The Thief Taker (34 page)

Chapter Seventy-Seven

The gun exploded, blinding Charlie in a cloud of gunpowder and pressing him down into the pit.

At the edge of the grave he saw Blackstone start at the gunshot and step back. And then to Charlie’s great relief the last messenger pigeon fell to the ground. He had not known how high the gun might fire. But the glimpse of white wing overhead had convinced him the spray of shot might hit its mark. A comforting plume of feathers floated down towards him.

Charlie had no idea what had caused Malvern to move away. He closed his eyes, awaiting the violent retribution.

It never came. Instead a figure appeared, white like an angel.

He blinked in disbelief as it hovered at the edge of the pit, ghostly pale in the moonlight. The gunshot had set a ringing in h
is ears.

Charlie stared up, squinting his eyes to better see the celestial shape.

‘You had best get up and out of that grave,’ it said in a surprisingly familiar voice.

‘Maria?’ His voice was half choked with shock.

‘Who else would it be?’

Easing himself up Charlie clambered from the pit. He grabbed her shoulders and then wrapped both arms around her. She was warm and solid. Charlie drew back to look in her face.

‘I cannot believe it is you.’

‘Why Charlie?’

‘You were shot,’ he said. ‘And infected with plague.’

Maria smiled. ‘It was just a little bee’s wax and berry juice. A cosmetic I carry.’

She raised her hand and rubbed at one of the marks on her neck. Then she held out her reddened hand to show him.

‘I have it to make my lips look pretty. And it was more useful than a knife after all,’ she added, more to herself.

Maria tilted her head to look up at him. ‘Were it daylight that feint would never have worked. But by candle and moonlight they looked real enough. It was enough to fool Blackstone,’ she added, ‘and frighten him away from hurting me.’

‘Why not tell me then?’ he demanded. ‘I thought you had plague Maria. I thought . . .’

He stopped himself from relaying the tumult of fright she had caused.

‘I knew you would waste time untying me,’ Maria said simply. ‘I thought your labours better spent stopping the pigeons.’

‘Blackstone shot you,’ Charlie accused, ‘I saw you die.’

Maria shook her head and tapped on her chest. ‘It did not hit me full force, for I was turned away from it. And the shot did not penetrate far where it struck.’

She knocked on her thick reed bodice. ‘And you say such fashions are foolish.’

‘Besides,’ she added. ‘The injury bled only a little before it stopped. I was surprised you did not realise Charlie. A person must bleed for more than a few seconds to die of a musket shot. I even tried to signal you with my eyes, before I shut them, that it was an act I made.’

‘I . . . I cannot say it strong enough, how glad I am that
you live
.’

They clung together for a long moment, a warm glow in the cool dark graveyard.

Maria drew away suddenly. ‘Where is Blackstone?’ she said. ‘I do not see him.’

Charlie made a quick look around. Feathers were everywhere.

‘I found a piece of gravestone and struck him hard on the head whilst you were in the pit,’ added Maria. She looked around in confusion. ‘He fell, but I know not where he is now.’

Keeping a tight hold of her hand Charlie moved past one of the larger headstones. A pitiful sight came into view.

Blackstone sat panting, his vast bulk pressing against the grave. He had fallen heavily onto his seat, and though his eyes were open they were glassy and fixed on nothing.

‘Did you break his skull with the stone?’ whispered Charlie.

‘I do not think so,’ said Maria. ‘It did not feel as though his head broke when I hit him. Only that he went down.’

They stood for a moment looking at the figure. Then slowly Charlie raised his hand to point. Set into the white flesh of
Blackstone’s
neck was the unmistakable red circle of a plague token.

‘He has it.’

Maria nodded but said nothing.

‘He must have had it for a long time,’ added Charlie.

‘I do not think so,’ said Maria. ‘There are a few cases where the plague strikes very sudden. He must have taken this kind.’

Then Blackstone spoke.

‘Please,’ he mumbled. ‘You must bring me a priest to take my confession. Please do not let my soul depart without absolution.’

His eyes flickered, rolled upwards and then slowly shut. His great chest continued to heave in juddering gasps.

Charlie and Maria looked at each other.

‘There is nothing we can do,’ said Maria.

Charlie stared at the pain-wracked figure, gross with the tragedy of his life. A wave of pity swept through him.

‘We might still bring him a priest,’ he whispered, ‘at least, we might try.’

‘He does not deserve one. Beside, would you not wish to go now and open the chest your mother left to you?’

Charlie gave her a half smile. ‘Some people poison their lives with revenge, and I should not want to make such a path for
ourselves
.’

She didn’t reply, but he felt her hand tighten in his.

‘Come then,’ he said, ‘we will see if there is one who might help him in the City. The chest will be here when we return.’

They rose and picked their way through the soft ground of the church.

Though the first streaks of dawn were on the horizon the air stayed chill. The heat of the summer had eased. Something like a colder breeze was sweeping through London. Autumn was coming.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Blackstone leaned his huge weight against a gravestone behind him. The hunger swarmed into every part of him, and when his hand went to his neck it was thick, as though in swelling.

A wave of white heat drove up all along his nerves and he cried out in agony, kicking his legs wildly.

His eyes were clouding over as the night thickened around him.

All his plans had been rent.

He shrieked, arching his back. It felt as though his head would burst.

‘A priest,’ he pleaded into the empty night. No one came. Then all was dark and he floated in the torture of his own dying body.

Blackstone blinked awake to see that the world before him had twisted into distortion. A low white light came through, but he could make out only writhing forms.
This must be purgatory
, he thought, sitting upright in his new environment. Every part of his body hurt.

A dark shape was edging closer towards him and he stared at it wonderingly.

Then the hood was lifted from his head and he realised his situation. In the throes of his illness he must have somehow put the mask back on. His shimmering vision had been through the gauze of the crystal goggles. Blackstone was still in Fen Church graveyard, but the sun was shining.

In front of him was the face of a searcher, his features drawn into confusion.

‘Mr Blackstone,’ said the searcher. ‘Did you fall asleep on your duties?’

Blackstone swallowed thickly. His throat burned.

‘I took a fever,’ he croaked. ‘But I am on my way to being righted now.’ He tried to sit further upright. ‘Give me a little drink,’ he added, pointing to the searcher’s flask.

‘Do not be frighted,’ he said, taking a long swig as the drink was passed to him. ‘I have not lost my mind. I will live through this yet.’

‘Inside the church,’ the searcher said, ‘There are some possessions from your house. We must clear out the church now. The minister returns.’

Blackstone fought for the memory. He had put some of his household goods away for safety. Could they go back now? He tried to remember what had been put inside and found that he couldn’t.

Now that he thought of it, he could remember nothing of how he came to be in this graveyard. His last memory was taking his wagon to Wapping.

‘There are some rugs and furniture in there,’ the searcher was saying. ‘And a large chest. Is any of it important?’

Blackstone struggled to locate the jumble of goods in his mind. ‘There is nothing of value,’ he managed. ‘The rugs are not expensive. But the furniture was my father’s.’

He thought for a moment.

‘The chest is an old empty sea-chest, that is all. The key was lost long ago and we keep it for sentimental reasons.’

‘Then shall I clear it away sir?’ asked the searcher. ‘There is some food in there also which is beginning to rot.’

‘Yes,’ said Blackstone. ‘Clear it away.’

Three months later

The Bucket of Blood was crammed with afternoon drinkers as the landlord took to the nearest tabletop.

‘Peace good people!’ he shouted, one hand holding his long wig in place as he balanced on the shifting podium. ‘We are to have an extra entertainment for you all, on account of God bestowing his mercy on us and choosing to vanquish this late and terrible plague.’

There were shouts of agreement from the jostling crowd.

‘Our King has returned to us,’ continued the landlord, ‘and our fine City has been spared.’

He paused amidst the cheers, with his fist on his heart in a patriotic salute.

‘Notice I do not say
fair
City,’ he added. ‘For she has a few smuts and stains does she not? But she is
our
City. Which makes her fine enough. And God in His wisdom has delivered her back to us from the clutches of the devil himself. And so . . . .’

He waved his hand to drive down the noise of the drinkers.

‘And so we have today . . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘Not
one . . . but
two
bare-knuckle fights, as will happen here. In this very room!’

The landlord raised both hands, gathering up the tumult of applause and then hopped down from the table to take the mounting flurry of drink orders.

From the other side of the tavern Charlie smiled up at Maria and they raised their tankards in a joint toast.

Since the cooler weather, London had made a miraculous recovery from plague, and her returning and surviving citizens had taken the opportunity for weeklong celebrations. Since the last case had been reported in September the City had transformed from an outpost to its former thriving glory in under a week.

Ships began to dock again and traders and shoppers set upon the glut of new imports with gusto. Theatres were reopened, taverns found themselves packed to the rafters, and Leadenhall Market enjoyed the only thorough scrub down in its three-hundred-year history before being packed out once more with fresh produce.

For the first time ever locals had taken their duty to maintain the streets outside their houses seriously. And whilst legislation had never been able to persuade them to clear rubbish or fix cobbles, the sight of their overgrown streets had them out in droves weeding and repairing.

The plague seemed to have drawn out a yen in its survivors to play the good citizen. And even the floods of returning aristocrats clubbed together for a new riverside location for the washerwomen, now that Moor Fields had become a burial site.

To make up for his abandonment King Charles doubled his visits to the general populace and the sight of the Royal party
on the City streets was a colourful addition to the troops of
brightly-dressed ladies capitalising on the lost opportunities for fashion.

Lynette had returned to London in all her finery and her stage performances were as popular as ever. But Charlie didn’t feel the same tug of heartache when he saw his estranged wife arm in arm with one of her patrons. In fact he felt sorry for her. It must be hard work, he thought, being her.

Charlie and Maria looked out at the laughing company in the Bucket of Blood. A familiar ragged form stepped up behind then.

‘You found anything else out about this Blackstone then?’

Charlie smiled. Since the night in Fen Church, Bitey had become fascinated with the mystery of Blackstone’s disappearance.

The old man shook his head in wonderment.

‘He must have been some fiend or witch,’ he said. ‘For how else could this man have had plague, yet cleared out all evidence of his treasonous ways before you could bring the constable?’

Charlie shrugged. ‘Perhaps he had help. Certainly he was clever in what he took. All his household possessions gone, but the grave filled with shillings. The money must have been too difficult for him to remove in time.’

‘And he took away that chest,’ said Bitey, his eyes glowing at the puzzle of it, ‘Something locked inside might tell you of your mother.’ He pointed to the key which still hung at Charlie’s neck.

‘The Sealed Knot,’ muttered Bitey, repeating the words which had been linked with the crown and the knots in Malvern’s trunk. ‘I feel in my bones I have heard those words before. Long ago. During the Civil War. But I cannot say where or how.’ He shook his head as if trying to jolt free the memory and then frowned, defeated.

‘If it were not for the foolishness of the constable we might know more,’ said Maria. ‘He would not accept that the coins were part of a plot. He thought it was simply the work of a clever forger who had likely died of plague and no darker purpose was at work.’

Bitey took a philosophical sip of his beer.

‘Perhaps better to let sleeping dogs lie then,’ he said, ‘for the time being at least.’ He looked up at Charlie. ‘You been to St Paul’s today?’

‘Earlier today,’ said Charlie, raising his tankard to Bitey.

‘We shall drink to her then. Her and the City.’

Charlie mourned his mother at St Paul’s, joined by countless Londoners who had also lost relatives to unknown burial plots. Understanding the people needed somewhere to grieve their missing dead, King Charles had granted them the Cathedral. Within the high holy walls one death became everyone’s and strangers held hands and cried in one another’s arms.

Charlie raised his tankard in reply. Then something occurred to him. There was someone who had now returned to the City who he owed a visit.

‘Put down a bet on the second fighter,’ he said, sliding a coin towards Bitey. ‘There is someone I must see.’

Charlie knew that one tough-minded female would not have stood for anything so inconvenient as illness. And as he travelled the comforting leafy streets of Mayfair to Mother Mitchell’s sumptuous townhouse he was unsurprised to find her safe and well.

During the plague she had taken the precaution of an ornamental silver tobacco pipe which she now smoked constantly. The use of it had given her throaty laugh an extra gravelly texture. Fumes wreathed her silken bulk.

‘Plenty of work for us cheering the folk in country houses, with all so sad and dour,’ explained Mother Mitchell.

She coughed and adjusted her enormous dress as Charlie explained the events of the past few days.

‘Many royal plots and companies were formed during the war,’ she said, ‘perhaps some evil sect lingers still.’

‘Blackstone’s wife said my key holds the sign of the Sealed Knot,’ said Charlie.

‘It sounds familiar to me. And yet I do not know how. Do you know of it?’ he added, knowing that if ancient Bitey knew nothing of the phrase then Mother Mitchell was unlikely to either.

But to his surprise Mother Mitchell stayed stock-still for a long moment, before nodding her head slowly.

‘Aye, I have heard something of that,’ she said. ‘From long ago.’ She lifted her eyes to meet Charlie’s. ‘The Sealed Knot was a secret group of noblemen,’ she said. ‘They formed during the Civil War. I know not their purpose. Only a little chatter from those high-born men who have passed through my arms and are too free with the secrets of their fellows. The Sealed Knot will have either won or lost with the late King’s execution and whatever their cause laid to rest with it. But the men who were part of it were dangerous Charlie. Rich, powerful and war-hungry all.’

A secret company of noblemen, formed during the Civil War.
Charlie
considered the information as he pushed through the teeming square of Covent Garden and back into the Bucket of Blood.

One of the fighters was late to the tavern, and Maria and Bitey were watching the landlord try to calm the riled-up crowd as
Charlie
returned to his seat.

‘Smell that?’ said Bitey, turning slightly to clap him on the back in welcome. ‘That’s winter on the air. All’s well that ends well, eh?’

‘Why say you so?’ asked Maria.

‘Plague don’t live through winter girl, everyone knows that.’

‘And what about next year?’ insisted Maria. ‘It is 1666. Dark things are predicted by the astrologers. Fiery comets, low tides. ‘It is the year of the devil’s number.’

Bitey laughed, waving an expansive hand to the wider city. ‘This whole sorry pile of timber might burn down next summer for all we know. Best to take one day at a time in this uncertain life and be grateful for those days that treat you well.’

‘And is this a day that is treating you well Bitey?’ asked Charlie, his mind still racing with thoughts of the Sealed Knot.

‘Oh I should say so Charlie.’ Bitey opened his cloak to reveal the soft snout of a tiny piglet.

Maria gave a gasp of delight and put out a hand to stroke the animal. It pushed its face into her palm and grunted.

‘Found this little fellow snuffling about near Holbourne with nowhere to go,’ said Bitey. ‘Reckon if he grows fast ’twill be only a month afore chops and ribs a’plenty.’ He licked his lips. ‘I should say Charlie, this is shaping up to be a very good day indeed. I have heard you are very busy with murder as well as thievery these days,’ he added.

It was true. Since word got out that he took on cases more diverse than theft Charlie had been besieged with Londoners wanting all kinds of crimes solved. It seemed that incompetence in the City’s Watch didn’t stop at stealing. His services were so popular in the west that he could afford to keep his lodging in the Covent
Garden
butcher’s shop. He was even considering renting a place where he and Maria could both live together.

Charlie looked hard into his tankard of ale, thinking of the Sealed Knot, the secrets in Blackstone’s missing chest and what they might still mean for England.

‘There are crimes enough,’ he said to Bitey. ‘To keep me very busy indeed.’