The Changeling Murders (The Thief Taker Series Book 4)

by C. S. Quinn

  He jerked suddenly. Maria thought he seemed in pain.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Do you hear the bells?’ asked Tom. ‘He calls.’

  ‘I don’t hear anything.’

  ‘The boy.’ Tom winced. ‘He is angry with me. I must go.’

  Tom stood so fast that Maria jerked back. But she saw something in the movement, a kind of acted grace. Suddenly the ropes and the rigging meant something. She’d been somewhere like it before.

  Think Maria. Think.

  Ropes tied high. Canvas. Hemp. Cheers. Applause. Chandeliers.

  She remembered sweating men pulling at the ropes, lowering something . . .

  Scenery. I was up where the scenery is winched and lowered. That’s why there are ropes everywhere.

  Maria breathed in. She knew where she was.

  I’m in a theatre.

  Chapter 35

  In Damaris Page’s brothel, Charlie was considering what he knew. ‘I have an idea where the ring the Royalist left could be,’ he said.

  ‘How could you know where the mourning ring is?’ asked Lily.

  Charlie was looking at Damaris, hope glimmering in his eyes. ‘Mrs Page,’ said Charlie, ‘is this the same building and do you have the same doorstep from when your old mistress ran things?’

  Damaris blinked her round dark eyes. ‘It is the same building, so I suppose so,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Might I take a look at it?’

  ‘No reason why not,’ she said. ‘It’s only a doorstep.’

  ‘Why do you want to look?’ asked Lily, as Charlie made for the thick slab of stone by the entrance to the devastated building.

  ‘It’s common practice for bawds to hide a witch-bottle under the doorstep,’ said Charlie.

  ‘What’s a witch-bottle?’

  ‘A bottle to deter witches,’ replied Charlie. He scanned the doorway and found a half a discarded pike.

  ‘Obviously,’ said Lily dryly.

  ‘It’s old ways,’ said Charlie. He inserted the broken end of the pike under the thick slab of the step, worked it further in, then levered with his foot. ‘Houses of sin need all the protection they can get. Brothel-keepers almost always keep a glass bottle under their front step,’ he said. ‘Filled with sharp things. Iron nails, pins. Sometimes salt and ashes. Things to deter fairies, witches, evil spirits.’

  The stone step raised a few inches.

  ‘If she thought that ring fairy,’ he continued, ‘there’s a good chance she would have put it inside. The entrance to a house is a powerful place,’ he added. ‘Someone who employed spells and such would have used the chance to put a little fairy magic to good purpose.’

  Lily was on her knees, charms dangling down, peering underneath the slab. ‘I think I see it,’ she said. ‘There’s something buried here.’ She began loosening it from the packed dirt. Her fingers clasped a corked clay neck. ‘A bottle,’ she said, grasping hold. ‘You were right.’

  Lily worked the bottle free, bringing it up to examine it as Charlie lowered the step. It was made of brown clay. Lily gave the bottle an experimental shake. It tinkled musically. ‘Nails?’ She drew out the cork and a little cloud of ash floated upwards. Lily upended it and soot poured free. ‘There’s something else trapped inside,’ said Lily, closing one eye and peering into the bottle neck. She shook it again. ‘If it’s a bottle for fairy protection,’ she said, ‘we must be careful. If we break it we could anger . . .’

  Charlie eased it from her fingers, raised his arm and smashed the bottle down on the step. ‘We don’t have fairies in London,’ he said. ‘They’re country things.’

  Lily crossed herself as a clutch of nails and pins fell free, along with more ash. Then a ring came pinging free.

  ‘You were right,’ breathed Lily. ‘A ring.’

  Charlie picked it up carefully. The ring was thick gold with black enamel panelling. Towards the front was a raised crest.

  ‘Expensive,’ said Charlie. ‘Owned by someone wealthy. And on the back,’ he said, turning it, ‘the year of the old king’s death.’ Charlie looked at Lily. ‘This kind of ring is usually worn by mourners to commemorate dead relatives. But during the war, secret Royalist supporters wore them,’ he explained. ‘They were inscribed with the year the old king was beheaded. And they had secret compartments, lids or concealed parts, to hide a portrait of the king.’

  He ran a finger around the edge and found what he was looking for. A tiny indentation. He flicked it up and the front of the ring opened. Underneath was a brightly coloured portrait of King Charles I, with his distinctive pointed beard.

  ‘The kind of thing a Royalist spy would own,’ said Charlie. ‘Carrying this would show your allegiance to the old king. You’d risk treason for wearing it, if this secret picture was seen by the wrong person.’

  ‘Or gain help from the right person,’ said Lily.

  Charlie nodded. ‘There’s an inscription inside,’ he said, turning it. The gold inner was etched with tiny letters. He passed it to Lily to read.

  Her lips moved slowly. Lily looked up at Charlie. ‘No wonder the old mistress thought this ring fey,’ she said. ‘Read the inscription.’ She passed it to him, then remembered he struggled with letters. ‘Seek the gold on London’s fairy ring,’ she read, ‘for the key to Avalon.’

  Charlie took it from her, repeating the words she’d just read. ‘A fairy ring?’ he said. ‘In the city?’

  ‘I’ve seen fairy mushroom circles in the country.’ Lily shrugged. ‘Not in London though.’

  ‘They sometimes come up in the greener parts,’ said Charlie. ‘The common land, towards the east. Braver locals put livestock to trample them.’

  ‘Foolish,’ opined Lily. ‘Fairies are vengeful creatures. Neither man nor beast should step inside a fairy circle.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Witches make circles, do they not?’ she suggested. ‘Salt circles or candles, so they might keep safe from whatever fairy or demon their powers attract. Is that not a kind of fairy circle?’

  Charlie nodded. ‘There’s likely hundreds of circles of that kind in London,’ he said, ‘but they’ll all be well hidden. It’s death to practise such things.’

  They were both silent in thought.

  ‘What’s the key to Avalon?’ asked Lily.

  ‘Avalon is just a story,’ said Charlie. ‘The place where King Arthur was buried. It’s an island. I can’t see why it would have a key.’

  Lily shook her head. ‘King Arthur and fairy rings,’ she said scathingly. ‘No wonder the old monarchy fell,’ she added. ‘It’s like children, playing at spying. Seems to me the Royalists were so in love with the idea of being brave knights, they forgot the horrors of war.’

  Charlie looked back at the front of the ring. ‘Ring-crests are mostly made by token houses,’ he said. ‘They use the same presses for stamping coins. But this’ – he ran a finger over the metalwork – ‘was not. See the clean edges? It was stamped with a bronze press. Cleaner lines, less wear.’ He turned it thoughtfully in his hand. And then the answer came to him. ‘This was made in the Mint,’ he said, calling to mind London’s only legal coin press, a rickety jumble of wood, built against the Tower of London. ‘The Mint employs skilled workers,’ said Charlie. ‘People who stay for life. There’s a good chance the person who made this ring still works there. We only need to get inside the Mint.’ He looked hopefully at Lily.

  Lily had taken his meaning and was shaking her head rapidly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t get you to the Mint. I kept my word to get you inside Damaris Page’s house and you took that from me through trickery.’

  ‘Lily,’ said Charlie. ‘Maria’s life hangs in the balance. She has perhaps less than a day at best to live.’

  ‘Ask Percy,’ Lily said. ‘He’s Maria’s betrothed and a lawyer. Surely he could get you in the Tower?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘Percy is less successful than he pretends,’ he said, remembering the cheap wig and spotted sto
ckings. ‘I’d likely waste time and then discover he doesn’t have those kinds of privileges.’

  ‘Really?’ Lily nailed him with a look. ‘Is that the real reason? Or do you fear Maria’s husband-to-be would thwart your romantic rescue? It’s only right that you ask Percy to help save his future wife.’

  Charlie felt his blood rise. ‘This isn’t a game!’ he said angrily. ‘There’s too much at stake. Do you think I would take even the smallest risk with Maria’s life out of some misplaced sense of propriety?’

  Lily considered this, turning the rings on her fingers with a pained expression. ‘I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to,’ she said finally. ‘They took my spy privileges with the privateer’s licence. I don’t have access to the Tower of London any longer.’ Lily delved into the jangle of charms at her neck. ‘All I have left is this.’ She showed Charlie a medallion with a royal crest. ‘Gives me a few privileges to ask questions, nothing more.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have returned your medallion when you went to sea?’

  ‘I still undertake some missions for the Crown,’ said Lily evasively.

  Damaris tilted her head, eyeing the medallion. ‘You can go inside the Tower,’ she said to Charlie. ‘The ring will let you inside. It’s a safe-passage ring. Will take you into any Royalist place.’

  ‘But the ring is yours,’ said Charlie, holding it out to her. ‘It’s gold. You should have it to help you rebuild.’

  Damaris shook her head hard. ‘You think I want that cursed thing?’ she said. ‘It’s brought nothing but bad luck,’ she added, touching her wounded face.

  Charlie opened his mouth to insist, but Damaris pushed the ring onto his finger, her expression implacable. ‘If you can find this dress before Praise-God Barebones, it’s payment enough for me,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Even if the ring takes me inside,’ said Charlie, looking at Lily, ‘I’ve no right to speak with the men in the Mint. Come with me.’ He held up his finger, banded with the mourning ring. ‘You can have this in payment.’

  ‘Barely enough to buy me a parrot and an eyepatch,’ said Lily, looking at the gold. She paused. ‘Very well,’ she decided. ‘If we find the Lord and Lady you are to let me take them to the King. He might grant me back my privateer’s licence.’

  Charlie nodded gratefully, turning to Damaris. ‘If we find the Lord and Lady, I’ll bring you money to rebuild, I swear it.’

  Damaris’s eyes filled with sudden, unexpected tears. ‘It’s the children I fear for,’ she said. ‘We’re not wealthy people here. Only work not to starve. The clothes and fine things we have are part of our trade.’ She gave a great sniff. ‘Lent will be over soon,’ she said. ‘It’s Maundy Thursday tomorrow. Come Good Friday we can sleep safe in our beds.’

  Charlie nodded, feeling the time close around him. Maria’s life seemed to be ticking away. He put a hand on Damaris’s shoulder. ‘If you’re afraid, you might ask Mother Mitchell,’ he suggested. ‘She has the best guards in the city.’

  Damaris shook her head proudly. ‘Don’t need none of Mother Mitchell’s help,’ she said, setting her jaw. ‘Never did, never will. Mother Mitchell took you in from the orphan house. And perhaps she was kind to you, in her way. But I’ve known her for a long time.’ She drew a breath. ‘Eliza Mitchell,’ concluded Damaris, ‘is nothing but a selfish old dragon, guardin’ her pile of golden girls, and hell would freeze over afore I asked her for anything.’

  Chapter 36

  At first glance, the architecture of the Mint looked impossible. The rickety wooden structures had grown up against the thick walls of the Tower of London over the years. Each decade of coin production had added ever more dangerous storeys and teetering extensions, like a dark creeping plant slowly suffocating its solid host.

  Charlie held up the mourning ring. ‘If Damaris is right, and it gets us inside, then we could learn something important. Someone here might remember making it.’

  He was looking at the solid turreted square of the Tower, its little arched windows like black eyes.

  Lily pointed. ‘Like I said. You get us in the Tower and I can pass inside the coin house that way.’ She held up the spy medallion strung around her neck. ‘So long as we’re inside the Tower it should be enough to enter the Mint with no questions. Spies go in through Traitor’s Gate,’ she concluded.

  Charlie lowered his gaze from the thick turrets of the Tower to the ominous archway. ‘Traitor’s Gate?’ Charlie tried to keep his voice calm. ‘There’s no other way?’

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Afraid of entering the biggest torture chamber in London by the condemned prisoner’s entrance? Of course not.’

  They moved towards Traitor’s Gate, where dark water swirled below a low brick arch. A hooded man sat on a floating barge with a curved prow. Behind him was the latticed wood of Traitor’s Gate, sealing the waterway entrance to the Tower beyond.

  ‘The boatman is there.’ Lily pointed. ‘The one who sails under Traitor’s Gate. Just . . . show him your ring,’ she suggested. ‘Spies have to say the right words,’ she added, ‘on His Majesty’s service. Likely that will serve.’

  Charlie took a step towards the ominous-looking boat, holding out the ring.

  To his surprise the boatman let them aboard without question, looking slightly bored as Charlie mumbled ‘on His Majesty’s service’.

  As they floated slowly towards the gate it opened with a grinding of cogs, then closed behind them. Charlie eyed the dark Tower as the curved prow of the boat glided towards it. A desperate shout carried on the breeze, drifting up from the Tower dungeons.

  ‘Prisoners,’ grunted the boatman in answer to their stricken faces. ‘Them poor souls that were close to Cromwell and didn’t get out of England fast enough.’

  The barge floated to a halt and they disembarked.

  ‘There,’ said Lily. ‘That’s the safest way into the Mint.’

  Chapter 37

  Lynette was at the window of her apartment, looking out. She could hear the roar of the riot. She turned to the King. ‘You should be out there, you know.’

  ‘Do you hear that?’ He opened the window. ‘That’s the sound of men who want to kill me. You think I am foolish enough to give them more ammunition?’ He sighed. ‘Why are they so angry? I did everything to be a good King. I touch the heads of scrofulous vagabonds every month, wash common feet at Lent.’

  ‘Do you want the real answer?’ asked Lynette. ‘Or do you only want to pity yourself?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘I could tell you a courtesan reply,’ she continued. ‘You are a great king, Your Majesty, the finest we’ve ever known.’

  ‘Tell me true then.’

  ‘Those boys are little better than slaves,’ she said. ‘They work for nothing more than bed and board. Most are half-starved, worked to the bone and beaten. They look at girls like us and think we have it easy. And they have nothing to lose. Why wouldn’t they tear the city apart?’

  ‘How can I help that?’ His shoulders drew up in an exasperated shrug. ‘I can’t change the apprentice system. It’s been that way for centuries.’

  ‘You can’t do anything for them,’ she said. ‘It’s the girls you should help.’

  He leaned forward and took her half-plaited hair. ‘Let me,’ he said, starting to draw the strands together.

  ‘Who taught you to plait hair?’ she asked, amused.

  ‘My wet-nurse,’ said Charles, frowning in concentration.

  ‘Isn’t a booby-maid supposed to do her own plaiting?’

  ‘She was no longer my nurse at that point,’ said Charles. ‘We’d moved to a more . . . physical relationship.’

  ‘You never!’ Lynette was scandalised. ‘With your own nursemaid? How old was you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘I don’t well recall. The country was in turmoil. We were losing the war badly. She was perhaps . . . thirty-three. My advisors at the time hated her. Thought she reve
lled in her power over me. Distracted me from dull politics.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Me?’ Charles laughed. ‘I was having the time of my life.’

  ‘Hmmm. And now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Lynette turned to face him. ‘Do you think you’re being distracted now? From dull politics?’

  ‘If I am, it is worth the distraction. The people don’t like me much in any case.’ He let his fingers drift down her back.

  She took his hand crossly. ‘They like you well enough,’ she said. ‘It’s her they hate.’ She tilted her chalice in the direction of Lady Castlemaine’s apartments.

  ‘You are too bold.’

  ‘That’s what you like about me. Why pluck me from the gutter if you didn’t want a girl who spoke ’er mind? You’ve got your pick of laced-tight court ladies.’

  The King sighed. ‘I fear for Lady Castlemaine,’ he admitted. ‘Part of the Tower was rebuilt recently, and two little skeletons were unearthed.’

  Lynette’s eyes widened.

  ‘We think they might have been the two young princes,’ added Charles. ‘Remember that story?’

  ‘The princes in the Tower,’ said Lynette. ‘They vanished. People tell it that evil King Richard did for ’em and took the crown. Even commoners know that tale,’ she added.

  ‘It seemed to affect Lady Castlemaine very deeply,’ said Charles. ‘She was seen standing over the little bones, rain pouring down, and she didn’t even notice she was soaked to the skin.’

  ‘You think she fears for her own children?’ asked Lynette softly.

  ‘She needn’t whilst I am alive,’ said Charles. ‘I will always protect them. But when I’m gone . . . We didn’t think of that at the time.’

  ‘Remind me again why anyone would want to be king?’

  ‘When you’re not in fear of your life, the wine is excellent.’ He smiled, finishing the plait and letting it drop.

  ‘Very good,’ she said, feeling with it her fingers. ‘The girls will never believe me when I tell ’em.’