The Changeling Murders (The Thief Taker Series Book 4)

by C. S. Quinn

  Chapter 62

  In the dirty streets of Covent Garden, Tom knew immediately she was the one. A little orange seller skirting around the edges of the theatre. The height and build were right, and her long dark hair could be easily rearranged. The eyes were blue rather than brown, but that never mattered. The eyes changed.

  It was mid-morning, which usually made no difference here. Drunks staggered, beer and wine barrels were rolled in and out. Players acted in the streets and gaudily dressed whores were everywhere.

  Today Tom had noticed something was different. The women were less sure of themselves, and a few illegal theatres had been boarded up. Was it possible the riots would come to Covent Garden?

  A shudder ran through him at the thought. Chaos. Like before. No rules. No king.

  Tom rearranged his handsome face in an expression he knew to be charming and approached the girl. She was a nobody; he could easily see it. Scraping a living selling fruit in the theatre and whoring herself for pennies when the chance came.

  She flinched as he tapped her shoulder – some innate intuition he’d never quite understood how to overcome. When she turned, her face was slightly fearful. Tom gave her the smile he’d practised to perfection. Charming, apologetic. Teamed with his handsome face her trepidation dropped away, but not completely.

  ‘Might you help me?’ Tom gestured with a wince to his arm held in a sling around his body. ‘Sprained it,’ he explained, ‘when my master’s horse reared. He wanted me to go for oranges in Covent Garden, but I’ve missed the early market and the cook must have them. Might I buy your oranges? I’ll pay theatre prices.’

  He could see her taking him in. The temptation to sell her entire stock overcame the girl’s lingering doubts. She nodded, reaching to take the basket from her head.

  ‘Only might you carry them to Brewer Street?’ he asked, stretching his charming smile and nodding apologetically to his arm. ‘I will pay an extra penny.’

  She hesitated, casting a final glance at his handsome smiling face, then followed him down the alley.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Tom pulled out his knife.

  The girl’s features rapidly rearranged themselves into what Tom understood as fear. He would have liked to study her face further, but he risked people disturbing them, even in this dark alley.

  Then she began raising her skirts, glaring. ‘Be quick then,’ she said, setting the basket of oranges down. ‘And a curse on you.’

  Tom lowered the knife, confused. He was trying to put the pieces together. The raised skirts meant . . . Fornication. She thought he was trying to force himself on her. The unexpected response was so unsettling he had to steady himself.

  ‘No,’ he said, keeping the knife high. ‘I am one of those from the King, come to find out spies and those who plot against him.’

  The girl hesitated, confused now. ‘I know nothing of the dissenters,’ she said slowly. ‘I cheered with every other Londoner when His Majesty made his triumphant return.’

  Quick as a flash, Tom removed a flask from inside his coat. ‘Then prove it,’ he said. ‘Drink a toast to the King’s health.’

  The girl was staring at the flask.

  Tom uncorked it, removed a tankard from his belt and filled it. ‘To the King.’ He put the vessel to his lips and took a deep drink. The girl watched him.

  She reached out and took it with work-callused fingers. Then she raised it, her hand shaking slightly. ‘This is all I need do?’ she said. ‘Drink a toast? Then I might get back to the theatre?’

  Tom nodded. ‘And I’ll buy your stock of oranges to make amends for the affront,’ he added, opening a purse filled with little coins.

  She moved it to her lips. ‘To the King,’ she said, upending the cup. ‘It’s sweet,’ she added, wiping her mouth.

  As the girl handed back the tankard, the world seemed to be shifting as though she were looking through water. There was a distant ringing in her ears.

  Her attacker was looking at her keenly. ‘Do you hear them chiming?’ he whispered. ‘The fairy bells?’

  She frowned, swallowed and tried to turn her head. The ringing was louder now, and her heart was beating faster. Too fast. She tried to take a step and somehow there wasn’t enough blood in her limbs.

  As she fell, the girl noticed the alley had turned yellow. A happy colour.

  ‘They’re coming for you,’ he said, kneeling beside her. ‘Can you see them? The fairies are coming.’

  Prone on the floor, the girl’s heart was hammering, but her mind felt soft and comfortably far away. The yellow haze was growing thicker. But she thought she could see . . . flashes . . . lights, like flying creatures at the edge of her vision.

  ‘You drank it too,’ she managed.

  ‘I was given it throughout my childhood,’ explained the man. ‘The effect on me is no longer so strong. But I see them too,’ he assured her, ‘the fey folk. It’s their chimes you hear. They’re coming to take you away.’

  Tom watched her dying face, imagining the girl she would replace. The boy would kill Maria, horribly, of that he was certain. Nothing he could do to change that. But he could make sure she wouldn’t die alone. He would give Maria a companion to hear her last desperate shrieks. But this required another changeling offering to the fairy folk.

  He had already chosen the next girl to be vanished. Maria would die along with someone dear to Charlie Tuesday.

  Chapter 63

  Charlie felt as though the world were closing in on him. ‘You’re certain?’ he heard himself saying. ‘The whole troupe?’

  ‘Many good men,’ said Dawson sadly. ‘They went into the prison and never came out. Stories were told of gaol fever and such, but we all knew the truth. They’d been vanished. By Cromwell’s dark man.’

  Charlie and Lily looked at one another.

  ‘I’ve heard of Praise-God Barebones,’ said Lily. ‘He’s one of the riot leaders.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Dawson. ‘He was the deepest-dyed Puritan you’d ever meet. Black-and-white thinking, you know, like their clothes.’

  ‘So this Barebones,’ said Charlie. ‘He executed the players at the King’s Company?’

  Dawson nodded. ‘We heard that Tom Black refused. So I suppose he had some loyalty to us.’

  ‘Tom Black?’ Charlie snapped to attention.

  ‘Cromwell’s assassin,’ said Dawson. ‘He was known as the foxglove killer. Poisoned his victims. He worked alongside Barebones. The soldier and the assassin. But long before that he used to work for our theatre company.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘He was a peculiar boy,’ said Dawson. ‘He never told a lie, worked hard. Belonged to some unusual sect of Puritanism and was frighteningly clever. But some of the actors thought him strange, the way he watched. Tom worked on effects. He had a talent for illusions and tricks of the eye, and a vivid imagination. I used to plunder him for ideas for scenery. A funny thought now,’ concluded Dawson, glancing to the picture of Avalon. ‘Tom became the most dangerous man alive during Cromwell’s reign. Capable of unspeakable horrors. He was famed for burning men to death.’

  Charlie was trying to get a grip on what he knew. ‘If we could find Praise-God Barebones,’ decided Charlie. ‘He could tell us something of Tom Black. They worked together. For Cromwell.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Lily. ‘Walk into the brothel riot and ask for him?’

  ‘Barebones is being held secretly,’ said Dawson helpfully. ‘I hear all sorts from my little spies,’ he added happily. ‘The apprentices tried to break him out. But they went to the wrong prison.’

  ‘There are twenty prisons in London,’ said Charlie, feeling the opportunity slip away. ‘There’s no time to search them all.’

  A little bell rang from below and Dawson moved to the side of the tower. ‘One moment,’ he said. ‘A message for me.’ He disappeared out of sight.

  ‘They’re dead then,’ said Charlie as Dawson left. He rubbed his scarred lip.
‘I think I knew it all along, deep down,’ he admitted. ‘This hunt never felt right. Hidden people always give something away,’ he said. ‘They can’t help it. There’s food, possessions, things that leave a trail. A human haze of thoughts and feelings that bobs about anyone they associate with.’

  ‘If the Lord and Lady died,’ said Lily, ‘they can’t be found.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘We have less than half a day until Good Friday,’ he said, feeling the ground shift beneath his feet. ‘We cannot bring Tom Black the Lord and Lady. All we can do is try to find him before he hurts Maria. We’ve lost so much time. I should have been hunting him from the beginning.’ Charlie tried to order his thoughts. It wasn’t possible to track a man in only a few hours. ‘It can’t be done,’ he said, feeling a powerless panic rise up. ‘We’re looking for a man who can look like anyone. An actor. Who could be anywhere in London.’

  Lily was twisting the black-and-gold ring on her finger. ‘Do you remember before,’ she said, ‘when you said I was helping you out of concern for Maria?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I don’t care about Maria,’ said Lily. ‘I care about you. And I know you care for her.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Charlie.

  Lily sat down suddenly and took both his hands in hers. ‘I’m saying don’t you give up, Charlie Tuesday,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you. You are my friend. Albeit a friend who leads me into the worst peril. But,’ she added with a small smile, ‘I always did like danger. Listen, I think there could be a clue to finding Tom Black’s identity in Dawson’s picture of Avalon. He said Tom’s strange stories inspired some of his more fantastical scenes. Dawson’s your friend, he might . . .’

  She stopped. Dawson had returned and was walking quickly towards them. His expression was furious. ‘Charlie Tuesday.’ Dawson’s voice rang with affront. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were wanted for treason?’

  Charlie opened his mouth to reply, but Dawson kept talking. ‘You lied to me!’ he accused angrily, pointing at them both. ‘You’re wanted criminals. There’s a guard here to make your arrest.’

  Chapter 64

  Lily and Charlie were staring at Dawson.

  ‘You brought Lady Castlemaine’s guards to my door!’ Dawson accused. ‘The worst of Jezebels has reason to seek me out. Her men say you broke into His Majesty’s coin house,’ he continued. ‘Stole a quantity of silver coin!’

  Charlie held up his hands. ‘Wait . . .’ he began.

  ‘And this . . . person,’ continued Dawson, looking at Lily, ‘is a pirate!’ His voice had risen an octave.

  Lily turned to Charlie. ‘It isn’t true,’ she said, speaking quickly. ‘Not all of it . . .’

  Dawson’s long finger stabbed the air. ‘Lady Castlemaine is offering a reward of thirty pounds from her own ill-gotten purse,’ he said, his voice shaking slightly with anger. ‘For information leading to the capture of two villainous thieves and pirates. Lily Boswell, who has been wanted this year past for piracy. My boy told me all. You were followed here.’

  ‘You’re a pirate?’ demanded Charlie.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said Lily, ‘a misunderstanding. We took a ship after my privateer’s licence was revoked.’

  ‘And the bounty you took?’

  ‘Sank,’ said Lily. ‘I need to repay it to earn the King’s forgiveness. Only Lady Castlemaine . . . She doesn’t like women who look like me,’ she concluded bitterly.

  ‘So that’s why you’re risking your life to help me,’ accused Charlie. ‘There’s a price on your head.’

  ‘It wasn’t only that,’ said Lily angrily. ‘You always think me out for my own gain. Just because I’m a gypsy . . .’

  ‘I care nothing that you’re a gypsy,’ shouted Charlie. ‘I only care that you lie. Had you ever considered telling me the truth? Did you not think I might help you? That I’m your friend? I would never . . .’

  ‘Neither of you told me the truth,’ interrupted Dawson, ‘and now you’ve put me in a terrible situation.’ He shook his head. ‘Theft I can forgive. But treason? I am sorry for it, Charlie, but I mean to let those guards take you. My loyalty is to our God-appointed king.’ He was frowning deeply. ‘My pageboy has bid the guards wait,’ concluded Dawson. ‘You may have a few moments to collect yourselves. But I will not harbour traitors.’

  ‘Dawson, wait,’ said Charlie, forcing aside his sudden anger at Lily. ‘Think. Why would Lady Castlemaine be involving herself in the apprehension of a pirate?’

  Dawson hesitated.

  ‘It’s a strange use of her money, is it not?’ pressed Charlie. ‘Why should she be putting her own funds to finding us? Could it be that she is seeking the Lord and Lady herself?’

  Dawson’s eyes flicked to the painting of Avalon.

  ‘Lady Castlemaine is losing her power over the King,’ said Charlie. ‘You said had the Lord and Lady lived, they’d discredit the King’s rule. Couldn’t Lady Castlemaine benefit from that?’

  Dawson pulled at his forked beard. ‘Lady Castlemaine is the worst of harlots,’ he said, nodding sharply. ‘Her intentions are never to the benefit of our great king. I am at your service,’ he concluded.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlie. ‘Can you tell us anything more of Tom Black? You mentioned he inspired the fairies in your scenes.’

  ‘All that scenery is long gone, I’m afraid,’ said Dawson apologetically. ‘The only one from those times is Avalon.’ Dawson moved towards it. ‘That old woman,’ he said, tapping the balding crone. ‘Tom described her vividly. She sounded terrifying.’

  ‘Tom’s mother?’ suggested Lily, looking closer. ‘She looks too old.’

  There was a shout from below.

  Dawson moved to the edge of the crumbling black crenellations. ‘It seems those guards are not waiting as patiently as I expected,’ he said. ‘They mean to enter by force.’

  Charlie was staring at the picture. Ideas were forging together. ‘Lily,’ he said. ‘Tom Black was the foxglove killer. Foxglove is a poison. It yellows the eyes, stops the heart. It’s also known as fairycaps.’ He tapped the balding crone in the picture. ‘And fairycaps,’ he continued, ‘is widely used by cunning women to send back changelings.’

  ‘But there’s hundreds of evil hags who sell poison in London,’ said Lily.

  ‘Not as many as you might imagine,’ said Charlie. ‘But there is one cunning woman famed for such tricks. She’s the most wicked old crone you’ll find in London. And she lives just outside the Shambles. Perhaps she’s the woman in the painting.’ He gestured to the scene of Avalon.

  Lily’s lips were moving soundlessly, putting the facts together. ‘Tom Black grew up in the Shambles.’

  ‘With his mother, Bridey Black,’ said Charlie. ‘What if it was Bridey who first visited the cunning woman who later supplied her son with poison?’

  ‘Women confide in cunning women,’ said Lily. ‘They tell them everything.’

  Charlie was nodding, feeling possibilities flood in. Maria. There was still time. If they were right, and the cunning woman told them what she knew, they might be able to rapidly deduce where Tom had hidden Maria.

  There was another shout from below.

  ‘We just need to get off this gate,’ said Charlie. He turned to Dawson. ‘Can you help us?’

  ‘I always wished I’d been more gallant during the war,’ said Dawson. ‘Perhaps God gives me another chance for glory, to defend the Royalist cause. Come,’ he added. ‘I do have a means of escape. Of sorts.’

  ‘Of sorts?’ Lily was looking around the top of the turret.

  ‘Fear not, fair maiden.’ Dawson grinned, his lopsided jaw jerking. ‘I have a flying machine.’

  Chapter 65

  Lady Castlemaine stood in her private chamber, arms outstretched as the little tailor fluttered around her, sewing her into her dress at lightning speed. He hesitated at the waist, drawing silk between his fingers.

  ‘Perhaps more space here,’ he said. ‘Your shape has changed a little
. . .’

  She looked at him. The tailor ducked his head and continued to sew, drawing the stitches tight. She grimaced, then regarded herself in the mirror.

  ‘Better,’ she decided, turning this way and that to admire her curving body.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Enter,’ she called.

  To the tailor’s surprise the man who entered was not the King. But he was nevertheless familiar. The handsome man was an actor from the Birdcage where Lynette acted. He was young and Italian, with curling brown hair falling to his shoulders and the upright posture of a seasoned performer. Lorenzo, the tailor thought his name was.

  ‘Leave us,’ commanded Lady Castlemaine.

  The tailor bowed and left.

  As the door closed she moved fast towards the man. ‘We are quite alone,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘Tell me all.’

  His plucked eyebrows drew together in affront and she realised she’d offended him by treating him like an informant.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said, lifting one hand to touch his cheek and sliding the other between his legs. She could smell his perfume, an Italian affectation she despised.

  ‘Mio amore,’ he murmured, resting his smooth cheek on hers.

  Lady Castlemaine was seized with a memory of the King, when they were young, in Holland. For a moment nostalgia gripped her so tightly she felt the air squeezed out of her.

  ‘You said you’d get me place,’ said Lorenzo, labouring his words. ‘In the King’s Company.’

  ‘How can you doubt it? I would die for you.’ She knew how he enjoyed dramatics. She was pulling him from his clothing, wondering how his halting English was understood on stage. ‘Soon, my love. Soon. Only tell me what have you discovered in the Birdcage, so I might make better plans.’

  ‘I find what I can,’ he said, closing his eyes as her hands moved. ‘Lynette’s old husband was seen with a girl. A very pre-etty girl,’ he added pointedly. ‘Called Leely Boswell. She is so be-yu-tiful. Dark hair, mouth like . . .’ He glanced at Lady Castlemaine and stopped talking abruptly.