The Changeling Murders (The Thief Taker Series Book 4)

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘It’s a penny to watch the actresses dress,’ said the man, scratching a patch of flaking scalp and examining his fingernails.

  ‘Not if you’ve a friend inside,’ said Charlie. ‘Is that infectious?’ he added.

  The man gave him a hard stare. ‘The only friends our girls have are noble,’ he said, nodding pointedly to Charlie’s bare feet and patched breeches. ‘That coat of yours might once have belonged to a rich sea captain, but you’ve given it a Cheapside polish.’

  Charlie fingered the empty threads in the row of tiny buttons along his brown leather coat. ‘This coat is a favourite of mine,’ he said. ‘As was your best actress before she dropped me for someone richer.’

  The man rubbed at a scaly elbow, causing more skin to fall. ‘You’re Lynette’s old husband?’ he said in obvious disbelief. ‘Charlie Tuesday? I thought you’d be taller.’ He peered closer. ‘’S dangerous work, is it? Chasin’ down thieves and villains? Or do you find lost people and property?’

  ‘A little of both,’ said Charlie.

  There was a rustle of skirts and a flame-haired woman with shockingly rouged cheeks appeared at the door, fanning herself mercilessly.

  ‘God’s fish it’s hot!’ she began. ‘Can we get some fan-beaters inside . . .’ She hesitated, then beamed in greeting. ‘Charlie! What are you doing here?’

  She threw her arms around him and Charlie found himself enveloped in the familiar smell of his one-time wife. Orange-blossom water, cheap hair pomade and marzipan. Lynette wore the bouncingly short dress of a stage actress, ending at mid-calf, and her red hair had been elaborately coiffed with plaits, curls and flowers.

  Charlie smiled back. ‘Come to watch you perform, of course.’ He nodded to backstage where skirts and petticoats were flying.

  Lynette batted him with her dog-eared fan. ‘You never! You seen it all before anyways.’ She clasped both his hands. ‘You alright?’ she said. ‘I heard your brother died.’

  Charlie swallowed. The unexpected sympathy took him by surprise.

  ‘You’re not alright,’ said Lynette, nodding, ‘’course you’re not. Fool question. Rowan was your only family.’ She leaned forward, gripping his hands tight. ‘You can’t protect everyone, Charlie, remember it, wontcha? Don’t let this drag you down.’

  She was staring into his eyes. He nodded automatically, and Lynette released his hands.

  ‘You wanna come in?’ She inclined her decorated hair towards the actresses beyond.

  He shook his head with a wistful glance at the scantily clad women. ‘I’ve not time. I’m looking for a man whose carriage arrived recently. We’re due to meet, but I want to take the measure of him first.’

  ‘Charlie Tuesday,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘always working.’ She nodded to the missing buttons on his coat. ‘Isn’t it time you got yourself a wife?’

  ‘I had one, remember?’ replied Charlie. ‘She left me for richer pickings.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie, that was a long time ago. You weren’t never there. Always out rescuing some poor soul or other. I had to take care of business, din’ I? Like me mother always said, love don’t—’

  ‘Love don’t pay the bills,’ said Charlie. ‘I remember. And I did pay them. I just didn’t realise the kind of bills you had in mind.’

  ‘I heard you got yourself a very proper sort of girl after me,’ said Lynette, toying with a lace cuff. ‘Maria, was it? You played a little house. But things didn’t last. Shall I guess it? Were you away too much? Solving mysteries for those who couldn’t pay?’

  ‘When I wasn’t drinking,’ admitted Charlie. ‘That was our downfall, wasn’t it? Too much wine.’

  ‘P’rhaps.’ Lynette reached out her pale fingers and lightly touched the key hung around his neck. ‘The orphan boy with his murdered mama’s mysterious legacy. Did you solve your own past yet? Discover what this key opens?’

  Charlie didn’t reply. Lynette glanced at the doorman, who was watching them both with interest, scratching determinedly at his groin.

  ‘You’re happy here?’ Charlie asked. ‘No ambitions to the Duke’s or the King’s Theatre on Drury Lane?’

  ‘Nah. Smell that?’ Lynette’s eyes glittered. ‘That’s a true theatre smell. Sweat, spilled beer and trodden oranges.’

  ‘To me it smells of broken promises.’

  ‘Don’t be bitter, Charlie.’ She smiled disarmingly. ‘I’ve changed since then. Older. Wiser. Don’t drink like I did. I moved on to bigger and better things than being a thief taker’s forgotten wife, is all.’

  Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘Bigger?’

  She laughed. ‘Better then. Although you’ve heard the rumours about King Charles and his sceptre,’ she added with a conspirator’s wink.

  ‘You’ve caught the eye of the King?’ asked Charlie, torn between disbelief and admiration.

  ‘Hadn’t you heard?’ Lynette raised the fan coyly. ‘I’ve even been inside the palace, Charlie. You should see it,’ she whispered, eyes flashing with childlike glee. ‘Rugs as thick as your arm, and wine served in gold cups.’

  Charlie smiled.

  ‘The King loves the theatre,’ continued Lynette. ‘And actresses. But the others are terrified of the mistress. Lady Castlemaine. Her Ladyship doesn’t scare me.’

  She set her jaw and Charlie had a glimpse of the girl he remembered from Coal Yard Alley. Tough, clever and funny. Lynette had honed her acting skills by begging to support her drunk mother and fighting anyone who got in her way.

  A horn blast sounded and Lynette glanced backstage. ‘Almost time for curtain up,’ she said, rearranging her skirts. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I had a request to meet here,’ said Charlie. ‘In the theatre. I don’t trust it.’

  ‘So . . . ?’

  ‘I want to be sure of who I’m meeting. See if he’s armed. I don’t need much’ – he nodded to her fan – ‘just a plan of who’s sitting where.’

  It took her a moment to understand and then she unfurled her fan, revealing an entire seat plan of the theatre drawn carefully on the back.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said as he took it from her, ‘that’s my whole business on there.’

  Charlie nodded, examining the various symbols. Lynette couldn’t read and learned scripts by dogged repetition. The seat plan of the theatre was annotated with crests, sketches and a scattering of little hearts indicating potential suitors.

  ‘Lawyers always sit here?’ he confirmed, tapping an outline of a judicial wig.

  She nodded contemptuously. ‘Lawyers and legal men. They don’t often visit and aren’t free with their coins when they do.’

  He folded the fan and passed it back. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll come watch the play?’ asked Lynette.

  He looked at the stage. ‘I don’t know if I can stay to see it. I . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she interrupted with a slight smile. ‘You’ve a mystery to solve. It could be our last till the end of Lent. The apprentices are already out in force. You know how they hate us actresses.’

  He touched her arm. ‘You should be careful. Lady Castlemaine is a dangerous enemy. I’ve heard rumours she’s had actresses imprisoned and worse.’

  ‘That’s in the licensed theatres,’ scoffed Lynette. ‘The Duke’s and The King’s. She can’t do nothing to us illegals. We’re too slippery.’

  She grinned, and Charlie had a sudden fond memory of life in the illegal theatre, the tricks they played to stay one step ahead of the authorities.

  Lynette took his arm and steered him past the half-dressed women. ‘What would you wish for me, Charlie? To grow old and steal leftovers at parties like the other ageing whores? There are two ways out of the theatre, and I’ve no relatives to bury me in linen.’

  ‘Have a care is all I ask,’ pressed Charlie.

  Lynette rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Charlie,’ she said, ‘I don’t flatter myself I would ever be in enough danger to warrant your help.’

  Chapter 3

  In the m
anicured grounds of Whitehall Palace, the Ice House loomed large.

  Lady Castlemaine was walking as quickly as her little-heeled shoes and heavy silk dress would allow. At her side, the Duke of Amesbury kept an easy pace, with the long marching strides of a man who’d spent his life in combat.

  ‘It’s hot,’ muttered Lady Castlemaine, wiping her face with a lace handkerchief. ‘Why is it so hot in spring?’

  She’d not lost all the pregnancy weight from her fifth child, Amesbury noted, and her beautiful face was finally beginning to show a few faint lines of age. Her shining auburn hair was limp in the heat.

  They’d reached the Ice House door.

  ‘You’re sure you want to interrupt His Majesty?’ said Amesbury.

  Lady Castlemaine laughed unconvincingly. ‘Nothing he does could shock me now.’ Though she hesitated. ‘Let’s just get out of the sun,’ she muttered, flicking her lovely eyes up to the blue sky.

  A blast of blissfully cold air enveloped them as they stepped inside the Ice House. The shaded interior was walled with vast blocks of ice and divided by snow-filled pits. A few hanging tapers decorated the domed roof, giving the appearance of a starry night.

  For a moment, Lady Castlemaine’s shining face relaxed in relief. Then her large violet eyes took in the scene and hardened in fury.

  A bevy of naked actresses ran in front of her screaming with delight, hurling snowballs. The King and the Duke of York were shovelling snow and heaving ice bricks to make forts and ramparts.

  The King made a snowball and let fly. ‘Look out, James!’ he roared. ‘This next one’s for you!’

  The Duke of York sprinted across the slippery floor of the Ice House and dived behind a defensive wall of ice bricks. The snowball smashed at his escaping feet, splattering a nearby actress. She gave a wild, playacted shriek.

  ‘I’m hit!’ she shouted, affecting a deep voice. ‘Help me!’

  The King caught sight of Lady Castlemaine and paused in the act of rolling a second snowball. His face broke into an easy smile. ‘Lady Castlemaine.’ He bounded towards her and summoned someone to serve her wine.

  ‘Why do you send money to protect brothels?’ demanded Lady Castlemaine, her hand closing around the chalice from a proffered tray. ‘Apprentices pull down whorehouses every Lent. It’s nothing. Part of London life.’

  Charles’s smile faltered. ‘This is politics. It doesn’t concern you.’

  Her face darkened. The servant moved forward to pour wine, thought better of it and retreated.

  ‘You told me your allowance from Parliament was spent,’ accused Lady Castlemaine.

  The King turned helplessly to Amesbury.

  Lady Castlemaine directed the full force of her rage towards the old general. ‘Forgive me,’ she said tightly, a brittle smile on her face. ‘His Majesty and I were in France for many years. Before you Republicans’ – she glared at Amesbury – ‘realised England needed a king.’

  Amesbury nodded patiently.

  ‘My understanding,’ she continued, ‘was that the apprentices start up every Lent. They attack brothels, burn a few dresses, smash some windows. A necessary bloodletting,’ she concluded. ‘Allowed, overlooked, even condoned.’

  Amesbury nodded.

  ‘You’ve already given money to build the new theatre on Drury Lane,’ said Lady Castlemaine, addressing the King bitterly.

  ‘The people need some joy,’ said the King, ‘after the plague and fire. They had years of Cromwell; no playhouses, no gaming, no maypoles . . .’

  ‘So why would you send more funds,’ hissed Lady Castlemaine, ‘to protect whores and actresses? They already have their fine playhouse.’

  ‘We have reason to fear the apprentice attacks could escalate this year,’ supplied Amesbury. ‘A reserve was found.’

  The King glared. The old general raised his thick shoulders in a ‘can’t-help-you’ shrug.

  Lady Castlemaine’s pretty mouth settled into a tight, hard line. ‘Your rightful daughter—’

  ‘Don’t begin it again,’ interrupted Charles angrily. ‘There is no possibility—’

  ‘By God you will own her!’ shrieked Lady Castlemaine. ‘She is yours – just like the others I have borne you, to whom you awarded titles!’

  There was a hard glimmer in Charles’s eye. ‘Even if I believed you, there is nothing left. Parliament delight in keeping me on a small allowance. All my ready funds have gone to pay off your gambling debts.’ He took her shoulder and attempted to draw her away. She shook him off crossly.

  ‘Barbara, be reasonable.’ Charles had lowered his voice. ‘It’s hot. You’re tired.’ He moved closer and slipped an arm around her waist. He let his hand play with the ribbons of her dress. ‘Take off some clothes and enjoy the fine new Ice House,’ he said. ‘Have a drink with me. Cool your brain.’

  She smiled, just a little. The servant, feeling braver, moved forward to fill her chalice.

  ‘White,’ she added with a frown as a servant poured from a decanter of red. ‘I take white wine. Charles,’ she demanded, her voice rising dangerously as she took the drink. ‘Why is he serving me what she drinks?’

  There was a dreadful pause. Actresses began surreptitiously slipping on clothing. The Duke of York eyed them sadly and began putting on his stockings.

  ‘Has she been here?’ demanded Lady Castlemaine. ‘In Whitehall?’

  ‘Barbara . . .’ began the King.

  Lady Castlemaine erupted, hurling the wine the length of the Ice House. The metal goblet clanged against the brick floor, spraying a bloody spurt of red wine against a snowy battlement.

  ‘IS THIS WHAT LOYALTY MEANS?’ screeched Lady Castlemaine, her face black with rage. ‘Eight years I’ve been at your side! Before you were king! Before you were anyone.’ She pointed a shaking finger at the actresses. ‘Whilst these bawdy-baskets were fucking Roundheads!’ She took in the actresses again, who were holding their clothes, mute with terror. ‘Get out!’ she said. ‘GET OUT!’

  The half-dressed women fled.

  ‘You were nothing when I met you,’ raged Lady Castlemaine. ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Be a little careful, Barbara,’ said the King.

  ‘If you do not own little Betsy for your daughter I shall dash her brains out against the floor!’

  Charles’s resolve faltered. ‘Barbara,’ he said, ‘please.’

  Lady Castlemaine sent out a vicious kick with her fashionably heeled foot, levelling a wall of ice bricks. The Duke of York sighed.

  ‘I gave up everything for you,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘My marriage. Everything. You swore you’d love me forever. Remember that when you next go to the theatre.’

  She turned and stalked out in a swish of silks.

  There was a moment of embarrassed hush. Then there was an unceremonious gurgle as melted water exited the Ice House down the central drain.

  The Duke of York was the first to break the silence. ‘Charles,’ he complained, staring at his devastated ramparts, ‘you must manage her better. I spent all morning building that wall.’

  The King turned to Amesbury. He took a long sip of wine. ‘What think you, Amesbury?’

  ‘I think for a man who claims to love the theatre,’ said Amesbury, ‘you dally with bad actresses.’

  Chapter 4

  Repent slipped into the locksmith’s workshop, his eyes casting about. A sad-looking bundle was on the floor, covered in a threadbare blanket. Repent nudged it with his foot. The bundle moved. Repent ducked low.

  ‘Psst!’ he whispered. ‘Bolly! Hey, Bolly! Wake up!’

  Repent was a gangly man-boy, stranded between puberty and adulthood by too much work and not enough food. He was tall, with round, prominent joints and dark, greasy hair flecked with premature grey.

  A face emerged from under the worn-out coverlet, looking confused and sleepy.

  ‘Your blanket stinks,’ said Repent.

  ‘Keeps the fleas off,’ mumbled Bolly, sitting upright. Repent took in the hard wooden floor, the smoulde
ring little fire.

  ‘This where my father makes you sleep?’ he asked Bolly.

  ‘Yeah.’ Bolly sat up. ‘You never seen your own father’s workshop?’

  ‘No,’ said Repent. ‘He doesn’t trust me. Too many pretty servant girls come to buy his famous locks and keys.’ Repent was looking about at the metalwork. Half-finished pieces were strewn around.

  ‘Shame not to be apprenticed to your own father,’ said Bolly guilelessly. ‘’Spose your brickmaker’s apprenticeship is a good future. Half the city needs rebuilding after the fire.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Repent, unconvincingly. His eyes had lighted on one nearly finished lock. He picked it up and hefted it. ‘This yours?’ Repent couldn’t keep the awe from his voice.

  Bolly stood, revealing strong tanned legs. He was an attractive boy with a cherub face, sandy-blond hair and golden skin. Even in the single ragged suit of clothes allowed to apprentices, he looked handsome.

  He crossed to where Repent was standing. ‘’S my masterpiece,’ he said. ‘If you break it, I’ll kill you.’

  ‘It isn’t finished yet?’ Repent traced the swirling metalwork fronds with his finger. They were mesmerising in their intricacy.

  ‘Your father says a few more days,’ said Bolly, removing the lock from Repent’s hand. ‘Then I’ll be an apprentice no more. Master locksmith. Free.’ He was looking at the elaborate lock. ‘I meant it for her,’ he added after a moment. ‘She was who I thought of, when I made it.’ He sighed. ‘Seven years apprenticed was too long to wait.’ Bolly slipped the lock into his hanging pocket. ‘I never let it out of my sight,’ he concluded. ‘Imagine if it went missing. I’d be here another five years, listening to your father rant about God.’ He laughed.

  Repent didn’t even smile. Instead, he rubbed his chin, where a beard was conspicuously absent. Childhood smallpox had scarred his lower face, destroying all but a few downy hair follicles. ‘We might go find your girl,’ said Repent. ‘The one you made the lock for. Today’s the day, Bolly. Time to riot. Yearly tradition.’