole
of the strong-box stared back at him like a single challenging eye.

It had been loaded in amongst a pile of domestic-looking possessions and Charlie took a moment to consider the context. He recognised a rolled up rug and then an elaborate table-leg. The objects were so familiar he thought for a moment he must be dreaming. They were the furnishings from the great house of his childhood.

Malvern must have packed away his household safe from plague robbers. And here was this chest in with them.

Was it possible the trunk had lain sealed all these years, with Charlie carrying the only key?

Holding his breath he walked closer. From around his neck he silently drew off the key.

Malvern is coming
.

Something whispered at the edge of his hearing, and he stopped, thinking for a moment that someone had spoken. Then he moved forward again. The chance to discover what his mother had wanted him to find was suddenly in front of him, and he felt his legs propel him towards it.

At the chest, he took out his key, knelt, and twisted it slowly in the lock. The tumblers turned. The great mechanism of interconnecting bolts rolled away. And Charlie lifted the lid. It was designed to be self-locking with an ingenious system he had never seen before. A spring-loaded device inside worked to seal the lock automatically once it was closed. He had heard of similar inventions in jewellery cases, but never in a trunk of this size. This chest had been designed to transport a great deal of money by sea.

Inside was a pile of papers. He caught a glimpse of a royal seal and some Dutch writing. His eyes scanned it, knowing he could not risk taking the time necessary to translate the text. He frowned, trying to work out the connection.

The Royal Crest. And Holland.

His mother had hidden these papers. What reason could she have had?

There was another page written in English. Shivering in the chill of Cripplegate he lifted it out.

Charlie looked over to the enormous oak door where a slow splinter crack was forming. He turned his attention back to the single paper in his hand.

There was so much tiny writing on the page, it made his head hurt. Charlie’s reading was adequate but slow. The paper seemed to swirl in a maelstrom of words.

He frowned, scanning down the document for immediate clues.

There was a royal seal at the bottom. And a signature
Charlie
recognised. Thomas Blackstone’s looping scrawl. With Teresa
Blackstone’s
name signed underneath it.

Charlie’s gaze tracked to the top of the paper. Two large words formed a title, and he ran a finger under them.

Marriage Licence.

So this was Thomas Blackstone’s wedding certificate.

Charlie let the paper hang limply in his hand, pondering, trying to ignore the heightening thudding of the plague sufferers at the church door.

Why would Sally Oakley hide Thomas’s marriage licence?

Charlie squinted back at the crabbed script, trying to make out further particulars. No church name seemed to be listed. So the document was for a Fleet wedding – the kind made by disreputable priests who touted for business. A rather vulgar choice, for a wealthy man.

Charlie concentrated on finding the name of the person who had sanctified the marriage, but the sea of text was impenetrable for fast reading.

He needed time to study it carefully. But time was something Charlie didn’t have.

Blackstone had Maria.

A great banging echoed around the church suddenly as one of the plague people attacked the door with particular gusto. Charlie’s hand jerked in alarm, letting the lid of the chest fall back down and dropping the paper as he pulled his hand quickly away. The heavy sound boomed ominously through the church. Then there was a click as the chest sealed itself again.

Charlie was about to reopen the chest and draw out the papers. And then he heard it again, more clearly this time.

‘Malvern is coming!’

It was Maria’s voice.

Spinning around in the deserted nave he could see nothing.

‘Maria?’

He could investigate later, he decided. First he would find Maria.

Outside the church the infected people had worked themselves to a fever pitch. They pounded anew, fists hammering desperately.

Charlie looked over to the enormous oak door. It surely couldn’t hold for long.

‘Charlie?’

It was Maria’s voice.

Spinning around in the deserted nave he could see nothing.

‘Maria?’

‘Charlie!’ The voice was muffled. ‘Do not come close!’

He raced towards the voice and found her lying bound behind a tomb. She had been gagged, but had managed to work half of it away. Enough to croak out a warning.

Charlie tugged it off and began working to loosen her bindings.

‘Do not Charlie,’ she begged. ‘You must go. It is not safe. He will hear the people knocking and know someone has come inside.’

The pounding sounded louder than ever.

Charlie turned his head a quick left and right, but seeing nothing carried on untying the ropes.

‘He will come,’ she insisted. ‘He will be here any minute. You must go and raise the alarm.’

‘I will not leave you here Maria,’ said Charlie.

The knocking was mixed with a cracking of wood giving way. It sounded bodily against the door as though the people outside were hurling themselves against it.

‘You must go Charlie,’ Maria’s hands broke free and she pushed him away from her. He fell back onto the stone floor. As he righted himself again in bemusement she held up a warning hand.

‘Did he hurt you?’ he said, thinking she might be trying to hide some injury from him. Maria shook her head.

‘He meant to,’ she said. ‘And then he saw the marks.’

She drew up her skirt to reveal white legs.

At first he thought she had revealed a little birth mark. A wine-coloured thumbprint partway up her inner thigh. And then he saw another. And another.

‘You cannot save me Charlie,’ she said, her eyes staring into his. ‘I am already dead.’

The tokens peppered her legs, fanning out into a mash of blood-coloured bruises and raised veins as they stretched upwards.

‘I cannot come with you,’ she said.

Charlie fell back on his haunches, his mouth open.

‘Maria, I . . . .’

‘You must go. There is a chance you can stop Malvern’s plans. He means to send a message. Did you see the cage of pigeons
outside
?’

Charlie shook his head. Then he remembered the sound of the wood pigeons cooing just before he leapt into the pit.

‘I heard them I think. In the graveyard.’

‘It was a cage of messenger pigeons you heard,’ she said. ‘I saw him use them. The birds are to be used to signal the infection to begin. But he has not done it yet. He wanted first to acquire better plague protection, so he might be safe. From me.’

Charlie moved towards her but she pushed him back roughly.

‘If you can get to the birds you may prevent the message being sent. All you need do is open the cage and free them.’

But Charlie wasn’t listening. ‘We can find a doctor. There is some potion or tincture.’ He leaned forward and grabbed at her hand. ‘Come. Get up. We will get you to a warm bed and you may sweat it all out.’

‘His plans might still be stopped,’ repeated Maria. ‘But you must go
now
.’

‘There is Venice Treacle,’ stammered Charlie in desperation. ‘That has worked for some.’

‘Who?’ asked Maria. ‘Who has it worked for Charlie? None survive the plague. Stop Malvern’s plans. That is all you can do f
or me.’

He shook his head.

‘I will not leave you.’

‘Then Malvern will have won. And I will die for nothing and . . . .’

She was interrupted by the sound of a door. Her eyes widened in fright.

‘He is here,’ she whispered. ‘Get out now.’